8. Simone

Iawaken in a lavish boudoir, nestled among silken sheets and plump pillows that smell faintly of rosewater. For a moment I”m disoriented, my mind still clinging to the foggy remnants of disturbing dreams - blood and fire, pain and pursuit.

Then it all comes rushing back - the blood moon ceremony, my hexing magic violently manifesting, the pack”s betrayal, my harrowing flight through the bayou.

And finally, stumbling into Le Voile de Sang and the three enigmatic ‘brothers,’ who apparently all have different last names?

Gingerly, I push to my feet, taking stock. My cuts and bruises have been cleaned and bandaged with obvious care. At the foot of the bed lies a froth of beaded crimson chiffon. I let the delicate fabric slip through my fingers, marveling. I”ve never touched anything so fine.

I slip the dress over my head, shivering as it slides like cool water over my skin. It molds to my curves as if made for me. On the vanity, a clutter of cosmetics and perfumes glitter like pirate”s treasure. The sumptuous furnishings are straight out of my girlhood fantasies - gilded mirrors, a vanity laden with perfume bottles, and a wardrobe brimming with beaded frocks more magnificent than anything I”ve ever seen.

Is this really happening? I pinch myself, but the lavish wonderland doesn”t dissolve.

Somehow, Auguste”s kindness has transformed me from bayou refugee to fairy tale princess overnight.

I trail my fingers over the patterned silk wallpaper, marveling at the texture. The bed is piled high with embroidered pillows and a lace coverlet so delicate, it seems spun from mist. A breakfast tray sits on a lacquered side table, steam curling from a silver coffee pot. Flaky croissants glisten with butter, the scent of dark roast mingling with the perfume of fresh lilies in a crystal vase.

The door swings open. Sabina saunters in, an elegantly engraved pistol casually clasped in one hand. Her silk robe flutters behind her like a pasha”s cape. ”Ah, sleeping beauty awakes,”

she purrs, moving to the vanity. She pours herself a cognac from the decanter, appraising me over the glass rim as she sips. ”We”ll need to doll you up properly if you”re to bewitch the crowds like boss wants.”

She sets her gun down to rifle through the vanity drawers, producing kohl, rouge pots and mascara wands. I eye the gun warily.

”Is that really necessary?” I ask, nodding to the weapon. ”In here?”

“First lesson…” she smiles, then chuckles throatily. “A woman can never be too armed or too charming. The boys upstairs have informed me you are to be my new protégé. Stick with me, and I”ll make you a formidable siren no man can resist.”

“A-a siren?” I say as she pushes me down to the vanity stool and starts daubing color onto my cheeks. I find myself relaxing as her olive hands move in swift, sure strokes, transforming my bayou-bedraggled appearance with kohl, rouge and a swipe of deep crimson lipstick. ”Drag?, you won”t believe the drama yesterday with Babette and the Duvalier twins,”

she confides like I already belong, raven curls brushing my cheek as she leans in to blend a smoky shadow on my lids. ”I thought Etienne would burst a blood vessel! I haven”t seen him so riled up since the police chief”s wife tried to slip him her garter mid-show.”

I can”t help but giggle at the image, nerves momentarily forgotten. ”You don”t say! How do you put up with it all?”

Sabina steps back to study her handiwork, a satisfied smile curving her crimson lips. ”All part of the dance, drag?. You just learn the steps, make them work for you.” She dabs a spicy, exotic perfume on my wrists and throat. The scent wraps around me like an embrace.

”Now, if the Duvalier boys start sniffing around, you just give them that coy little smile I taught you and make those big violet eyes wide and innocent. They”re all bark.” She chucks me under the chin, eyes sparkling. ”And if they don”t take the hint, Toulouse and Pierrot will be happy to ”escort” them out.”

Sabina turns me to face the mirror. I hardly recognize the sultry vixen peering back, shadows and secrets in her eyes. She finishes my makeup with a flourish, then, only after rearming herself, takes my hand to lead me on a tour of the cabaret”s inner sanctum.

We slip through a hidden door, emerging into a narrow hallway lit by flickering gas lamps. The walls are papered in faded crimson damask, the air heavy with a mingling of greasepaint, perfume, and the ghosts of a thousand performances.

”Welcome to the real Le Voile de Sang, drag?,” Sabina says with a conspiratorial wink.

“Upstairs they like to pretend it’s about the shine, but that’s just what we allow them to think.”

We pass a series of dressing rooms, each door adorned with a star”s name in peeling gilt letters. Raucous laughter and bickering spills out from behind them, punctuated by the occasional melodic scale or muffled sob.

In the costume room, a seamstress with a measuring tape draped around her neck stitches beads onto a scandalously low-cut gown. She gives me an appraising once-over and a nod of approval.

The props area is a jumbled wonderland - crystal balls, stuffed doves, and silk flowers spill from overflowing trunks. A mustachioed man in shirtsleeves carefully sorts stage props.

Sabina has a story for everything - that showgirl was a contessa”s rebellious daughter, this tattered velvet curtain once graced the stage of the Paris Opera. Each worn prop and faded photograph is a fragment of a larger mythology.

As we walk, the cacophony of performers warming up their acts grows louder - a trombone”s wail, a soprano”s tremulous vibrato, the rhythmic clack of tap shoes.

Finally, we emerge onto the stage itself, the cavernous hall stretching out before us. In the absence of an audience, I can see clear through to the bar at the back where Etienne polishes glasses in the gloom. The empty tables seem expectant, waiting to be filled with patrons eager to lose themselves in the night”s spectacle.

I walk to the center of the stage, trailing my fingers along the plush velvet curtain. It all feels like an elaborate dream from which I might awaken at any moment. But Sabina”s hand at my elbow, guiding me forward into the footlights” glow, is warm and real.

She looks out at the invisible crowd, a small smile playing at her painted lips, then turns to me with eyes that sparkle with mischief and understanding.

”Stick with me, Simone. I”ll make you a star.”

In the weekssince arriving at Le Voile de Sang, I”ve settled into the rhythms of cabaret life under Sabina”s tutelage. Each dawn I stumble to my lavish bed, limbs aching from hours of dance rehearsals and vocal coaching, the amulet heavy on my collarbone.

Its power remains a mystery, but the boys assure me it masks my hexeblood from those who might exploit it. I cling to it like a talisman against the darkness that nips at my heels.

The night of my debut arrives in a flurry of satin and sequins, nerves and anticipation. Backstage is a hive of activity - showgirls adjusting their plumage, stagehands hauling props, musicians tuning instruments. I peek through the curtain at the smoky hall, packed with leering men and elegant ladies, absinthe glowing green in their glasses.

Sabina appears at my shoulder, resplendent in black beads and blood-red lips. She sets down her firearm, something I rarely see her do, and takes my hand. ”Remember drag?, you bewitch them. Don”t let them see your fear.” With a final adjustment to my beaded headdress, she gives me a little push. ”Knock ”em dead, kid.”

I step into the spotlight”s glare, the world narrowing to the stage beneath my feet. The band strikes up a smoldering jazz tune and I let instinct take over. My hips sway, my voice smokes, and I feel a strange power rising within me, threading through the words of the torch song.

Out in the dark, the crowd goes silent, enraptured. I can feel the brothers” eyes on me, their gaze searing my skin. As the last note fades, the room erupts. Roses and applause rain down and I stand panting, mouth stretched in a disbelieving grin, the roar of the crowd surging through my blood.

In the wings, Sabina mouths ”Brava!”

I”m drunk on the thrill of it, this intoxicating brush with fame and adoration. But beneath the elation, unease circles. Have I truly stepped into a new role, or merely donned a more enticing disguise? And what price will this glittering world exact from a hexeblood runaway?

The thoughts chase me as I strip off my costume, the amulet thudding against my breastbone, a constant reminder that beneath the greasepaint and gardenias, I”m still a marked woman. A prize or a pariah, I can”t be sure.

But tonight, at least, I”ll revel in the fantasy.