Fatal Allure Collection

by Woods, Martha

  A performance starts, and I watch the dancer perform a song heavy with a bass dance beat. She’s a pretty girl with doe eyes and a wraith’s body. She’s obviously had some dance training, though, because, in addition to doing all of the titillating things she has to do as part of her job, she also does a nice job actually entertaining the crowd and putting on a nice routine.

  It seems probable that calling it a “nice routine” would either mark me as a cop or as someone’s grandmother, so I am glad that my musings aren’t on display as I watch and try to act like a kinky, lesbian patron of this establishment.

  I sip my wine and watch three more performances, all amazingly well done and tasteful. Now I can see Alexis’s influence on this place. It is not some seedy bar that covers for two-bit prostitution. It is a clean place and one that seems to value talent over simple sex-for-sale. As strip clubs go, I suppose this would be a good place to work. Minus the propensity for murder, of course.

  The next performer catches my eye. She has honey-colored skin and a messy, curly, brown bob. She’s incredibly fit, with defined biceps and a six-pack of abs. I’m impressed, as a fellow gym rat. She does a military-inspired performance, and when she finishes, I ask the waitress if I can request her for a private show.

  “India?” she asks. “Let me check.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m led back through a labyrinth of hallways and into a small room that is decorated like a living room. There is a black, leather couch, a bright red armchair, a lamp, a coffee table, and a console table holding a radio and an assortment of food and beverage items. The walls are bright red and the lighting is soft and inviting.

  I wait probably five minutes before India comes in, clad only in a black, lace bra and a thong.

  She asks, “What can I do for you tonight?”

  I debate. The whole idea was just to get back here so I would have a way to sneak around the rest of the facility. I don’t necessarily want to make this woman perform for me. Maybe I should just be honest.

  I say, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course. What happens in the red room stays in the red room.”

  I laugh. “I’m not here for a show. I’m here investigating the murders of your coworkers.”

  Her eyes go wide.

  “Can you answer some questions for me? I’ll still pay you whatever the rate is for the room,” I say.

  She tilts her head and purses her lips. “There’s a camera in the corner. No sound but it will look weird if I don’t dance or something,” she says.

  “What do you normally do in here?” I ask.

  “A private dance, something more personal than what you’d get out there. I might sit on your lap. We might kiss.”

  “Do you…have sex with people?” I ask.

  “No, intercourse is against the rules,” she says. “But we can do other things if that’s what you like.”

  “No, no,” I say quickly. “I’m not…I don’t want anything like that.”

  She laughs. “Okay, then, sit back on the couch and I’ll do a dance while we talk.”

  I do as told. She starts some music and it’s loud enough to drown out our conversation if somewhere was listening, but not so loud that I can’t hear her.

  As she moves, I ask, “Have you noticed anything weird going on here?”

  “Besides having four of my friends stabbed in the past month?” she asks. “Well, there’s this douchebag of a guy who says he works for the owner who comes around every few nights. He’s roughed all of us up here and there, especially if he hears us talking about the murders or being scared.”

  “What do you mean he roughs you up?” I ask.

  She bends over, her hair trailing on the ground and her rear facing my direction. She answers through her legs. “He choked my girl Sammy and pushed me against my car. Told me the boss can’t lose any of us and wherever we go, he’ll come find us and drag us back.”

  I try to keep my expression neutral, but I want to wince at this. “That’s nuts,” I say.

  “This has always been a nice club,” she says, unhooking her bra, exposing her breasts, which are adorned with gold hoop piercings. “Classy clientele, good tips, reasonable expectations. As a dancer, you have to audition and you have to be really good. But in the past six months, it’s just been weird around here. It feels…off…and not just because of the murders. Which, by the way, I do not believe for a second are unrelated.”

  She makes her way closer to where I sit, curling up next to me. She reaches out and takes my hand, putting it to her breast as she leans close to my ear. “I think all four of the girls tried to quit. They were all really weird and scared the last few weeks of their lives. Shells of themselves.”

  She leans in and kisses my neck. I tilt my head to give her access as she uses my hand to pinch at her nipple.

  “I’m not…” I stammer. “I’m not really into girls,” I say. “I mean, you’re amazing and fit. Totally what I would pick if I was.”

  She laughs. “Cameras, baby.”

  She straddles my lap and pulls the straps of my dress down my arms, kissing my bare shoulders, grabbing at my covered breasts. She leans in close and says, “There’s an office about four doors down from here. Owner’s office but he’s never here. We’ve never seen him. Start there.”

  She dismounts, puts her bra back on and curtsies. “Pay at the front before you leave,” she says as she leaves the room.

  I sit, somewhat dazed by the experience until I realize someone will come to escort me out of the room if I don’t leave on my own.

  As I slip out the door, I go the opposite way, counting four doors and slipping inside.

  The office is large and dark. I fumble around, making my way to the desk. Mostly it’s full of things like personnel files and policies and procedures for the business.

  I sift through things as quickly as I can, coming up empty-handed until I reach under the desk and find a hidden drawer. It’s locked, so I use a letter opener to pick it. When it springs open, it contains numerous items used for witchcraft ritual. Three black candles, a metal pentagram, and a wooden-handled dagger are just some of the items.

  I get spooked at the sound of footsteps outside, so I put the drawer back and make my way to the door, listening, slipping out when I am sure no one remains in the hallway. I retrace my steps back toward the bar, dipping into a restroom when I see Damon talking to an unruly patron by the door.

  After a few minutes, I peek back out and at no sign of him, I walk toward the door, desperate to look calm and collected. But as I step outside, I change my mind. I should tell Damon I’m here. I should have him check out that office, those items. I should have him dig into more information about the owner of the club.

  I turn back, but as I enter again, I see him. And I see Alexis. She’s dressed in skinny, leather leggings and a slinky, red top that bares thin arms. Her hands are on his chest, his arms around his waist. He’s smiling at her and she’s talking, laughing.

  I back away horrified. Perhaps I was too honest about my feelings for Vincent. Maybe I have pushed him right into the arms of another woman. And worse, a woman who is so totally different from me. Maybe Cara was right–maybe he would appreciate a little more effort in my appearance. Maybe if I had tried harder to be sexy, or to show him I truly do love him and want him.

  Maybe if I could let Vincent go for good, give Damon what he wants in a normal, monogamous, non-supernaturally focused life.

  I feel sick the whole ride home. I shower off all of the makeup, returning to my normal self, agonizing over the small wrinkles by my eyes, the dull sheen of my brown hair, the bluntness of its cut. I feel so average right now and thinking of Damon with a woman as beautiful as Alexis only makes me feel worse.

  I am not a woman who wallows. And I am not a woman who generally worries what men find attractive. But I will be damned if I let Damon go that easily.

  I stay up until three before sending a text to him, asking if he will be home soon.


  He never answers and I wake up when the alarm goes off at five, alone. His side of the bed is untouched.

  Chapter 9

  I make a stop at Faye’s shop at lunchtime, telling her what I saw in the club owner’s office. She asks if I have a name and I tell her I spent all morning digging. The club is owned by a conglomerate of companies and people, so it was hard to get a name. But I found one, Max Underwood.

  She makes a face. “Never heard that name.”

  “Can men be witches?” I ask, feeling stupid the moment I ask.

  The look Faye gives me tells me I’m right to feel that way. “Warlocks,” she says with an eye roll.

  “So could this be a warlock?” I ask.

  She lifts one shoulder. “Hard telling. I mean, some candles and a pentagram could be a teenager playing at witchcraft. Did you touch any of it?”

  “No, should I have?”

  “Well touching it can sometimes trigger a rebound, like a memory of how the item was used,” she says. “Sometimes you get nothing, but it can be worth a try.”

  “Okay, I’ll try to get back in there,” I say. “And can you see if you can find anything out about this Max Underwood? Apparently, no one has ever seen him and he sends some guy who pesters the girls who threaten to quit. The girl I spoke to yesterday said they’re very particular about who they hire.”

  Faye dismisses me with a wave as the shop phone rings. “Fine, yes, I’ll look into it,” she says, billowing black skirts swishing around bright yellow Doc Marten boots.

  “Thanks for your help as always,” I mutter as I head for the door. “Good talk.”

  As I walk back into the building, sandwich in hand, young Vivienne greets me with a smile.

  “Hello Vivienne,” I say. “No Michelle yet?”

  “No, her father passed, didn’t you hear? She’s staying in Colorado to help her mother with his affairs.”

  “Oh,” I say, shocked. “No, I hadn’t heard. I’ll have to send her a card.”

  I continue to walk into the lab. The day goes by so slowly. It’s a pretty uneventful day and all afternoon, I keep looking at my phone for texts from Damon, but he’s been completely silent. I am trying not to panic. There’s probably a perfectly logical response to his lack of communication.

  When I get home, he is there, sprawled on the couch, watching television.

  “Damon!” I exclaim as I shut the door behind me. “I sent you several texts last night and today. I was really worried about you!”

  He gives me a smile, but it doesn’t make it to his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry?” I ask incredulously. “That’s all you have to say? You never came home last night? You couldn’t be bothered to let me know you were all right?”

  “Amy,” he says with a sigh. “What is this about?”

  “This is about the fact that I saw you last night,” I say. “I came to the club and I saw you with your arms around that witch Alexis. She had her hands on your chest. You were smiling.”

  “When were you at the club?” he asks.

  “I came in to take a look around. I discovered some…evidence…and I wanted you to check it out too. But when I came to tell you, you were with her,” I say, my voice sounding decidedly screechy.

  “You’re telling me you came to the club without telling me? Did you search the place without telling me? I thought I was on recon at the club?”

  “I came in disguise, yes, because you haven’t been giving me anything to go on. And I’m glad I did because it seems obvious your attention is elsewhere and not on the case at all!”

  “I don’t like that you were sneaking around like that, Amy,” he says. “I told you I would help, but again, you simply don’t trust me at all.”

  “And for good reason, it seems!”

  He stands, his fists in tight balls. “You are making something out of nothing, Amy. Alexis had a couple of drinks for her birthday. She got flirty. It’s no big deal. I figured I’d let her get close because she rarely drops her guard. If she’s a little drunk, she might be more likely to slip some information.”

  Oh.

  “Well, you still didn’t come home last night,” I say, folding my arms over my chest.

  Damon doesn’t respond to that. He only says, “You can’t go around saying you have feelings for a vampire and then throw a nuclear tantrum just because you see my boss with her hands on me. That’s not fair.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “Where were you all night?”

  He walks toward the kitchen. I follow.

  “Damon,” I insist, “Answer me.”

  “Not while you’re all riled up,” he says. “You want freedom and respect? Well, it goes both ways.”

  “You’re not acting like yourself,” I say. “I’m leaving. I’m going on a run and I’ll be back when we’ve both had time to calm down.”

  He turns his back and goes to the refrigerator, opening it, not answering me.

  I storm toward the bedroom in a huff, angrily pulling off my work clothes and pulling on my workout clothes. A good run will help me simmer down a bit.

  Damon sits, stewing over a hastily made sandwich, as I walk out the door. He doesn’t ask me to stay. He doesn’t say anything.

  I take off at a run once I hit the cement. As I run, I think about my argument with Damon. Why won’t he tell me where he was? Could it be true that he’s letting Alexis get comfortable in order to get more information? And is he right that I made a choice to go in undercover, once again keeping him out of the loop on what could have been a dangerous plan?

  I’ve run about a half-mile before I realize I should go back and talk to him. We need to work this out and running away isn’t going to help make that happen. Thinking about what Vivienne said–that my boyfriend can do better than me–I realize that even though she wouldn’t know that because she doesn’t know Damon and me, she is right. Damon is gorgeous and strong and who am I? I really am a science nerd who’s probably too fit to be feminine and definitely doesn’t put nearly enough into her appearance. Of course, someone like Alexis would catch his attention. And you know what? That makes me really jealous. I really do love Damon, no matter my feelings for Vincent, and I need to make an effort to show him that.

  I turn around and head back. When I come back inside, though, there is a weird charge in the air that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  Tiptoeing into the kitchen, I find Damon in the exact spot I left him less than twenty minutes ago. He has his uneaten sandwich in front of him and sits, an angry expression on his face, motionless.

  “Damon?” I ask.

  He looks up and his face turns red, his lips pulling back so that his teeth are bared.

  “You love that bloodsucking piece of shit!” he yells, standing up and knocking the whole table over. “You think you can sleep with me, live with me, screw me and still have him, too, don’t you, you little slut?”

  I gasp. “Damon, this is not you. Can you hear yourself right now?”

  “How do you know who this is? Who I am?” he asks, stalking me. “You only think about yourself! You only care about what you want! Little time left to know anyone else, don’t you think?”

  He sneers, and suddenly, a dagger appears in his hand. I didn’t see him grab it. I look around but there is no one but him, no one but me. But looking at his eyes, his pupils dilated so no green remains, I don’t see the Damon I know at all.

  I back toward the door like prey trying to sneak away from a predator.

  “Where you going, little slut?” he asks, matching each tentative step I take. “Think you can outrun me? Think you can get away?”

  He tsks, shaking his head. “The others thought they could get away, too. But they didn’t.”

  My eyes go wide. “The others?”

  “Oh, they’re here, watching,” Damon says. “I can smell them. Smell the copper tang of their blood. I feel their terror, their desire for vengeance. I took from them. Not just their
lives, either.”

  I take another slow step backward. Just two feet from the door.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. This is important. This being–whoever is controlling Damon–is giving me critical information. It thinks I won’t live through this, so it won’t matter what it shares.

  “Magic requires sacrifice,” Damon says. “Especially the magic that will spawn witches powerful enough to eradicate the beasts that plague our world.”

  I feel the shock on my face. “By beasts you mean…”

  “Werewolves, vampires, any number of unholy, inhuman things,” he says. “Witches come by power naturally. The others? Biting, killing, drinking blood, eating innards. Disgusting.”

  Interestingly, this line of thought almost sounds like something Damon really would say. He has always been disgusted by the beings he fights as a Hunter. But the venom behind it is different. It feels foul and confining, like a virus that snakes itself throughout Damon’s core being, covering the real parts of him that are able to be reasoned with.

  Another step. I reach back and fumble for the door handle. I turn it and as soon as it’s open, I fly out. Down the stairs. Eight floors, Damon lumbering behind me. I get to the front door and outside. I run, run, as fast as I can.

  Damon follows at a close pace. He doesn’t even seem winded as he laughs. It’s an insane, mindless sound that barely sounds human. The hairs on my arms stand on end as I’m reminded of the laughter I heard that very first day back to work. This is the same sound, I’m sure of it.

  I send a silent, mental plea for help out to Vincent and feel him snap to attention.

  I know he’s fast for a big dude, but there is no way that Damon could beat me on foot on a normal day. I run a lot, and while I am still slightly out of shape after my ordeal with Olivia, I should still be able to outrun him.

  I try zig-zagging through some familiar alleyways, consider running inside a restaurant, but I just keep going. He gets closer, still, and it’s only when I feel his big hand on my arm that I realize I made a mistake. I should have kept him talking, should have stayed in the apartment. All of the murders were committed just like this, with a woman on the run, and a convenient witness to prove a suspect’s guilt.