by Dannika Dark
“So that’s why Christian made me a runaway?”
“Nobody will ask what high school you went to, buttercup, and without your given name, they can’t find anything. Just stick to the story, because it’s not that far from the truth. You’re a runaway who’s been living on the streets. Your Creator made you and dumped you, so you’ve been fending for yourself. You don’t know who he is, and you don’t care. Don’t go into details.”
I looked out the window. “Believe me, I won’t.”
“Good. Liars give unnecessary details. Christian knows what he’s doing, so just answer questions the way you normally would. When we first met, if I had asked about your Creator or what your gifts were, what would you have said?”
“Fuck off.”
“Exactly. Stick with your gut reaction. A runaway living on the streets is a good background, one nobody can trace. But just in case someone decides to do a little poking around, Viktor submitted a fake file to the Mageri. What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.”
I rolled my window back up as streetlights sliced through the dark car. “Why the Mageri? Criminals can’t access their records, can they?”
“We don’t know who we’re dealing with or what kind of connections they have. Better safe than sorry.”
The car shook when we hit a pothole.
“Son of a ghost! Aren’t city taxes supposed to fix these blasted roads? I’ve already had two flats this year. One of these days, the whole damn axle’s going to fall off. Might as well go back to horse-drawn wagons.”
He weaved to the curb and hit the brakes with enough force that I threw my hands out to keep from hitting the dash. It was a wonder he hadn’t killed anyone with his safety hazard of a car.
I glanced around but saw no sign of the club.
“Can’t drop you off at the front door,” he said, noticing my wandering gaze. “You’re on your own from here. The club’s a block up to the right.” Wyatt glanced down at my legs. “You should have brought a purse. When you go to the hotel later, the guy at the desk will give you a card key.”
“These better be comfortable shoes,” I grumbled as I climbed out of the car and crossed in front until I reached the sidewalk.
Wyatt leaned out the window. “See ya later, Robin.” After a wink, he hit the gas. His tires squealed as he did a U-turn in the middle of the street and sped off.
As I ventured up the sidewalk, I fell back into familiar habits and concealed my light. People with downcast eyes were easy targets, so I held my head high and made direct eye contact with everyone. Nothing went unnoticed. Fire escape ladders, buildings with easy access points, discarded items in alleyways I could improvise as weapons—funny how you never let go of things like that. Viktor had warned me this assignment could go on for weeks or months, so I needed to learn my surroundings.
At least I didn’t have to work two jobs like Claude.
When I reached the White Owl, I cased the outside of the club. There wasn’t a sign with the club name anywhere in sight, only a neon owl in a red circle. The painted logo on the door had a Breed mark below it, but those were the only two indicators that I was at the right place. I gazed up at the three-story building and wondered if the windows were fake. No light came from them. Maybe they were painted over.
The crowd lined up outside the metal door appeared human. Not that humans had any physical difference that made them identifiable, but they possessed certain temperamental characteristics that most Breed didn’t. These people had no idea what kind of club this was, only that they needed to check it out.
The doorman’s muscular physique and blank expression came off as intimidating. When I cut the line and reached the door, he held out his arm to block me.
“I’m Robin White.”
He slid his mirrored sunglasses down his nose and looked me over. When he flared, I flared back. After a quick appraisal, he slid his sunglasses back in place. “Be sure you get stamped,” he said, opening the door.
I entered a dark hall lit with sconces. The next door was heavy, and when I pulled it open, music flooded into the hall. It wasn’t uncomfortably loud, but they had excellent soundproofing in this place. Shepherd had used a blueprint that Wyatt dug up and compared it to the actual layout. After returning from the club, he’d sat down and gave me a walk-through.
But nothing prepared me for the Saint Andrew’s cross. The man strapped to it wore shorts smaller than mine, and I guessed he was just décor since nobody was paying any attention to him.
My nervous energy was pinging off the walls, so I took a deep breath and reminded myself that this was just a job. I’d grown used to our regular haunts during the past year, but now I was alone and out of my element. Being half-naked and unarmed didn’t help.
“Wanna play?” A shirtless Chitah gave me a toothy grin. Displaying fangs, regardless of Breed, was rude if not a form of aggression. But clearly the rules didn’t apply here.
I slinked through the crowd, taking it all in. This place wasn’t filthy at all. I’d imagined people having sex on tables, and while sexuality was on full display, nothing lewd was happening. Some were scantily clad in provocative attire, while others wore jeans, suits, and even fedoras. The spacious room had passages that led to other areas. Opulent chandeliers hung in the lounge to my right, showering a frosty glow onto the low tables and lush red and gold furniture. In the center of the room, a red strip of light ran beneath an oval-shaped bar. While I couldn’t see the other side, I presumed there were barstools there as well. An accent piece hung from a gold-paneled ceiling, and the bottles in the center were sparkling like Christmas ornaments on a tree. Meanwhile, dancers were seducing the crowd from platforms or gilded cages. Performers and customers alike didn’t fall under any category of specific beauty. Two tall brunettes were orbiting a slender man, who was short in stature, vying for his attention. A large woman in lace entertained a Chitah who knelt at her chair and kissed her fingers.
I approached the bar and flagged one of the two bartenders.
A stunning woman in a sparkly black bra and leather skirt looked in my direction while pouring a drink. Her jaw set, and I turned around to see what had caught her attention.
A redhead stood slack-jawed with a leash in her hand. The other end was attached to a collar worn by a rawboned man in leather pants. His mask was similar to mine, and though I couldn’t see his eyes very well, I noticed his flushed neck and balled-up fists as he raised his voice to a seated man who, evident by his salacious smile, had done something to offend him. The instigator laughed haughtily, and with that, the leashed man pounced and flipped the table over. The redhead lost control of her submissive and the situation as a whole.
With lightning speed, the bartender hopped over the bar and into the fray. The man on bottom snarled like a wild animal, and people stepped back as if a lion might thrash through his skin.
The bartender grabbed the leash and yanked the man off. “Bad boy. Bad!”
Then she knelt down and straddled the other man, her hands flat on his chest. A red glow pulsed beneath her palms, and a few seconds later, he shifted into a whimpering brown wolf.
The redhead rushed to the flustered man and collected his leash before leading him away. Chairs and tables were righted by men in black attire, and after the spilled drinks were cleaned up, one of them carried the wolf away.
Cool and collected, the bartender strutted toward me, not a hair out of place on her short Mohawk. When she turned and nodded at someone, I admired the shaved designs on the side of her scalp. She tipped her head to the side with a half smile, a look of “Same shit, different night” on her face.
“You’re new here,” she said, flipping up the counter and crossing into the bar.
“How can you tell?”
She winked. “You get to know the regulars. What’s your poison?”
“Tequila. But I probably shouldn’t drink on the job. I’m the new bartender.”
She gave me a long appraisal before filling a shot gl
ass with tequila. “Since this is your first night, I’ll allow it. Want any sensory magic?”
“What?”
She slid the glass in front of me and ran her finger around the rim. “Do you want me to spike your drink to boost your confidence or get rid of those nerves?”
I shook my head.
She poured herself a glass of club soda and then rested an elbow on the bar. Our glasses clinked together, and I downed my shot.
“I’m Simone.”
I grinned. “I used that name once.”
When I caught my flub, I wanted to bang my head against the wall.
Her head jerked back. “What do you mean by that?”
I laughed and set down my glass. “When I was eighteen, I got a fake ID to get in all the cool clubs. I’m Robin.”
Simone had full, beautiful lips and cunning brown eyes. She looked at me as if I were a puzzle. “What’s your Breed? I have to know who’s got my back.” She spoke purposefully, like a serpent moving through the grass.
“Mage.”
She set down her glass. “Great. Just what we need, another Mage.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“They come. They go. Sensors are better for a job like this. We don’t just serve beer. You have to be on your toes, and if you’re scared to get physical, this isn’t the job for you.”
“What did you do to that guy? I didn’t think Sensors could make someone shift.”
She set our glasses beneath the bar. “It’s a little trick I learned. Gave him a taste of his own medicine. We have a rule around here: you don’t touch anyone on a leash. Only their handlers are allowed to touch them. He broke that rule. I saw him pat the man’s ass when he walked by, and that gets him a swift kick out the door. He’ll be lucky if the owner lets him return.”
The man who had thrown out the wolf leaned over the bar, tattoos all up and down his arms. “Simone, do you really have to put a fright in them? He pissed all over my leg.” The man’s British accent caught my attention.
Simone threw back her head and laughed as she made her way down the bar to fill orders.
“Women are wicked little creatures.” He scooted onto the stool. “I should have never broken her heart.”
“You didn’t break my heart, Flynn,” she said loudly. “Just my bank account.”
Flynn nonchalantly turned toward me. “A bit of advice, love? Never shag someone you have to work with. When a relationship ends, there should be a law that you never see them again.”
I shifted my stance to face him. “Maybe you shouldn’t have been a dickhead.”
Flynn had crazy brown hair, like a man who had never seen a hairbrush. He stroked his short beard and looked me over. He seemed more interested in my legs than anything else. “Did you come to play? I’m suddenly feeling a bit randy.”
“Leave her alone, Flynn. That’s Robin.”
“The new girl?” Flynn gave a mischievous smile. “You don’t say?”
Without warning, he grabbed my wrist and smacked my arm with his other palm.
I reflexively punched him in the throat, put his head in a lock, and then threw him to the ground.
Simone leaned over the bar to look at him and then gave me a nod. “You’ll do.”
A glow caught my attention, and I looked down. The light on my upper arm was in the distinct shape of an owl.
“It’s your stamp,” Simone said matter-of-factly as she popped the lid off a beer bottle and handed it to a topless woman. “It only lasts a week, so you’ll need him to give you a new one every seven days. If you’re still here, that is.”
I rubbed at the mark. Instead of ink, it was as if someone had tattooed electricity onto my arm. “What’s wrong with using a stamp?”
“Regular ink doesn’t show up well in these dim rooms. On a white girl like you, maybe. But we need our crew to stand out at all times. These glow, so there’s no confusion as to who works here. Nobody can sneak in as a worker because they can’t replicate our stamp. Just be sure you cover it up when you leave the club.”
We continued ignoring Flynn, who was still gasping for breath on the floor.
“How the hell did he do it?” I asked.
She wiped off the bar with a clean rag. “Flynn is a Mage of many unique talents. He uses a special ink with liquid fire.”
My eyes widened in horror. “Wait a minute. You said this comes off in a week.”
“It does.”
“Liquid fire is permanent.”
Flynn pulled himself to his feet while rubbing his throat.
“I warned you to stop doing that.” Simone clucked her tongue at him. “You think every woman is graced by your touch.”
He coughed while taking a seat on the stool, not irritated at all by my throat punch. “Liquid fire seals injuries to your skin. When you get a tattoo, the needle penetrates. I don’t.”
Simone chuckled but said nothing.
Flynn opened his right hand to show me an owl tattoo. “When I draw an image on my hand with special ink, I can transfer my light through the liquid fire. It binds my light to your flesh, creating an exact replica of the pattern. Temporarily, of course.”
“Nifty. So you draw that thing on your hand every night?”
“What else have I got to do? Watch reruns of Fantasy Island?”
Simone had the same mark on her inside forearm. I hadn’t noticed before, but she moved around a lot and there were too many distractions.
“Flynn, give her the tour. When you’re done, bring her straight down. We’re about to get busy in the next hour.”
He plucked a pair of orange glasses with round lenses from his shirt collar and made sure they weren’t broken before putting them on. “Whatever you say, my queen.”
Chapter 7
Flynn escorted me through the first floor to show me all the sections. The caged dancers were part of the show but not the main attraction. The White Owl gave people absolute freedom to express themselves without judgment. Some were engaged in intimate conversations while others role-played under the watchful eyes of onlookers.
Flynn gestured toward a door. “That’s the loo.”
The symbol on the door was a man and woman holding hands.
“It’s for everyone,” he explained. “If you want privacy, I suggest using the staff room in the back.”
“What’s the big deal?”
“These don’t have stalls. It’s all very… voyeuristic.”
“That’s the worst first date I could possibly imagine.”
He barked out a laugh. “Nobody comes here to find true love. They come to play and to watch. To fantasize. For some blokes, peeping in the loo is a fantasy.” We passed a long row of black doors with sliding peepholes. “They come to escape. Have a look.”
I leaned forward and slid open the cover.
“The window is mirrored on their side, so they never know when someone’s watching them,” he explained, leaning against the door.
A woman in nothing but candy-red heels was choosing an outfit from a clothes rack. She held a gold dress up and looked at herself in the corner mirror. A red love seat faced the door, and I wondered if this was her fantasy or one she might be playing out for someone else.
“On this floor, we have strict rules. One person per room. Otherwise, it’s hard to keep an eye on them all and things can get messy.”
I slid the latch closed. “What do you do around here?”
He pushed away from the door and led me to the stairs. “I’m part of the cleanup crew.”
I wrinkled my nose.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, smiling at me over his shoulder. “I pick up broken chairs, clean spilled drinks, toss out rule breakers, put people on the naughty list, and keep the place spotless and copasetic. So that means I’ve got my eye on everyone, making sure they follow the rules. The owner doesn’t want his fantasy club turning into a cheap brothel.”
“How the hell do you police that in a place like this?”
The red-and-gold theme carried throughout the club, and while each level was more explicit than the last, I didn’t see anyone engaging in any sex acts. Simulated? Yes. Touching? Yes. And a whole lot of sexual role-playing I’d never seen before. There were chairs and other adult equipment, panthers on leashes, sensory exchange for either fun or profit, and some corners were set aside for the hard-core stuff—like whipping and masochism. The private rooms weren’t private. Anyone could walk in or watch through the viewing windows. Each level had a bar, and I gathered that most of the bartenders were Sensors by the way they were spiking the drinks. As we walked, men and women approached me, asking if I wanted to play in whatever fantasy they were engaged in. But once they noticed the owl on my arm, they backed off.
When we returned to the first floor, Flynn nudged me. “What do you think?”
“I don’t see any Vamps in here.”
“We have a policy about the famously fanged. Our customers don’t want to be near anyone who might snitch. Vamps are notorious charmers who blackmail for a living. Aristocrats snub places like these, but I’ve seen many a Councilman sneak through the doors with a mask on their face. Aside from all that, the only way to control Vampires is impalement wood, and that’s not in the budget. A peckish one might bleed someone dry. And that’s not the worst of it. They can do serious damage, and not just to the walls and furniture. I’ve got twenty-four ribs in my chest, and I aim to keep them. The younglings don’t know their own strength.” Flynn continued our walk. “So, are you up for it?”
