Page 66 of When the Sky Breaks

Sorcha nodded.

“I’m not entirely convinced you do,” I continued. “You do not leave me. You do not let go of my hand. I do not care what happens. What you hear. What you see. If I tell you to stay closer? If I tell you to close your eyes? If I tell you we are leaving? You do not argue. You do what I tell you. Because I don’t know what this is. But I’m not letting it take you from me. Understand?”

Sorcha nodded again.

“I need you to answer me out loud.”

“I understand.”

I hated the tremor in her voice. I hated that I’d done anything to put it there. But I wasn’t about to let her be kidnapped by a cult or an opium dealer because I wanted to be gentler in warning her what we were walking into. And so I shook off the guilt. Then I nodded, tucked her arm through mine, and pushed open the door.

The heat hit first—damp, sticky, claustrophobic. Then the light—glistening, flickering, reflected off too many mirrors and too much crystal. The shadows clung to corners like a physical presence. The mist swirled in the door after us, melding with a heavy haze of cigarette smoke that wafted through the space. And then there was the smell. It came in waves—opium first, then perfume, liquor, smoke, and something underneath—like metal and rot.

Sorcha pressed my handkerchief closer up against her face and I watched her throat bob as she fought back the urge to vomit.

The bartender picked up an empty glass, polished it, and set it aside. Then another. And another. He didn’t look up. Didn’t seem to notice any of the patrons. An older couple sat near the door, untouched plates of bloody, rare steak on the table in front of them.

“The weather tonight is just lovely,” the man said, eyes glazed and expressionless.

“I know,” his wife replied. “This time of year is so glorious in the city.”

“It is,” the man said. “The weather tonight is just lovely.”

And the loop continued.

The patrons were all off. Detached. Like they viewed the world around them through a pane of clouded glass.

Drugged? Hypnotized? Cursed?

I didn’t want to try and guess. I pulled Sorcha closer. Ansel was nowhere to be seen. I cursed under my breath and walked farther into the room.

Red velvet drapes hung off the walls, thick, heavy, like they were wet with something. A young man sat at the bar by himself carving something into the bar top with his nails. His fingertips bled from the splinters. He didn’t seem to notice. A group of young women sat in the back corner, dressed like nightclub dancers, but unmoving. Their heads were thrown back in laughter, but no sound emerged from their gaping mouths. Music filled the space. Something almost like dance music, but odd and discordant. Just barely a beat off from itself. And there were no musicians, no one playing. The sound simply existed.

A woman in black approached us, dipping her hand into a wineglass and licking off her fingers. The liquid that clung to her nails was dark red, viscous.

“You should try it, darling,” she murmured to Sorcha, reaching out to smear the gore onto her face. I stepped between them in an instant and felt the woman’s nails rake down the back of my coat. I barely suppressed a shudder as I pressed Sorcha’s face close up against my chest.

“Protective, isn’t he?” the woman said, voice low, disinterested. She walked away, heading for the bar, still dipping her fingers into the goblet and licking them off.

I pushed farther into the space, eyes scanning for Ansel and still not finding him.

“Neal.” Sorcha’s voice had an edge.

“I know,” I replied, then I felt rather than saw her try to pull away. First it was a tug on my sleeve—like she was trying to get my attention. But I just pulled her in, still scanning for Ansel—still seeing him nowhere. Then Sorcha’s hands were firmer, more determined, pushing away from me.

“Sorcha!” I snapped, panic cascading through my body like a physical wave as I went to pull her back to me. But she was insistent, shaking her head.

“What did I just tell you outside?” I growled into her ear. “Stay close.”

And then I felt her body shudder, heave, jerk under my grip. She retched onto the floor. My gaze snapped up, sure we were about to draw attention, make a scene, somehow make this entire night even worse.

But no one had noticed. The dancers sat in the corner, still frozen in silent laughter. The bartender kept cleaning the already sparkling glasses. The young man with bleeding hands still clawed at the bar top. The woman in black kept licking off her fingers and dipping them into her goblet, lounging in a booth with her feet up on a table.

I felt Sorcha retch again, her body tightening for a second against me before going near limp. I heard vomit splatter on the floor. Then I turned and looked at her, really looked. There was dark blood on her face.

How had that happened?

I glanced at the floor and saw a near-black puddle at our feet.