by Lyn Forester
“Last call for purchases!” a cheerful voice announces over the speaker. Customers rush for the register. It ka-chings with sales, and the stragglers join their fellows at the counter, fingers frantic to unwrap candy as the pink number flashes and fades into a blue nine.
A woman cheers, thrusts her square of sugar into the air in an arm pump of victory.
“All winners, please show your number to the host for entry. Everyone else, may fortune find you next time!”
A robotic voice follows the chipper one. “Entry to the den may be purchased at register for regular price.”
A few customers return to the register, but most exit. Drake catches the attention of the cashier as I check the price of a piece of candy. It’s an eighth of the cost of one aphremore hit. The exiting customers will return to the line and try their luck again. In the lull, we step up to the cashier, and Drake flashes his card.
“We’d like to speak to Troy.” The cashier picks up the card, studies it, and makes a mew of distress as he sets it back on the counter.
“I’m so sorry!” he gushes, leaning forward with an abundance of regret. With the white cake makeup and the rouge pinking his cheeks, he resembles the lollypop in the stand next to him. “He just stepped out for lunch, honey.”
The opal polish on his nails winks in sympathy as he pats Drake’s hand.
“When will he be back?” Drake returns the card to his inside pocket while also extricating himself.
His sweet tooth has a limit.
“Well, gosh, not for an hour, at least.” The cashier flicks a glance at me, decides I’m not competition, and bats glitter-covered lashes at Drake. “How about letting me keep that card, and I’ll call you when Mr. Troy gets back?”
Drake stiffens at the mention of his card. He treats the things like they’re made of gold. So paranoid. I’m surprised he left one with Newland.
“We’ll come back later.” I step away from the counter, ready to leave.
But the cashier doesn’t take the hint. He reaches across the counter to grasp Drake’s jacket. “Sure I can’t get your number, sweetie?”
The man comes on too strongly, his knuckles white against the black material of Drake’s sleeve. He’s not reading the mood. Drake’s body angles away, hands off the counter, as he leans back to put distance between them. His shoulders tense, mouth compressed into a straight line.
Not interested.
I glance around the shop again. New customers file in, hopeful as they make their candy selections. A line forms behind us. High in the right wall, above the racks, a glass lens winks as the camera moves in our direction.
“Give him your number, Drake.”
“No, we’ll come back later.” He turns and steps away. Still clutching Drake’s arm, the cashier is dragged a couple inches before he lets go.
His gaze shifts to me, and he hesitates. But he already made too big a deal about wanting Drake’s number. His lips twitch, stretch into a plastic smile, and he calls out to the next person in line.
PENNED
“You should have given him your number.” Reagen pauses outside to scan the line of customers waiting for entry into The Hut.
“Not my type.” He checks the sleeve of his coat for claw marks. “A little too desperate.”
She glances back at him with raised brows. “Like the chase, huh?”
“What can I say?” He shrugs, unapologetic. “I’m in touch with my inner caveman. Love the hunt.”
“You buy into that whole cave dwelling thing?” A break in pedestrian traffic comes up, and she slides into it, slowing the masses so he can join her. “It’s hard to imagine being out in nature.”
“I don’t know. Both halion and human history logs say they did.” He shrugs with disinterest.
“It’s weird, though. Humans and halions, both claiming a common evolutionary development taking place in different universes.”
“No weirder than two similar races crashing on the same planet.” He slows down as they near the next aphremore den. No line here, just giant double doors, painted sky blue with gold handles.
Voice dry, she murmurs, “The Vortex brought our ancestors together for a reason.”
“All hail the Vortex.” He glances at her from the corner of his eye. Her lips twitch, and a snort of derision escapes. He laughs, and she gives up the fight and joins in.
“Yeah, fuck that fanatical bullshit.” She eyes the doors. “Pompous, don’t you think?”
“They make a statement.”
“Speaking of statements, you really should have given the cashier your number.” She jogs a few paces ahead and pulls one door open for him.
“Ugh, why?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, though. “It’s your fault we have to go back. You spent too long with the kid.”
He stomps toward the open door, and she cuts in front to enter the den first, shooting a glare at him.
“I’ll get a better lead from Henly than you’ll get from that second dessert, fatty.” She lets go of the door, and he flings out an arm to keep it from slamming into him.
Shit, she’s moody.
Why does she keep bringing up the lollipop man? He has enough bed partners without taking on clingers. Is she trying to live vicariously? She needs to get herself laid, so she can stop worrying about his sex life.
Shit, that’s creepy.
She glances back at him, eyes narrowed like she can hear his thoughts, and now she wants to hurt him. “Hurry up.”
The weight of the door pushes him into the entry hall. Faux wood floors flex beneath his heels, silencing his steps. Soft strains of music fill the room. Ambient lighting glows from small sconces on the walls, illuminating holo-images of men on one side and women on the other. In unison, the images shift into a new position, hip or chest thrust out for maximum allure. Gold plaques attached to the frames spell out the hosts’ names in elegant script.
The portraits create a gallery feel that invites guests to peruse the images in intimate detail. Reagen, halfway around the women’s side of the room, pauses at a low table to pick up a pamphlet. She flips through it, skimming, before tucking it into her coat. When she continues toward the reception desk, her steps become long and languid. Had he not spent the day with her, Drake would believe the pretense at relaxation.
But today showed him Reagen doesn’t relax; she’s on constant alert, hyper aware, energy in motion. Something in the brochure bothers her.
He picks one up from the table on the men’s side of the room and slides it into his pocket to look at later. A human man smiles at him from the holo-frame above the table. Broad-shouldered, his dyed seafoam blue hair shines with aqua highlights. Pearl dust gives his skin a lovely shimmer, and black contacts cover the true color of his eyes. The embellishments are good. He can almost pass as pureblood Rothven.
“Magnus is one of our club’s favorites.” Practice keeps Drake from flinching at the quiet voice. He glances down at the woman who stands beside him, sees a shoulder, and redirects his gaze up. Tall and slender, made more so by stiletto heels, and a form-hugging ivory dress. Coifed white hair and skin that glitters like crushed diamonds as she tilts her head to catch the sconce’s light. Pale coral lips curve up at the corners, just enough to hint at pleasure without risking wrinkles. A sculpted brow arches over pale blue eyes. “But perhaps you find Riellio clan more to your liking? I’m Madam Healani.”
“Drake finds everyone to his liking.” The woman jumps and presses a hand over her heart, drawing attention to her impressive breasts. She casts Drake a coy smile before stepping away to reveal Reagen standing in her shadow.
Next to the glittering elegance of the woman, Reagen looks like a smudge of dirt on a work of art. Her black pants, tight-fitting shirt, short jacket and boots don’t belong in the room’s finery. Madam Healani straightens her spine to tower over Reagen, aware of the image they make standing together.
“We’d like to speak to the club manager.” Reagen’s gaze drifts over the woman, disintere
sted until she reaches the shoes. Her lips twitch at the corners. The shoes have a platform toe, with a needle-like spike at the heel to provide an extra six or seven inches in height. They look unstable, and Reagen’s interest in them disturbs him.
“I don’t recall a meeting on the manager’s schedule for tonight.” The woman sniffs delicately as she minces toward the reception desk.
Drake, moving to follow, pauses next to Reagen and hisses, “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” She flicks a glance at him before her attention returns to the quick, short steps of the woman.
“Whatever you’re thinking. It’s creepy.”
She faces him, expression bland. “How many weapons are in the room?”
“See? Creepy.” He puts extra stress on the eeeeee, drawing it out. But she has a point. He should know the answer. A year spent in the office has messed with his skills. Mr. Black’s warning rings loud in his memory. He needs to do better.
They walk toward the reception desk, covering the distance in seven strides to arrive at the same time as Madam Healani. It takes her an excruciating amount of time to move behind the desk. She withdraws a palm-port and scrolls through the screen. Her pursed lips highlight the sharp angle of her cheekbones.
“Yes, as I thought. There’s no record of an appointment.” Her gaze flickers over them from beneath her lashes, conflicted as she tries to decide if they’re potential clients or troublemakers. “What is the reason you request a meeting? I can pass the information along to the manager’s personal secretary.”
She makes no promises of an actual appointment.
“In the meantime, I can seat you in our lounge for drinks.” Her bright smile displays healthy, white teeth. “No reason not to enjoy yourselves tonight.”
“Sounds like fun,” Reagen butts in. Her hand freezes him mid motion as he reaches for his business card. Shocked, he glances at her and she gives a minute shake of her head. “I could use a drink, and maybe some fun later.”
Madam Healani’s eyes widen in surprise, though she recovers quickly. “I’ll call an escort for you.” She presses a panel on the desk and wood grain shimmers into an active screen. Pointed nails tap away, then another press and the screen morphs back into its original state. “And what may I tell the manager’s secretary?”
“Never mind.” Drake, hand still in the air, uses the aborted motion to smooth out his lapel. “I’ll have my assistant call tomorrow.”
The smile on her face wavers, uncertain whether she should alert the manager to their presence, just in case. Her finger shifts to slide under the desk toward an emergency button.
A light tinkle announces new arrivals, and she pauses. Her eyes dart behind them, and a greedy smile spreads across her face before she tones it back to something more professional and less wrinkle inducing. She straightens, nods at them in dismissal.
“Tiffany will be with you soon. Please wait here.” She glides from around the desk, heeled feet taking tiny steps that zoom her past them and toward the entrance.
“Good to feel important,” Drake grumbles as his gaze shifts to Reagen.
Body at a slight angle, she watches the front doors. “They look like high rollers. Probably VIP.”
He follows her gaze to the small group, two women and two men. They’re dressed up for the night in suits and dresses. Their clothes are cut from good material. They fit into the club’s ambiance. Drake’s eyes rake over Reagen. Why weren’t they kicked out on sight?
“May I escort you to your table?” He turns back to the desk where a woman waits.
In a pale blue, pinstriped suit, high-collared with full-length sleeves, she makes no pretense at being anything but human. A small badge swings from a lanyard around her neck, with a picture of herself and Tiffany written in easy-to-read block letters. Where Madam Healani oozed expensive invitation, Tiffany stands prim, aloof and professional. Not for sale.
With a motion for them to come around the desk, she withdraws two bands from a pocket in her skirt. With snaps in the middle, she shakes them to disperse the glowing, blue beads, then bends them into circles.
“Please wear these at all times.” She hands one bracelet to each of them. The band rests warm against his wrist, either from her body heat or the glowing crystals. “The left hall is reserved for guests with halion blood and those who want to mingle away from the aphremore den.”
He glances back at the right hall, painted pale blue and silver with a barred door blocking its entrance. He wants to peek in there, but Tiffany turns to lead them to the halion-safe room, still talking. The speech comes out with the cadence of practice. “While our club is sealed against cross contamination, masks are available, if you wish, at every door and table. The bands will change to red if aphremore is detected in your vicinity. But please be assured, we haven’t had a breach since the club first opened.”
Dark blue paint covers the left hall, with curved walls that create a tunnel feel. The baseboards emit a subtle light to illuminate their path.
At the end, double doors block their way, painted dark blue with silver speckles, like the sky on Star-Light setting. Tiffany stops and gestures to the right to indicate a display stand of ventilator masks, each wrapped in plastic to show they're tamper-free. Reagen takes one and rolls it between her palms to fill the hall with a quiet crinkle. After a moment, she slides it into a pocket. He takes one, too, and stuffs it in his jacket.
Never hurts to be cautious.
He nods at Tiffany, and she smiles, patient and unconcerned as she presses her palms against the doors. They glide apart, disappearing into the walls on either side. Reagen stays in the arch, gaze focused on the wall slots as if she wants to know how long they’ll stay open. But their escort walks ahead, expecting to be followed, so Drake swings in close to Reagen, pops an elbow out to nudge her. She sidesteps to avoid him, shoots a glare over her shoulder, and the doors slide shut behind them.
Yeah, his prickly partner can be easy to maneuver sometimes. She needs to work on her aversion to being touched. He puts it on his mental list to talk to her about later.
The large clubroom curves out from the doors, padded booths with high backs lining the walls on the left side. Privacy curtains hang from the ceiling, ready to be pulled shut. In the room’s center, orbs glow on a mixture of circular tables, with some designed to sit two for intimacy, and others large enough to accommodate groups of six. A mix of humans and clan fill the tables, some mingled together, while others stay segregated. A couple of empty tables hold little cards to show they’re reserved.
The close tables leave small aisles just wide enough to squeeze through. Servers, dressed like Tiffany, maneuver through the crowd, laden trays balanced with milky cocktails. Soft laughter mingles with subtle music and the clink of glasses.
Tiffany leads them through the main area, where hosts teeter on platform shoes among eager patrons. They pass the bar, which glows like a jewel in the room's center. Colorful bottles of liquor glow from lights installed beneath the shelves. Stools surround the high counter, overfull with guests left to stand as they try to gain the attention of one of the bartenders.
The tantalizing aroma of cooked meat hits Drake’s nose. He glances at the table they pass to see juicy disks of meat, served next to baskets of green rice. His mouth waters, despite his recent meal.
All of this they pass, until they come to a table in the back, with orbs dimmed to near invisibility.
“Please, have a seat.” Tiffany motions to two high-backed chairs, faced away from the rest of the room. “Menus are in the center. A server will be with you shortly.”
Drake watches her walk away before turning his gaze back to the shadowed table.
“That’s a very polite way of letting us know we don’t belong here,” Reagen murmurs with raised eyebrows. Together, they survey the room at their backs.
The chairs scrape as they drag them around the table to face the opposite way, backs now to the wall. Drake checks the angle she chose for her seat, t
hen shifts his a little more before he settles down. Now they can cover the entire room.
He picks up a menu from the table’s center, next to a short stack of masks. Opening it, he ignores Reagen’s sigh as she leans back in her chair.
“You’re a bottomless pit.”
“It was your idea to be customers.” The short drink list features a high alcohol content. “Care to share your plan?”
“Newland knew we were coming.”
“Yeah, I got the feeling the club was tidied up while we waited for our escort.”
“Troy was a bust. He’ll be expecting us when we go back.” At her glare, he snaps his mouth closed. No need to argue over who’s at fault.
“So you want to observe the club before meeting the owner.” He sets the menu down to scrutinize the large room.
“Did the personnel files get delivered yet?”
Drake pulls out his palm-port, annoyed the files hadn’t arrived before they left to come down here. He’ll have to talk with the data keepers about impeding Mr. Black’s investigation.
He presses his thumb to the dark screen and taps in his passcode.
Shit, did she see that?
A quick peek at Reagen shows her focused on the bar.
In the upper corner of the screen, a yellow dot notifies him of a new message with a file attached. It arrived while they were at The Hut. Odd he didn’t feel the alert.
“Yeah, it just came through.” He shifts closer to Reagen. Palm-port already out, her fingers blur over the touch screen.
“Here, send it to mine.” She thrusts the device toward him to touch the corners together.
“Don’t we need to sync them first?” Thumb pressing the send button, he swipes the attachment toward her device. It appears on her screen, now a mirror to his own.
“I already did, back at my place.” Distracted, she skims through the file.
“When?” His palm-port never left his side.
“When we were at my place.” It comes out slow and a little loud. Her mouth shapes the words with precision, like she thinks he has trouble hearing.
