The Coffin Club vk-5

by Эллен Шрайбер

  “Getting in is easy,” the blond said.

  “That is, if you make it past Dragon,” his friend retorted.

  “But getting out is harder,” the blond warned.

  I didn’t know what lay on the other side or why a key was required to unlock the door. I’d also never heard of a guard shielding the inside of a door.

  The coffin lid creaked open. We stepped into a dark and dingy foyer where we were greeted by a monstrous-looking bouncer the size of a small dinosaur. Black fabric hung behind him like at a car wash, blocking any view of what he was guarding.

  The bouncer’s head was shaved, and inked on it was the head of a dragon, its reptilian wings breaking out of his white tank top and wrapping his Terminator biceps. I didn’t dare ask to see the bottom half of the fiery dragon.

  The two corpselike guys showed him their keys, walked through a slit in the fabric, then disappeared.

  “Where is yours?” he grumbled.

  “He has it,” I said, pointing to the guy I’d followed in. “Please, they’re waiting for me.”

  He paused, inspecting me to see if I was worthy of passing. I’d flashed him my best “Don’t make me ask to see the manager” face when the door opened again and a group of clubsters, draped in black and sporting white fangs, entered.

  “Next time, keep it on you,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll be banned.”

  I pushed through the fabric before Dragon changed his mind. What lay on the other side blew my mind—it was a massive underground tomb. An ancient-looking subterranean cemetery, with serpentine catacombs and graves dug out in the stone walls and dirt floors, like something unearthed on the History Channel. It was creepy, dark and dangerous. In the center, a sunken dance floor with a hard-rocking band played on a fluorescent-lit stage. Spray-painted in red on the wall behind the bandmates were the words THE DUNGEON with a pair of real shackles and chains hanging down. Suspended above was a candelabra chandelier where a disco ball might be. Surrounding the dance floor were hallowed tombs carved into the walls, like a skeletal morgue, and fifteen-foot-high stone archways leading to cavelike rooms. Where mummies would have been buried instead were live bodies, drinking, smoking, and making out. Each cave was lined with black or red velvet and had puffy leather couches with canoodling couples. More than a few entranceways spawned darkened tunnels, their destinations unknown from my vantage point. Some bore signs—THE EXECUTIONER’S LOUNGE, THE TORTURE CHAMBER, DRACULA’S DEN—while others remained bare like an unmarked grave.

  As morbid as the buried club was, the clubsters themselves were stylishly ghoulish. The dancers were uniformly pale, blue lips covered with red gloss. The clubsters ranged in dress from goth to punk to gothic Lolitas. Each appeared to be more seductive than the next. The club’s stone walls dripped with danger, while its inhabitants oozed with sensuality. Though its existence and location were secretive and secluded, I’d stumbled upon a cryptically wicked party scene. This club was far more intimate and sinister than its sister club above.

  And unlike the patrons upstairs, these ghost white clubsters appeared inviting. Guys and girls alike checked me out as I made my way through. Some stared at me as if they guessed I didn’t have a key to enter, while other oglers didn’t seem to care.

  Guys were kissing girls’ necks, wrists, and every place with a prominent vein as the girls smiled back with delight.

  This crowd was definitely a whole lot friendlier. “Hi. Want to dance?” A guy approached me as I was avoiding stepping into a grave, while another girl, her nose as long as a witch’s, just followed me. “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you single? I know the perfect guy for you.”

  But instead of obliging them, I snuck up to the bar and hopped on a barstool.

  A bartender, his hair flowing down to the dirt floor, set a black Dungeon bar napkin in front of me. “We have imports or domestic.”

  “Uh…how about local?”

  The bartender laughed. “It’s ladies’ night. Girls drink free.”

  I was as thirsty as a bloodless vampire.

  “In that case…something nonalcoholic.”

  “Sure…why dilute it.”

  He grabbed a vintage green bottle, poured its contents into a pewter glass, then pushed the drink to me.

  The drink smelled peculiar. I was hoping it would taste like supersweet Kool-Aid, but it appeared to have the consistency of tomato juice.

  I touched it with my finger and examined it closely.

  Then I realized it was neither Kool-Aid nor tomato juice—it was blood.

  Was this a mistake, or perhaps a practical joke?

  “Can I get some water, too?” I asked, flagging him down.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s delicious,” I said, not wanting to draw attention to myself. “I’d like to finish it off with a glass of water.”

  He placed another goblet next to my blood-filled one while I rubbed my hand with a bacterial wipe underneath the bar.

  I smelled the new glass. Who knows—it could have been filled with whiskey. There wasn’t any noticeable scent, so I took a small sip. I was in luck. It was ordinary Hipsterville tap water. I guzzled it down, then placed a tip on the bar. I was getting ready to hop off the stool when someone put their hand on my shoulder.

  A slender guy with a five o’clock shadow sat at the bar next to me. “Where are you from?”

  I rolled my eyes and recoiled my shoulder from his hand.

  “I don’t mean that as a pickup line; I really meant it—where are you from?”

  “Are you taking a survey?”

  “As a matter of fact…”

  I didn’t feel like telling a stranger my personal address. It was enough that Jagger had followed me home from the Coffin Club last time I’d visited Hipsterville. I didn’t want Five O’clock Shadow showing up at my house, shaved or not.

  “You’ll have to find someone else for your survey.”

  “I’ve never seen you here before. How did you find out about this place?”

  “A little bat told me.”

  He cracked a smile.

  “And you?” I asked, only to be polite.

  “The crop circles. Then I knew there was a population of our kind here.”

  “Aliens?” I asked.

  The stranger laughed again. I was intrigued by his response, but I knew if I pressed him for more info, he’d interpret our continuing conversation as a come-on.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” he said, moving close.

  “Thanks anyway; I’m not staying.”

  “You’re cautious. I understand…We all are. That’s why the Coffin Club is the hottest underground club. We can all be ourselves. By the way, my name is Leopold.”

  “Uh…I’m…”

  I felt something vibrating in my purse. I reached in—it was my cell. Saved by the bell—or in this case vibration. “I have to take this,” I said, leaving the bar. I flipped my cell open and snuck under a stone archway.

  “Raven?” It was Aunt Libby. I could barely hear her. “How are you?”

  “Hi, Aunt Libby,” I shouted back. “I’m fine.”

  “What are you doing? I can hardly hear you.”

  I sauntered through the catacombs, heading away from the noisy dance floor.

  “I have your stereo cranked.”

  “You’ll have to turn it down. I don’t want my neighbors to complain.”

  “Of course. I’ll turn it off as soon as we hang up.”

  “Are you having a good time?”

  “Can you talk louder?” I asked, holding my other ear closed with my index finger.

  “Are you having fun? I’m sure you’re bored to tears.”

  “It’s not too bad,” I bellowed back, continuing to walk.

  “I wish you had come to class with me. Our teacher was from Kenya. He was truly amazing.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m having a great time by myself,” I said truthfully.

  “What? I can’t hear you.”r />
  “I’m having a great time,” I shouted as a few clubsters dressed in cosplay outfits passed me.

  “Class will be letting out shortly. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Take your time, Aunt Libby.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t have to rush on account of me.”

  “I can’t hear you. We’ll talk when I get home. See you soon.” She hung up before I had a chance to stall her departure.

  It was imperative that I beat Aunt Libby home.

  I dropped my cell in my purse and realized I’d lost my sense of direction. Was the Dungeon dance floor to the right or the left? I had a fifty-fifty chance of making the correct choice. Naked bulbs lit the way through the stone tunnel, and a few more catacombs splintered off. I’d been so focused on my conversation with Aunt Libby that I hadn’t made any mental directional notes. I needed a trail of bread crumbs.

  I noticed some skulls lining the tunnel like a kitchen border. I didn’t remember seeing them when I was talking on the phone, but then again, I wasn’t looking.

  The tunnel was dimly lit and confining. The stone walls leaned as if caving in on me as I paced in indecision.

  I heard some voices and laughter coming from one end, so I followed them. Cautiously I crept through the catacombs, trying not to trip on the uneven terrain. The winding tunnel dumped into a small room. THE COVE. A dozen or so clubsters, their backs to me, were listening to what I thought might have been a stand-up comic. I was curious why they chose to listen instead of jamming on the dance floor.

  But this was no ordinary blue-jean-wearing comedian. He wore a dark hoodie, pulled over his head, obscuring his deathly pale face, and he wasn’t making the crowd laugh.

  “The Dungeon should take a new direction. Why hide in obscurity when there is so much more we can do?” he challenged. Catching the glare of a single stagelight was a gold skeleton key dangling from a black lanyard around his neck like a backstage pass to a rock concert.

  “I agree. Why deny who we are?” a girl asked, a snake wrapped around her neck like a mink stole.

  “That’s why this club is so important, so we can be ourselves,” another began.

  “But the Dungeon is a secret and safe place we can call our own.”

  “Isn’t it time we make ourselves known?” the snake whisperer argued, caressing the reptile. “Many of us are becoming frustrated remaining hidden.”

  “But many others feel safer among ourselves,” one clubster admitted.

  “We don’t get along with outsiders,” another said.

  “Maybe it’s time that we try,” a girl in the front row said.

  “So we can be like them and lose our identity?” another asked.

  The tension grew from both sides. The speaker held his hands up. “Calm down. We must all be united.”

  A guy hanging next to me asked, “What do you think?”

  All at once the group was staring straight at me. The snake, still coiled around his owner, hissed.

  “I think it’s time for me to get back to the dance floor!”

  I stole my way back into the once deadly tunnel. My eyes didn’t have a chance to adjust to the darkness and I bumped into a pair of girls. I stiffened but was too tired for a barroom brawl.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know the way back to the dance floor?”

  The girls, unlike the Pradabees at Dullsville High, weren’t confrontational. Instead I felt a warmth and friendliness emanating from them.

  The two girls appeared to be my age. One wore an indigo blue corset dress, while the other sported a baby doll dress and thigh-high silver-laced boots. Their purple-hued vampy makeup dramatically accentuated their Draculine features. One had long red curly hair and the other’s jet black hair was straight as a blade.

  “Follow me,” the girl in the corset dress directed, linking our arms. “I’m Onyx, and this is Scarlet. What’s your name?” She flashed a gorgeous smile, revealing a tiny black onyx jewel embedded on one of her fangs.

  “Wow—where did you get those?” I began. “They look so real.”

  She flashed her fangs again. “It is. We can totally get yours done, too.”

  I was taken aback. Onyx was referring to the jewel, while I was referring to her fangs.

  “How do you find your way around the club?” I asked.

  “It took us an eternity,” Scarlet replied.

  Before I knew it, I’d made it safely to the center of the club, two new friends in tow.

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “Now I’ll be on my way—”

  Their bright expressions turned sallow. “Don’t you want to dance?”

  Here I was hanging out with two of the coolest girls I’d ever met—when I’d been excluded by cliques my whole life. It was thrilling to be immediately accepted as myself. And I didn’t know when I’d get a chance to come to the Dungeon again.

  “Okay, one song!” I relented.

  We thrashed around and giggled like we’d been best friends since childhood. I envisioned what life would have been like for me if Scarlet and Onyx had grown up in Dullsville. We’d have sleepovers during the day, paint our nails by moonlight, and gossip in the graveyard.

  We rocked so hard, I thought my fake tattoos were going to fall off. The vampire theme was taken to the extreme in the Dungeon. Clubsters writhed together as if drinking in each other’s souls. As lustful guys’ lips lay on giddy girls’ necks, it was unclear where one clubster began and the other ended.

  I was intoxicated by the music, the dangerous feel of the club, and my acceptance by Scarlet and Onyx. Then I noticed the time. “I really have to go.”

  “Already? But we can dance until dawn,” Scarlet offered, tossing her luscious thick red curly hair off her shoulder.

  “I can’t. I’m supposed to meet someone.”

  “Is he dreamy?” Onyx asked.

  “Is he like us?” Scarlet prodded.

  I was too embarrassed to say I was meeting my aunt.

  “I’ll give you my number.” Scarlet opened my purse, pulled out my cell, and punched in a ten-digit number. “Call whenever you want, except during the day. My parents despise being woken up.”

  She hugged me hard, as did Onyx.

  I hated to leave. Besides being with Alexander, I was having the best time of my life. I was reluctant to leave my discovery of the Dungeon behind.

  When I stepped off the dance floor I noticed my boot had come unlaced. I hobbled off to one side, avoiding any clubsters who might trip over my long shoestrings. I had kicked up my boot on a chair and leaned on the archway for support when I sensed someone’s piercing gaze. Buried in the shadows of a small cavelike lounge, I could barely see the silhouette of a person sitting alone. Curious, I inched forward. From a safe distance, I peered through the darkness. A candelabra perched on the table gently illuminated the figure. First I saw motorcycle boots, crossed at the ankle, resting on the dirt floor, then tight black leather pants, like cellophane. I could see the sleeves of his motorcycle jacket, his chain, and his studded arms folded. I stepped a tiny bit closer and leaned into the ray of light. Purple hair flopped over black sunglasses. He seemed to be staring straight at me. It took a moment, but I broke his binding gaze and retreated into the safety of the shadows, or so I hoped.

  Why was the motorcycle guy checking me out? And sitting alone like he was waiting to hold court?

  I felt strangely drawn to him. His stare was magnetic.

  Several rough-looking clubsters approached him—but instead of greeting him like one of the guys by slapping him on the arm or high-fiving him, they all nodded and entered the small chamber, sat down at the table around him, and waited for him to speak.

  I desperately wanted to hear their secret conversation and get a handle on who or what this biker was all about.

  “He doesn’t have any idea about what vampires truly need,” one clubster told the biker.

  “I think it’s time we do something,” another said.

  “
Before he ruins our plans,” a third added.

  The purple-haired biker leaned in, out of earshot.

  The cagey guys were listening to him so intently, I could tell they were as entranced as I was. If the biker was these barbaric clubsters’ leader, I could only imagine that I’d encountered someone twice as dangerous as Jagger and Valentine.

  I felt my heart race again throughout my body when I realized my cell phone was vibrating. Aunt Libby again. Everyone, except for the biker, turned and glared at me. But the rock star biker dude remained still. It was as if he knew I had been standing there the whole time.

  I quickly headed for the archway leading back to the dance floor when all at once someone was standing in front of me, blocking my way.

  I took a breath and looked up. His purple hair flopped down, seductively, over his Ray-Bans. His stern, hypnotic gaze bore through the dark lenses. There was something powerful about the mysterious stranger. He smelled like Obsession and towered over me in his thick motorcycle boots.

  “How did you get in?” he asked in a heavy Romanian accent.

  “Do you own the club?”

  “No, but I might.” His leather jacket crackled as he folded his arms. “I haven’t seen you before.” His head lowered and it appeared he was checking out my neck. “I suspect you don’t belong.”

  I fiddled with my earring, covering my smooth, bite-free neck with my palm. I felt slightly intimidated by him, but it didn’t prevent me from talking back.

  “How would you know?” I challenged.

  His glasses and hair cast a shadow over his face, making him hard to read. I wasn’t sure if he broke a smile. By his body language, I knew he was serious. “It is best that you leave. Membership to our club comes at a very high price. But perhaps I can explain more over a drink.”

  “No thanks. I already have a boyfriend.”

  “Then he is a very lucky guy,” he complimented me. “My name is Phoenix Slater,” he said, extending his hand and grabbing mine. “And you are?”

  “Leaving,” I said, pulling my hand away.

  I had made it halfway to the Dungeon door when he slithered his arm around me. Angry, I spun around but wasn’t prepared for who I now confronted. Staring back at me were one metallic green eye and one ice blue eye. Jagger Maxwell.