The structure is old—it looks like it might’ve been a municipal building, with white stone walls and a large metal door about ten feet high that’s etched with an Art Nouveau design. There are actual silk ropes marking off the waiting area and a red carpet leading from the sidewalk to the entrance.
Our driver puts the car in park and gets out, then comes around to open the door on Aelia’s side. She slides out gracefully, obviously practiced at presentation. She looks like she’s posing for paparazzi, but I don’t see any—just a couple of girls with their cell phones out, filming. I’m not so delicate when I emerge, feeling like a lobster escaping a trap as I scoot across the seat. My skirt ends up awkwardly hiked to my thighs by the time I finally get free of the car, and I have to straighten myself out with the whole line of club bunnies looking on. More phones lift to document.
I ignore the gawkers and follow Aelia as she heads for the entrance as if she owns the place. I’m a little wobbly in the heels on the red carpet behind her. One of the large men flanking the entrance nods to her like he knows her and opens the heavy door, ushering us inside. The guy with the clipboard gets on a walkie-talkie and says something, but I don’t hear what it is.
A strange combo of big band and electric music fills the air around us in the entryway. My skin tingles as the pulse of the notes crawls over me, and the smell of clove cigarettes and new paint fills my head.
The inside of the club isn’t what I expected from the grand exterior. It feels intimate. Maybe because of the oddly gray light or the low ceiling. The life-size images along the walls catch my eye as I trail behind Aelia—scenes from the nineteen twenties of sly-eyed flappers with bright lipstick and broody-looking men with fedoras, cigarettes hanging lazily from the corners of their mouths. They almost seem alive, a part of the small crowd in the entry, the past mingling with the present.
We walk by a couple of clusters of people as we move through the passage. Heads turn to look at us, at Aelia. It’s clear people know her. Of course, she acts oblivious to it all, an air of confidence in her straight shoulders, her lifted chin.
A silver-haired man appears in the opening to the main floor in front of us. He looks a little like a flashy butler from the turn of the century. “Miss Aelia,” he says, his tone a bit too airy to be genuine. “It’s so lovely to see you here tonight. We weren’t expecting you until after the tribunal tomorrow.” His blue eyes dart to me, then away again. “Are you bringing in a candidate for the feeding rooms?”
“No, Leaman, this is a new arrival to the fold. Still unclaimed.”
“An unclaimed, you say?” He looks over his thin spectacles, studying me intently.
She puts a thin finger on the center of his chest. “Now, now, don’t get any ideas for your mistress, Princess Mara. The House of Morrígan isn’t going to be in the running for this one. She’s all ours.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives a slight bow, glancing at me again before saying, “May I take you to your section?”
She nods and we follow him onto the main floor and through a cocktail area. Waitresses in short skirts walk around carrying trays of drinks, the loud music vibrating the glasses a little. The patrons sit in high booths, looking smug. Some are in small cubbies with privacy curtains, and everyone looks as if their wardrobes and jewelry could solve the LA homeless problem for a week. I think I spot three or four Hollywood stars. I recognize a guy from a reality TV show about making your marriage work sitting in a booth, a drink in each hand, surrounded by fawning females.
It’s like they took every LA cliché and brought them all together into one room.
We come to a staircase that’s blocked off by a black velvet rope. Another beefy guy is standing to the side. He unhooks the rope and the butler, Leaman, bows again, before telling Aelia to let him know if we need anything.
I follow her up the stairs to a loft area that’s enclosed by walls made of mesh material. Silhouetted figures move inside the gauzy tent. Myriad lights speckle the silver netting, casting colors over it—pink and blue and yellow and green—and as the song shifts, the lights shift too.
We pause on the landing, and one of the silhouettes, a young woman, emerges from the rainbow mesh. She has big eyes and long light pink hair that seems almost opal in the lighting. She also has gossamer wings hanging between her shoulder blades, like Star did at the party. I’m pretty sure this one’s another pixie. But they must not all have wings—I didn’t see any on Niamh.
The woman nods to Aelia and me, a curious look on her face when her overly large eyes meet mine.
But she doesn’t comment; she just pulls aside the fabric for us to enter. “May your cups and hearts be full, ladies.”
I don’t want to go inside the tented area. I’ll feel even more trapped than I already do.
But Aelia grabs me and pulls me inside just as a swiftly approaching girl squeals, “Lia!” The girl’s delight is needles in my ears, even with the loud music. “I can’t believe you made it.” She kisses both of Aelia’s cheeks, a painted smile on her face. “We were so totally sure you’d get stuck at home with Beast Barb.” She turns and yells at a cluster of females in the far corner. “Bitches, get your asses over here and kiss the priestess.” But then her attention falls on me, and her grin stiffens. Her eyes scrape over me like she’s noting every blemish and flaw. “Who’s this?” she asks Aelia.
“This is the new arrival, V,” Aelia says, chin tipping up.
I bet she gets that same proud look on her face when she’s showing off a new purse. She takes me by the arm and leads me toward the group of females, and I feel like I’m being brought to my judges at the Inquisition. But there’s nowhere to go.
“Ladies,” Aelia says, “this is Sage.” She adds in a whisper, “The new fire demi.”
They all frown in silence and study me with skepticism. But then the first girl, V, sneers, dismissing me with a flippant hand gesture. “Give me a break. Your games are so transparent now, Lia,” she says with a soft laugh. “She’s obviously a street leech. She’s got a zit. And look at that scar on her shoulder.”
One of the other girls leans in and crinkles her nose. “She smells like an alley cat. Are you force-feeding her to James as a joke?”
I lean away. “Excuse me? No one’s feeding anyone to anyone.”
The first girl, the one worried about my zit, acts like she didn’t hear me, directing her words to Aelia. “James would never eat that. I mean, she’s painful to look at. Even he wouldn’t be desperate enough—”
“James has nothing to do with this,” Aelia says. “Why would I waste my time worrying about him?”
“Well, because you’re screwing him on a daily basis, obviously,” the zit critic says.
Another girl shrugs. “And letting him feed off you.”
Aelia looks baffled. “So? He gets me backstage when Coldplay is in town.”
“That was one time,” a girl says.
“Ugh,” Aelia grunts. “Enough about the shade. I came for you to see this.” She points at my face and whispers again. “She’s the second daughter.”
All the girls go back to frowning at me.