Behind it, a bank of monitors ran silent black-and-white feeds from every corner of the club. Dressing rooms, hallways, executive suites—nothing escaped the all-seeing eye of surveillance. Next to the door we’d entered through, floor-to-ceiling glass offered a view of the main stage so Maslow could watch his performers like a king surveying his court. Or a perv watching a peep show. Either way, it fit.
Maslow settled on his throne while I slid into one of the guest chairs opposite him. He proceeded to make a show of pulling a plump black portfolio folder from one of the desk drawers and setting it between his splayed palms.
I’d worried he would drag his heels or stall with undue formalities while setting the stage for his grand proposal, so I was pleasantly surprised when he began straightaway.
“As I mentioned on the phone, I have a lucrativeproposition for you. A new club.” He flipped open the cover of the portfolio and spread its contents across the desktop.
I scooted to the edge of my seat, scanning the pristine pages. Blueprints, abstracts, elevation drawings… It was a lot to take in.
“Prime real estate,” Maslow said, snapping a pen he pulled from nowhere against one of the sheets. “Just off Fairmont. Neutral territory. No angelic sigils or demonic claims. It’s virgin soil.”
Not entirely. It looked to be a gut job. A building currently occupied the space Maslow referred to, but his drawings detailed plans to demolish it and construct a new one in its place.
The design was bold. Soaring where the Dollhouse was comparatively squat. Five levels were labeled with notes that said things like Ascension Floor, The Font, and Penance Row.
It looked a bit like a club, but more like a statement. The kind of place that would draw attention like a lightning rod.
Maslow’s grin turned sharp. “I’m calling itPurgatory,” he said. “What do you think?”
I thought a lot less about the building or the name than I did about the location.
The moment demons and angels had revealed themselves to the world, they started carving it up. Las Vegas had become its own battleground for supernatural dominance, but it was a war without a victor. I’d been part of the negotiations when both sides had finally agreed it was better to strike a truce than burn Sin City to the ground. They’d split the Strip down the middle: demons claimed one side, angels took the other.
The adjacent property on Fairmont Street had been left out of the terms entirely.
I pushed back, shaking my head. “That’s not neutral, Maz. That’s a powder keg. If you build on it, you’re daring someone to light a match.”
Maslow rolled his pen between his stubby fingers. “Which is why we need to move fast. Quiet. By the time anyone notices, we’ll be too big to burn down.” Turning in his chair, he stretched his hand toward the exterior wall as though we could see Fairmont from here.
The wraith grinned, flashing his gold-capped teeth. “Picture it: you and me, partners in Purgatory.”
It sounded like Hell. No, it sounded worse.
But he was ready for it. He’d shown me everything besides his bank statements to prove how prepared he was to dive into this debacle. I couldn’t help but wonder.
“Why another club? Is this one not enough for you?
Maslow’s smile spread. “I have aspirations, Beckett. And product. Young, hungry, and pliable. Straight from Hell. No attachments, no overheads.”
He paused to swallow the drool that must have been pooling in his mouth, aggressively salivating as he spoke about more pretty boys, and maybe girls too, being marched out of the underworld and put to work baring their bodies for human amusement.
His enthusiasm peaked as he concluded, “You wouldn’t believe how many eager little things are waiting for their chance topside.”
“What does that mean? ‘Straight from Hell?’” My brows dipped in a frown. “You running a pipeline now?”
Maslow chuckled. “I have enough… let’s call them applicants… to staff three more clubs if I wanted.” He was so flippant about it, casual, and unnervingly proprietary. “You could have one of your own,” he added. “A club, I mean. Or a demon if it suits you.” He shrugged.
My gaze drifted to the grid of monitors on the wall behind the desk, and I located the two broadcasting activity. One showed a kitchen area where the dancers had gathered around a long table to eat. They looked amiable enough, gesturing and chatting, though I couldn’t hear what was being said.
The other feed that drew my notice was the one trained on the stage. Cherry sat alone with his legs dangling off the stage’s elevated edge. He looked so small.
I hadn’t considered it, never cared to, but after seeing barred windows and finding the whole troupe onsite with apparently nowhere else to be in the middle of a weekday, the realization struck me like a blow. They lived here, yes. But could theyleavehere?
“But don’t mind those pretty bitches downstairs.” Maslow’s flapping hand cut through my view. “Lesser demons are like cattle, Beckett. Easy to move in, easy to move out. They’re not the point.”
He rolled back from the desk and stood, dwarfed by the gargantuan piece of furniture as he began to pace the floor across from me.
“What I’m talking about isenterprise,” he said. “Legacy. A foothold off the Strip and the power that comes with it. The Dollhouse was proof of concept. Fairmont is where we scale.”
