Chapter 5
GRIFFIN
The line finally moved forward, the bouncer lifting the velvet rope and beckoning the worthy to come forward.
A small crowd of young women in flashy outfits giggled as they skipped past the rope and into the club.
Bachelorette party, probably. Mazel tov.
Good for them. But we’d been waiting for what felt like hours.
“About damn time,” I grumbled, taking one step closer to the club.
We were next. Possibly. Depending on whether the bouncer felt like letting us through, this colossal slab of muscle who came equipped with his holy bouncer armaments: a blessed clipboard and a sacred earpiece.
Bradley shifted from one foot to the other. “I really don’t know about this. I kind of feel underdressed.”
The bouncer sniffed. To his credit, he didn’t actually chuckle.
I gestured at myself, waved my hands from my shoulders down to my toes. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do I strike you as someone who does this very often? We’re both here because we need something, not because we want to party.”
Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that within the bouncer’s earshot. He squinted at me, eyes performing the very same head-to-toe scan as he assessed my worthiness. And that only pissed me off even more. I wanted in just as much as Bradley, which was not at all.
But we needed answers, and a JA Williams-owned establishment might provide what we were looking for. I peeled a few bills out of my wallet and slipped them in the bouncer’s pocket, then threw Bradley one or two glowers as we stepped through, convinced this was his fault somehow.
If he had anything snippy to say, the club drowned it all out.
A sea of sweltering bodies, rocking and gyrating to music being mixed by a DJ at the far end of the room.
He held one hand to his headphones as he spun the decks with the other, operating behind what appeared to be an old-timey counter.
A very, very long one that spanned nearly the entire length of the room, flanked by identical bars.
The Vault, they called the club. A former bank building from the sixties, maybe the fifties, the interiors lovingly preserved, only for the gleaming tiles to be desecrated by the scuff of so many twisting heels.
The bartenders wore dark waistcoats over crisp white shirts, as well as those green visors that bankers used to wear. Garters on the sleeves, too. Did those even belong to the same era? In a place like this, did it even matter?
Poor suckers. Full respect on my part, seeing them grin and bear it, mascots in full costume fielding orders from shrieking, entitled partygoers.
These gents were just trying to make a dollar.
Same as me, in fact, dipping a hand into the presumably sizable Brooks budget.
Who knew that this Bradley kid came from so much money?
“Oh no,” I heard him stammer, gangly and awkward as he maneuvered the floor, as terrified as if he’d walked into a mosh pit. “Oh, sorry.”
I grimaced, reached for his hand, and pulled him out of the fray, leading us away from the dance floor.
Stupid layout, in my opinion, forcing a trip straight through the crush just to get a drink or find a booth.
Or even the bathroom, for that matter. But that was how they forced bodies onto the floor, made the place look jumping, as the kids say, at all times.
“Thanks,” I thought I heard Bradley shout at me. Could have been someone else talking to someone else.
I turned to check, not at all expecting the flush of red across his cheeks.
Exasperated from navigating this swell of bodies?
Flustered because we were holding hands?
Couldn’t be. They were just—just hands. Right?
Probably the club lights, all those fancy gel colors.
With no one to hear, I cleared my throat and pushed further into the jungle of flailing limbs.
Why did I have to bring up all that talk about extra services?
He was cute enough already without me tempting myself and teasing him.
Nicoletta’s knowing smile and waggling eyebrows floated just past my vision, taunting me.
No. I had to keep this professional. This was good.
And MEA’s stipend, on top of what Bradley was paying me, was going to make this all worth it.
Great little on-the-job incidental perks, too.
I had a restful night in the blue room, certainly superior accommodations to the MEA box.
Far better coffee, too. Gentle pressing of the household staff—okay, mostly Nathan, whom I caught outside under pretense of enjoying my coffee in the fresh morning air—revealed that there were definitely several more guest rooms.
Each was decorated to the good Mrs. Charlotte Brooks’s liking.
Color-coded, naturally. Either I spaced out while Nathan was counting them off on his fingers, or they’d run out of colors.
So many rooms. The rest of the family was perfectly lovely, too, if a little eccentric.
I couldn’t quite put a finger on why Bradley seemed so hesitant about asking for help, or even staying the night.
We passed some guy in aviator sunglasses and a candy necklace, pure party mode, so dissonant and almost offensive in contrast to the molded walls and the beautiful light fixtures, shaded as green as the visors the bartenders wore.
Finally, we reached the end of the room, away from the DJ’s booth—sorry, counter—and slipped into an alcove to stand where the music miraculously didn’t pump so damn loud.
I didn’t realize that I was still holding Bradley’s hand until he pulled it away, the sudden absence of long, strong fingers, the skin of his palm warm and soft.
He wiped it on the leg of his pants, shot me a meek, apologetic look.
I shrugged. I could be a sweaty guy. Whatever.
No big deal. I tugged on my collar. Why was it suddenly so hot in here? Just me?
Bradley frowned. “And here we are, tracking down an ancient manuscript based on nothing but a hunch. I don’t know anything about this place. How do we figure out where to look?”
I subtly tilted my head toward one corner of the club, a little hallway that led to the bathrooms. Bradley may have been uncertain, but I’d done my homework, scoping out the building’s layout.
I glanced over my shoulder and beckoned.
He glowered, fully resenting being told what to do.
I ignored the flutter in my stomach, focused instead on the joy of being a pain in his ass.
But he followed anyway, down to the brightly lit corridor, stopping just short of the corner.
“You’re not seriously suggesting that we—Griffin.
What are we doing here? Hiding in one of the stalls until closing time?
There are far more practical places for us to look.
Like… hello? The old bank vaults they have here. ”
I grabbed his hand, pulled him further down the hallway. This time, when I glanced back, he was definitely blushing. No colored lights back here to hide his reaction. I clenched my jaw, gritted my teeth. One blushing idiot in the hallway was more than enough.
“Too obvious,” I told him. “They’ve been turned into VIP areas.
Nothing in those things but more assholes.
Williams is the kind of guy who’s accustomed to so much power and status that it gets to his head.
All hubris. Your book of fairy tales is hiding in plain sight, or as close to it as possible.
Probably sitting somewhere in a back office. ”
“It is not a book of fairy tales, Griffin Gallows. Aren’t you supposed to be a relic hunter? Do you just pick up random old books and hope they’re the right ones? Anyway, I’m still not entirely sure why we’re here. Like he’s going to hide the manuscript at a club, of all places? Be serious.”
I shrugged. “The Vault, he calls it. A guy like Williams? This is where he keeps the good stuff. And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed all the decor in here, but kind of a dead giveaway.
He’s a patron of the arts. The dark arts, even.
Likes to commission strange pieces. Unique, bizarre things.
But who would say no to Williams? You become one of his pets, you’re set for life.
But back to my point: The man’s a connoisseur. A collector.”
“Oh, please. I refuse to believe that someone as rich and horrible as you-know-who would just scatter his most prized possessions and—wait. Hang on.”
He stopped halfway down the corridor, retrieving his hand. I didn’t miss it. I convinced myself very quickly that I didn’t miss it. Bradley’s mouth hung half open as he stared at the walls, or rather, the framed pages lining the walls.
“Like the ones in my bedroom,” he breathed. “Pages from old manuscripts, fragments of old tomes. Just sitting out here. This one’s from The Lesser Key of Solomon. And here’s a page from the Ars Goetia section.”
I tried not to look so pleased with myself.
I learned about the eclectic decor from a magazine article about the club’s opening three years ago, of all things.
Incredible, what you could learn on the internet.
JA Williams owned many businesses throughout Moraira City, many in the entertainment or food and beverage industries.
Each one was dedicated to its own special theme, decorated lavishly to match, kind of like Charlotte Brooks and her colorful rooms. Bodhisattva, a Thai restaurant filled with rare and expensive statuettes of the Buddha.
Soothsayer, a bizarre speakeasy dedicated to the vibrant, chaotic paintings of a North Carolina prophet.
But only one place featured scraps of ancient paper, pieces of old parchment.
“The ones out here could be just counterfeits,” I said. “You know, to impress anyone who’s in the know. Guys like you, for example.”
He rocked on the balls of his feet, chest protruding just the slightest. “Scholars, you mean. Academics.”
I swallowed the chuckle that threatened to burst from my throat. “Nerds. I meant nerds. Now, come on.”