Chapter 3 Rory #3
Maxwell looked morose, his face set in that brooding expression that made him look older than his thirty-something years. Was he always this serious, or was there something in me specifically that brought it out?
The sun was just setting when we arrived. I parked the car down a narrow side street about half a block away, in a legal parking spot so Maxwell wouldn’t have to arrest me upon pulling up.
From the outside, Undertone looked like an aging vintage vinyl-record shop.
Peeling posters decorated the grimy windows, and a neon sign “By Appointment Only” hung crookedly—a deterrent for humans seeking actual vintage vinyls.
Because the real establishment, deep underground, was a nightclub catering to most supernatural persuasions.
“I haven’t been here in a while,” I said as we walked toward the door. “Seb banned us from hanging here. He’s got beef with the vampire who owns the place… Dominic.”
Maxwell groaned. “I know.”
“But don’t worry. Dominic’s usually either in his office or the private rooms. He hardly ever mingles with the commoners before midnight.”
We pushed through the door, a little brass bell tinkling overhead. Soft jazz music floated through the air—the kind that makes you think of smoky rooms and forbidden pleasures. Inside, the shop was dimly lit, with rows of vinyls arranged in meticulous order.
Even the receptionist, the vampire Marley, seemed to freeze before they smiled, perfect victory rolls framing their face and crimson lipstick accentuating their smile. They sat behind an antique desk, fingers poised over a rotary phone.
“Smaller Thorne,” they drawled, voice deep and rich like molasses. “I haven’t seen your brother in a while.”
Last year, Seb had resorted to sending Kit to buy blood from Undertone, despite its dubious, unethical nature. Needs must when you’re a vampire, though.
“Sebastián’s got his own personal blood bank these days,” I quipped, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. “His boyfriend comes with all the nutrients a growing vampire needs. Organic and free range.”
Marley’s laugh was surprisingly warm. “Good for him.”
I felt Maxwell shift uncomfortably beside me.
“Anyway, we’re here for a listening appointment,” I said, flashing my most charming smile. “Pleasure tonight, not business.”
Marley’s perfectly pencilled eyebrow arched. They closed their thick paper ledger with a deliberate thump and stood.
“Follow me.”
At the rear wall, three listening booths lined up in a neat row. Marley unlocked booth three with an ornate brass key. The door swung open with a theatrical creak, and they ushered us inside.
The booth’s walls were padded with cream leather, and a gleaming turntable sat on a polished wooden shelf. Maxwell dominated the cramped space, and I found myself pressed against his side, acutely aware of how my head barely reached his shoulder.
His body was warm and solid against mine, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes when he glanced down at me.
For a moment, his usual scowl softened into something…
else? But then Marley reached for a record from a high shelf.
As soon as they dropped the needle onto the turntable, hypnotic music filled the tiny space.
The wall behind us silently slid away, revealing a steep spiral staircase descending into darkness. LED strips embedded in the steps pulsed with a soft blue glow, lighting our way down.
“Enjoy your evening,” Marley said, their voice already fading as we descended.
The staircase wound down before we finally reached a vast underground space.
A curvy female pianist played a bright-yellow grand piano in the middle of the room, her fingers dancing across the keys to a melancholic jazz number.
Classic Dominic—always trying to pretend Undertone was a classy establishment before it devolved into a riotous rave by midnight.
Maxwell shifted his weight from foot to foot, adjusting his collar like it was suddenly too tight.
“You look like you’re about to be executed,” I said, nudging him with my elbow. “Grab that table over there, will you? I’ll get us drinks.”
I made my way to the bar constructed from stacked vintage speakers, then returned balancing two gin and tonics.
“So, it’s just gone half nine. It could be a while still.” I pushed a glass toward him. “I went gin and tonic because I thought you’d want something boring.”
Maxwell’s eyes narrowed as he glanced from my drink to me. “You’re driving!”
“I drove here,” I replied with a smirk. “And I need something to take the edge off if we’re going to be interrogating wolves in Dominic Thrift’s basement.”
Whilst he groaned, I quickly snatched up my glass and took several large sips, the gin burning pleasantly down my throat.
“Fine, I’ll drive us back.” Resignation etched itself across his face as he pushed his drink toward me. “Your driving made me car sick, anyway. But these better not be doubles.”
I paused mid-sip, my eyes widening with mock innocence. “Um… try triple.”
“That’s not legal!”
I raised an eyebrow, pointing toward the bar where refrigerated glass cases displayed neatly labelled bottles of crimson liquid. “Is it legal to sell pints of blood by the glass?”
Maxwell’s expression shifted from outrage to defeat. “There’s no way I’m going to be in bed by eleven, is there?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
He leaned in closer, his eyes flitting about the room. “And what if they don’t come?”
“It’s Friday night. They’ll show up,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “This place is basically the supernatural equivalent of that cantina from Star Wars. If you’re a shifter in South London who doesn’t want to deal with pack politics, this is where you come.”
He gave me an off look. “You’re a Star Wars fan?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” I drained half of my second drink in one gulp. The alcohol buzzed through my system, making me feel relaxed for the first time in days. “I contain multitudes.”
“That’s Whitman, not Star Wars,” he corrected, then caught himself with a slight flinch. “Sorry. But I like Star Wars too. Not only dead American poets.”
I stared at him. “Are you… actually semi-interesting, Detective Theodore Maxwell?”
“Probably not,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up in what might have been the beginning of a smile.
“Do you like How to Train your Dragon?”
He frowned. “What’s that?”
I gave an exaggerated sigh. “False alarm. Come back to me when you know what Hiccup’s middle name is.”
The music shifted, replaced by a low electronic beat that vibrated through the floor. The lights dimmed further, and more people began filtering in. A few of them were humans—some likely seeking to earn a fat wad of cash from spending an hour in one of the private rooms with a vampire.
Near the bar, a stunningly gorgeous man with sharp cheekbones leaned against the counter, whispering into the ear of a woman who looked absolutely entranced. The air around him seemed to shimmer slightly.
“Incubus,” I muttered, nodding in their direction.
Maxwell’s head whipped around. “How can you tell?”
“The slight shimmer,” I said. “And the way humans look at them—like they’re starving and the incubus is a five-course meal. Plus, they smell different.”
“They smell different?”
“Like sugar and sex and something electric. It’s hard to describe to someone who doesn’t have enhanced senses.”
Maxwell stared at the incubus. “I’ve never crossed paths with one. Well, I don’t think so.”
“Count yourself lucky. They’re a nightmare to deal with—can charm their way out of almost anything.
” I drained the last of my drink, the gin dulling the sharp edges of my thoughts.
“Kit brought one back to Killigrew Street once, for questioning. The incubus nearly talked his way out of it. Even Seb was getting a bit doe-eyed before Priya slapped some sense into him.”
The moment I set my empty glass down, a waiter materialised beside our table with two more gin and tonics.
Maxwell let out a small cry.
God, when was the last time I’d eaten? The alcohol was hitting harder than usual, but honestly, I welcomed it.
It was quieting the constant worry that had been gnawing at me.
A week of Dev being missing, a week of barely sleeping, and now Maxwell was stuck with me when he’d probably rather eat glue.
Just one more drink, then I’ll stop.
“Well,” I said, taking a generous sip. “Whatever happens next, at least it won’t be boring.”