Page 84 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

We made a wide berth to avoid touching his… member… and entered.

Inside, the Gallows lived up to its reputation for excess. The main floor was a writhing mass of bodies and magic, with a sunken dance floor and opulent gold and silver furnishings draped in black velvet. The air was thick with smoke that alternated colors between purple, green, and blue. Around the edges, booths and tables offered some semblance of privacy, though “privacy” was a relative term in a place where voyeurism was considered a mild vice.

The clientele was exactly what you’d expect from a villain’s nightclub. Demons with long tails and horns chatted with corrupt nobles over cocktails. A group of reformed cultists had taken over one corner, their ritual scarification gleaming in the strobing lights as they danced with abandon. A pair of necromancers argued at the bar, their animated corpse servants standing stiffly behind them. In one booth, a wraith was consuming the life force of a willing victim, who writhed in ecstasy as they faded.

And everyone else was staring at us.

I was accustomed to being the center of attention everywhere I went. But the way they were looking at Arabella—with a mixture of curiosity, desire, and calculation—made my jaw clench. I let my expression settle into the kind of cold fury that had made armies turn and flee, and was gratified to see several patrons suddenly find their drinks fascinating.

The crowd parted as we moved through it, my glare carving a path forward. Arabella took it all in with wide eyes, her grip on my arm tightening when a particularly bold demon leered at her. With a flick of my wrist, shadows coalesced around the creature’s neck, severing its head cleanly. The body crumpled as the head rolled across the floor before both dissolved into sulfurous smoke. The message was clear—and the path before us suddenly much wider.

“Cementing your reputation?” Arabella observed.

“Just giving a demonstration of what I’ll do to anyone else who looks at you the wrong way,” I replied, not even attempting to hide my bad temper. The demon wouldn’t be dead, unfortunately, but it wouldn’t be able to return until it was summoned again.

We made our way to a raised platform on the far side of the room. Unlike the other VIP sections, which were merely elevated above the main floor, mine was elevated and also separated by a barrier of shadows. The bouncer—a construct of bone and metal—recognized me immediately and stepped aside.

Inside, plush seating surrounded a table laden with bottles of rare spirits. The shadows provided a one-way view; we could see out, but no one could see in unless I allowed it.

“This is yours?” Arabella asked, settling onto one of the couches.

“One of the perks of being a chair,” I explained, pouring us each a glass of bloodred liquor. “Each member has their own space.”

A server appeared—a faun with delicate, spiraling horns that caught the light like polished bronze. Her lower half was covered in russet fur that matched her wild curls, and ended in hooves. She wore only a simple black vest that left little to the imagination, adorned with pins that I recognized as awards from various criminal enterprises.

“Welcome to the Gilded Gallows, Lord and Lady Blackrose,” she said with a bow that managed to be both respectful and suggestive. “What can I bring you this evening?”

Arabella leaned forward, her eyes bright with curiosity. “What would you recommend? I’m in the mood for something I’ve never tried before.”

The faun smiled. “First time at the Gallows deserves something special.” She tapped a hoof thoughtfully. “I have just the thing. I’ll be back shortly, my lady.”

She vanished into the crowd. I settled back into the plush seating and pulled Arabella against my side. My fingers trailed on the bare thigh revealed by her slit. From here, we had an excellent view of the entire club, and I could keep an eye on all the entrances and exits.

Our meeting with the Alchemist wasn’t until tomorrow, but I wouldn’t put it past them to stage some kind of preliminary test or observation. They were notoriously fond of games.

“This is incredible,” Arabella breathed, her eyes wide as she took in the spectacle below us.

On the main dance floor, the usual mix of grinding bodies and questionable life choices was in full swing. But the Gallows prided itself on offering entertainment that went beyond simple debauchery.

On a raised dais to our left, an orgy was in progress—a writhing mass of limbs from at least six different species. A pair of shapeshifters kept changing forms mid-thrust to appreciative applause. Presiding over this carnal chaos was a succubus, her wings unfurled over the spectacle as she whispered instructions that sent ripples of pleasure through the assembly.

My face hardened into a scowl. “Not a fan of performance art?” Arabella teased.

“Not a fan of demons,” I replied flatly, and hated the look of sympathy she gave me. Instead, I looked at something else.

To our right, a group of vampires had claimed another platform. They passed a human woman between them with the casual elegance of sharing a fine wine. She arched and cried out in ecstasy each time fangs pierced her skin, her face flushed with pleasure.

“Is she actually choosing that?” Arabella whispered, watching the woman arch as fangs pierced her neck. “Or is she under some kind of thrall?”

I shook my head. “She’s likely paying them. Vampire bites are quite the luxury experience these days. Why give them away for free when they can get paid for eating?”

Arabella shuddered and looked away, but I noticed she kept glancing back at the vampires, more fascinated with them than the crescendoing cries coming from the orgy participants.

In a corner booth lit by candlelight, a circle of ancient witches sat knitting, their wrinkled faces serene beneath wispy gray hair. At first glance, they looked like harmless grandmothers, with the kind of maternal faces that suggested fresh-baked cookies and bedtime stories.

Then I noticed what they were knitting.

A man levitated upside down above their table, suspended from the ceiling by invisible threads. His impossibly long, dark hair hung toward the table in silky strands, and the witches were incorporating it into their work—pulling, weaving, creating an elaborate tapestry. The man’s face was serene, almost blissful, as if he were in the deepest, most peaceful sleep of his life.