He said it as if I were an exotic bottle being uncorked. Something imported, expensive, and ultimately disposable.
Fear spread from my core, taking command of my body. I’d always thought the choices when reacting to danger were to fight or flee, but I found myself locked in a third option: freeze.
The man closest to us leaned back in his chair. A cigar fumed between his fingers. “This is the incubus?”
Narcissus inclined his head. “A young one.”
That mattered, apparently. The second man at the table made a sound, a hum like the purr of an engine warming up.
The third man, wearing a pinstriped suit and a pair of sunglasses, bridged his fingers. “Interesting,” he said.
A younger version of Narcissus sat to the left of the empty chair at the head. He had spiky blond hair and pale eyes that pinched as he muttered, “He looks like a harem boy.”
The fifth man said nothing, just watched me with a wolfish tilt to his mouth, clearly imagining something I would rather not.
I stood where Narcissus had placed me. Shoulders back. Chin up. Expression schooled into the kind of practiced serenity that could read as confidence if you didn’t look too closely.
But theywerelooking closely. All of them.
I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move.
Because this wasn’t a room full of rich men.
This was a room full of predators, and I’d been thrown in like bait.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
Beck
Half a week was longer than I wanted to wait to make things right with Zephyr. But if I was going to ask his forgiveness, I needed to give something in exchange. Information about his human life would have been a worthy peace offering, but Colette’s search came up dry. It turned out not knowing his real name, dates of birth or death, or any specific location made sifting through the library’s microfiche of obituaries a fruitless effort.
Zephyr spoke French. He’d learned aerial stunts, maybe even acrobatics, somewhere. The circus, perhaps? But when? And where?
In lieu of news about his past, I hoped flowers would suffice.
Colette and I arrived at the Devil’s Dollhouse before noon. She didn’t offer to accompany me, declaring this was a private affair and she would leave me to it.
The walk across the parking lot had sweat prickling atmy collar, both from nerves and the oppressive desert heat. By the time I reached the club’s front doors, the back of my suit jacket clung to me damply, and my palm was clammy around the tissue wrapping of the bouquet.
Maslow had no reason to turn me away. I’d paid his extortionate price for my time with Zephyr, and he hadn’t stopped circling the Fairmont Street deal like a vulture. Still, showing up at a strip club with flowers in broad daylight didn’t scream “professional interest.”
The bouncers, two hellhounds in black clothes and matching mirrored sunglasses, bowed up as I approached, stepping in front of the doors before I could say a word. One of them tipped his head toward the closed sign hanging in the painted-over window.
“We’re not open.”
“I wanted to drop these off.” I held up the bouquet. “It’ll only take a minute.”
The broader of the two gave me a slow once-over. “Bigshot like you can’t afford delivery?”
“Who’re they for?” the second one asked, grinning like he already knew. “We’ll take a note.”
“The little redhead, of course,” the first one said. “Takes him out for a date, now flowers. What’s next? An engagement ring?”
“I’d like to give them to him myself if you don’t mind,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“We’ll take the flowers and pass the word along.” The first reached for the bouquet. “You’re not the only lovesick puppy dropping off gifts for the performers. Damn bitches get more fan mail than Santa Claus.”
