“Welcome to the Devil’s Purse.” His hand twisted around the gilded doorknob. “Gaming club for gentlewomen and gentlemen. Run by the one and only Marzouq Dynasty.” He grinned proudly, flashing his white teeth. Then, as if he had forgotten something, he swirled back around. “Basil, old man.” His grin widened even more, if that was humanly possible, as his eyes landed back on the bald man behind us. “Would you be an angel and keep this little visit between the three of us?” He gestured, drawing a triangle with his finger. “My father has enough on his plate as it is.”
Basil nodded with a mischievous smile just as the door closed behind us, hiding him from our eyes. Declan leaned down to me like he was sharing a secret while he led me deeper into his family’s club.
“I might have been banned from here for a month or so,” he whispered. “A week ago.”
My eyes rounded. “From your own club?” I asked with pretended disbelief. In reality, I couldn’t have cared less about his activities. Preston’s warning about the family was still an ongoing alarm in my head.
He shrugged, the ruby earrings dangling in his ears. “Well, technically it’s my father’s… and he’s very keen about his rules.”
The salon, at least thrice the size of the Drunken Lion Pub, bathed in every imaginable shade of red—wine, rose, rust, blood—all lit by golden sconces that cast a soft, flattering glow. It was crammed with men and women wearing colourful suits and dresses, and not all particularly in that order, smoking cigars in ornate leatherbound chairs.
The chatter and laughter roared like the ocean, everyone trying to be heard over the other. I still had no clue what we were doing here, besides apparently breaking the owner’s rule about banned members. My gaze shifted over the room and fell on a wooden stage in the far corner. The music flowed with afast upbeat rhythm, an alluring melody I wasn’t familiar with, as the four performers each held an instrument in their hands. I couldn’t recognise any of them.
“Shaabi,” Declan said, handing me a glass with golden, bubbling liquid. I lifted my eyes at him, confused, and he pointed at the quartet on the podium. “The music they are playing is called Shaabi,” he explained, downing the champagne in one swallow. “Traditional Egyptian.” He beamed with pride, and my lips parted.
Of course. The melody swirled around us like a charm, luring us in to join the dancers. I shifted further away, concentrating on the sparkling bubbles in my drink instead.
To my relief, a moment later Declan decided to show me around, leading me deeper into the belly of Devil’s Purse. We left the dancefloor behind and moved into quieter corridors, where the music softened to a rhythmic throb, like a heartbeat wrapped in velvet. The only sounds here were distant laughter and scattered conversation. Paintings hung on the walls in ornate, gilded frames, each portraying a striking figure. One wore a jackal-headed mask. Another was robed in feathers and crowned with a solar disk, her hand raised in a silent blessing. A third held a sceptre across his chest, his eyes like burnished gold, calm and eternal.
Egyptian gods.
We stopped at a bar, lit in every colour of the rainbow, and Declan pulled out two chairs, motioning for me to sit. I looked around the rounded room with its curving walls and the people half-hidden behind the grey smoke of their cigarettes. No one was paying attention to us. At least, not me. I did notice a handful of people sneaking quick glances at Declan. From the way his lips stayed in a constant proud smirk, I had the feeling he noticed them too. I blew out a short, relieved breath that the attention wasn’t on me, and sat on a stool just as he produced agolden handkerchief from his pocket. He carefully wiped down the chair before sitting as well.
“So,” he watched me over the rim of his champagne glass, his dark brown eyes curiously gleaming. “How are you enjoying your stay so far?”
He gestured for the bartender, and in a blink, a bubbling blood-coloured drink appeared in his hand as if the man had anticipated the order before it was even made. I found myself watching him a moment longer than necessary. His crimson apron was nothing like the striped one I used to wear in the Drunken Lion. It was elegant, tailored, probably made from a fabric richer than anything I ever wore before I came to Thornhill. A small golden name tag, pinned just above his heart, readSilvio.
I looked away, thinking of the past month I spent at Thornhill. My grandmother, the ghosts, the nightmares, the haunted tunnels, and the ancient books filled with eerie folktales and made-up histories. A shiver glazed down my spine. A month ago I wouldn’t have believed any of it. Even now I found myself questioning my sanity, yet I knew what I saw. What I felt.
“Very enjoyable,” I lied, taking a sip from my champagne.
Declan’s features lit like a match. “I’m glad to hear that. I told my father and Lilian that you’d get the taste of it in no time.”
My brows knot. The taste of it? What did they think I was doing beside spending time in the library and occasionally eating? I forced a small smile onto my face as Declan devoured the drink in his hand.
“And now your nineteenth birthday is coming up.” He leaned ahead, and I studied the black eyeliner around his almond shaped eyes. “Are you excited?”
The sweet mix of rose and myrrh filled the air. I leaned back in the chair, further away from him. Excited was an exaggeration. I wanted to meet my mum’s old friends, see themat least from a distance, but I was still nauseous at the thought of the party. Of the crowd.
“I am,” I lied again, emptying the glass in my hand, letting the honey-sweet liquid flow down my throat.
Declan’s lips parted, ready to ask another question, when a hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him. He flinched, then turned around. As soon as his eyes landed on the dark-haired boy standing behind him, his shoulders relaxed, the tension leaving his body like he was breathing for the first time since we entered the club.
The boy leaned down and whispered something into Declan’s ear, who first smiled, then creased his forehead. He nodded before turning back to me.
“Forgive me.” He placed his empty glass down onto the counter. “It’ll only take a moment.” He beamed, but this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Not quite. “Until then, everything you order is on me.”
On the house, is what he meant. I watched him follow the other boy and disappear into another hallway before I straightened on the chair. My eyes wandered over the crimson-draped walls covered in gilded vines and leaves, and the white-marble stairs on the other side of the room. My gaze drifted higher, and the ceiling entered my sight. It was covered with a fresco of three figures. I needed a moment to recognize it as a story from Greek mythology. Except, it was a tad mocking.
Aphrodite lay on a cloud-shaped bed, Ares at her side. In the original tale, this moment was followed by Hephaestus’s rage, and his trap to shame the lovers in front of the other gods. But here, Hephaestus didn’t seem angry. Not in the slightest. He was sitting with his wife and her lover, as the three shared fierce kisses, their naked bodies pressed closely together. Not one chiton or himation in sight.
I looked away from the explicit image and glanced down at the watch on my wrist to hide the flush creeping up my cheeks.
The sudden urge to move, to leave the room behind, gripped me. So I requested a drink to accompany me while I took a look around the club. I crossed the room, manoeuvring through clusters of people, and stopped at the stairs. The golden railing was cold under my palms as I ascended to the second floor, gripping a glass filled with a harsh pink liquid, the music softening behind me. Colourful lights flickered to life the deeper I moved in the corridors, dancing over the walls like fireflies.
The second storey was much less cramped than the main area. It was almost empty, if not for the couples hiding in corners and window seats, their sighs alarmingly loud in the silence. I swallowed, and concentrated on the tapestries and doors instead, letting my fingers wander over their surfaces as I passed them. They weren’t like the ones at Thornhill; they were simpler, but still elegant and rich, golden lines slashing across the dark wood like rivers.
“No, the Thornburys.”
