Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

Ethan managed a tone of mild boredom. “It’s an old password because I’m an old client. I’m not going to explain myself to you. Get approval if you must, but open the door or I’ll do it myself.”

The bouncer stared at us for another ten seconds before slamming the grate closed again.

An old client? I repeated. Add that to the list of things we’ll discuss later.

I have nothing to hide, Ethan said.

Why did hearing that make me think exactly the opposite?

It took a full minute before the door was wrenched open. We joined the bouncer in a box of a room barely large enough to fit the three of us.

The bouncer slammed the front door shut, which made the urge to grab my katana even stronger. No time for that now. We were in, and we were committed.

When the exterior door locked, the door on the opposite side of the room opened with a click, revealing a long hallway with oak floors, pale yellow walls, and a dozen more doors. Each door was wooden and unremarkable and looked exactly the same.

And we’ve officially gone through the looking glass, I said silently.

You might reserve that judgment, until we’re actually in there, Ethan suggested.

Right on cue, a door on the right side of the hallway opened, and magic flowed out like water. More evidence, I thought, that the building had been warded, and that a sorcerer was at work in the neighborhood.

A vampire stepped into the hallway. Tall, thin, with remarkably pale skin. He wore an old-fashioned tux, spats, and white kid gloves fastened with pearl buttons.

“This way, sir,” the vampire said in a crisp English accent, bowing slightly as he stepped back from the door and motioned us inside.

And away we go, Sentinel.

We walked inside.

When I thought “supernatural bordello,” I imagined hunky elfish guys in tight leather pants with white hair and pointed ears, vampy women with corsets and long nails, their eyes silvered with lust and emotion. I always imagined anything with vampires would be heavy on Goth, lace, and candles, but it never was. I’d been in all three of the city’s Houses—Cadogan, Navarre, and Grey—and I didn’t think I’d seen anything mildly gothic in any of them.

There also wasn’t anything gothic in here.

The large room, lit by wavering hurricane lamps, had wooden floors that were covered with expensive rugs and groupings of large leather furniture outlined with brass tacks. There were two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stacked with leather and gilt volumes. The room smelled of leather and fragrant smoke.

It took me a moment to realize what I was supposed to be seeing—an English gentlemen’s club, or La Douleur’s version of it.

There were, at my guess, a dozen supernaturals, mostly men. I looked for familiar faces first—Reed or his cronies, supernaturals I knew, the bearded vampire who’d killed Caleb Franklin. No one looked familiar. But they did look as old-fashioned as their surroundings. They’d adopted the dress, Victorian suits or dresses with pinched waists and high necks. They generally sat in couples or groups, chatting, kissing, or sharing blood.

We followed the would-be butler, who escorted us to a high-backed settee and gestured to it. “Please.”

Sit at my feet, Ethan said, before I could move.

He must have felt my hesitation.

It is part of the illusion, of the theme of this particular room. Remember your word.

Since I’d given it, I bit back a sneer and sank to the floor at the edge of Ethan’s chair as graciously as possible.

He stroked a hand over my head. “Very good,” he said, signaling to the room that I’d pleased him.

I’d learned to bluff a long time ago, and if ever there’d been a time to use the skill, this was it. Dutifully, I rested my cheek on his knee.

“What may I obtain for you, sir?” the butler asked.

“Cognac, for the moment. We’ll see how well my pet behaves.”

I began to make very specific plans for Ethan’s quid pro quo. If I had to sit at Ethan’s feet, he’d damn well better be prepared to sit at mine.