Page 36 of Vanish Into Light

“Hm.” Beck’s gaze was low-lidded, politely contemptuous, though Damien didn’t seem to notice, or at least didn’t care. “Raincheck. I’ve brought friends.” He gestured, and Damien lifted his head and seemed to notice them all for the first time.

Slanted, black brows lifted. “You did. Cool. Um…” His gaze landed on Rose, and his brows lifted another fraction; they fairly flew up. “Shit! Are you – is thisRose?TheRose?”

Beck’s arm slipped around her waist. “Damien, this is Rose Greer. Rose, this ridiculous idiot is Damien.”

Damien laughed, eyes crinkled up. “Sweet, isn’t he?” he asked Rose. And then offered her a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet the infamous Rose. And trust me: I know pleasure.” He winked at her.

His grip, when she accepted his shake, was gentle, and warm, and dry.

“Hi,” she said, simply, and left it at that.

“Damien,” Beck said, releasing her, and stepped forward to whisper in the hellspawn’s ear.

Damien’s brows lifted again, and then a slow grin spread. “Right,” he said, when Beck drew back. “Absolutely.”

~*~

Lance had been inside strip clubs and brothels. This, the Highwater Club, was neither.

From the entryway, which was silent save Damien’s too-loud voice, and the faint droning of the neon lights, they passed through an airlock, past another set of bouncers – these armed with guns – and into a bar reminiscent of pre-Rift New York’s high dollar club scene. The bar was all black, padded leather booths, and low lighting; glass, and crystal, and plush, black carpet that rendered their footfalls silent.

The bar itself was round, and dominated the center of the room, its bottles and glasses lit from below with soft, blue neon, the people occupying the stools leaning together in pairs or trios, talking in low voices. Diamond bracelets flashed as hands reached to slide suggestively up arms. The people here were clean, healthy-looking, and expensively dressed. The music was low, and indistinct; something instrumental and non-intrusive.

Damien turned around to walk backward and talk to them as they moved through the space. “Some of my clients aren’t into all the depraved shit. They like something a little quieter and more private. But.” He grinned, and it was the sort of unrestrained, diabolical grin one would expect from a creature from hell, rather than Beck’s reclusive little smirk. (Unhelpfully, Lance remembered Rose’s insistence that he was still very much himself, horns or no.)

“Some clients,” Damien continued. They’d reached the end of the room, and another set of double doors; his tail shot out to grip the handle, and push one open. “Some want things to be a little moreexciting.”

And here – here was what Lance had been expecting. More or less.

The space was reminiscent of an art gallery: high ceilings with exposed duct work; pony walls and free-standing walls that provided only partial privacy in the vast space; concrete floors, and paintings hanging beneath art lights.

But there, the comparison ended. The walls were a lurid shade of pink that brought to mind – certain things. The artwork was all wildly erotic. As were the poses and movements of the patrons spread out on the benches, tables, and sofas that dotted the space.

A man was laid out spread-eagle on a table, cuffed at hand and foot, while a woman in a dress of leather straps rode him, moaning loudly.

A round bed held a tangled foursome, half women, half men, and it was impossible to tell who was doing what to whom.

On another bed, a woman knelt on all fours, while one man took her from behind, and another fucked her mouth. Lance’s brain unwillingly filled in the blanks, with Rose in the middle; it was too easy to imagine the familiar heat and suction of her mouth on him – and the sight of Beck’s lean torso flexing and bunching as his hips thrust forward.

His face burned, and he looked hastily away, hoping the pink light hid his blush.

But there was nowhere safe to look: everywhere was sex, of every variety; the air was full of moans, and whispers, and the slap of skin on skin.

When he faced forward, he saw that Beck was glancing back over his shoulder at him, smirking.

Lance scowled at him, and only managed to earn a wink before Beck faced their host again.

“We’ve got all kinds of private rooms,” Damien continued, coming to a halt beneath a painting of two robust women overpowering a golden-haired man, much to his enjoyment, if his expression was anything to go by. “We service every kink, too. Nothing’s taboo here, and I meannothing.” His tail swung happily back and forth behind his head, like the arm of a metronome.

Lance wanted to be anywhere else. He gathered a breath to ask after Noah–

And Beck, the bastard, beat him to the punch. “Actually, Damien.” He stepped forward and took the hellspawn by the arm; towed him a few feet away and spoke to him in low tones.

Damien looked first incredulous, then resigned. His nostrils flared as he let out a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I can see. But not everyone, okay?”

“No, of course not. Rose can accompany me. The rest of my boys” – and here he turned to give them a dark flicker of a grin – “are free to enjoy themselves, I take it?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely. Whatever you want, on the house.”

---