Ace of Shades (The Shadow Game #1)(45)

The two of them gradually made their way around the cabaret, speaking to members of the waitstaff and to the bouncers. Enne did most of the talking. Each time, Reymond presented Enne as “Miss Salta,” but provided no introduction for himself—he simply stood beside her and looked threatening.

They didn’t find many answers—the closest they came was someone who remembered Lourdes, but had never spoken to her, nor seen her with anyone else. It was terribly disheartening. Each time someone nodded with recognition, Enne felt a thread of hope tighten in her chest, but each time, that thread snapped with disappointment. She was likely closer to finding her mother than she’d ever been, but there were no real leads. The trail could, very easily, end here.

Soon her drink was finished, and a replacement quickly found its way into her hand. The liquor eased the pain of her disappointment, as well as the aches of her horrendously sore muscles from rehearsal.

“I’m not giving up,” Enne announced, her face oddly feverish.

“We’ll have to find a way to talk to the performers—” Reymond started to say, but stopped, as Enne was already marching toward the backstage area. She entered a room full of costumes, makeup and smoke, the Scar Lord following close behind.

“It smells like...” Enne sniffed the air. “Like raspberry cordial.” She carelessly ran her hands along the beaded and sequin dresses in the costume rack, watching them shimmer.

“It’s called Mistress,” Reymond explained, crinkling his nose and swatting away the smoke. “It’s popular right now. An aphrodisiac. Torren-owned, I think.” He pointed to the blunt stubs in the ash tray. The ash left behind a golden residue.

“Are you supposed to be back here?” a feminine voice asked. Enne whirled around, nearly losing her balance. The speaker was a woman with a wary expression, wearing a feathered hat, a scarlet slip and very little else.

“I’m a dancer,” Enne offered brightly, as a means of explanation. Reymond shook his head, and the woman’s eyes narrowed uneasily as she took him in.

“You look familiar,” she said.

Reymond smiled. “I have one of those faces.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured uncertainly.

Behind her, two other performers carrying a collection of knives emerged from the dressing room. Reymond patted Enne on the shoulder, making her wince again, and said, “I’ll go talk to them. Don’t leave this room.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Sure, missy. Just don’t leave.” Then he skulked off to the other performers, leaving Enne alone with the woman.

The performer sat on the chair by the vanity. “What are you drinking?”

Enne looked down at her glass and was surprised to find it empty once more. “It was gold.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Don’t start too young, sweetie. That’s how they trap you. And you’re tiny as a teaspoon.” She motioned for Enne to sit beside her, and Enne collapsed in a very unladylike fashion. When she leaned back, the room spun around her like a carousel, so Enne shook her head and kept herself upright.

The woman plucked the empty glass out of her hand. “I’m the vedette here—the lead performer. My name’s Demi Salta.”

Enne giggled. She couldn’t imagine herself wearing an outfit like Demi’s when she danced. “Enne Salta.”

“Ah, well, a cousin wouldn’t tell on me for a little preshow ritual.” Demi winked, pulled a joint out of her pocket and lit it. The smoke was the color of marigolds. Demi coughed for a moment, then relaxed into her chair. “I like your jacket,” she said.

“Thank you,” Enne answered. She liked it, too, though she felt guilty imagining some girl in the city who was without her fur coat. But it was also very pretty.

“I’m looking for my mother,” Enne said—or rather, blurted. She liked Demi, and she’d always enjoyed the atmosphere of backstage, but she was here with a purpose.

“Well, she’s not back here.” Demi smirked.

“I don’t know where she is,” Enne admitted. “She’s been missing. Her name is Lourdes. And Séance. And she—”

“Maybe you’re not looking in the right places,” Demi said, letting out a drag. “Where else do you think she could be?”

Dead, a voice whispered in Enne’s head, and she whimpered. The voice wasn’t usually so loud. She could use a glass of water, or better yet, a bed.

“Don’t do that, don’t do that,” Demi ordered wildly. “It’s bad luck to cry backstage.”

Enne shook her head. “I’m not going to cry.” It was as much a command to herself as it was a reassurance for Demi. Just as she’d felt so often since yesterday morning, she was right on the edge of tears, a touch away from shattering. But she was growing accustomed to the feeling. Even after two drinks, she wouldn’t cry.

Outside, in the cabaret, the music changed to something faster. Demi swore. “I only have a few more minutes. I have a routine, you know. It’s not easy going out there if I have all my wits about me.”

“I’m sorry,” Enne murmured with a small sniffle.

“Oh, you’re so depressing. People come here to have fun, sweetie.” Enne frowned—she could be fun if she wanted to. Demi stood up, set down her joint and coiffed herself in the mirror. She handed Enne a tube of red lipstick. “This will look good on you. Anyone ever told you that you look like a doll?”