The bass thrums through my bones, the beat almost tangible. Bodies pack the dance floor, writhing and grinding to the music. It’s a sea of masks and glitter, feathers and sequins.
I scan the room, my eyes searching for any sign of Kuznetsov or his goons. But it’s like trying to pick out a single fish in a churning ocean.
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath. “Where the hell is this ‘Aerie’ supposed to be?”
I snag a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and take a sip. The bubbles tickle my nose, the taste too sweet on my tongue. I know it’s become popular, but I’ve never developed a taste for sweet champagne.
I’m about to dive into the fray when I nearly collide with a group of giggling girls. They’re all decked out in sparkles and sequins, their masks glinting under the strobing lights.
“Oops, sorry!” one of them chirps, her words slurred. “Didn’t see you there!”
I muster a smile, sidestepping them. “No worries. It’s a bit crowded in here.”
She nods, her feathered headdress bobbing. It’s some sort of flamingo get-up, pink and fluffy. I bite back a smirk. To each their own, I guess.
She turns back to her friends, their heads close together. I start to move away, but then a snippet of their conversation catches my ear.
“…Aerie? I heard it’s like super exclusive.”
“Yeah, you need a special invite just to get in. And it’s not even in this building!”
“Seriously? Then where…?”
I sidle closer, straining to hear over the pounding music.
The flamingo girl points to a door on the far side of the room. It’s huge, ornate, with a majestic black raven carved into its center.
“That’s the VIP entrance. You have to show your invite there, and then they’ll take you up to The Aerie in a private elevator.”
I feel a thrill of anticipation mixed with dread. A private elevator, huh? Sounds like Kuznetsov’s style. Flashy, exclusive, and no doubt heavily guarded.
My palms are sweating, my heart racing. This is it. The moment of truth.
I pull in a slow, deep breath, aiming to quiet my anxiety.
I go over the plan again in my head.
Get to The Aerie. Find Kuznetsov. Slip the poison into his drink.
Watch him die, choking on his own blood.
Simple. Easy.
I step out of the private elevator, my heart pounding in my chest.
The 39th floor. Kuznetsov’s personal playground.
I’m hit with a wall of sound and sensation as I emerge into the main room. Music pulses through the air, the bass so deep I can feel it in my bones. The lighting is dim, intimate, with flashes of neon cutting through the haze.
But it’s the people that catch my eye. Beautiful, well-dressed, and undoubtedly dangerous. They lounge on sleek couches, sipping cocktails and laughing at jokes I can’t hear. It’s like stepping into a den of vipers, coiled grace and hidden venom.
Focus on the plan, Clara. Just get it done so you can get back to Elijah.
I make my way to the bar.
The bartender looks up as I approach, and for a moment, I’m taken aback.
She’s stunning. Perfect. And completely artificial.
