Chapter Twenty-Two
The Eclipse shimmered like an open wound in the night.
Rick stood across the street where he’d parked his car, beneath the dripping mouth of a broken neon pharmacy sign, staring at the club’s blazing marquee.
The last time he’d seen it, the place had looked shut down, almost modest, a faded lion dozing in the sun.
Now it roared. Rows of electric bulbs traced its arch in blazing gold, turning the street into a stage and the slick pavement into black glass.
Above the entrance, blocky black letters spelled out its promise in radiant snare.
Rick shifted his weight, jaw tight. He hated nightclubs. Hated the smell, the noise, the stares. Too many people pretending they were something they weren’t. Too much skin. Maybe coming here was a bad idea, after all. Maybe Frank was right.
His gaze flicked back to the Eldorado’s rain-streaked window, the Encyclopedia of Demons and Demonology lying spine-up on the back seat.
He’d spent three hours in the city library after dropping Frank home, reading about incubi, succubi, demonic lore.
The librarian had given him a look when he’d checked it out.
And now here he was, fedora damp from the rain, collar turned up against the drizzle, heart thudding like it hadn’t decided if this was dread or anticipation—or something much worse.
He drew in a breath, let it burn at the edges. This wasn’t a social call. This was part of the case.
Sure, pal. Keep telling yourself that.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and crossed the street.
The entrance to the Eclipse loomed before him, flanked by burnished brass and walls of mottled brick glowing warm in the marquee spill.
The rain glimmered across sequined collars, lacquered heels, and the hunger-glazed eyes of those waiting to get in.
A small velvet rope kept them in line, the air heavy with perfume, cigarette smoke, laughter.
But the moment Rick approached, the energy shifted—he was a break in the rhythm, a presence too solid, too distinct.
He felt their stares on his back as he cut the line and went straight for the doors, where Vinny’s twin gorillas guarded the entrance.
Tito and Nino, brick walls in black suit jackets, both wide as refrigerators and twice as suspicious.
He still couldn’t tell them apart. Probably wasn’t supposed to.
One of them stepped forward, planting himself square in Rick’s path. “Reservation?” he grunted, voice rusty.
Rick sized him up. The guy was massive, but so was Rick. Not that it mattered; respect in places like this wasn’t about size. It was about who flinched first.
He didn’t flinch.
He simply opened his coat, the badge on his belt catching the gleam from the marquee. “This’ll do?”
The thug snorted, glancing at his twin. “Look ‘ere, Nino. This badge jockey thinks he can stroll in whenever he wants, like he owns the joint.”
Behind him, Nino cracked his knuckles, his stare hard as stone. “Fucking cops,” he said, scowling. “Always sniffin’ ‘round where they ain’t wanted.”
Rick smirked and let his coat fall open wider, enough to reveal the holstered Colt .45. “You boys wanna make this a thing? Or be smart and step the fuck aside before I get bored and start rearranging teeth?”
The twins drew in close, shoulders squared, muscles coiled.
Rick didn’t back off.
A beat passed. Tito jerked his head toward the entrance. “Get in.”
Nino spat to the side. “You pull any shit in there, badge or no, we drag your ass out. Got it?”
Rick brushed past, slow and unbothered. “Relax, pal. I’m not here for the show.”
“Bullshit,” Tito sneered. “You all come for the show. For him.”
Rick said nothing. Just kept walking down the dim hallway, toward the red lights and the low, moody music.
He handed off his coat at the wardrobe but kept the hat on, brushing off the comment as if it hadn’t struck home.
The words landed all the same, sinking deep, where guilt and shame lay in wait, grinning with too many teeth.
Inside, the world smoldered. The Eclipse had come alive in velvet shadows and cigarette smoke, all burnished brass and blood-warm hush.
Gone were the hollow hours he’d seen before—now the club breathed with slow decadence, every corner steeped in jazz and sin and heat.
Table lamps cast dim amber pools across silky white cloths, glinting off cocktail glasses and sweat-kissed skin.
A traverse stage burned white-hot under spotlights, where dancers prowled and writhed like pagan gods, soaking in the stares of the crowd.
Rick’s vision adjusted at once, pupils wide behind the haze.
The wolf in him tracked everything: the gleam of oil on a bare chest, the rustle of satin curtains, a guy’s hand in another’s lap at a corner table, stroking in slow motion.
The noise felt oppressive; not just the live music, but layers of overlapping voices, laughter, the clink of half-drained tumblers.
The club had a pulse of its own, loud and hungry, but even standing in its belly, Rick felt stiff.
Separate. A sober ghost in a temple drunk on desire.
He felt the looks on him—men in suits, women with razor smiles, queens holding court in sheer lace and lechery.
They watched him not with suspicion but interest, mouths half-open, gazes greedy.
And still, he didn’t know where to put his hands, how to move, how to be here.
Not when every flick of thigh and twist of hip seemed designed to wake something he spent years trying to bury.
He lit a cigarette to anchor himself. It helped, if only a little.
Like a torrent pushing past the throng, he shoved past laughing drunks and scattered tables, making for the bar with the urgency of a man chasing dry land.
It glowed like a lighthouse at the edge of the room.
Tess, the barmaid, was busy wiping down a rocks glass with more aggression than needed.
Red lipstick, eyes like switchblades, a black blouse hanging loose over her chest, the silver brooch winking.
He leaned against the counter as he reached it, exhaling a plume of smoke, watching the stage with practiced detachment he no longer truly felt.
Here, at least, he felt less exposed than sitting out in the open.
“Jesus, not you again,” Tess said over the clamor, recognizing him.
Rick glanced over. “Loosen up, toots,” he shot back, taking a drag. “I’m off duty.”
“Could’ve fooled me. You’ve got that same sanctimonious look.”
Rick blew smoke through his nose, keeping his voice dry. “Couldn’t I simply come to enjoy myself?”
Her laugh soared above the noise, clear as a bell, all mockery and sass, but no real malice to it. “Figures you’d be the type. Repressed, macho, latent—”
“Look, could you just get me a drink and zip it?”
Tess slammed the glass down, studying him for a beat. Something in her expression shifted; not softer, exactly, but less guarded. Like she’d decided he wasn’t worth the full armor. “What’s your poison, Tarzan?”
Her words still had teeth, but the bite was more playful now.
Rick caught her scent beneath the bar’s miasma of liquor and smoke—bergamot, black coffee, and something clean.
Honest. In some way, she was a kindred spirit: someone who’d learned to be tough because the world demanded it, but who hadn’t let that toughness harden all the way through. He realized he liked her.
“Brandy,” he said. “Cheapest one you got. And make it a double.”
Tess poured without speaking and sent the glass toward him with a practiced flick of the wrist. Her mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “Buckle up,” she said, the warning edged with something that might’ve been sympathy. “He’s next.”
Rick didn’t answer. There was no need. They both knew why he was here, who he was waiting for. He fished out a Jackson from his wallet and pushed it across the bar, the extra left unspoken.
“I still don’t like you,” she said, scooping up the bill and tucking it into her cleavage.
“I’m a detective, sweetheart,” he said, lifting the glass. “I know when people lie.”
She shook her head and drifted down the line of thirsty patrons, leaving Rick to stare at the stage, the grand arch, the shadow of possibility just out of reach.
He sipped the drink. Cheap, sharp, perfect.
When he raised his eyes again, the illumination changed. The music came to a stop. A microphone screeched. From behind the curtain, Vinny waddled out, a stocky little rooster in a three-piece suit, his pencil mustache twitching beneath a grin slicked across his face.
“Are we feeling wicked yet, my darlings?” he crooned into the mic. The crowd howled—hoots and catcalls raining from every table. “Good—I’d hate for us to lose our reputation! Now, let’s make it a night worth repenting,” Vinny simpered. “Because Eclipse’s crowned jewel is about to make his return!”
The cheers that came from the audience were deafening. Someone in the front row threw a rose at the stage. Someone else whistled.
Vinny dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, sweating in the glare. “He’s the flame you moths burn for. The sin you beg forgiveness for. And the reason you keep sinning anyway.”
It was contrived, affected, theatrical, and Rick almost snorted. But the throng was lapping it up, the anticipation almost tangible in the air.
Vinny’s voice grew even louder: “Put your hands together for the one, the only—ASH!”
The lights went dim. A hush swept the room, curious, reverent. For a moment, there was a collective breath held, the barely controlled hunger of a hundred waiting strangers.