Wicked Misery (Miss Misery) (24 page)

Yet I couldn’t get over it, and logically there was only one reason why—Lucen wasn’t supposed to do this to me. For ten years, he’d kept his addicts away from me, and now, in just a few days, I’d run into two. First the woman at the bar, now the man upstairs.

Lucen knew I despised what preds did to humans, regardless of his it’s-what-I-am crap. I thought he’d respected me enough not to subject me to his evil side. Damn it, he’d never touched me since I’d asked him not to. Some weak part of me must have thought he actually had a dollop of compassion hidden away in that cold, dark heart of his. Otherwise, why had he always pretended to be nice to me? Why had he been so quick to help me? Why the fuck had he been screwing with me—metaphorically—for the past ten years?

And why, for the love of dragons, did I fucking care?

Breathing through my clenched teeth, I surveyed myself in a small mirror. Black-and-red tank top, leather pants and my combat boots. It was an outfit that only wouldn’t get me noticed in a place like Purgatory.

What had I been thinking earlier about the wisdom of not pissing off an entire gang of satyrs? They didn’t care about pissing me off, so to hell with it. I was tired of playing by their rules and condoning their treatment of humanity. Someone had to get to Pete, get the Gryphons and save my soul.

Lucen had proven why the only person who could be trusted to do that was me.

Chapter Seventeen

By the time I hopped off the T a block from Purgatory, I’d calmed down enough to think rationally. And my first rational thought was that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. As when I’d run to Lucen’s yesterday, I’d simply charged full speed ahead, urged on by my self-cannibalizing negativity, and without a plan. Brilliant. I didn’t even know if Purgatory was open on a Tuesday, or where I’d search once I got inside. But since I wasn’t about to return to Lucen while he spent the next couple hours banging an addict, I might as well plunder forth.

The answer to the first question came as I crossed the street. Purgatory sat along a strip of clubs, bars and pizza parlors in a seedy but gentrifying part of town. Of the clubs, it was the only spot with the lights on and a line stretching around the front. The sign proclaimed it to be Under 21 Night. Huh, I sort of remembered that being on Wednesdays, but it had been a long time—at least eight years—since I’d come here with Steph, and we’d never bothered with Under 21 Night. Thanks to my lusty little power, I could convince the guys at the door of just about anything. Age and cover charges had never been an issue.

So here I went again.

Several people glowered at me as I bypassed the line of leather- and vinyl-clad humans and breathed my power all over the bouncer. No ID, no money? No problem. Sometimes there
were
advantages to being me. And now that I knew Devon owned this place, I didn’t even have to feel bad about the times I’d snuck in when I was younger and less ethical.

Inside, I staked out a spot along the periphery and waited for my ears to adjust to the music volume and my eyes to adjust to the lighting. Purgatory was dark, always. From the black-painted décor to the seats around the bar to the clothes on the clubbers themselves, the atmosphere screamed moody and misunderstood. Gunthra’s interior decorator would love it.

Judging by the style of dress on most people, Under 21 Night was less fetish and more goth. Pierced, tattooed and overly eye-linered faces passed by in a blur. On the dance floor, black lipstick, corsets and studded dog collars ruled the night. If I’d turned my hair purple back at Lei’s, I’d have fit in better, but oh well. It was no wonder Steph had loved this place. A haven for Technicolor souls in a black-and-white world, she’d once called it. I wasn’t sure it deserved such a poetic treatment, but the style sure beat the Hollister clones at the mall.

Or it would if satyrs didn’t own it. This was no refuge, I reminded myself. However freak friendly it might seem on the surface, its heart was not human friendly. Perhaps not on a relatively tame night like tonight, but on a Friday or Saturday, Purgatory probably became a satyr feeding ground. Add a healthy business in F to that mix of half-naked humanity, alcohol and pulsing music, and wills would shatter like glass. That was the real danger of drugs like F, after all—heightened arousal coupled with a complete loss of resistance.

Scowling, I rested against a wall and searched my memories of the club. If I were a satyr in my Dom’s good graces and I owned a club, where would I stash a serial rapist? Not in any of the rooms I’d been in before—that was about all I could deduce. So what sort of nonpublic rooms were there? A basement? Storage?

Gradually, the beat in the main room morphed into a new mix, and I caught myself swaying to the rhythm as I pondered. I wasn’t risking calling the Gryphons until I knew I had something to hand over to them. Other than myself. My burst of adrenaline was wearing off, and all the reasons why this plan sucked nipped at my resolve. Part of me longed for nothing more than to join the frenzy on the dance floor, to simply give myself over to the beat and forget about my problems for a while.

That would be stupid, just like relying on preds was stupid. Even preds named Lucen. I had to get moving.

Staying as close to the wall as possible, I began circling around the room, on the hunt for any doors marked
Staff
or similar. Of course, any doors like that would probably be locked, but I’d deal with that later.

Purgatory was big. I didn’t know if it was big for a club, or just big to a woman who preferred bars if she wanted an overpriced drink, but this plan of mine was going to take some time. The flashing lights and the smoke machines didn’t help, either. Nor did all the people in my way. Thank dragons it wasn’t a Friday, or I’d barely be able to move. As it was, I trekked through a jungle of limbs and alternating clouds of green and blue smoke, my boots sticking to the alcohol-damp floor.

It took forever, but I completed my circuit of the main room and debated where to go next. There was the balcony, two smaller dance rooms, the quieter lounge and the VIP room off the balcony on the second floor to choose from. The VIP room was the only place I’d never been, so I decided to save it for last. Besides, if I was in need of a storage room, it seemed more likely that I’d find one on the first floor.

My search picked up when I left the main area. Only one of the smaller dance rooms was in use, and I breezed my way through it until I saw an unmarked door off the bar. Once the bartender turned his back on me, I tried the handle. Locked. Naturally. I’d brought the lock-picking kit the satyrs had supplied me with for breaking into Gryphon headquarters, but I was no expert with it. It would take some time.

Biting my lip, I dug into the small bag I carried and pulled out the mostly spent distraction charm, also from yesterday. I hoped it had enough potency to get me inside before the bartender noticed me and called security. Surely Devon had cameras around here, as well, so I had to be quick regardless. Distraction charms didn’t work so well with cameras. Though the brain could be fooled, the camera saw all.

Two minutes later—and thankfully, no interruptions—I was in. The door shut behind me, its gentle click eerily audible against the dissolving backdrop of bass-heavy dance music. I sighed with temporary relief.

The air in here was humid. Very. I sniffed deeply, detecting a strange, not exactly pleasant odor that I couldn’t place. Just what sort of room had I broken into? There were no lights, so I was safe from cameras, and a faint hum competed with the music drifting in from the other room. I turned on my mini-flashlight, shining it at the wall until I found a light switch.

I was in a storage room, and a small one at that. Boxes of liquor and cartons of drink napkins sat on metal shelves. A single fluorescent-tube light flickered above. But no Pete.

There was, however, another door, and this one was unlocked. My pulse sped up as I stared down a flight of stairs that curved leftward, blocking me from seeing whatever was on the next floor down. Magic, the result of my own minty anxiety, provided a hit of courage. I checked over my shoulder and saw no cameras. So what the hell. If security had already caught me breaking the first lock, I might as well keep going.

“Pete?” My voice came out no louder than a whisper although that wasn’t my intent. Calling for him was a dumb thing to do anyway. Devon had most likely gagged him by this point.

The farther down I walked, the more humid the air became. Blue light seeped into the stairwell, and I shut off the flashlight because I could see fine without it. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I blamed the warm, humid air, though my nerves likely had something to do with it too. At the bottom of the stairs, I stepped out into a long room.

And stared. Once again, no Pete. But this time also no storage room. I wondered what I’d stumbled into. The humidity was overpowering, and the blue lights turned out to be flames. They flickered from iron sconces attached to the stone walls, and seemed to pulse with my heartbeat. A path ran from the stairs straight through the room to an elevator, and either side was lined with large stone boxes, two deep, about ten in all.

Hesitantly, I took another step forward, taking everything in. Maybe my first impression had been wrong. This was a storage room, only of the macabre sort—a demonic mausoleum. Except what would one be doing under a dance club?

And why was I here? That was the more important question. I should definitely not be here. The very feeling of it crawled under my skin, making me itch with the urge to flee.
Leave,
it screamed.
Get away and fast. Run and never speak of this.

The longer I stood in one place, the deeper the feeling dug its intangible claws into me. It was like a compulsion, trying to force my feet to carry me off. I’d heard of such magic before but never encountered it. I struggled against it, drawing on my own power to fight off these external desires as if I were fighting off a pred’s influence. As a result, I stumbled forward to the closest sarcophagus.

Except it wasn’t a sarcophagus like any I’d seen before. Although, to be fair, the only ones I’d ever seen were on TV or in films. But still. This didn’t resemble any Hollywood version. For starters, there was no lid sealing off the contents. And then there was the little issue
of
the contents.

It wasn’t a body or the remains of what had once been one. It was a sack. Perhaps a shell. Some kind of whitish gray casing? It was long and thin, and about the right size to hold a body, but it wasn’t one itself. And why would someone wrap a dead body in a shell-like thing then place it in a stone box?

Leave!
The compulsion jerked me backward. My head ached with it, and I fought for my balance.

“No,” I whispered. I doubted arguing with a spell did me much good, but it made me feel better.

I regained my balance and approached the sarcophagus again. My arm twitched, struggling against the spell as I reached out toward the sack. Was it hard or soft? What was it made out of? A dull sheen covered it, and hundreds of thin striations ran horizontally across.

I really didn’t want to touch it, yet something drew me to it. Something that buzzed about my brain almost as strongly as the magic urging me to run away. Something that spoke to a deep, dark well in my memory. I could taste it on my tongue like an errant emotion, both familiar and repulsive. And still, my fingers stretched closer. I recognized this. Yearned for it.

My curiosity was engaged in an all-out war with the compulsion and my common sense.

In fact, my internal struggle must have been so overwhelming that I didn’t even hear the footsteps on the stairs.

“Hey!”

My concentration broken, I stood dumbly—too dazed to be worried—as a couple bouncers charged me. The quicker of the two grabbed my arms and dragged me away from the sarcophagus. Lust burst through me in glorious waves, turning my knees wobbly and awakening my body. Aw, crap. These bouncers were satyrs. They must be wearing charms to disguise their horns so the humans upstairs wouldn’t panic.

I went limp in my assailant’s hands, hoping he’d let go. My body begged for nothing more than to collapse to the floor and pull this guy down with me. Alas, he held me upright. Part of me knew I should be afraid of what was going to happen, but the satyr-induced lust overwhelmed my more logical emotions.

“What are you doing down here?” the other satyr asked.

Good question. Why had I gone down here again? I’d been searching for something, but not those things in the tomb. “Uh…” Thinking while pressed against a satyr was way too complicated.

“Take her upstairs.”

“Pete!” The name finally popped to mind halfway to the storage room, just as I felt the compulsion releasing its stranglehold on my brain. That probably wasn’t a coincidence. “I’m looking for Pete.”

I had no idea what Devon would do to someone caught snooping through his creepy basement, but I prayed that, whatever it was, he wouldn’t do it to the person the satyrs were supposed to be protecting.

“I’m Jessica Moore. I was looking for Pete. Take me to Devon.”

The satyr released me, and I collapsed to the storage room floor. I didn’t take him down with me though. There was barely enough space in here for the three of us—in typical bouncer fashion, these two were huge—and I stared up at them, resisting the urge to take my clothes off. Either I hadn’t become as habituated to satyr magic as I’d thought, or these guys were enjoying blasting me with their power.