Chapter 19
Emmy followed, boots scuffing slightly on the transition from polished floor to sealed utilitarian stair treads. This felt military again, with industrial lighting and reinforced concrete walls.
They descended one level, Spence input another code, held his hand to a scanner, and the door opened automatically.
“You’ll be assigned a code by security later today,” Spence told the group. “We already have palm and fingerprint data on file for everyone.”
It was warmer here. Emmy had unwrapped her scarf in the ballroom, and now she unzipped her parka and pulled her hood off.
When everyone was in what was clearly a security checkpoint, Spence told them, “This floor is primarily administration and security. You’ll rarely need to come here unless you’re summoned, in trouble, have a scheduled session in the Lupanar, or are passing through on the way to the Aurora Ballroom. ”
Security looked at each person as they passed through the narrow chokepoints, checked them off, and then Spence led them to a large set of arched double doors made from blackened oak and banded in iron, completely out of place in the industrial space.
He pushed one of the huge doors open with a heavy creak.
“The Lupanar.”
They stepped inside, and Emmy’s breath caught.
The dungeon was dimly lit by wrought-iron sconces with low, flickering bulbs that mimicked torchlight.
The floor appeared to be real stone, uneven in places, as if in some ancient castle.
Iron rings were set into the stone walls and floors, some thick as her wrist. Chains dangled.
Devices loomed in corners — St. Andrew’s crosses shaped to resemble medieval racks, benches that could’ve been altars, cages, wheels, pillories.
All of it looked like it’d come from a sixteenth-century torture prison.
But the deeper she looked, the more she could see the modern touches: adjustable platforms disguised in gothic wood, cleverly hidden sanitation lines, gear with vampire-strength restraints dyed to look like rusted iron.
It was a playground built to look like a nightmare.
Emmy saw a chain with a hook dangling below a box, and her nose told her something mechanical was up there. Likely a winch.
Spence jumped onto the bondage table. “Most of you have set a per-hour fee for purchase outside of balls and feeding frenzies. If a vampire wishes to make use of you at whatever your level, they’ll likely do so here.
They can also invite you into their quarters, and you’ll be escorted there and back out by security. ”
Beside her, Felix went utterly still, and his scent shifted fast and hard, all pretense stripped away.
Not just arousal, but need — intense, hungry, and laced with adrenaline.
The scent curled in her gut like heat, and she slid an arm around his waist and pulled him into a sideways hug, grounding him without comment.
He let her, leaning just enough to press against her, but his eyes stayed locked on the room.
Whatever the Lupanar whispered to him, it had his full attention.
Felix had been to Mordnik before, was he remembering or anticipating?
Spence jumped down from the table, walked to the door, motioned them out, and closed it behind them. They rounded a corner ten yards away, and the corridor opened into what was literally a hole in the floor with a single stair rail sticking up to grab hold of before descending.
The vertical chasm where the missile had once stood, a weapon meant to end the world.
The previous owner had filled the empty center with a spiral staircase — and a fireman’s pole stood phallically in the center of the whole thing.
She walked to the pole and looked down, to see what seven floors looked like from this angle. She couldn’t wait to try it out.
“There’ll be certifications later,” Spence said. “Unless you’ve been here before and are already certified, you’re stuck using the stairs.”
He was looking directly at her when he said it, and she smiled sweetly at him and stepped away, though she was tempted to do it just on principle.
But there was a thousand-dollar fine plus the possibility of being kicked out, which would mean she wouldn’t earn more than a year’s worth of salary in three months.
And she begrudgingly had to admit her parents had done one of the things they’d promised when they cut her access to her trust fund: they’d taught her the value of money.
She tuned back into what Spence was saying, reminding them you had to count to twenty after the last person left before you could use the pole, and that if you were slower than most, you should warn the person following you.
Emmy heard a whoosh of sound, and then Lucien shot up out of the staircase and landed with a predator’s grace. She’d known the high staircase allowed for flight over the heads of the walking daywalkers, but this brought it home.
The bastard didn’t even glance their way. Just touched down, turned on his heel, and walked off without a word, like they weren’t even standing there.
Emmy’s spine went rigid. Her stomach flipped and shriveled, and a cold clutch of dread curled under her ribs before she could shove it back. Even her scent changed, and she fought to bring it under control at the memory of … No. She shook her head and brought herself back to the present moment.
She’d learned her lesson with Lucien. No need in going back over it.
But she’d sure as hell never trust another vampire.
“No jumping up and grabbing them,” Spence said. “Even level one people can be whipped for certain offenses, and that’s one of them.”
Right. A fine for sure, and up to twelve lashes if the vampire demanded it.
Twice per week, there’s a punishment event in the theater, or theatre, as it’s spelled in the literature. If no one’s in trouble, level three people can be paid to stand in and create entertainment.
They followed him down the staircase, and she noted a uniformed security guard tailed the group.
There were no doors coming off the first landing, just a wide-open space to walk through into a spectacular circular room. Emmy had a feeling she’d crave ninety-degree corners after three months living in a vertical tube.
The room was massive, easily the size of a small cathedral, with towering Corinthian columns supporting vaulted ceilings painted in deep indigo and gold.
Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks, each glittering with hundreds of tiny, flickering lights.
The floors were a work of art: dark, inlaid wood patterned with graceful arcs and swirling leaves, polished to a mirror shine.
The columns were gold-trimmed, sparkling in the faux-candlelight.
“Le Bacchanal Ballroom Magnifique,” Spence said.
Even empty, the space vibrated with decadence.
Emmy could almost hear the rustle of ballgowns, the echo of moans, the crack of whips softened by orchestral music.
Along the outer rim, she spotted subtle markings — the same track pattern from the Aurora Ballroom.
A running track lined with fancy inlaid tile, rather than wood.
“Basketball and frisbee is fine in the Aurora Ballroom,” Spence said.
“Not in here. The perimeter track gives you a warmer place to run, but we don’t do other sports in here without permission.
There are some yoga classes in this room, but most everything sports-related happens either topside or in the theatre if you need more space than the flock gym, which we’ll see when we reach that floor.
This room hosts six scheduled balls per year, approximately one every other week. ”
Back to the spiral staircase, down one floor, and then into the theater — again, with no doors. It was the same size as the ballroom, but with a huge stage on one end.
And no less extravagant.
“La Grande Sanguination Theatre,” Spence said, and something in his voice made Emmy shiver.
The huge stage dominated one side of the room. It was both wide and deep, and she could see the professional spotlights above the stage, so she knew the effects a decent lighting person could create.
And she figured Zander had either hired the best or paid for someone to go learn from the best.
There were no fixed seats, but based on what she’d read, they’d have either tables or mats in place, depending on the night’s theme.
Carved molding traced the curved ceiling overhead, and the back wall bore a mural — low-relief carvings of fangs and mouths and wounds, erotic and grotesque in equal measure.
“Feeding Frenzies take place every night there isn’t a ball,” Spence said, quieter now.
“You’ll perform here, and provide your blood to be consumed here, direct from the tap.
Unless you’re in high demand and frequently purchased as an add-on, every guest vampire in the silo will likely feed from you in this space over the next ninety days at least once. ”
No one spoke. No one cracked a joke.
The photos in the online manual hadn’t prepared her for the sheer weight of it. The beauty, the extravagance, and the feeling of being watched, even now.
This wasn’t just theater, it was life as a play — a dramatic, overindulgent, decadent vampire opera fever dream, and she was the food.
No, not just the food, but part of the blood-soaked feast.
As she’d learned from Lucien, Byron, Alistair, and others, the majority of bloodsuckers don’t see daywalkers as people, but as the cows and chickens of the vampire world, existing solely to be consumed — never to be part of their social structure.
And that was fine with Emmy. More than fine. They could pay for her blood while giving her orgasms, and it was win-win all around.
And yet, this room still unsettled her.
She was happy to leave the theater and head farther down.