Welcome to Castle Cove

by Kory M. Shrum

  “He won’t bite, unless you ask him to,” John says with a wink. “The same goes for me, by the way. Though I think Aiden has his hopes up.”

  My face burns. “Are all the men in your family shameless flirts?”

  “Only the good-looking ones,” he replies, not missing a beat.

  “Your poor mother,” I say. But John is back in the car and I realize the doorman has been holding up the rope this entire time. I blurt an apology.

  He only nods. Is he mute? Is this silent treatment meant to reinforce his reputation as a wall of meaty muscle?

  I step inside the club, hovering in the dark entryway long enough to let my eyes adjust. Spots from the blue Labyrinth sign dance before my eyes until the soft candlelight slowly replaces it. Once the room finally comes into view, I find the bar along the left wall.

  All the walls are stone, with medieval candelabras serving as the main light source in each room. Plush red carpets and furnishings can be found in almost every nook and cranny. The crowd isn’t too thick yet.

  The dance floor sits beneath a DJ booth. Apart from the dance floor, the bar and all the dark corners ready for intimate conversations, there is one other thing I notice. The music is a string quartet version of a rock song I can’t quite place.

  An archway. And above the archway, a sign written in the same font as the outside Labyrinth had been. Except this sign was in red.

  Enter, if you dare.

  I slip onto a leather barstool and try to meet the gaze of the bartender. He’s a young man, slender with black hair slicked back in a perfect part. Not one hair out of place. His dress shirt is crisp and perfectly white beneath a black vest, and the sleeves are rolled up to the elbows.

  “Good evening,” he says. “Are you Mr. Benedict’s guest?”

  “I am,” I say, surprised.

  “He recommends a Sunglasses After Dark cocktail or a house red, whichever the lady prefers. But please know all drinks are on the house tonight. Mr. Benedict insists.”

  I begin to question what sort of man orders for a woman he has never met, yet I can’t help but be impressed. He sent a car. He notified his employees of my arrival, and he’s doing his best to make me feel welcome and accommodated.

  “I’m not sure I can—” I begin.

  “You can,” the bartender assures me with a mischievous smile.

  “Well then. A glass of the house red, if you please,” I say, and force a smile, a tad embarrassed by my long pause.

  He nods.

  He pours the red, a rich crimson into a tall and wide wine glass. He places the drink on a black napkin and slides it across the bar.

  “Enjoy. Mr. Benedict will be right with you.”

  I take a sip, and a warm flush consumes me.

  “Wow.” I moan into the wine glass and drink deeper.

  Immediately, all the muscles in my back go soft. This isn’t a red wine at all. Or it isn’t just red wine. It’s also very, very good blood.

  I want to know what it is.

  I can’t ask because the bartender has moved down the bar to service another patron—a busty blond in a leopard print dress. It fits her tighter than my winter gloves.

  “Do you approve of our house vintage?” a melodic voice asks. It’s the sort of voice that slides along the skin, licking up the side of your neck before curling its tongue around the inside of your ear.

  I’m blushing before I even turn around.

  I pivot on the stool, still holding the wine glass, and find a man in a sharp dark suit, no tie, just an open collar showing a hint of collarbone.

  The smell of him is impossible to miss. His cologne—or the blood I’m drinking—make my head swim all the more.

  “It’s amazing,” I say, finding my voice. I lift the glass slightly. “I’m not a connoisseur, mind you. I haven’t been a vampire long enough.”

  He smiles, a reserved smile of quiet accomplishment. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  “What is it?”

  “House secret,” he says with a devilish grin. He takes me in, and I don’t know if it’s this amazing drink or what, but I let his eyes rove over my skin without an ounce of self-consciousness. “You’re adjusting well.”

  “Am I?” I ask. Then realizing that perhaps I’m being too casual, I add a clipped, “Thank you. Do you always treat your guests so well?”

  He smiles, searching my face. “Any bar in town would have given you the same hospitality.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he mimics. “We have a tradition in Castle Cove. The first time someone patrons your establishment, you must give them a free drink.”

  “That’s generous.”

  “It’s a matter of self-preservation,” he says with a conspiratorial tone. “You may have noticed that Castle Cove is…unique. May I offer a word of advice?”

  I sit up taller on my stool, unable to hide my curiosity. “Yes?”

  “Anytime someone comes to your home—or your bar—offer them food or drink in case they are Oíche.”

  I have no idea what that is. I’m sure my face says as much.

  “Night demons,” he explains.

  “Are you kidding right now?”

  His shakes his head. “No. They can take any form. Don’t forget. You will not like what happens if you do.”

  I set my drink down. “You’re giving me free drinks because you don’t want me to be an offended demon?”

  His smile falters. “I do not think you are a demon. And after what happened to you, a drink is the least I can do.”

  “And the flowers.”

  “However changed your life may be, there was another young woman in town who did not get that chance. I believe you knew her.”

  My heart knocks wildly in my chest.

  “A couple of hours before your run-in with Richard and Henry, Katie Rogers left a bar in their company.”

  “Is she—no.” I stop myself before the question even forms. Don’t tell me now. I don’t want to fall apart here in this public place.

  Katie, oh god, Katie.

  For a moment he says nothing, fingering the edge of my black napkin.

  Then he gestures to the rest of the room around him with a wave of his hand. “How did I do? Do you see any imperfections?”

  I look around the room again, taking in the candlelight, the erotic music. I note the quiet laughter in dark corners. I’m grateful that Ethan is leading me away from the emotion threatening to overtake me. I capitalize on his generosity, and I try to focus on each of part of the room he points out until my voice finds me.

  After my assessment I say, “You’ve done a great job of blending intimacy with intrigue. It’s comfortable, cozy, and would appeal to a specific range of clientele.” I point at the dance floor. “Those looking to have fun and meet people.” I point the furniture nestled in dark corners. “And those looking for conversation or kisses in the dark. It’s clear you know who your customers are and what they want.”

  Another soft smile touches his lips. “Are you someone who enjoys kisses in the dark?”

  Hell yes. Thankfully, I don’t blurt this. I say, “This bar may be too classy for my day-to-day taste.”

  He leans against the bar, surveying my face more closely.

  “What is that?” I point my wine glass, now nearly empty, toward the sign I saw before sitting at the bar.

  He follows my gaze. “That is the entrance to the labyrinth.”

  “An actual labyrinth?”

  “An actual labyrinth,” he says with a smile.

  “What’s inside there?”

  He considers my face for a long time then. So long that I feel like it’s going to catch fire and melt if he looks any harder.

  “The experience is different for everyone. It depends on what they are looking for. Whatever it is, they will find it in there.”

  “It’s a wonder you didn’t name your club Heart’s Desire.”

  He grins at that. “Spoken like a marketer. Would you like to go in
side and see for yourself?”

  I finish my drink in two swallows. I read Enter, if you dare.

  If I dare…

  Mr. Benedict must sense my hesitation. “Or we can have another drink. I am open to whichever you prefer.”

  Choice 30

  Go into the labyrinth

  Have another drink

  It would be nice to go out.

  “I suppose it’s unhealthy to drink alone,” I say, swirling the Moscato, watching the wine slide up the crystalline sides. “But as long as this bar doesn’t open at ten. I still want to be in bed at a decent hour.”

  “Baltimore! Yes,” she exclaims. “I’ll be there to pick you up at eight. Enjoy that pizza, get out of your pajamas, and don’t pass out before I get there.”

  I laugh and end the call.

  When the pizza arrives, I eat two slices straight from the box without getting a plate. I can practically hear my mother scolding me, heathen.

  I also remember my ex in his baby blue workout shirt, all those muscles, his hair mussed and that damn kale in his basket.

  Time for more wine.

  I tell myself it’s because drinks are too expensive at the bar. Better to get drunk beforehand.

  After two glasses, I feel surprisingly relaxed and actually a little excited about going out. Castle Cove is still a mystery, and as with all new and shiny places, it has that sense of possibility about it.

  I could even meet someone tonight and get started on that rebound sex therapy I hear is so healthy for the soul.

  Or you could drink too much and puke into your hair in a filthy bar bathroom, my sensible side advises.

  Damn you, sensible side.

  I do manage to get dressed and pull a comb through my hair before Katie arrives. When she knocks, I check my pockets one more time. Keys. Cash. Phone. Good to go.

  She raps on the door to a tune suspiciously like “Jingle Bells” even though Christmas is three months behind us.

  I open the door to her grinning face.

  “Baltimore!” she exclaims. She tugs on the bottom of her leather jacket as if she can’t contain herself. Her big brown eyes are bright and mischievous. Her blond hair is combed over in a dramatic part that hides part of her face coquettishly. Her lips are painted bright red, teeth perfectly white and straight. Someone had braces as a child.

  I shush her. “You’ll wake the dead. Come on.”

  When we step outside my apartment building nestled at the edge of Old Town, we are confronted by cobblestone streets and brick buildings jammed up against one another. I like the Old World feel of this district, and its quaint charm. Supposedly it’s the oldest part of town, closest to the castle ruins on the southern cliffs for which the town is named.

  And it’s a lovely neighborhood. The old theatre, a corner market and the Castle Cove Public Library are all in this part of town. Sure the pipes rattle a little more and the buildings aren’t quite as well insulated—but I love it. It reminds me of the summer I spent in Florence and the apartment I shared there with three other art students from my university.

  Katie adjusts her leather jacket. “My car is over here.”

  The taillights of her black Ford Fiesta flash. She has the door unlocked before I even reach it.

  Ten minutes later we are at the edge of the Quarter. She’s right about Alpha’s being close to the university.

  We park in the parking garage and dart across the avenue toward the bar.

  The doorman doesn’t even check our IDs. He just flares his nostrils and says, “You’re good. Have fun.”

  I can’t suppress my snort. “Thanks?” I mean, I did bathe this morning, but since when did a lack of B.O. get someone into a bar?

  I try not to take offense to the notion that I am now too old to be carded. Or wonder exactly when that monumental milestone was reached without my knowing.

  Katie doesn’t seem to think this exchange is weird or insulting. She grabs my hand and pulls me into the warm, loud space, the heavy and gnarled wooden door swinging closed behind us.

  Turns out Katie is right. It is more like a pub than the typical bar. Wood paneling stretches all the way back until it hits a wall. To the left of that wall is a doorway with a black sign above labeled Restrooms. Just before that wall are three pool tables, all occupied by mixed groups. I’m relieved to find almost as many women as men.

  To the right is the bar full of smiling, chatty people. Of course, their words are indistinguishable from the general din of the room and the jukebox blaring classic rock from the left wall, at the end of a row of booths.

  “Let’s get drinks first,” Katie says into my ear and pulls me toward the bar.

  We manage to wedge ourselves between two couples and get the bartender’s attention.

  Wiping the bar in front of us, she frowns. “New to town or just passing through?”

  “We just moved here,” Katie pipes up. She looks thrilled to be talking to someone. I wonder what magic she has that makes her so sociable. Just the slightest attention from the bartender’s golden eyes made my stomach drop. “But we heard this is the best bar in town.”

  The bartender finally smiles. “Who told you that?”

  “Rick,” Katie says. “Rick Toronto. We work together.”

  The bartender arches her eyebrows in surprise and nods at this. “I’m Kristine.”

  “I’m Katie and this here is Baltimore.”

  Kristine arches an eyebrow until I give her my real name. “Your first drink is on the house. So what can I get you?”

  “A piña colada,” Katie says, triumphantly, as if she’s just won some unofficial contest.

  The bartender’s eyes fall on me. “And for you?”

  This doesn’t seem like a wine kind of place. “A dirty martini.”

  The bartender’s smile remains sly as she reaches under the bar and grabs two new glasses. She makes our drinks and slides them across the bar. I notice the pawprint tattoo on her left bicep. Seven prints of various sizes arranged in circle around it.

  “Welcome to Castle Cove,” she says, plopping an extra olive into my glass.

  I’m struck by her wolfish grin. This one is trouble, I think.

  “Anyone we should look out for?” Katie asks, conspiratorially.

  The woman considers her question seriously. And there’s something about that seriousness that I really appreciate. Her eyes scan the room. “Nah, most of these folks are all right. And it’s only the half moon.”

  Katie laughs as if the bartender has made a joke. I just stare, trying to understand the comment, but not feeling brave enough to ask her what she means.

  We thank Kristine for the drinks, tip well, and move away from the bar so others can place their order. We make it once around the room when Katie’s hand tightens on my wrist, her nails digging into my flesh.

  “Ow, god. What?” My teeth catch on the edge of my glass. I’m expecting her to tell me she’s spotted Rick, but she nods toward the two guys who just stepped into the bar. They’re tall, dark, and handsome. And there is something about them that reeks of sameness. Brothers maybe?

  “Oh my god, they’re freaking hot,” Katie whispers into my ear.

  One of the men looks right at us then. The corner of his mouth crooks into a lopsided grin.

  “Don’t you think so?” she asks.

  I don’t think so. There’s something about them that makes my breath catch in my throat. But no heat. No intrigue.

  Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.

  The bouncer follows the men into the bar and gives Kristine a knowing look. It’s almost too easy to guess what he’s asking, What about these two?

  Kristine shakes her head and reaches under the register for something. A cell phone. Then she steps into a back room with the phone already pressed to her ear.

  “Let’s go talk to them,” Katie says.

  I choke on my martini. “What?”

  But she’s already pulling me forward. And we don’t have to go very far.

>   “Hey,” Katie says, tucking the hair behind one of her ears. “You guys want to grab a booth together?”

  They’re all smiles. The closest one takes her by the arm. “Sure. How about this one?”

  He motions toward an empty booth against the left wall. Katie is already sliding across the rubber seat as the man slides in beside her.

  “After you,” the other guy says. I can feel his hot breath on my cheek and everything inside me loosens.

  But I just stand there unmoving.

  “Would you rather sit on the outside?” he asks.

  More of that warm breath slides along my face and neck.

  A strange feeling washes over me. Like a tingle from head to toe. I have just a moment to wonder what the hell the bartender put in my drink before I feel his hand on my shoulder pushing me into the booth.

  “Okay,” I whisper. I don’t even know if he can hear me over the bustle of the bar as I slide across the seat until I’m pinned between the wall and this stranger’s body.

  “Are you ladies from around here?” Katie’s man asks.

  “We’re both new,” Katie says, her eyes glassy. How strong is that piña colada? “We just moved here from the East Coast.”

  “Convenient,” one says with a snort. I don’t even know which one.

  “Do you live here?” Katie asks.

  The men’s eyes meet. “We used to live here. We’ve come back just to visit.”

  “Do you have family here?” Katie asks, her eyes full of that dreamy, drunk look.

  “We do,” the man beside me answers. “Our family has been in Castle Cove for a long time.”

  Our family, he’d said. So I was right to think they were related. Both are dark haired with flat black eyes and the same narrow jaws. They are even dressed the same in black shirts, pants, and leather jackets. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are wearing matching motorcycle boots.

  “What are you doing?” the man beside me asks, laughing.

  “I’m trying to see your boots,” I say. “Are they motorcycle boots?”

  Both men burst out laughing. “Yes, they are. Why?”

  “Figures,” I say. Some intelligent—but distant—part of my brain notes my slur. Why am I slurring? Sure I had wine at home and now this martini, which sits half drunk in front of me. But that can’t possibly account for the sudden weight in my arms and the fog pressing against my brain.