Page 17 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“You have no reason to trust me—but by sending you there, I’m losing the generous tip you’re good for every time. The girls are clean and well taken care of. Ask for Beatrice when you arrive. Five minutes in her presence, and you’ll understand what you’re in for. Something tells me you won’t regret it.”

The man hesitates, furrowing his brow as he reaches for the napkin. Holding it between his fingers, he inquires, “Napoleon the Great?”

Nathan chuckles, righting himself behind the bar before he replies, “She’s got a thing for French flair. When you arrive, walk straight to the back. There’ll be a mirror. Say those words, and it’ll grant you entrance. Ask for Beatrice,” he repeats. He takes a step back, his attention already captured by a waiting patron four stools down. “Tell her Nate sent you. And you’re welcome.”

Khalohn downs therest of his drink, clenching his jaw closed tight as the bourbon burns the back of his throat, racing toward his stomach and warming his insides. His eyes flick toward the bartender who passed along the curious, albeitintriguinginformation regarding what sounds like little more than a brothel. Khalohn hesitates a moment longer, wondering if he’s that desperate. Then he remembers the stranger said he’d pay easily ten times more than he currently pays for his lackluster membership at the establishment which never yields a guarantee.

One last look around the room and Khalohn knows, while he might not be desperate, he’s far too fascinated to discard the tip.

He reaches into his wallet, pulling out a fifty-dollar bill. Placing it under the drink he never intended on drinking, he stands, pockets the cocktail napkin, and maneuvers his way through the club toward the exit. He sends Atzel a text as he emerges into the cool, October air, and the Maybach pulls up to the curb less than five minutes later.

“Headed home, sir?” asks the Honduran as he opens Khalohn’s door.

“Lower Manhattan,” he announces before taking his seat.

When Atzel buckles himself behind the wheel, Khalohn rattles off the address from the cocktail napkin. With no more than a word of affirmation, Atzel shifts the Maybach into drive and merges into traffic. Twenty minutes later, Khalohn finds himself looking out his window, his eyebrows tugging together in confusion. The storefront for Clandestine’s Closet leaves no doubt he’s happened upon a lingerie store. He can’t say for sure what he was expecting, but a woman’s underwear boutique never crossed his mind.

He double checks the address as Atzel opens his door and then steps up onto the curb. Tilting his head back, he peers through the windows of the second story, the bright lights from inside illuminating the sidewalk on which he stands.

“Stay close,” he instructs, feeling dubious. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“Of course, Mr. Morgan.”

As Khalohn approaches the front door, he glances to his right and to his left, noting the businesses on either side of him are closed for the night. He takes one step into the establishment and pauses. Everything is white—the floors, the walls, the modern chandeliers, the display tables—the lack of color obviously meant to draw all attention to the assortment of undergarments displayed throughout the store. In contrast, the sales associates are dressed in all black. However, it’s not their attire Khalohn finds striking, but their behavior.

It’s nearly midnight. While “Rumor Has it” by Adele plays over the sound system, the bass reverberating around the room, there are no customers to recognize the song. As Khalohn begins to make his way toward the back—remembering the bartender’s instructions—not one of the associates offers him any assistance. While he has no intention of buying anything, he wonders how they seem to know this to be true.

Upon reaching the middle of the store, Khalohn notices the heavy, velvet, black curtain blocking off the rear of the establishment. As he makes his way toward it, he’s tempted to look over his shoulder, curious if his actions are being watched. He resists. Intent on appearing confident in his endeavor, he simply slips through the curtain without a backwards glance. On the other side is the mirror he was told he’d find. The large, antique mount is not at all like the contemporary fixtures found in the whitewashed store at his back.

He furrows his brow and peers through the glass, seeing nothing but his own reflection. For a moment, he wonders how he got here. It all seems preposterous—Khalohn Morgan, wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit, standing in front of a mirror, hoping to find something of value. It’s ironic. It’s disappointing. Suddenly, he feels ridiculous.

Staring through his reflection, he begs himself to acknowledge why he made the trip. To think there’s anything on the other side seems otherworldly. He glances to his right and his left, wondering what he truly sought to gain by coming. The idea that he can find what he seeks on the opposite side of a mirror is a fantasy, and he doesn’t believe in fairytales.

But to come so far without uttering a word?

He thinks back to the club he just came from and sighs. If he was duped, his only other option is to claim defeat for the night and head home. When he ponders the associates and their behavior as he passed by them on his way through the boutique, he can’t shake the feeling there’s something mysterious about the atmosphere in which he finds himself. Reaching up to run his hand over the side of his beard, he shakes his head and does the only thing he can think to do. He utters the password.

“Napoleon the Great.”

He freezes at the sound of the click, signaling a loosened latch. Leaning forward, he realizes the mirror has shifted the slightest bit, and he can’t stop himself from extending his hand out to touch the distressed glass. It gives when he pushes, and he knows not what to think as he eases open the door and steps into the room on the other side.

What can only be described as a foyer is decked out in dark purple walls, the interior trim and crown molding a distressed golden hue. The matching, antique sconce lighting scattered around the space provides enough illumination to be considered useful; the large chandelier hanging in the center of the ceiling casting what one might consider aromanticamount of light.

“Good evening. Welcome to Clandestine’s.”

Khalohn’s attention quickly shifts toward the sound of the smooth, tenor voice coming from the opposite side of the elaborate reception desk. The man who greets him is impeccably dressed, yet with a certain style which makes Khalohn question if he’s unrealistically traveled into an entirely different time.

“I presume, having found your way through the door, you have come with a specific request?”

Shrugging away his distracting amount of intrigue, Khalohn clears his throat and steps toward the man as he replies, “I’d like to speak with Beatrice.”

A mischievous smile curls the corners of the man’s mouth, and he nods before he murmurs, “Of course. Please, follow me.”

With more grace than Khalohn has ever possessed, the receptionist steps out from behind his station and heads for the narrow set of stairs leading toward a long, dimly lit passageway. It’s Khalohn’s rapt curiosity which causes him to trail behind the man. There’s a soft melody playing overhead, but it isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of their heels against the floor or the moan Khalohn is sure he hears slipping from underneath one of the closed doors they pass. His heartrate picks up speed as he wonders if he’ll get what he came for after all.

Along their journey, Khalohn peers over his shoulder and down the long hallway. The underground establishment is far more extensive than he imagined it could be, leading him to question his own doubts. He refocuses his attention in front of him just as his escort comes to an abrupt halt. Khalohn watches as the man raps his knuckles against the closed door, and they both wait silently for a response.

Much like the click he heard after muttering the password a moment ago, he hears the latch of the barrier give before the receptionist pushes it open. Instead of crossing the threshold, he merely extends his arm in invitation. Khalohn glances his way, smoothing his hand over his tie before he walks by him and steps into the room.

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