Chapter 8 #2
“Something that matters.” Sighing, I drag my eyes over to her. “My choices were already pretty limited before you kidnapped me, and now they’re almost nonexistent. I just want choice. If what you want is to bring free will to the people, I could use some too.”
Taylor falls quiet. We’ve crossed into Thorne’s region and it’s as uneventful as Taylor said it would be. Those boats may have been ours—Papa’s—and, if so, there are no inter-region laws to demand he notify Thorne of encroaching enemies. And he wouldn’t, the spiteful bastard.
As the hum of the boat splashing over water becomes rhythmic, we slow to a leisurely coast. Out my shattered window the lights along the Detroit skyline shine at us.
Only a few buildings remain, creating a depressing, gap-toothed cityscape.
Mason cuts the engine and we drift to shore.
Our gear and Taylor’s plunder scrape across a shimmering silver sliver of sand, which makes way for an expanse of dead grass.
At the juncture of the grass and asphalt, a woman in a black trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat waits for us.
Taylor takes point and smiles as she approaches the mysterious woman. “Delilah.”
“Taylor,” the woman replies in a husky drawl similar to Taylor’s, but with years of maturity and seduction in it. Her head tilts up to reveal a slim, beautiful face with ruby-red lipstick on full lips, and a pair of glimmering brown eyes. “Why are you bloody?”
“We encountered Dusters on the lake,” Taylor says, and Delilah’s eyes widen in alarm. “They are dead and this is not my blood.”
Delilah flashes an affectionate smile. “Efficient as always. I’m so happy to see you again.”
“Likewise. Everything set?” Taylor’s question goes ignored as Delilah peers around her at me. Taylor follows her gaze and sighs. “Sorry. Miss Piccolo, this is Delilah De La Rosa. Delilah, this—”
“I know who she is,” Delilah says, painted lips lifting upward. “Don’t be silly.”
Taylor rolls her eyes. “Why do I bother introducing you?”
The older woman squints in the darkness. “Pleasure to meet you, Luciana. Hard to tell in this light, but you are taller than your picture would have me think. Prettier, too.”
Dumbly, my mouth opens and closes but I can’t make any words happen. “Her picture,” Taylor says, as if she’s misheard.
Delilah moves her gaze from me to Taylor. “You kidnapped Luciano’s daughter, darling. The reward for her safe return is…” She whistles. “Sizable.”
“There’s a reward for me?”
“Certainly, you didn’t think your father forgot you exist?
Underclass in all the regions are looking for you.
” She glances over at Mason. “Oh, Mason, dear, Maria is beside herself to see you again. Why don’t we get on our way?
It’s freezing out here and it looks like you lot could use a hot shower and a warm bed. ”
“I hear that,” Mason calls out.
“The whole city does not need to hear that,” Taylor teases as she follows him to the boat to assist in loading up.
An unseen driver taxis us through the ruins of Detroit.
One-room homes fly by my window, homes that look like they might be occupied despite the level of disrepair.
Others are husks of brown and white like empty vases which used to contain life and currently sit in rot.
Residents toil in the streets, huddled together in circles for warmth, and give the car curious and envious glances as it rolls by.
Widespread poverty and overpopulation made this region a perfect breeding ground for the Great Sickness and nearly wiped the place out. Nearly. People are good at surviving despite the odds. Humans are arrogant like that.
Outside the impoverished city center, our driver navigates through a rather upscale part of town.
Gated condominium communities, rows of polished brick apartments on well-landscaped blocks.
It is here we come upon a several-story building with glistening white brick and a wrought iron gate.
Many-paned windows tile each of the floors, each with deep eggplant-colored drapes closing off the light from inside.
A short front lawn with trim brown grass leads to the old brick facade.
Festive red garland winds around the handrails, shiny tendrils waving us inside.
The front lobby of the building is almost like home—gilded banisters and a thin red carpet sitting atop marble tiles.
But what is distinctly not like home is the sheer amount of people in lingerie.
Oh. The red garland outside is not festive wintry décor. It’s a marker.
This is a brothel.
Shock is written plainly across my face and I try to cover it as best I can as we are relieved of our bags. No laws against prostitution exist in any region except the Southeast, but it’s highly frowned upon in Upperclass circles. I know of a couple back in New York, but I’ve never gone inside.
Delilah slinks up to my side as I stand unmoving in the center of the lobby.
With her hat and jacket removed, she’s quite a sight.
Loose brown curls frame a face with a clear complexion, several shades darker than Taylor’s.
And her figure, well, it’s no surprise she’s here.
A vermilion dress hugs her from shoulders to legs, leaving no question about the exquisite body underneath.
Her allure is accentuated by an aura of sensuality and confidence, and the unmistakable scent of chypre follows her step.
In short, she is attractive, and, like a horny disaster, I’m attracted to her.
“Taylor didn’t tell you this is a bordello, did she?” she asks, a smirk on her lips.
“She did not.”
“And I imagine this is not what you expected.”
“It is not.”
Over my left shoulder Taylor counts the gear and goes over a mental checklist with Mason. Delilah pats my arm. “Well, you needn’t be alarmed. Nothing will happen to you here, unless you want it to.”
“Doesn’t look like I could afford it,” I reply, and Delilah laughs. “So, um, how long have you been involved with the Order?”
“The Order recruited me and my business about thirty, maybe thirty-five years ago.” She shifts to face me, high heels clicking against the tile floor.
“Why do they need a brothel?”
“How else would the Order fund itself, through the kindness of others? This is the breadbasket of the Order, darling. On top of that, quite a good source of information for this region. People are desperately honest when their pleasure is on the line.”
I glance around at the obviously wealthy people caressing the bodies of her employees. “Your clients don’t know you’re with the Order, I assume.”
She shrugs, taking a chalice of wine from a woman dressed in what barely passes as clothing.
The woman offers wine to me, but I decline.
Delilah swirls the wine around in her glass.
“No, they don’t. But they don’t care. This is a house of sin.
The blood here doesn’t rush north.” She takes a languid sip from her chalice.
“All they want is what everyone wants. To feel important. To feel as if their pleasure is the only one that matters. And you wouldn’t believe how many of them are compelled to honesty to get their release. ”
“You’re not worried about getting caught?” There are at least three clients here in the lobby as people load in what are obviously cases of weaponry. To Delilah’s credit, they don’t look concerned.
“Why? Because we flagrantly commit treason right under Thorne’s nose?” she asks. “To be blunt, no one in this room is concerned about what is happening outside their pants.”
Taylor approaches, determination written across her features. “Delilah, where is Jacqueline?”
“She is out on business,” Delilah replies.
“Business. Business, outside of the hotel?” By the firm tone of Taylor’s voice, I guess she expected to see this woman promptly. Considering the nature of this business, I find myself intensely curious as to what for.
“Yes. It is an important client and I agreed to the terms.”
“You let her out of the hotel alone?” Taylor’s voice rides the razor-thin edge of incredulity and respect.
Delilah is composed, regal, smiling at my increasingly agitated captor. “Yes.”
“You know how I feel about that,” Taylor replies. “I am not comfortable with Jacqueline leaving the premises.”
“I do not run my business based upon what makes you comfortable, dear. If I did, I’d have no business to run here, would I?
” Delilah places a calming hand on Taylor’s shoulder.
“Trust me, it was a necessary appointment.” Lifting her hand, she angles a lustrous silver watch.
“She will be back within the hour. I promise you may see her when she returns.”
Taylor relaxes, temporarily dulcified. With the wheels spinning behind her eyes, she nods toward the staircase. “I’ll bring you to your room, Miss Piccolo.”
Similar to my home, the grand hotel’s style is functionally Victorian with thick red draperies hanging from the windows, ceilings inset with crystal chandeliers bouncing light against patterned wallpaper.
Prim, modestly stuffed chairs sit against the wall panels below intricate, intimate, Schiele art.
Dim, possibly tinted lights toss lurid shadows across the corridor.
Doors are shut, doorknobs tied with colored scarves, but no noise seeps from beneath the doorways.
We stop at a room second from last near the stairwell, the door adorned with a gold-emblazoned numeral nine. On the wall next to the door is a row of hooks with different colored scarves hanging from it: red, yellow, green, black, and white. Taylor wraps the white scarf around my doorknob.
“What’s that for?”
“The scarves indicate what the client inside expects. White is for guests, not clients.”
“What do the other colors mean?”
“As I understand it, yellow is for clients with what they consider typical preferences. The green is for clients who would like guidance from their companion. Red is for more experienced clients with particular desires.”