Chapter Seven
My first impression of Wonderland was that it was big, bright, and busy.
Towering buildings festooned with neon lights surrounded me, flashy signs screaming for attention everywhere I looked.
I scanned them quickly: The Gilded Flamingo.
House of Hearts. The Crooked Crown. Garden of Pain.
The Mercy Room. Spades and Roses. If I hadn’t had a job to do, I might have been impressed. Where the hell was I supposed to start?
The reality of the situation finally sank in.
I had nothing to rely on except a verbal description of Warren.
I couldn’t even blame Percy and Lola for confiscating my phone for that.
I hadn’t had any photos of Warren on it, anyway.
We’d been too busy enjoying each other’s company to think about cataloguing it.
If I’d had any, I would have shown them to the police.
Around me, groups chatted and laughed as they drifted between venues. It felt like everyone else knew exactly what they were doing except me.
A man with platinum-blond hair appeared in the distance, visible for only a few seconds before disappearing into the crowd.
Same color hair as Warren’s.
I headed after him, shoving past people when they refused to move. Someone called, “Hey, watch it” in an offended tone, but I ignored them, focused on catching another glimpse of the man.
It probably wasn’t him.
What were the chances?
Then I saw him again, and this time I was almost certain.
“Warren,” I shouted.
The hum of singing and excited conversation swallowed the name.
I pushed harder through the crowd, catching one last glimpse of him before he disappeared into House of Hearts.
Well, I guess I had my starting point. And unless my eyes had deceived me, luck had decided my first destination would also be my last. I’d grab Warren and get the hell out of here.
Away from what had already proved to be a deeply unsettling experience.
The entrance hall of House of Hearts was black. Black walls. Black carpet. Black furniture. The few spotlights embedded in the ceiling did little to fight the gloom. I squinted into the darkness, heading toward the only door I could make out. Black, of course. No sign. No markings. Nothing.
“Ticket?”
I turned toward the voice. A man stood behind a black desk. He wore a formal suit—which wasn’t strange—and a pair of mouse ears, which definitely were.
“I don’t have one.”
“I think you’ll find you do. You wouldn’t have gotten this far if you didn’t.” He crooked a finger, beckoning me closer.
I cast a longing look toward the door, keenly aware of the trail growing cold, before obeying. Up close, the mouse ears looked even more ridiculous, ruining what would otherwise have been an attractive package. I didn’t know what that made me. Mouse-ist, perhaps.
“I don’t have a ticket,” I repeated. “I’m not here to stay. I’m trying to find someone, and I’m pretty sure he came in here. I just want to take a quick look around, grab him, and leave.”
The man threw his head back and laughed, his mouse ears slipping sideways an inch.
My fingers curled into fists. “What’s funny about that?”
“People spend days here. Weeks, sometimes.” His grin widened. “House of Hearts isn’t the kind of place you take a quick look around.”
“Weeks?” My gaze flicked back to the door. “What’s so great about it that people don’t want to leave?”
“You’ll find out when you show me your ticket.”
“I don’t have a—”
“Everyone has a ticket,” he interrupted smoothly. “Either they carry a paper one, or they’ve been through processing.”
I seized on the first thing that made sense. “Right. Processing. They processed me, but they didn’t give me a ticket.”
“No?” He frowned. “That would be highly irregular.” He leaned forward over the desk, peering at the left side of my neck and then readjusting slightly so he could check the other side. “No tattoos at all?”
“A tattoo isn’t a ticket.”
He stared at me. “In this place, it is.”
“You could’ve just said that.” I grabbed the neck of the ridiculous leather vest and pulled it to the side, far enough that it exposed the bird tattoo.
His expression shifted immediately. “Well,” he murmured. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“Is it?”
He nodded slowly. “On two counts.”
“And those are?”
“The subject… and the placement.”
“It’s just a bird.”
“Right.” He laughed softly. “Just a bird. No significance whatsoever. Apart from it being a rare bird.” His brow furrowed. “Can something be rare if no one has ever seen it before? I suppose it would be unique rather than rare.”
Was anyone in this place capable of speaking normally? Every conversation felt like a riddle wrapped inside another riddle.
“And what’s wrong with the placement?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “It’s supposed to be visible at all times. Hence my asking for your ticket. Percy and Lola’s little joke, I assume.” He tilted his head. “They’re braver than most.”
“Braver?”
“Rules and consequences,” he said mysteriously. “The Harts don’t like rule-breakers.”
“The Harts?”
He gave me a look as if I were stupid. “The owners of Wonderland.”
“Right,” I said flatly. “Of course.” Maybe doing some actual research before coming here would’ve been smart. “Don’t upset the Harts, or your life won’t be worth living. That sort of thing?”
He let out a sharp, high-pitched laugh. “Assuming you’re still breathing afterward.”
I tapped the leather covering my tattoo. “So if this is my ticket, I can go in?”
“You can.” His smile widened. Either it was my imagination, or it bore a hint of malice. “Have fun.”
I headed toward the door. “I already told you,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m only looking around.”
“We’ll see.”
I paused with my hand on the handle. “What time do you close?”
“We don’t.”
A club that never closed. I briefly considered asking how they cleaned the place if it operated twenty-four seven, but judging by every interaction I’d had so far, I doubted I’d get a straight answer. Besides, I wasn’t planning to stay long enough for it to matter.
The moment I opened the door, a wall of sound slammed into me. Heavy bass vibrated through my chest and rattled my ribs. The room beyond held a large crowd. People dancing. Talking. Drinking.
Grinding.
I looked away quickly when my gaze landed on a couple dry-humping in the corner.
I began my search immediately, scanning every flash of blond hair I could find. Apparently, House of Hearts had no rules about personal space. Hands slid over my leather clothes as I pushed through the crowd, fingers slipping beneath the material whenever they could.
Men. Women. Didn’t matter.
Everyone seemed to think I was fair game in this outfit.
My protests earned either amusement or confusion, so eventually I stopped wasting my breath and focused on escaping before anyone’s wandering hands reached my dick.
A few were bolder than just touching, pulling me close to shout something in my ear.
A proposition, I assumed. I couldn’t hear them over the music, and I didn’t ask them to repeat it. I simply shook my head and moved on.
I searched two more cavernous rooms with no luck.
The last room was quieter, with less dancing and fewer people lost in each other’s mouths and bodies, so I slid onto a stool at the bar and contemplated my complete failure.
Either the man I’d followed had never been Warren in the first place, or he’d somehow vanished into thin air.
A bright red drink appeared in front of me and I looked up to find the bartender smiling. “You look like you need it.”
I gave it an exploratory sniff, but learned nothing from it. “What is it?”
“A Cardiac Carnage. Would you rather I make you a Bleeding Heart?”
I took a careful sip. It was sweet and fruity. It wouldn’t be my usual first choice. I was more of a lager man, but it would do. “No, this is fine. How alcoholic is it?”
“Not very. I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“I haven’t been in here before.”
He leaned his hip against the bar. “You mean here as in the club, or here as in Wonderland?”
“Both.”
He held out a hand. “Omar.”
“Lysander.”
I shook it, absurdly pleased to meet someone who seemed normal. No mouse ears. No cryptic bullshit. “I’m actually looking for someone.”
“We’re all looking for someone.”
I sighed internally. I’d obviously spoken too soon.
“Warren White,” I said, realizing that a bartender should have been first on my list of people to ask. “Platinum blond hair. Blue eyes. About six-foot. Handsome. Have you seen him?”
Something in Omar’s expression closed off instantly, casual friendliness replaced by a neutrality too polished to be genuine.
“You should stop looking for him.”
“Should I?” I frowned. “Why?”
Just as he looked like he might answer, the music died and the lights came on. I blinked hard, my eyes watering after so long in the dimness.
“Shit!” Omar muttered.
“What?” I asked. “Fire alarm?”
“I wish.”
“Then what?”
“The Harts are here. Strange. They hardly ever make an appearance.”
“Right. I heard about them. They own this club, don’t they?”
“The club.” Omar snorted. “Try all of Wonderland. Nothing happens here without their say-so.”
A nervous tension swept through the room, with no one immune to it. Conversation didn’t stop completely, but it reduced to whispers. Even I’d unconsciously lowered my voice.
The sharp click-clack of high heels sounded from the corridor, everyone turning that way.
Omar rested his elbows on the bar. “Brace yourself.”