“For a man we call Darth Sullivan, you know surprisingly little about Star Wars.”
“I don’t know why I’d need to.”
“Yeah, that’s part of the problem.”
“At any rate,” Ethan said, a little bit testily, “they’ll know you’re female and that you’re with me. They won’t know you have a weapon, but to be safe, try not to bring unnecessary attention to it. Unless, of course, I have to drop the glamour. In which case, be prepared to fight.”
I smiled at him. “I’m always prepared.”
“That’s my girl,” he said with no little pride. “And while it will go against every instinct in your body, you’ll need to pretend to be biddable.”
“Biddable?” Every syllable of the word left a bad taste.
At least he looked marginally apologetic. “It will be expected,” he said, “and we’ll attract less unwanted attention that way.”
“Why can’t you play biddable?”
His smile was pure Sullivan. “Because I’m the Master.”
I supposed I had that coming. “So, to review, you want me to play submissive Marilyn Monroe?”
Ethan paused. “That’s a loaded question with several appropriate answers.”
“Let’s focus on the one pertinent to this job.”
“You know what I’m asking, and why I’m asking it. And I’d like your word on it, Merit.”
I knew why he asked for my promise—not because he doubted me, but because he trusted me. Because he knew if someone threatened him, I’d step in.
“You know what you’re asking me to do,” I said.
“I do. And that’s why I’m asking you, instead of ordering you.”
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I didn’t see that I had a choice. I batted my eyelashes, tried to Gratefully Condescend, as archaic vampire Canon required of Novitiates. “All right,” I said. “Anything else, my lord and Master?”
“Yes. Try not to use that tone.”
I couldn’t make any promises about that one.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EASY LOVER
We walked toward it, Ethan’s magic shifting around us as we moved. I was only a secondary recipient of his glamour—he wasn’t trying to make me do anything—but I could still feel the breadth of its undulating power. A powerful vampire was Ethan Sullivan.
He rapped on the door with the heel of his hand, two hard strikes. Five seconds passed, and a small panel slid open with the grating sound of metal on metal.
A man’s face appeared—pale skin, large eyes, and a flattened nose with a mole at one corner. If he was supernatural, I couldn’t tell. At least, not through the door. Other than Ethan’s, I couldn’t feel any magic at all, and I’d have expected plenty to have seeped from a building full of aroused supernaturals. Maybe the building had been warded.
The man looked at Ethan, then me. “What?”
“Sésame, ouvre-toi,” Ethan said in melodious French.
I bit back a smile. The password was literally “open sesame,” albeit in French. Supernaturals loved a bad joke.
The doorman’s caterpillar-thick unibrow dipped low between his eyes. He bared large teeth. “That’s an old password.”
His tone threatened a violent response, and I had to stop myself from touching my sword. But I’d given Ethan my word, and I kept my composure.
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.