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There was a stage on the other side of the dance floor that was hung with heavy red velvet curtains. The walls displayed large flat-screens, which cycled through projections of artwork and paintings in a variety of styles—all of the subjects profane, many of them sexual. From the central space, hallways led to private rooms, curving into the darkness like a spider’s web.
The spiders of this web were the inhabitants of the underworld, with the exception of the Prince. It had been years since he’d crossed its threshold. Consequently, it was an excellent place for Aoibhe to recover her injured pride and contemplate how to change his mind.
Her dark eyes passed over the writhing bodies on the dance floor, her mind blocking out the loud, pounding music. Her kind were sensitive to sound and she always found industrial and gothic music dissonant. It was what attracted humans, so it was what the disc jockey played. (Aoibhe would have preferred Irish minstrel music but had no success in persuading the dj to play it. Next time, she was determined to bring earplugs.)
The bar served alcohol to the humans and drugs were freely available. Inebriated victims were easier to manipulate and confuse, but the substances affected the taste. Older, more powerful ones eschewed the usage, choosing rather to seduce or hypnotize their prey, rather than sedate.
Some couples and small groups were engaged in various sexual activities on the couches. Blood and sex went together for Aoibhe’s kind, which meant there was a healthy amount of feeding going on as well. Her nose was filled with the various scents of individual bloods, the aroma heady and unbalancing.
She surveyed the activities with bored detachment. She’d seen it all before and for the moment, at least, nothing interested her. Actual intercourse and certain fetishes were reserved for the private rooms, in deference to the queasiness and social mores of some of the humans. The spiders needed the humans to come in droves every night, without fear and without disclosure.
Aoibhe didn’t care what the others did with their human pets or what they did with one another. As one of the six members of the Consilium, she was obliged to follow the rules of Teatro and see that they were enforced.
No killing.
No transformations.
Feeding must be consensual but mind control and the use of alcohol and drugs are permitted.
The last rule was a puzzle to many, but it served to maintain the seductive atmosphere. Humans were unlikely to come and offer themselves night after night if they saw another human wrestled to the ground, raped, and drained of blood.
Mind control was ineffective on some humans. The strong-minded could not be swayed, nor could the particularly pious or those who wore certain talismans. But members of the latter two categories were not allowed entrance, even if they begged.
Aoibhe sighed. The rules must have been made by the Prince himself, despite his contempt for the club. They smacked of his temperance and control and the humanity that lurked just below the surface of his skin.
She smiled.
He’d let his body rule that morning. Those were the moments she enjoyed most; when the uptight, carefully controlled Prince gave and took pleasure. He was magnificent. He was powerful. He was dangerous.
She wanted him. He’d proved himself an excellent lover, despite his disdain for long-term affairs. Aoibhe felt not a small bit of longing for him and even some affection.
Even more, she wanted his city. As consort, they would share power, and when the eventual fate of their kind seized him, she would have control of the city.
Aoibhe drained her drink and signaled to one of the waitresses to bring her another.
She actively avoided André, the bartender and club manager, because he had a blood disease. His illness made him the ideal middleman between her kind and the humans. No one would touch him unless they were feral because his scent was sickening. She could only imagine how revolting his taste would be.
At that moment, a girl stumbled at Aoibhe’s feet.
“Mercy,” the girl begged, raising terrified blue eyes to Aoibhe’s face.
She put down her drink.
She lifted the girl’s chin, noting blood at the corner of her mouth and flowing from a wound on her neck. The girl was shaking in terror and began clutching Aoibhe’s stilettos.
“Mercy,” she repeated. “I don’t want to die.”
Aoibhe closed her eyes and inhaled.
Humans didn’t realize their actions and emotions affected their scent. Just as a dog could sense anger or fear in a human being, or smell disease, so, too, could the members of Aoibhe’s kind. They’d evolved to the point where they could scent a person’s character. Certain vices, such as rape and murder, made their doers most repulsive, while those who were decent and good smelled—and, more important, tasted—delicious.
This girl smelled sweet enough. Not exceptional, like the one the Prince had found, but certainly tempting. She was clean and, by all signs, good. Aoibhe wondered what had possessed such goodness to come to Teatro.
A large hand reached out to grab the girl’s curly blond hair, jerking her head back.
“For that, you’ll pay.”
“Mercy,” the girl cried, wrapping her arms around Aoibhe’s lower legs. “Please.”
Aoibhe gave Maximilian an impatient look. “If you’re going to flout the rules, do it elsewhere. Or I’ll be forced to report you.”
“Go fornicate yourself, Aoibhe. I’m a member of the Consilium, too. This is none of your concern.”
He pulled the girl to her feet and she began screaming hysterically, thrashing about and trying to crawl into Aoibhe’s lap.
Aoibhe scowled, noting that a group of humans and their nonhuman counterparts had begun to stare in their direction. “You’re making a scene. Get her under control or let her go.”
“No, no!” The girl screamed louder.
Maximilian appeared to be enjoying the spectacle. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against his body, grinding his groin against her backside. He placed his mouth to the wound on her neck and snaked out his tongue, lapping at the blood like a dog.
Aoibhe huffed before reaching out a single finger, forcing the girl to look into her eyes.
“Silence,” she commanded.
The girl stopped moving, despite the man assaulting her neck. Her eyes widened as they fixed on Aoibhe, who spoke in soothing tones.
“You are not afraid. Not anymore. Look into my eyes and focus on the sound of my voice. I am your mistress now.”
The girl nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Inhale deeply and feel your heart slow. That’s a good girl.”
“Aoibhe, stop it.” Max lifted his head, tightening his grip on his prey.
Without breaking eye contact, Aoibhe spoke. “Too late. I told you to get her under control.”
She lifted her hand, signaling to the bouncers, who stood by the door.
Max bellowed in anger and tried to wrench the girl backward. But he was stopped by the arrival of two large men. They functioned as a kind of security for the club and were of the same kind as he and Aoibhe.
She blinked, and the girl closed her eyes and sagged against Max.
“Tomas, Francesco. Be so kind as to escort Sir Maximilian to the exit. He has broken the rules.” Aoibhe glanced at him in distaste.
“You can’t do this! You can’t evict me.” Max leaned forward but Aoibhe held out her hand.
“One more step and I’ll take you outside myself. I’m older than you by at least a century. Do you really want to challenge me?”
Max snorted derisively but didn’t move. He knew, as did Aoibhe, that the older the supernatural being, the more powerful he or she was. Certainly her strength and agility were well-known. If she wanted Max dead, she could kill him. But not within the city—at least, not without cause.
The larger of the two bouncers glanced at the unconscious girl. “What about the human?”
Aoibhe waved a dismissive hand. “He can have her.”
Max’s head j
erked in surprise.
She smiled slowly. “Think of her as a final gift. You are no longer welcome here. If you return, I’ll report you to the Consilium and you’ll lose your position.”
Max spat in her direction but she turned her head swiftly, his spittle landing on the wall behind her.
She turned her head and gave him a long, slow smile. “Enjoy your takeaway.”
He lifted the unconscious girl into his arms and the men escorted him from the club.
Those who had paused their activities to watch the clash between the supernatural beings quickly found themselves distracted by other pursuits.
Aoibhe straightened her dress. Dealing with Max and the other masculine egos of her kind was exhausting. Why the devil couldn’t he follow the rules?
The Prince didn’t make public spectacles, even when he happened upon an extraordinary vintage as he’d done recently. He’d simply taken the human and fed on her privately, discreetly disposing of the corpse or having Gregor dispose of it for him.
“You look in want of company.” A smooth voice sounded in her ear.
“Ibarra.” She smiled warmly at the tall Basque who leaned over her.
He kissed her cheeks and signaled to a waitress to bring him a drink.
“How is the fair Aoibhe this evening?” He sat next to her on the sofa, placing his arm around her shoulder.
“Annoyed, at the moment. I’ve just had to have Max thrown out.” She sighed dramatically.
“I’m sure he deserved it.”
“He did. Insolent fool.”
When their drinks arrived, they clinked their glasses before drinking.
Ibarra placed his glass on one of the tables nearby. “We’ll need more recruits if we’re going to oust troublemakers like Max.”
“Just kill him and get it over with.”
“Not within the city.” He winked at her and she laughed.
