Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Mercer
A week had passed since my first shift at the Dollhouse, long enough to get my bearings.
I knew the building now—the maze of dressing rooms, the tucked-away stairwell, and the side hall where the bass thudded through the wall like a telltale heartbeat.
I’d learned everyone’s names and the general rhythm of the place, how the dolls rotated in and out of the spotlight, and how Darby kept the wheels turning with a clipboard and a smile.
He was a small wonder. The few times I’d arrived early for my shift, I watched him dart about, checking the music, lighting, and makeup, and managing to be flawless himself by the time I unlocked the front doors.
He entertained customers, served drinks, and took to the stage for jaw-dropping dances.
A whirlwind in the club, but the good kind.
Sweeping up after everyone and carrying away anything that was less than perfect.
And I’d managed to get on Colette’s good side, which felt less like fortune and more like survival.
As head of security, she wore the title well.
In a sleek suit and heels sharp enough to double as weapons, she carried herself with enviable confidence.
I’d also learned she was a hellhound—news that made the hair on my neck prickle—though looking at her I would never have guessed.
No sharp, savage teeth, no smoke curling from her skin.
Just a woman with a smile that promised she’d see trouble coming three steps ahead and meet it head-on.
Of course, a hellhound on payroll at a demon club wasn’t exactly headline material.
Certainly not the kind of revelation Antonella would care to hear when she summoned me for my first post-assignment check-in.
I imagined she expected secrets, something salacious enough to justify the risk of planting me there.
Not an inventory of names, schedules, and how I’d been thoroughly charmed by the club’s manager.
I was about to find out for sure because I’d been summoned from my lunch break to Antonella’s high-rise office. Stepping off the elevator, I quickly spotted the angel maven in a swath of white. Her hair, gown, and wings all gleamed while the Strip sprawled behind her, bathed in an afternoon glow.
This time, she wasn’t alone.
“Mister James.”
Antonella’s greeting prompted the room’s other occupant to rise from his seat and turn toward me.
Most everyone paled in comparison to an angel’s glory, but this fellow was particularly wretched.
His thin hair was combed over the oily dome of his head, and he seemed sunken in the folds of a suit made for a much larger body.
I strode toward the pair of them and the sleek, modern desk and chairs around which they had gathered.
The man held a cigar between his teeth, and he puffed out smoke with each labored breath. He was pale enough that I wondered if he was unwell. Withering.
Antonella’s smile curved as she gestured to the stranger. “Mister James, allow me to introduce Maslow Umbric, former owner of the Devil’s Dollhouse.”
I knew that name. Colette had mentioned him, just last night in fact.
Maslow, she’d said, was a problem. Like a snake hiding under the porch or a ghost with unfinished business.
He used to bother the dolls. Colette hadn’t given me the particulars, but she summarized by saying that things were better without him around.
Finding him here, in Antonella’s office, made the line I’d been trying to straddle seem to stretch as wide as the Strip itself.
And I was stretching with it. Holding onto what I thought was good—a radiant casino ruled by a heavenly queen—while being drawn toward what was swiftly becoming more appealing—a smoky nightclub full of demon strippers.
When I looked again, Antonella and Maslow were smiling, and I felt myself doing the same.
Maslow thrust out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mister James. I understand you’re our man on the inside.”
“You could say that I guess.”
His palm was clammy and slick with sweat that clung to my skin after I let go.
On the opposite side of the desk, Antonella folded her wings.
There was space enough for everyone to sit, but no one did. My leg ached, and I fought the urge to massage it. It was still jarring to feel plastic and metal where I expected to find muscle and bone.
“You’ve had time to settle in.” Antonella’s colorless eyes pinned me. “What have you learned?”
To my right, Maslow watched like a vulture picking through a carcass.
If they wanted keys or alarm codes, I could truthfully say I’d been given neither. Every time I arrived, everyone else was already onsite. I assumed they showed up early to get dressed and warm up, but the glimpses I’d seen of the kitchen showed it surprisingly well stocked. Almost homey.
I divided a look between my interrogators. “Could you be more specific?” I may have sounded steady, but I was still shifting. Not as good at standing at attention as I used to be.
Maslow plucked out his cigar and leaned in. The smell of tobacco coasted on his breath. “Tell me, soldier, do they still dance like their lives depend on it? Or has Beckett turned them as soft as he is?”
My brow furrowed. “They dance just fine.”
Antonella tilted her head, and her bright, pitiless eyes narrowed. “We placed you there to do more than spectate, Mister James. I trust you understand the stakes.”
I didn’t actually. I didn’t understand at all why Antonella Rossetti gave two shits about pretty demon boys stuffing dollar bills into their underwear.
Was it to do with Maslow? He didn’t look powerful enough to hold sway over an angel. He must have been working for Antonella, same as me, but my questions and assumptions failed to add up to answers.
“They’re loyal to Beck,” I said finally. “That’s what I’ve learned.”
Maslow drew sharply on the cigar then expelled the fumes through his clenched teeth.
He crossed one arm over his chest, further collapsing the folds of his suit.
“They used to be loyal to me,” he growled.
“Awfully quick to change their tune. Though dogs are known to wag their tails for whoever holds the leash.”
The contempt in his words got my hackles up.
It wasn’t like that at all. The Dollhouse may have been established on sin and sex appeal, but there was a real heart at its core.
The dancers were bonded. They teased and argued, rallied and laughed in a mess of chaos and closeness that reminded me of the guys in my squad.
A brotherhood I missed more with every passing day.
Antonella didn’t press again, only watched, her wings hanging like drapes of white silk behind her.
But I had words for Maslow and a point to make. Maybe I should tell them what I’d learned if for no better reason than to defend the sassy batch of demons I’d been entrusted with the care of.
“They’re also,” I said carefully, “well managed.”
“Well managed?” Maslow squawked. “By Beckett?”
“By Darby,” I corrected then smirked. I did that a lot when thinking of him.
Maslow scowled. “Luxe? Beckett put that whore in charge?” He laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “I knew I should’ve gutted that frilly bitch.”
My hand curled tight at my side, causing my nails to bite my palm. I kept my face blank, but every word this foul creature spouted confirmed what Colette had said. Maslow was a problem. A poison.
Antonella didn’t reprimand him, and the lack of correction drew a line in the sand. She let him snarl unchecked, then tipped her chin toward me as though my reaction mattered more than his bile.
“I believe this failing is mine,” she said. “I assigned you to a post but gave you no mission. I have one for you now. Lucas Beckett has a document we need to review. A contract.”
I inched backward. “What kind of contract?”
Maslow dragged on his cigar again then flicked ash onto the immaculate floor. “That bastard swindled me, and he won’t get away with it. I have a business to run, and I can’t make product without my supply.” His sunken cheeks flamed, and the loose skin of his jowls made his scowl seem more severe.
Antonella tugged idly at a seam on her gown. “Lucas has a knack for inserting himself where he should not. Last time, it was his cock. This time, a contract.” Her smile spread thin. “I’d relish the chance to destroy both, but the paper’s less likely to bleed.”
My throat felt dry. Digging for documents and breaking and entering were not what I signed up for when I took this security gig. As I forced the words out, I hoped my reluctance wasn’t audible.
“Where should I look for it?”
“In the club, of course,” Antonella replied.
Maslow bent forward and jabbed his cigar in my direction, dropping more crumbles of ash. “Check my old office. He’s gotta have some files in there somewhere. That crafty asshole keeps everything.”
I swallowed hard, trying not to consider what Colette would do if she caught me sneaking around Beck’s office and pawing through his desk like a thief. I didn’t know much about hellhounds, but I was pretty sure betraying her trust wasn’t how I wanted to learn.
“Do you have a description of the contract?” I asked while unease continued to gnaw at me. “A picture? Something more specific? Because right now, I’m not entirely clear on what I’m looking for.”
Antonella’s flippant demeanor carried through. “The contract bears Maslow’s name and refers to a property on Fairmont Street. Look for heavy parchment, not common paper. It will be penned by hand. Distinct. You’ll know it when you see it.”
Maslow grunted bitterly. “It’ll reek of that bastard’s smugness, if nothing else.”
Their assurances failed to settle my nerves.
A handwritten contract on fancy parchment sounded like a classic needle-in-a-haystack job—assuming I could even get into Beck’s office without raising suspicion.
And if Colette found me? If she was waiting in the shadows? I might not get a chance to try again.