Page 35 of Vanish Into Light

“Not to worry,” Beck said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Now, he murmured, “He and I were acquainted in the pit. We were colleagues, I suppose you could say.”

She darted a glance toward him, quickly, as they approached the acid-eaten awning that lay ahead, shielding the entrance to the club. “Friends?”

The downward twitch of his mouth told her all she needed to know. But he said, “He thinks so, at any rate. He’s a low-level born-demon. Actual hellspawn. Revolting – but useful, on occasion.”

The crowds on the sidewalk thickened as they approached the club; loiterers, dealers, people who leaned hopefully toward the glowing blue and pink neon – but who were chased away by thick-bodied, black-clad bouncers bearing clubs.

A guy in a tracksuit, dripping fake diamonds, pleaded with one. “Come on, man, I’ve got cash! Real cash! Just let me–”

“Go find a hooker on the street,” the bouncer ordered, and shoved him down hard – so that he fell, and went to one knee. “Nobody in there wants what you’re offering.”

Another bouncer intercepted their party. Not as tall as Beck, but much wider, muscle and fat stretching the shoulders of his jacket. Her wore the clamped-down, bored expression of a man who spent all day busting kneecaps and was indifferent to it, at this point.

But then his gaze lifted and touched Beck’s horns, and his eyes widened. “Shit.”

“Good afternoon,” Beck said, velvety pleasant. “Is Damien in?”

“Uh?”

“You have a radio? Radio in and tell him Beck’s here to see him – with friends.” He gestured toward the others over his shoulder with the tip of his tail.

The bouncer blinked stupidly a moment, all the indifference having fled, and then leaned sideways to check down the sidewalk, to notice Lance, Gallo, Tris, and Gavin. “Military,” he said. “We don’t want–”

“Friend.” Beck laid a clawed hand on the man’s shoulder, drawing a jump of startlement. “These might be military men, but, trust me, in this instance, they are entirely off the clock. Defectors, we’ll call them. Exhausted by their service and looking for a distraction. Radio Damien.” His hand tightened, claws pricking the fabric of his jacket. “He’ll see us.”

Beck turned to her, as the bouncer finally complied, and his smile was smug. “I always thought that drawing attention was detrimental – but” – he reached to trace a fingertip along one of his horns – “that isn’t always the case.”

Lance crowded in close to them, between them, face thrusting between theirs, expression tight, eyes sparking. Panicked, Rose thought, with a pang. “You’re attracting an awful lot of attention,” he hissed, and his gaze shifted between them, so she wasn’t sure who exactly he was referencing. “Everyone for two blocks is gonna know the military was in here.”

Beck reached, lightning-quick, and stroked a knuckle down Lance’s cheek. Tenderly, his expression that of understated fondness Rose knew so well.

Lance jerked back, as if burned, eyes going wide.

Beck said, “Rest easy, Lieutenant. I’ve got it all under control.”

The bouncer turned back to them, expression worried. “Damien said come in. You can follow me.”

Beck took her arm, and pulled it through his, a reassuring gesture, though, if she was honest, she was more eager than anxious – eager to see a hellspawn, to discover this unseen aspect of Beck’s time down below.

Together, they led the Company – it felt a bit liketheirCompany in this moment – beneath the awning and toward the glowing neon doors of the Highwater Club.

Two more bouncers awaited, but they’d been briefed, obviously, and opened the double doors without comment, as the first one led them off the sidewalk – and into a dim entryway lit along the ceiling and floor with blue and pink neon. A neon sign done in messy script stamped out the club’s name against the far wall. Low leather couches and ottomans rested beneath the shade of artificial palms to the left. To the right, a counter, lined with stools, that made her think of a coat check. Beside it was a black lacquered door, and it opened once the double doors behind them had shut. The man who swanned through it could only be Damien.

“Becky!” he exclaimed, arms thrown wide, smile wide, brilliant against the neon backdrop – and fanged.

Rose’s first impression, as he approached them, was that of a flashy, in-your-face, rock star wannabe of the sort that rarely ever appeared on TV anymore, because the world was literally going to hell. He was tall, thin, lanky, and walked with an overstated swagger: the flamboyant polar opposite of Beck’s lean, composed grace. His pants were low-slung, and look painted on, tucked into unlaced boots. He wore a red leather jacket with spiked grommets on the shoulders and lapels, and was shirtless beneath, nipples pierced with black hoops that gleamed pink in the neon. His black hair was shoulder-length, and wild; it framed a narrow, sharp face, and concealed the bases of the small, sharp horns that stuck straight up and curved back, slightly, at the tips. Belatedly, she noticed his tail, spade-tipped and flexible as Beck’s, dancing behind him as he walked, but he lacked wings; and his eyes, though glowing, were a deep, brilliant red.

“Becky, my man!” He hit them without stopping, and Rose barely managed to extricate her arm from Beck’s before he was caught up in a crushing hug – that he returned with only a faint pat to the side of Damien’s neck.

“Hello, Damien.”

“Becky!” Damien shouted again, and pushed Beck back to arm’s length. His nails, where he gripped the arm of Beck’s jacket, were actually nails, and not claws, but Rose couldn’t tell if they were naturally black, or if he’d painted them that way.

If this was a hellspawn, then Beck wasn’t one. That was all she could think, in the moment.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Damien continued, clearly delighted, still beaming. “You finally get sent topside and you show up here? Ah.” He laughed. “Just couldn’t wait to get your hands dirty, huh? Rest assured.” He released Beck’s arms and socked him on the shoulder. Winked. “Whatever you need, I’ve got it. Boys? Girls? A few of each? Just say the word.”

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