Page 83 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“You’re welcome to join us,” Arabella offered.

I resisted the urge to grind my teeth. The last thing I needed was to babysit Griffin in a den of vice or watch Sebastian have a moral crisis every time someone committed a minor atrocity. And if his reaction to my wife’s dress was any indication, I’d already have my hands full murdering anyone who looked her way.

Griffin perked up. “That sounds—”

“Terrible,” Sebastian interrupted firmly. “We have… baking to finish. Important baking. Very time-sensitive.”

I caught the meaningful look that passed between them, something weighted with unspoken conversation. It was odd, actually, but I didn’t want to get into it now.

Arabella gestured to the explosion of flour that was centered on and around Griffin. “What happened here?”

“The poltergeist,” he said solemnly. “I’ve been trying to negotiate with it using a series of respectful hand gestures, but I may have accidentally signed something offensive. The flour was its rebuttal.”

“Ah,” she replied. Because what else did you say to that? She looked around the room but found no supernatural creatures in sight.

“Thorne?” I called as Griffin began explaining why he was using hand gestures when he could just talk to the poltergeist, even though no one had asked.

My security chief appeared from the direction of his quarters, already dressed for an evening out—which for Thorne meant the same black leather he always wore, but with slightly more knives visible.

“Not interested in the nightclub scene, my lord,” he said before I could ask. “Thought I might hit the markets. Some of the vendors here carry unique imports that could be useful at Skyspire.”

I didn’t ask what kind of imports. Thorne’s shopping habits were his own business, and I’d learned long ago that ignorance was sometimes bliss when it came to my staff’s recreational hobbies.

After delivering my standard warning of trusting no one and avoiding dark corners, I led Arabella from the apartment, cutting off Griffin’s treatise on the different types of poltergeists and their communication preferences. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for Sebastian, then was promptly horrified at the uninvited thought. I replaced the emotion with petty glee, wondering when the nobleman would have enough of the chaos and leave.

My hand strayed low on Arabella’s back, feeling her body through the thin silk of her dress. Then lower to squeeze her ass as we waited for the lift. I dragged her against me until her body molded into mine.

“Let’s stay in,” I murmured against her ear, “I have better entertainment in mind.”

She laughed, pushing me back gently. “Later. I want to see this nightclub first.”

The walk to the Gilded Gallows took us deeper into the Spire’s commercial district. The shops here catered to a more specialized clientele than those near the entrance. Poison vendors displayed their wares in glowing vials. A tailor advertised “Cloaks of Dramatic Entrance” and “Capes That Billow Ominously in Still Air.” And yet another establishment claimed to sell “Authentic Villain Lairs—Assembly Required.”

The Gallows itself occupied an entire vertebra near the middle of the Spire. The entrance was a massive archway carved to resemble a gaping maw, complete with stone teeth and a tongue that served as a red carpet. It was actually squishy when you walked on it. Music poured from the opening—not the refined melodies of court entertainment, but something primal and driving that seemed to bypass the ears and go straight to the blood.

A line of hopeful patrons stretched from the entrance, each trying to look more menacing than the last.

“I didn’t realize we’d have to wait.” Arabella was eyeing the queue.

I almost laughed. “We don’t.”

The line of waiting villains parted before us, some bowing, others simply pressing themselves against the wall to avoid catching my attention. I kept my expression deliberately cold, my gaze sweeping over them with obvious disdain.

A bouncer hulked beside the entrance. His skin was the color of gray stone, but with his hooves, tail, and horns, he looked like the sculpture of a minotaur come to life—which was exactly what he was.

He was also completely naked.

“Name and crime,” he grunted, not looking up from a scroll.

Arabella was trying to look anywhere but at the huge swinging dick between his thighs. It nearly touched the floor.

“Lord Kazimir Blackrose,” I said.

The bouncer’s eyes widened slightly as he looked at us for the first time. “Chair of Dominion. My apologies.”

“And my wife, Lady Arabella Blackrose,” I added. “Slayer of Sir Darian Lightbringer, Knight-Commander of the Hero’s Guild.”

The minotaur-thing looked impressed. “Welcome to the Gallows, my lady.”