Free Wicked as They Come by Delilah S. Dawson Page B

said.
    “Really?” he asked, delighted. “That’s marvelous!”
    “There are stories about blood drinkers called vampires, who are supposedly dead. Some people think they can turn into bats or fly and that they’re afraid of crosses and mirrors and garlic.”
    “So that’s what you called me earlier. But that sounds nothing like a Bludman, apart from the drinking blood bit,” he said, then grinned slyly. “Of all the things you could accuse me of, being dead is definitely not one of them.”
    I sputtered a little and changed the subject. “This stew is delicious,” I said. “Do you know what’s in it?”
    “Vegetables, of course,” he said. “Potatoes. And bludbunny. They’re the easiest things to catch. Cook just takes off a glove and stands around, and they come running. Bop ’em on the head, and dinner’s on the table.”
    My spoon clattered to the table.
    “So I’m eating something that might have eaten a person?”
    “Well, yes. Not that it matters. Everything eats living things. Bludbunnies mostly eat each other, when they aren’t mating to make more bludbunnies, which is what they do most of the time. Blood is good for the constitution, pet,” he said.
    I should have been more grossed out, but I wasn’t. Maybe it was the hunger talking, but the stew was wonderful, fragrant and thick. If I hadn’t been wearing a very restrictive corset, I would have gone back for seconds. As it was, I finished chewing a hard, tart apple as he drank the last drops of blood from his glass, and we smiled.
    “The wine is lovely, too,” I said. “Sweet, like berries.”
    “It’s a special vintage,” he said. “A gypsy secret.”
    I noticed that before he flipped the curtains back, he did that same move where he shook like a wet dog throwing water, and his entire persona changed from the open, curious, tender but dark man I saw in private to the sly, hard-edged, imperial gypsy he appeared to be in public.
    “Right,” he said wolfishly. “Time to shine.”
    As he stood in front of the assembled carnivalleros in the grass outside, I was amazed at the change in his figure. He wasn’t actually a large man, but he now seemed larger than life, a born showman. He paced for a moment, lithe as a jungle cat, inspecting the crowd, then stopped, facing us, and threw something invisible onto the ground.
    Purple smoke enveloped him, and the audience rustled around me where I stood, front and center. But no one gasped. They were carnies. They weren’t easy to impress.
    When the smoke cleared, he stood on a colorful pedestal in a sequin-spangled coat, high collar, and tight black breeches, the perfect ringmaster. He removed his top hat, revealing Pemberly the clockwork monkey sitting on his head. She doffed her fez, and fireworks erupted from underneath, showering us with streamers and glitter.
    The people around me dusted the little bits of paper off their shoulders with a grumble, but as the paper fell to the ground, each piece flickered into a butterfly. The swarm of color rose around us, quivering, and then flickered into the afternoon sky, spelling, “Welcome Lady Letitia, Fortune-Teller.”
    The crowd laughed and clapped, and the people around me patted me on the back with gloved hands. Mrs. Cleavers gave me a push, propelling me toward Criminy, who gave me a hand up onto the pedestal. I smiled nervously.
    “Friends,” he said, his voice booming. “Allow me to introduce Lady Letitia, glancer extraordinaire and world traveler.”
    Technically, I suppose, it was the truth.
    My eyes roamed the crowd, trying to take in all the strangeness. Everyone I had met so far was there, smiling in welcome. There were probably thirty of them, all told, and I had many people left to meet. Oddly, I didn’t have a bit of stage fright. Standing before them seemed natural, and I struck a pose, hands in the air, and flashed my most brilliant smile.
    And then everything went black.

8
     
    My eyelids fluttered, fighting to stay