Page 19 of Forbidden

Davy's back was a moving target through the crowd, his black shirt blending with the sea of darkness around them. Morgan kept her eyes locked on him as they threaded between gyrating bodies. The bass thumped in her chest, a surrogate heartbeat, syncopated and relentless. Around her, the thick heat of the club pressed close, a tangible weight that seemed to feed off the energy of the horde.

Strobe lights cut across her vision, white flashes slicing through the red neon haze. Each burst splintered the room into disjointed images—a snarl of tattoos here, a glint of metal there. Pentagrams and inverted crosses adorned the flesh of the revelers, their ink slick with sweat. They danced as if possessed, lost in a ritualistic fervor, and for a moment, Morgan felt like an interloper in a world she wasn't meant to see.

She tried to focus on the task at hand, to ignore the pressing unease that clawed at her insides. Her tattoos, etched onto her own skin during darker times, now felt like a camouflage in this den of shadows. She was one of them, yet worlds apart, driven by a purpose they couldn't fathom.

A surge in the crowd jostled her, and in the chaos of movement and light, Derik vanished from her side. Panic surged, a cold tide rising fast. She searched the faces around her—pale, painted, expressionless—and found no sign of him.

With each flash of the strobes, reality fractured further, disorienting her, pulling at the edges of her composure. The sinister symbols that festooned the walls seemed to pulse with life, whispering of secrets and silent screams.

Morgan pushed through the mass of bodies, her instincts screaming for her to find Derik, to reestablish that crucial lifeline. In a world where trust was measured out in drops, he was the steadying force that kept her anchored.

The darkness closed in, filled with the scent of leather and something else, something acrid and wrong. She could feel the stares, feel the judgment of a hundred unseen eyes, assessing, calculating.

Morgan felt the panic grip her, a vise tightening around her chest. The thrumming bass and strobe lights were an assault on her senses, making the room spin. She was about to call out again, her voice lost in the cacophony, when suddenly she felt it—a firm grasp on her arm.

Derik's touch was grounding, pulling her from the edge of hysteria. His fingers wrapped securely around her, guiding her away from the crushing sea of bodies. Morgan allowed herself a brief moment to look into his eyes. Even in the dim light, his green gaze held steady, a beacon of calm amidst the chaos. His silent message was clear: trust me, keep moving.

She nodded, letting him steer her through the crowd, their progress slow but deliberate. Davy had vanished ahead, swallowed by the shadows, but Derik seemed certain of where he was heading. They arrived at the base of a narrow staircase leading upward, away from the pulsating heart of the club.

Following Davy up the stairs, they left the din behind. Each step muffled the sounds below, the music fading into a distant throb. At the top, they emerged into a space that felt like another world. Dimly lit, almost tranquil, it offered a respite from the sensory overload of the dance floor.

But tranquility shattered as quickly as it came—the sharp click of a gun being cocked pierced the quiet.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Morgan's muscles tensed, the mechanical click of a gun's hammer setting into place slicing through the thumping bass from below. At the top of the stairs, she and Derik met the steely gaze of a man who seemed to have stepped out of a shadowy mythos, his visage a canvas of ink and contorted flesh—horn implants jutting from his forehead like a creature from an arcane ritual. The gun in his hand was unwavering, its intent clear and lethal. Behind him, Davy's eyes were wide with panic, his presence dwarfed by the stature of the heavily tattooed figure.

"Rog," Morgan deduced instantly, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She held up her badge, ensuring it caught the dim light trickling in from the stairwell. "FBI. Lower the weapon. This doesn't need to go any further."

Her words hung between them, a fragile bridge over an abyss of potential violence. Derik remained silent beside her, his body coiled tight, ready for whatever might come. Morgan knew the importance of maintaining control, her past hardships having honed her ability to navigate the treacherous waters of human confrontation. Her dark eyes locked onto Rog's, conveying a calm authority that belied the chaos of the situation.

"Nobody needs to get hurt," she continued, her tone even but firm. "We're here on official business. Let's talk this out."

The standoff lingered, a palpable force in the cramped space at the club's apex. Rog's eyes scrutinized them, searching for deceit or weakness, but Morgan offered none. She stood her ground, her resolve as unyielding as the tattoos that marked her own journey through darkness and back into the light. Rog's grip on the gun loosened incrementally, the threat not gone but diminished under the weight of her assurance.

"Talking," Rog finally grunted, the word rough-edged but not entirely dismissive.

Morgan's heart hammered in her chest as Rog's hand, decorated with inked symbols, hesitated above the trigger. Time stretched, each second a standoff between life and death. Then, slowly, the barrel of Rog's gun dipped downward, his distrustful gaze never leaving Morgan's face. She could almost feel Derik tensing beside her, ready to spring into action if needed.

"Elizabeth," Rog said, the name carrying a weight of confusion. "You're saying she didn't just fall? That it was murder?"

"Exactly," Morgan replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Her death wasn't an accident. It's part of something bigger, a series of events we're piecing together."

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, laden with the gravity of the revelation. The tattoos on Rog's face seemed to shift with his changing expression, a mask that couldn't quite hide the flicker of genuine surprise—or was it realization?—in his eyes.

Rog's grip relaxed fully, his weapon now pointed harmlessly at the ground. But as the threat waned, Derik's hand moved instinctively towards his own concealed firearm. His movements were swift, a testament to years of training and countless encounters just like this one.

"Derik," Morgan said sharply, her voice low but commanding. She caught his eye and gave a subtle shake of her head. Now was not the time for further aggression. They needed answers, not a firefight.

He paused, his green eyes meeting hers, a silent conversation passing between them. This was their dance—a choreography of trust and decision-making played out in the field. Derik's hand withdrew from his weapon, though his posture remained alert. She might have forgiven his past betrayal, but the scars ran deep, and in moments like these, old doubts resurfaced. Yet Morgan stood firm, projecting an aura of certainty that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.

The moment passed, the air slowly shedding its charge of impending violence. Rog's curiosity had been piqued, and with the gun no longer an immediate threat, they had an opportunity. A door had opened, albeit slightly, and Morgan intended to step through it, to pry from Rog the information that could lead them closer to the truth.

Morgan eyed the man before her, weighing her options. "Can we have a civil conversation?" she asked, meeting Rog's gaze with a steady, unflinching demeanor. The charged atmosphere hummed with taut potential, but she held it at bay with the force of her presence and the gravity of her request.

Rog regarded her for a moment longer, his inked face unreadable. Then, with a curt nod, he motioned toward a door nestled in the shadows. He led the way into a back room, far removed from the cacophony of the club's dance floor. As the door shut behind them, the thumping bass became a distant murmur, replaced by a hush that felt like entering another world.

The room was an eclectic mix of worn comfort and calculated disarray. Couches, their patterns long faded and fabrics frayed, were arranged in a loose semicircle, facing a coffee table scarred with rings from forgotten drinks. The walls bore marks where posters had once hung, and the dim light cast everything in sepia tones, as if the very space were steeped in nostalgia.

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