Page 34 of Sacrifice

“Seared fillet, rare. I hope that’s OK.”

Eve cut a slice. Blood dripped to the plate. “I think mine’s still alive.”

Lucien grinned. “The French don’t like to overcook their meat. Is it OK? Seriously I can get her to–”

“No,” Eve interrupted. She could imagine the sneer on Celeste’s face if she asked for it to be cooked some more and the charcoaled remains she was likely to get as a result. “It’s fine.”

Lucien watched as she put it in her mouth with enquiring fascination. It was pretty much raw. Its metallic juices flooded her mouth, and she swallowed it down.

Lucien nodded then took a bite of his own. “The club is in the center of the city. It won’t take us long to get there so we can take our time.” He leaned over to kiss her, his tongue flicking over her lips. She still had food in her mouth so ducked away. Eating and kissing felt like a strange combination. She wiped at her mouth with her napkin. She was being wrong-footed at every turn.

Lucien went back to his steak.

Twenty-One

Lucien ledher along the corridor, every twist and turn in the darkness bringing them closer to the entrance of a club that was situated deep below the ground. The catacombs of Paris had been an unexpected destination and one with more than its fair share of atmosphere.

Amber light played across the artfully stacked bones and skulls lining the walls and threw shadows that felt like movement. The whole installation was a jigsaw of dismantled skeletons moved there from collapsing cemeteries in the 1800s, so Lucien had told her. Artful in a morbid kind of way, Eve thought. And intensely uncomfortable. Her inner historian was fascinated. The rest of her wanted to get the hell out of there.

What kind of club put its entrance at the end of a tomb? As a location, it was covert in the extreme and gave out bad vibes about the likely clientele. Your average happy-go-lucky clubber would not stumble across the Hellfire Club by accident.

She tried not to notice the shadows dancing in the empty staring eye-sockets of skull after skull as they passed.

“Nearly there,” Lucien said, squeezing her hand. “It will be worth it, I promise.”

Eve smiled and tried to shake off her reservations. When Lucien had told her they were going to a private club in the depths of Paris, the like of which she would never have encountered, she'd been excited. But her imagination hadn't come close to this, never would have in a million years.

The vibrations she’d been trying to identify through the soles of her shoes resolved into music as they rounded yet another corner and a large, metallic door came into sight.

It looked like something from a war bunker. Lucien tapped on the small hatch at its center and the metal grille slid back to reveal a pair of golden eyes.

“Anima mea ad te portavi,” Lucien said, and the hatch snapped closed. The door opened.

The room on the other side couldn’t have been more of a contrast. Cold monotone corridors of the tomb were replaced by warmth and color and, as the door closed behind them to seal them in, the acoustic changed entirely. Dark, Gothic tapestries lined the walls and brought a softness to the quality of sound Eve only realized had been missing in the tunnels at that moment.

It felt like stepping back in time to a nineteenth-century salon. Lavish, velvet-cushioned furniture adorned this first reception area, and the air was thick with spice and smoke, heady and exotic. It filled Eve's head with a dizzying mix of anticipation and trepidation.

“Monsieur Knight.” A pale woman in a slinky dress with a shock of red hair stepped forward to greet him.

“Persephone,” Lucien said, “This is Eve, my guest this evening.”

The woman's thickly lashed eyes washed over Eve as if she were the entertainment. “Bien sûr,” she said, "Madame Laveau is expecting you, I think.”

She peeled Eve's coat from her shoulders without asking and gave her a ticket and a wry smile in exchange. “Have a goodevening,” she said, and Eve couldn't help thinking that this woman knew something she didn't.

Lucien re-grasped Eve's hand. “Let's get a drink,” he said.

The club itself was dark and hot. Alcoves carved into the walls were richly lined with heavy fabric and sumptuous cushions where guests luxuriated, dressed in extravagant outfits and wearing masks like something from a Venetian masquerade. Beautiful and mysterious, the women wore cinched in corsets, lace and silk. Men sported tailored suits from another time, some with their shirts open, bare chests glistening in the heat. Eve gripped Lucien’s hand tightly as he moved through the crowd and they made their way toward the bar. She felt woefully underdressed in her simple silk shift and heels.

Madame Laveau perched on a high stool at the counter, her dreadlocks bouncing as she nodded to the music. She was a full head taller than anyone else in the room, and her imperial presence drew all eyes while simultaneously repelling any idea of an uninvited approach. Her robe of black and white tribal print cascaded over her frame, and ivory chains clinked around her neck as she swayed. She took a long drag from a fat cigar and tendrils of smoke snaked around her head to scroll to the ceiling. Almost as if she could feel Eve's stare, her eyes snapped to find her as they approached.

Madame Laveau let the cigar fall from her lips and smiled with tomb-stone teeth. “Lucien, comment diable vas-tu?” she said, her eyes widened in greeting.

Lucien bowed his head and replied in English, “I am well, old friend.”

Madame Laveau’s lips twitched in recognition of this change of language for Eve's benefit and ran her gaze over her. “And who is this beautiful creature?”

“Eve, may I introduce Madame Marie Laveau, Princess of Burkina Faso and master spiritualist.’

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