Page 19 of Antihero
“We’ve set a curfew for a reason, Mr. Everett. You even broke the extended time we gave you. I don’t know how you got back in with no one spotting you…” He glances at the night shift guard, who shifts uncomfortably. “But we know you weren’t in your room by midnight.”
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “I lost track of time.”
His lips purse. “How long were you planning on being with us?” When I only stare back at him, he continues. “You’re not the usual type we get here. We don’t want trouble.”
Since I don’t feel like lying and promising I won’t cause any trouble, I stay quiet. Given the events of last night, the chances are high I’ll cause myself at least some kind of further trouble.
He sighs, puts down the pen he was tapping, and braces his forearms on the table. “Let's look at alternatives… There are some apartment blocks we subsidise outside the north wall of the castle. Intended as sort of a stepping stone once people are ready to move on from the ward. You would still be under our umbrella, with weekly therapy and meals inside the castle, but no curfew, and no poor reflection on us if you’re out late.”
The reality is that I’m going to be breaking curfew a lot now that I’ve given up on bettering myself. After I deal with the Wraith, maybe I’ll revisit that goal.
For now, I merely nod, and go along with whatever they’ve obviously already decided is the best course of action.
My mind is elsewhere. The Wraith is going to strike again.
And I think I know where.
***
Even if I didn’t already know the Bunker was on tonight, it wouldn’t be hard to guesssomethingwas going on. The boats that come in the evening, clogging up the natural harbour of Kidswal, are hardly fishing boats—shiny white catamarans and sailboats with names likeMistressandWanderlustthat don’t fit in at the antiquated dock. The ferry comes as the sun is setting, dropping off the swarms of nightclub enthusiasts who can’t afford their own boats.
This will be no ordinary night on White Rock.
The Bunker is bigger than I expected, accessed by one long, steep cement stairway, kept dim seemingly on purpose. The deeper I go, the louder the music becomes, thumping up through my shoes.
The main vault opens out on the other side of an iron door and a security guard waves me through.
The space is huge, once intended as a safe haven for all of Tregam, not just the island. It’s the size of a small air hanger. Bare, exposed steel arches overhead, curving up from the concrete floor in sections three metres wide each, fused together with bolts nearly the size of my fist. The DJ stage is at the other end, far away, but the speakers fixed to the curving struts ensure the thump and vibration of the music gets felt everywhere.
Blue and purple lights cast the steel in a dim colour. A wide scarlet rug covers the floor at this end. Closer to where the mass of bodies dance in front of the DJ, the red tiles of the dancefloor light up under erratic flashing strobes.
At this end, on the red rugs either side of the sunken walkway, raised booths house red couches and wide coffee tables for the old men within to sip their expensive scotch. The owner of the yachts that right now clog up the harbour, probably.
One of whom, I expect, is going to be the Wraith’s target tonight.
Young women perch on many of their laps, sharing in the scotch or whatever else the substance du jour is. Each occupied booth also has its own security. Compared to where the mass of bodies writhe on the dancefloor from about halfway along the bunker, this end is composed.
It’s like all the worst parts of Tregam shoved into one big room—the fun-loving and the malevolent mixed with the smell of sweat, flashing lights, and the pounding of the music like a separate heartbeat.
I do a circuit of the place, dodging any reaching hands trying to drag me towards swaying bodies, hardly in the mood for a stranger’s alcohol-scented embrace. Small iron doors that most need to duck under, once intended to lead to survival kitchens and bunkrooms, now lead to foul-smelling bathrooms and rooms that, judging by the stark red light that comes from them, are for more ‘private’ bookings.
Back out by the bar, which is cast in UV light, I look for the Wraith.
I won’t let myself think of her as Paige. I’ve already made that mistake once.
***
Wraith
I’ve caught his eye. Wasn’t hard. Just took lingering around the red-lit booth nearest the bar. I duck my head, giving him a shy smile. Not that his gaze lingers on my face for long—taking in instead the wealth of skin barred by my tiny silver dress. The back plunges low, to the top of my butt, and the neckline plunges in a narrow scoop, ending far below my breasts. The dress that never fails. My boots, thigh-high felt, have just enough heel to fit in, but will also keep me warm under the big fur coat I’ve got waiting in the cloak room once it’s time to leave.
The man, who still hasn’t taken his eyes off me from where he sits in the booth looking down on the main floor, is shaped somewhat like an apple. His bulging stomach strains against asuit-vest, and his balding head reflects the blue light coming from the ceiling.
Get a move on and invite me in, creep.The coquettish smile stays pasted to my face.
I shift, flicking my hair—styled tonight into loose ringlets that fall to my waist—over my shoulder, breaking eye contact. Let him think I might go elsewhere.
When I glance back this time, he wastes no time in crooking his finger at me. I smile one last time, the expression as easy as it is false, and turn for the other side of the booth where a big guy guards the tiny gate. My target isn’t the only one up there, of course. A handful of similar men drink and chat with women too good for them.
