Page 47 of Tricky Girls

My ears ring from the music. I look out over the water. Beneath the half-moon’s light, the Vaults beckons, its gaping mouth drawing me in.

There’re rowboats out there, in each of them a watching figure.

At my signal, one breaks away from the others, rowing silently until it hits the bank.

I wade in, ice water seeping to my knees. It sobers me up. Gonna have to sort that quick when I get there.

Before, the Charons would ask for identification, pairing that with some dumb riddle I’d have to answer.

Tonight the cloaked figure says nothing.

The Vaults aren’t open to everyone. It’s a cruelly bestowed privilege of mine.

The water’s choppy, pulling us away from the mouth of the cave. Giving me a chance to turn back. I hear the Charon curse.Probably some fresher, in it for a bit of cash and not yet used to the unforgiving North Sea.

We pass through the mouth, everything going black with only the Charon’s lamplight to see by. Then we turn a corner and the air pulses with a faraway beat, the sounds of laughing and shrieking and singing rushing along in currents.

The boat hits the back of the cave. Hand grasping the railing, I haul myself up the slick, rough-hewn steps.

The Charon hovers below, waiting for a tip.

I reach down and clap them on the shoulder. ‘You’ll get the hang of it.’

Following the strung lamps, I enter the network of tunnels. Even off my head I can find my way below, drawn on by the promise of all the dark delights that await.

It’s busier than Vipers on any day of the week, the huge cavern holding a multitude of sins, all up for grabs if you’re part of Hazelhurst’s elite set. Even the non-students living on Hazel Point are a part of that. Whatever their dark souls are calling for, they’ll find it here.

And there’s a few things I’m looking for tonight.

Standing at the entrance, I take stock of the club. No colourful lights here. Just an unceasing lightning storm of white strobes. No cheery pop to be heard either. The stuff they play vibrates right through your bones, like the eldritch gods are constantly growling their disapproval.

Because there’s nothing holy going on here.

The most savoury thing to be done is to stay put, drink and dance, but take a gander through the tunnels coming off the cavern and you’ll find an assortment of illegal goings-on.

Up front, below the DJ booth set on a ledge halfway up the wall, are a few glass rooms. Unoccupied, they’re exactly that, but once you’re locked inside, preferably in the company of someoneyou really like, the glass fogs over from the outside. You can see out, but they don’t get to see in.

When you’re in one of those rooms though, it feels like the whole club is watching.

I descend into the throng, inching my way to one of the narrow tunnels, the ceiling so low I have to stoop. It spits me out into a smaller cave. This one quieter with the distinct smell of money.

I buy a couple of bags, turning down that part of my brain that’s screaming at me to stop.

Six months sober but who fucking cares.

I stuff them into my pockets, hands burning like brands just to touch the stuff.

I’m on the way back to see if I can find Skylar when a stall catches my eye. Metal winks atop the table. The seller has a knife in their hands, twisting it so it catches the light. They’re cloaked like the Charons. I always wonder if these peddlers are students or staff. Either way they make a killing from us sordid lot.

I hover at the table, eyes darting from knife to knife, the points of them calling to me. I pick one up, admiring the handle detailing.

‘You touch it, you buy it,’ the seller murmurs.

They’re teasing but I’m already reaching for my money. Then the knife’s in my pocket, the contents of which can now land me a good few years in prison.

Hazelhurst’s a law unto its own. The rules of the outside world don’t exist here.

Finding somewhere quiet, I take out my phone. There’s no signal down here but only an hour ago Skylar said she was by the cages. So that’s where I head, trailing to the back of the market into the room beyond.

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