Spellcasters (79 page)

“Hey,” I said. “Isn’t that—what’s her name—she’s a singer.”

The quartet had just vanished around the building when a Hummer pulled up and disgorged two young men in undertaker suits. They followed the same path as the bridal party.

“So much for keeping a low profile,” Cassandra muttered.

“At least we found out where the door is,” I said.

Cassandra shook her head and we circled the building in search of an entrance.

W
hen we got to the other side, we still couldn’t find a door.

“This is ridiculous,” Cassandra said, pacing along the building. “Are we blind?”

“I don’t know about you,” I said. “But I can’t see in the dark. Should I risk a light spell?”

“Go ahead. From the looks of those fools going inside, I doubt they’d notice if you lit up the whole neighborhood.”

Before I could begin the incantation, an ivy-covered trellis moved and a shadow emerged from behind it. A girl, no more than a teenager, stumbled out, her white face and hands floating, disembodied, through the air. I blinked, then saw that she was dressed in a long black gown; together with her black hair it blended into the backdrop of the building.

When she saw us, she swayed and mumbled something. As she staggered past, Cassandra’s head whipped around to follow, eyes narrowing, the green irises glinting. Her lips parted, then snapped shut. Before she tore her gaze away, I followed it to the girl’s arm. Black gauze encircled her bare forearm. Around the edges, blood smeared her pale skin.

“She’s hurt,” I said as the girl reeled onto the road. “Wait here. I’ll see if she needs help.”

“You do that. I think Aaron is right. You should wait outside.”

I stopped. My gaze went to the girl, tottering along the side of the road. Drunk or stoned, but not mortally wounded. Whatever was going on inside might be worse, and I couldn’t rely on Cassandra to handle it. I reached past her and tugged on the trellis.

“I meant it, Paige,” Cassandra said. “See to the girl. You’re not coming in.”

I found the handle, pushed the door open, and squeezed past Cassandra. Inside, the place was as dark as its exterior. I touched walls on either side, so I knew I was in a hallway. Feeling my way along, I moved forward. I got about five steps before smacking into a wall of
muscle. A beefy face glowered down at me. The man shone a flashlight over us, and smirked.

“Sorry, ladies,” he said. “You got the wrong place. Bourbon Street is that way.”

He lifted his flashlight to point, swinging it near Cassandra’s face. She swatted it down.

“Who’s in tonight?” she demanded. “Hans? Brigid? Ronald?”

“Uh, all three,” the bouncer said, stepping back.

“Tell them Cassandra’s here.”

“Cassandra who?”

He shone the flashlight beam in her face. Cassandra snatched it from his hand.

“Just Cassandra. Now go.”

He reached for his light. “Can I have my flash—?”

“No.”

He hesitated, then turned, banged into the wall, cursed, and headed off into the darkness.

“Fools,” Cassandra muttered. “What are they playing at here? When did they do all this?”

“Uh, when’s the last time you visited?”

“It can’t be more than a year—” She paused. “Maybe a few years. Not that long.”

The door opened so fast that the man behind it nearly fell at our feet. Mid-forties, not much taller than my five feet two, he was pudgy with soft features and gray-flecked hair tied back with a velvet ribbon. He wore a puffy shirt straight out of
Seinfeld
, the top three buttons undone, revealing a hairless chest. His pants were ill-fitting black velvet, tucked into high-top boots. He looked like a middle-aged accountant heading off to a
Pirates of Penzance
audition.

He righted himself and blinked owlishly into Cassandra’s flashlight beam. I gestured toward the exit. He didn’t seem to see me, but stood gawking up at Cassandra.

“Cass—Cassandra. So—so good of you—”

“What the hell are you wearing, Ronald? Please tell me Fridays are Masquerade Night here.”

Ronald looked down at his outfit and frowned.

“Where’s John?” Cassandra said.

“J—John? You mean Hans? He’s, uh, inside.” When Cassandra turned toward the door, Ronald jumped in front of it. “We didn’t expect—we’re honored of course. Very honored.”

“Get your tongue off my boots, Ronald, and get out of my way. I came to speak to John.”

“Y—yes, of course. But it’s been so long. I’m just so pleased to see you. There’s a blues bar just a few blocks over. Very nice. We could go there, and Hans could join us—”

Cassandra shoved Ronald aside and reached for the door handle.

“W—wait,” Ronald said. “We weren’t ready for you, Cassandra. The place, it’s a mess. You don’t want to go in there.”

She tugged open the door and walked through. I grabbed it before it closed. Ronald blinked at me, as if I’d materialized from nowhere.

“I’m with her,” I said.

He grabbed the door edge, then paused, uncertain. I tugged it open enough to slip through into what looked like another, longer hallway. Ronald scurried after us. He passed me and jostled Cassandra’s heels. At a glare from her, he backed off, but only a step.

“I—I think you’ll like what we’ve done here, Cassandra,” Ronald said. “It’s a new age for us, and we’re taking advantage of it. Adapting to the times. Refusal to change is the death knell of any civilization—that’s what Hans says.”

“Step on my heels again and you’ll hear a death knell.”

She stopped before another door, waved me forward. I slipped past Ronald.

“I want you to wait out here,” Cassandra said.

I shook my head. “You go, I go.”

“I won’t be responsible for you, Paige.”

“You aren’t,” I said, and pushed open the door.

Beyond the door was a cavernous room, just barely illuminated by a dull red glow. At first, I couldn’t make out the source of the lighting, but then I noticed that the faux Grecian pillars were pieced with tiny holes, each letting out a thin ray of red light, like an infrared pointer.

One glance around and I knew the designation “bar” no longer applied to the Rampart. It was a club, probably a private one. The only furnishings were a half-dozen couches and divans, most of them occupied. Areas on either side of the room had been cordoned off with beaded curtains. Only the occasional murmur or muffled laugh broke the silence.

On the nearest sofa, two women were curled up together, one semi-reclined, holding her hand out, the other bending over whatever her companion held. Cocaine, maybe methamphetamine. If Hans and his bunch had opened an exclusive drug club, they were treading dangerous ground for people who had to stay below the radar. I wasn’t sure whether this
violated the council’s statutes, but we’d need to look into it after this investigation was over.

One of the women on the divan leaned over her partner’s arm. I tried to glance over discreetly, to see what kind of drugs they were using, but the woman wasn’t holding anything. Instead, she stretched out her arm, empty palm up, forearm braced with her other hand. A dark line bisected the inside of her forearm. She clenched her fist and a rivulet of blood trickled down. Her companion lowered her mouth to the cut.

I stumbled back, hitting Cassandra. She turned sharply, mouth opening to snap at me, then followed my gaze. She wheeled on Ronald.

“Who is that woman? I don’t know her.”

“She’s not”—Ronald lowered his voice—“not a vampire.”

“Not a—?” I said. “Then why is she …?”

“Because she wants to,” Ronald said. “Some like to give, some to receive. Hardly a new fetish, but they’ve become more open about it. We’re simply taking advantage—”

Cassandra stomped off before he could finish. She strode to the nearest curtain and shoved it back, to the yelps of the surprised guests within. She swung around, letting the curtain fall, and headed for the next cubicle. Ronald scrambled after her. I stayed where I was. I’d seen enough.

“You’re not seeing the beauty of it, Cassandra,” Ronald whispered. “The opportunities. Hiding in plain sight, that’s the ultimate goal, isn’t it? Other races can do it. Why shouldn’t we?”

Cassandra shoved back another beaded curtain. I looked away, but not fast enough. Inside was the singer, in her mock bridal ensemble, splayed across the center of the couch, arms outstretched, her two female companions each attached leechlike to an arm, her dress shoved up around her hips while her male bodyguard crouched before her, pants down … and I don’t need to describe anymore. Suffice to say, I hoped to wipe the scene from my memory before it reappeared at an inopportune moment, and ruined a perfectly good round of bed games.

Cassandra whirled on Ronald. “Get these people out of here now.”

“But—but—they’re members. They’ve paid—”

“Get them out and consider yourself lucky if money is all you lose.”

“M—maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, maybe we made an error in judgment, but—”

Cassandra brought her face down to his. “Do you remember the Athenian problem? Do you remember the penalty for their ‘error in judgment’?”

Ronald swallowed. “Give me a minute.”

He hurried to the singer’s cubicle and pushed his head through the beaded curtain. I caught the words “police,” “raid,” and “five minutes.” The quartet came barreling out so fast, they were still pulling on their clothes as they raced past me.

A minute later, as the last stragglers stumbled for the exit, a door opened at the far end of the room. In strode a tall woman in her late twenties. Her face was too angular to be pretty, with features better suited to a man. She wore her blond hair long and straight, an uncomplimentary style that left one with the fleeting impression that she might be a guy in drag, yet her black silk baby-doll revealed enough to reassure any confused onlooker that she was indeed gender female. Even her feet were bare, toes painted bright red, as were her fingernails and her lips. It looked as if she’d put on her lipstick in the dark, and smeared it. As she moved into the semilit room, I saw that it wasn’t lipstick at all, but blood.

“Wipe your mouth, Brigid,” Cassandra snapped. “No one here is impressed.”

“I thought I heard harping,” Brigid said, gliding into the center of the room. “I should have known it was the queen bitch—” A tiny smile. “Whoops, I meant queen bee.”

“We know what you meant, Brigid. Have the guts to admit it.”

Cassandra’s gaze slid from Brigid and riveted to a young man following Brigid so closely that he was almost hidden behind the statuesque vampire. He was no more than my age, slightly built and pretty, with huge brown eyes fixed in a look of bovine befuddlement. Blood dribbled down the side of his neck, but he seemed not to notice, and stood there, gaze fixed on the back of Brigid’s head, lips curved in an inane little smile.

“Get him out of here,” Cassandra said.

“You don’t give me orders, Cassandra,” Brigid said.

“I do if you’re fool enough to need them. Send him home.”

“Oh, but he is home.” She reached down and stroked his crotch. “He likes it here.”

“Don’t be boorish,” Cassandra said. “Find another dupe to charm when I’m gone.”

“I don’t need to charm him,” Brigid said, hand still on the young man’s crotch. He closed his eyes and began rocking. “He stays because he wants to stay.”

Cassandra thrust the young man toward Ronald. “Get him out of here.”

Brigid grabbed Cassandra’s arm. When Cassandra glared at her, she dropped it and stepped away, lips drawn back. She saw me and her eyes glimmered. I tensed, binding spell at the ready.

“You bring your human along and I can’t bring mine?” Brigid said, eyes fixed on mine.

“She’s not human, which you’ll discover if you continue what you’re doing.”

Brigid’s blue eyes gleamed brighter. Charming me, or trying to. The power rarely worked on other supernaturals, but to be sure, I took the opportunity to field-test yet another of my new spells: an anticharm incantation. Brigid yelped.

“Stings, doesn’t it?” Cassandra said. “Leave the girl alone or she’ll move onto something even less comfortable.”

Brigid turned to Cassandra. “What do you want, bitch?”

Cassandra smiled. “Undisguised hate. We’re making progress. I want John.”

“He’s not here.”

“That’s not what your bouncer said.”

Brigid flipped her hair off her shoulder. “Well, he’s wrong. Hans isn’t here.”

Cassandra turned on Ronald, who backed up against the wall.

“He was in the back room, with Brigid and the boy,” Ronald said.

“Let me guess,” Cassandra said to Brigid. “He told you to come out here and create a diversion while he slipped out the back door. Come on then, Paige. Time to hunt a coward.”

T
he back door of the Rampart opened into an alley. “What about Ronald and Brigid?” I said, hovering in the doorway. “They might know something, and the moment we’re out of sight, they’re going to bolt, too. Two birds in the hand are definitely worth more than one in the bush.”

Cassandra shook her head, gaze traveling along the alley. “They’d never betray John. Without him, they wouldn’t survive.” She turned left. “This way.”

“You picked up his trail?”

“No, but I’d go this way.”

We looped behind a body shop and came out into a warren of dilapidated row houses that looked as if they’d been boarded up since I was in grade school. At the end of the lane, Cassandra stopped and studied the houses. A bottle clinked. I jumped.

“If you hear someone, it’s not him,” she said.

“Someone else is out here?”

“Lots of someones, Paige. Abandoned doesn’t mean empty.”

As if to underscore this, a woman’s laugh floated down the street. A bottle sailed from a second-story window and smashed on the road, adding to a puddle of broken glass.