Chapter 24 Attend a Social Gathering
(and Try Not to Lose Your Staff)
Kazimir
The kitchen had become a war zone of flour and honey. Griffin stood at the central counter, his gangly frame dusted white from head to toe, while Sebastian moved around him with the efficiency of someone who knew what they were doing.
“We’re heading to the Gilded Gallows,” I announced from the doorway.
Both men looked up. Griffin’s face brightened with curiosity, while Sebastian’s expression grew wary.
“The nightclub?” Griffin asked, abandoning whatever sticky mess he’d been attempting to shape. “I’ve heard fascinating things about their acoustic enchantments. Apparently, they use resonance crystals to—”
“To make the music loud enough to drown out screaming,” I finished drily. “It’s not an academic exercise, Griffin.”
“Screaming?” Sebastian paused in wiping his hands on a towel, but he wasn’t looking at me.
I turned to see Arabella as she entered, and nearly swallowed my tongue.
Her dress clung to every curve of her body, cut low enough in front to make my mouth go dry. A slit ran up one side, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of thigh with each step. Her golden hair was swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked roughly.
She smiled, doing a small turn. “I packed it when we decided this was our honeymoon. Never had a reason to wear it before, but I hoped there’d be an occasion for something special.”
“Special” was one word for it. “Devastating” was another. The dress made her look dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the kind of feminine power that brought kingdoms to their knees.
“You look…” I paused, searching for words that wouldn’t sound like complete capitulation to my baser instincts. “Illegal in several kingdoms.”
Her smile widened. “Thank you. You don’t look terrible yourself.”
I’d chosen black as usual—a silk shirt open at the collar and dark trousers that wouldn’t show bloodstains. Standard villain attire, really, but the way Arabella was looking at me suggested she approved.
I resisted the sudden desire to whisk her back to the bedroom. Instead, I glowered at Sebastian, who was looking at Arabella with his mouth open. As my shadows darkened the corners of the kitchen, the fire in the hearth guttered and nearly went out.
Sebastian caught my gaze and turned beet red before looking carefully at the sugar he was supposedly measuring. He had to squint now that the room was so dark. “Why do you want to go to a place that has screaming?”
Still glaring at him, I was about to suggest he learn how much fun it could be when Arabella intervened.
“Surrounded by criminals, villains, and monsters, all trying to one-up each other with their evil accomplishments?” Her smile turned wicked. “It sounds like fun.”
“You have a strange definition of fun,” Sebastian muttered, but there was fondness in his voice rather than judgment.
“You’re welcome to join us,” Arabella offered.
I resisted the urge to grind my teeth. The last thing I needed was to babysit Griffin in a den of vice or watch Sebastian have a moral crisis every time someone committed a minor atrocity.
And if his reaction to my wife’s dress was any indication, I’d already have my hands full murdering anyone who looked her way.
Griffin perked up. “That sounds—”
“Terrible,” Sebastian interrupted firmly. “We have… baking to finish. Important baking. Very time-sensitive.”
I caught the meaningful look that passed between them, something weighted with unspoken conversation. It was odd, actually, but I didn’t want to get into it now.
Arabella gestured to the explosion of flour that was centered on and around Griffin. “What happened here?”
“The poltergeist,” he said solemnly. “I’ve been trying to negotiate with it using a series of respectful hand gestures, but I may have accidentally signed something offensive. The flour was its rebuttal.”
“Ah,” she replied. Because what else did you say to that? She looked around the room but found no supernatural creatures in sight.
“Thorne?” I called as Griffin began explaining why he was using hand gestures when he could just talk to the poltergeist, even though no one had asked.
My security chief appeared from the direction of his quarters, already dressed for an evening out—which for Thorne meant the same black leather he always wore, but with slightly more knives visible.
“Not interested in the nightclub scene, my lord,” he said before I could ask. “Thought I might hit the markets. Some of the vendors here carry unique imports that could be useful at Skyspire.”
I didn’t ask what kind of imports. Thorne’s shopping habits were his own business, and I’d learned long ago that ignorance was sometimes bliss when it came to my staff’s recreational hobbies.
After delivering my standard warning of trusting no one and avoiding dark corners, I led Arabella from the apartment, cutting off Griffin’s treatise on the different types of poltergeists and their communication preferences.
For a moment, I almost felt sorry for Sebastian, then was promptly horrified at the uninvited thought.
I replaced the emotion with petty glee, wondering when the nobleman would have enough of the chaos and leave.
My hand strayed low on Arabella’s back, feeling her body through the thin silk of her dress. Then lower to squeeze her ass as we waited for the lift. I dragged her against me until her body molded into mine.
“Let’s stay in,” I murmured against her ear, “I have better entertainment in mind.”
She laughed, pushing me back gently. “Later. I want to see this nightclub first.”
The walk to the Gilded Gallows took us deeper into the Spire’s commercial district.
The shops here catered to a more specialized clientele than those near the entrance.
Poison vendors displayed their wares in glowing vials.
A tailor advertised “Cloaks of Dramatic Entrance” and “Capes That Billow Ominously in Still Air.” And yet another establishment claimed to sell “Authentic Villain Lairs—Assembly Required.”
The Gallows itself occupied an entire vertebra near the middle of the Spire.
The entrance was a massive archway carved to resemble a gaping maw, complete with stone teeth and a tongue that served as a red carpet.
It was actually squishy when you walked on it.
Music poured from the opening—not the refined melodies of court entertainment, but something primal and driving that seemed to bypass the ears and go straight to the blood.
A line of hopeful patrons stretched from the entrance, each trying to look more menacing than the last.
“I didn’t realize we’d have to wait.” Arabella was eyeing the queue.
I almost laughed. “We don’t.”
The line of waiting villains parted before us, some bowing, others simply pressing themselves against the wall to avoid catching my attention. I kept my expression deliberately cold, my gaze sweeping over them with obvious disdain.
A bouncer hulked beside the entrance. His skin was the color of gray stone, but with his hooves, tail, and horns, he looked like the sculpture of a minotaur come to life—which was exactly what he was.
He was also completely naked.
“Name and crime,” he grunted, not looking up from a scroll.
Arabella was trying to look anywhere but at the huge swinging dick between his thighs. It nearly touched the floor.
“Lord Kazimir Blackrose,” I said.
The bouncer’s eyes widened slightly as he looked at us for the first time. “Chair of Dominion. My apologies.”
“And my wife, Lady Arabella Blackrose,” I added. “Slayer of Sir Darian Lightbringer, Knight-Commander of the Hero’s Guild.”
The minotaur-thing looked impressed. “Welcome to the Gallows, my lady.”
We made a wide berth to avoid touching his… member… and entered.
Inside, the Gallows lived up to its reputation for excess.
The main floor was a writhing mass of bodies and magic, with a sunken dance floor and opulent gold and silver furnishings draped in black velvet.
The air was thick with smoke that alternated colors between purple, green, and blue.
Around the edges, booths and tables offered some semblance of privacy, though “privacy” was a relative term in a place where voyeurism was considered a mild vice.
The clientele was exactly what you’d expect from a villain’s nightclub.
Demons with long tails and horns chatted with corrupt nobles over cocktails.
A group of reformed cultists had taken over one corner, their ritual scarification gleaming in the strobing lights as they danced with abandon.
A pair of necromancers argued at the bar, their animated corpse servants standing stiffly behind them.
In one booth, a wraith was consuming the life force of a willing victim, who writhed in ecstasy as they faded.
And everyone else was staring at us.
I was accustomed to being the center of attention everywhere I went.
But the way they were looking at Arabella—with a mixture of curiosity, desire, and calculation—made my jaw clench.
I let my expression settle into the kind of cold fury that had made armies turn and flee, and was gratified to see several patrons suddenly find their drinks fascinating.
The crowd parted as we moved through it, my glare carving a path forward.
Arabella took it all in with wide eyes, her grip on my arm tightening when a particularly bold demon leered at her.
With a flick of my wrist, shadows coalesced around the creature’s neck, severing its head cleanly.
The body crumpled as the head rolled across the floor before both dissolved into sulfurous smoke.
The message was clear—and the path before us suddenly much wider.
“Cementing your reputation?” Arabella observed.
“Just giving a demonstration of what I’ll do to anyone else who looks at you the wrong way,” I replied, not even attempting to hide my bad temper. The demon wouldn’t be dead, unfortunately, but it wouldn’t be able to return until it was summoned again.