Page 94 of Princes of Carnage

“Yes. She is.”

The guard’s partner steps forward, speaking in Latin. “Quid est flos dulcissimus in horto?”

“Non flos, sed fructus,” I answer back, reciting the phrase I memorized.

He dips his head, acknowledging my words, and then both guards step aside, allowing us entrance. I rest a hand at the small of Quinn’s back and urge her forward, trying to ignore the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress as the first guard raps on the wall beside the door.

It opens a second later, and we slip inside.

The interior of the club is dimly lit, and it grows a little darker as the door shuts behind us, cutting off any ambient light. A young woman is waiting in the entryway, and she steps forward to greet us, her movements careful and elegant.

She’s practically naked, dressed in a long, sheer skirt with just black pasties over her nipples. The top half of her face is hidden by a white mask in the shape of a ram’s skull, the horns curling into her dark hair.

She flicks her eyes over the pair of us behind her mask, then inclines her head, beckoning us in. “Welcome to Eros. Take a mask.”

She gestures to a velvet covered table beside her, where an array of different masks are laid out. Some are animal themed like hers, while some are done in a more masquerade style, with adornments and decorations.

I pick out something simple, one that looks almost skeletal, and fit it over my face. It covers the top half of my features, and the eye holes are large enough that I don’t lose too much of my peripheral vision. Still, I immediately feel claustrophobic as I slip it on. I don’t like anything that impedes my ability to scope out my surroundings or to fight, but I know better than to disobey the rules of this place.

Quinn shoots me a glance, then goes for one of the more elegant ones, a sleek masquerade-style mask in a deep maroon color edged with silver. I watch her slip it on, and something about the way the shimmering silver of the mask blends with her teal hair is almost hypnotic. I stare at her for a second too long, and her eyes glitter behind the mask before she finally looks away.

The woman who greeted us leads us down a long hallway to another door and unlocks it, holding it open for us.

“Festum in fructu, bibere sucus,” she says, and then we’re in.

Stepping into the club proper is almost like stepping into another world. It’s a large, maze-like space, separated into different areas. The place is already full of people, everyone masked, the men wearing suits and the women wearing revealing dresses. Some are almost fully undressed, bare-chested or wearing sheer clothes like the girl at the door, and although the smell of sex and arousal hangs heavy in the air, there’s a veneer of elegance over everything.

The lights are dim in here too, sconces spaced around the walls illuminating the room with a soft purple-ish glow, while still leaving pockets of near darkness in some corners. Everything is made of dark wood and velvet drapes in rich, jeweled tones. As I scan the room, I catch sight of the guards stationed against the walls. They’re dressed to blend in, no weapons visible to the patrons, but I can pick them out easily by their alert stances and the way they survey the people around them. It’s a subtle reminder that not everyone in this place is here of their own free will, and that within the club, Vincent’s laws are strictly enforced.

“Why did you say that?” Quinn asks in a low voice as we make our way through the crowd.

“Say what?”

“Outside. Why did you say…” She cuts a sideways glance at me. “Why did you say I was yours?”

I move a little closer to her as a man brushes by us, leading a woman with a collar around her neck.

“I told you the rules of this place are archaic,” I murmur, dropping my head to speak quietly in her ear. “Every woman here is either claimed by a man or available for every man. I needed to tell the guard that to make it clear that you weren’t available.”

Quinn stiffens a little, turning her head to look at me. Our faces are very close like this, and I can see her eyes widen a little behind her mask, but I can’t read her expression.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I add, well aware that I’m echoing the exact same words she said about her and Nico that night.

And just like those words, these ones feel like a lie even as I say them.

“We need to find a way to speak to Vincent,” I tell her, straightening up but sticking close by her side. “So we can get out of here as fast as possible.”

I’m hyperaware of the gazes on us as we make our way through the crowd, and although I can feel some people staring at me, I brush that off. Because all I can focus on is the people staring at Quinn. Men and even some women look her way and nod appreciatively, their eyes sliding over her outfit, lingering on all the places that my eyes lingered when she first came downstairs tonight.

Anger burns in my throat, but I do my best to keep it together. I want to kill anyone who looks at her, especially in a place like this. But that’s not what we’re here for.

We walk deeper into the club, past the outer rooms where things were relatively tame. Back here, there are couples pressed into leather covered booths, kissing and grinding on each other. A woman in a black leather dress that lets her tits spill out freely presses another woman over a heavy oak table, her fingers tight in the other woman’s hair. The one bent over the table cries out, and the one in leather laughs and leans down, licking the tears off the other woman’s cheeks while her prey shudders in either pleasure or pain.

There’s a bar off to one side, and as we pass by it, a familiar wet sound catches my attention. I glance over to see a man sipping a drink while a woman with glazed eyes kneels between his legs, sucking his cock as he holds her down until she gags.

Women in short skirts and nothing else bring out drinks on trays to people sitting in the booths—sometimes they’re allowed to walk away afterward, and sometimes they end up getting pulled onto a lap to be groped or fucked.

“Jesus,” Quinn mutters. Her mouth hardens as she watches a girl cry silently as she limps away from a table, her skirt hiked up around her waist and cum dripping down her thighs. “I think I prefer Le Bal Masque. At least everyone at that place wants to be there.”

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