CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
EMMERY
As Emmery squinted at the entrance sign lit by a strange red glow, the demons and souls lounging against a nearby wall surveyed her like their next meal.
She could hardly blame them; after all, she’d squeezed her body into this ridiculous getup and would now offer herself up like some glazed ham at a royal feast.
“What does it say?” she whispered to Dez beside her. The tightness in her chest echoed in her voice.
Dez squeezed her hand which had been clutched in his since they arrived at this club. “Tennacio,” he said, low and deep. “Or ‘thirst’.”
“Fitting,” she muttered. Her eyes slid to a soul whose shadowy silhouette reminded her of Shade, but whose eyes were the putrid yellow of stagnant water. “And who are we looking for again?”
“I’m unsure what he looks like, but he’s called the Treasurer. Reize only told me he’s here every night.” Dez glanced behind him at the doorman. “Apparently he's the opposite of a Scarlet. People compete for his attention, then he chooses his partners.”
Emmery frowned. The booming music ahead twined with animalistic sounds. “People compete to sleep with him?”
“Can’t imagine what that’s like,” he said bitterly.
As they stepped through the doorway, Emmery’s heart kicked into a gallop. The foggy room bathed in red lowlight, pulsing music, and—
Oh gods. She rubbed her eyes, convinced for a moment she was still locked in some frigid nightmare within the labyrinth walls.
Between the writhing forms, exposed flesh, sounds of bodies joining, and the thick scent of sweat and sex in the air, Emmery gawked.
Some women wore the same skimpy lingerie as her, or pieces of it, while most men wore nothing at all.
They all danced, hands all over each other, in sync with the bone rattling music. Hips swaying, rocking, thrusting—
Heat rushed to her face and she peeked at Dez. Though his breath caught, he donned his usual determined stare as he took in the scene. He shouldered through the crowd, keeping her tucked close to him.
In the next room, couples occupied every surface: benches, chairs, stools, stairs, windowsills, and some had even taken to the floor, their clothing discarded like their inhibitions.
Each person wore the same hazy euphoria on their face, a product of sin, carnal pleasure, and pure abandon.
Emmery skirted a group of five, all of them too distracted to notice her.
Dez raised a brow. “It makes sense why all the furniture is leather.”
A tinge of horror tinted her questioning glance.
“Easier to wipe down,” he said.
She choked on a laugh, unable to swallow past the peach-pit-sized lump in her throat. Never before had she witnessed anything like this. And though this behaviour couldn’t be anything other than sinful and immoral and wrong, it stirred a wild desire inside her along with a flare of liquid heat.
Dez released her hand, then leaned down, his lips at her ear. “Stay here.”
She yelled his name, but he slipped into the crowd.
She had no idea how to find this Treasurer, only what to do once she did. And that in itself was enough to buckle her knees. Heart in her throat, Emmery surveyed the room.
A waiter with obsidian horns navigated the crowd with a tray in hand. Balanced on the tray sat six glasses the height of her thumb, and as they passed people helped themselves. Although she hadn’t had a drink in weeks, Emmery’s mouth watered for the liquid courage.
As the waiter walked by, she snatched two drinks off the tray and didn’t hesitate to tip the first one back.
Overwhelming sweetness sang on her tastebuds, and even after she swallowed the florally vanilla liquid tingled on her tongue.
In fact, the drink warmed a path all the way down her throat, until it bloomed in her stomach.
The prickle spread like wildfire, barrelled through her veins, and stole her breath. Maybe this was some special liquor.
Frowning, she smelled the other drink. It didn’t hold the nostril-stinging intensity spirits did. She twirled it between her fingers and studied the thick liquid clouding the sides of the glass.
Face flushed, Destonne emerged from the throng of people with his tunic nearly unbuttoned to his navel.
“It’s an eager crowd. I barely made it out alive,” he said, his deep voice carrying over the music.
He fixed his shirt buttons and rolled his cuffs to his elbows.
“I think I—” When he caught sight of the two glasses in her hands, his eyes narrowed.
“What sort of mischief have you gotten up to? And without me?” He tsked softly. “I was only gone a moment.”
Her cheeks flushed a deep shade of scarlet. “I needed a bit of a boost.” Actually, her face tingled too, like tiny stars crackled along her skin, within her blood, and spread with each passing second.
“I didn’t take you for the type,” he said, a little breathless. “But, then again, with your scandalous taste in literature, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Emmery rolled her eyes and set the empty glass down. “Just because you don’t drink doesn’t mean I need to be sober for this whole ordeal.” But as she went to throw back the second, Dez caught her wrist.
His lips twitched. “You don’t know what that is, do you?”
At the amused twinkle in his eye, her stomach churned. “Tell me.”
“You were half right. It’s incredibly strong liquor.” He grinned like a demon. “With a hearty dose of celestial trumpet.”
Her world spun and she couldn’t breathe as she clutched the glass hard enough to shatter.
Because she recognized that name. She and Vesper had retrieved a celestial trumpet from the Sacred Lands.
And he’d said—oh gods, people had used it for an entirely different reason.
Vesper’s words rang through her head like a warning bell.
It’s a potent aphrodisiac.
“No,” Emmery breathed. Her vision swam with her thundering pulse and she grabbed Destonne’s sleeve. “I need you to stick your fingers down my throat. I can’t make myself throw up.”
Dez’s nose scrunched. “What? No.” He gently removed her grip from his shirt. “It only amplifies your desire. Makes things a bit hot and hazy, but that’s part of the fun, right? You’ll be fine.”
But she wouldn’t be. Her blood already hummed and heat rushed to places it had absolutely no business being. Between that damn throbbing space between her legs, and her tingling lips and tongue, she was in so much trouble.
He studied her pinched brows, steadied her with his hands on her shoulders, and leaned down to meet her gaze. “It’s going to be alright. I promise. Breathe with me?”
But she couldn’t pull air into her lungs as her chest convulsed.
His gaze flitted between her eyes, and he sighed, then seized the glass from her hand, and poured it down his throat before she could stop him.
He swallowed, winced, then set the glass down beside hers on a nearby table. “There. Now we’re in this together.”
Emmery gawked at him in utter disbelief.
“You can do this,” he said softly and took her hand. “We also don’t have a choice. We need to get this done and leave this forsaken place.”
He was right. They couldn't turn back now, especially since the fever waited to take him again, and no veramint leaves remained.
Emmery nodded and followed him.
As they descended farther into the club, several rooms lined the walls, some with glass doors and others opaque for privacy.
In one room, a woman in only sheer gold stockings indulgently rode her partner, their bodies entwined, and tongues shoved down each other’s throats.
A feral sound tore from her as her head fell back and her body shuddered.
Emmery willed herself not to look, though the vision with Dez filled her mind and she couldn’t shake it free.
Especially when she peeked to find him already watching her.
Her cheeks warmed, and between the sounds surrounding her, the temptation thick in the air, her hand in his, and the celestial trumpet ravaging her body, she was already coming apart.
Dez drew her from her thoughts as he pointed to a staircase.
On the upper floor sat a gossamer tent. The strange red smog illuminated a man’s silhouette with a sweep of curly hair.
He was seated on a settee and surveyed the dance floor, his legs spread in dominance and arms rested on his thighs.
From where she stood, Emmery couldn’t make out his features.
She stretched onto her toes, her lips at Dez’s ear. “That’s him?”
Dez nodded as a shiver visibly worked its way through his body.
Was the drink taking hold? He appeared far more composed than her as sweat pricked the nape of her neck and the caress of his hand radiated through her.
Even the graze of her corset and undergarments made her skin pebble and breasts ache almost to the point of pain.
He pulled her toward a dance floor, or a stage of sorts, with seven others on it. His warm breath skimmed over her ear. “Do your thing, angel.”
“Wait—where are you going?” she asked, desperation in her voice.
“I’ll be right over there.” He nodded to an alcove across the room with a bench and wall space to lean.
Fire flickered in her belly and she licked her lips. “Will you be watching?”
He raised a dark brow. “Do you want me to?”
As she lost herself in his dark eyes, she wanted to tell herself she didn’t, that it was a bad idea, and they both should never look at each other again. Especially that way. But she couldn't lie to herself.
He stepped toward her and traced the slit in her sheer sleeve with his finger. His touch spurred a moan she had to swallow.
“I couldn’t look away if I tried. And I certainly don’t want to,” he said. He placed a finger under her chin and said softly, “Go show him how irresistible you are.” Then he skimmed that finger along her jaw, spun on his heel, and left her standing on the dance floor.
Emmery’s chest clenched. Gods, what had she gotten herself into? She couldn’t dance worth a damn, let alone do these other … things. No one had touched her in such a very long time.