As her gaze traveled along the building, a limo pulled up and belched three giggle-wracked young women onto the curb. Two wore black leather miniskirts. The third was dressed in a long white dress that looked more suited for a wedding than girls' night out. A beefy bodyguard grabbed the bride's elbow to steady her and led the trio toward the building. As the limo reversed, its headlights illuminated the four. The "bride" turned into the lights and squinted.
"Hey," I said. "Isn't that-what's her name-she's a singer."
The quartet had just vanished around the building when a Hummer pulled up and disgorged two young men in undertaker suits. They followed the same path as the bridal party.
"So much for keeping a low profile," Cassandra muttered.
"At least we found out where the door is," I said.
Cassandra shook her head and we circled the building in search of an entrance.
Keeping Up with the Times
When we got to the other side, we still couldn't find a door.
"This is ridiculous," Cassandra said, pacing along the building. "Are we blind?"
"I don't know about you," I said. "But I can't see in the dark. Should I risk a light spell?"
"Go ahead. From the looks of those fools going inside, I doubt they'd notice if you lit up the whole neighborhood."
Before I could begin the incantation, an ivy-covered trellis moved and a shadow emerged from behind it. A girl, no more than a teenager, stumbled out, her white face and hands floating, disembodied, through the air. I blinked, then saw that she was dressed in a long black gown; together with her black hair it blended into the backdrop of the building.
When she saw us, she swayed and mumbled something. As she staggered past, Cassandra's head whipped around to follow, eyes narrowing, the green irises glinting. Her lips parted, then snapped shut. Before she tore her gaze away, I followed it to the girl's arm. Black gauze encircled her bare forearm. Around the edges, blood smeared her pale skin.
"She's hurt," I said as the girl reeled onto the road. "Wait here. I'll see if she needs help."
"You do that. I think Aaron is right. You should wait outside."
I stopped. My gaze went to the girl, tottering along the side of the road. Drunk or stoned, but not mortally wounded. Whatever was going on inside might be worse, and I couldn't rely on Cassandra to handle it. I reached past her and tugged on the trellis.
"I meant it, Paige," Cassandra said. "See to the girl. You're not coming in."
I found the handle, pushed the door open, and squeezed past Cassandra. Inside, the place was as dark as its exterior. I touched walls on either side, so I knew I was in a hallway. Feeling my way along, I moved forward. I got about five steps before smacking into a wall of muscle. A beefy face glowered down at me. The man shone a flashlight over us, and smirked.
"Sorry, ladies," he said. "You got the wrong place. Bourbon Street is that way."
He lifted his flashlight to point, swinging it near Cassandra's face. She swatted it down.
"Who's in tonight?" she demanded. "Hans? Brigid? Ronald?"
"Uh, all three," the bouncer said, stepping back.
"Tell them Cassandra's here."
"Cassandra who?"
He shone the flashlight beam in her face. Cassandra snatched it from his hand.
"Just Cassandra. Now go."
He reached for his light. "Can I have my flash-?"
"No."
He hesitated, then turned, banged into the wall, cursed, and headed off into the darkness.
"Fools," Cassandra muttered. "What are they playing at here? When did they do all this?"
"Uh, when's the last time you visited?"
"It can't be more than a year-" She paused. "Maybe a few years. Not that long."
The door opened so fast that the man behind it nearly fell at our feet. Mid-forties, not much taller than my five-foot-two, he was pudgy with soft features and gray-flecked hair tied back with a velvet ribbon. He wore a puffy shirt straight out of Seinfeld, the top three buttons undone, revealing a hairless chest. His pants were ill-fitting black velvet, tucked into high-top boots. He looked like a middle-aged accountant heading off to a Pirates of Penzance audition.
He righted himself and blinked owlishly into Cassandra's flashlight beam. I gestured toward the exit. He didn't seem to see me, but stood gawking up at Cassandra.
"Cass-Cassandra. So-so good of you-"
"What the hell are you wearing, Ronald? Please tell me Fridays are Masquerade Night here."
Ronald looked down at his outfit and frowned.
"Where's John?" Cassandra said.
"J-John? You mean Hans? He's, uh, inside." When Cassandra turned toward the door, Ronald jumped in front of it. "We didn't expect-we're honored of course. Very honored."
"Get your tongue off my boots, Ronald, and get out of my way. I came to speak to John."
"Y-yes, of course. But it's been so long. I'm just so pleased to see you. There's a blues bar just a few blocks over. Very nice. We could go there, and Hans could join us-"
Cassandra shoved Ronald aside and reached for the door handle.
"W-wait," Ronald said. "We weren't ready for you, Cassandra. The place, it's a mess. You don't want to go in there."
She tugged open the door and walked through. I grabbed it before it closed. Ronald blinked at me, as if I'd materialized from nowhere.
"I'm with her," I said.
He grabbed the door edge, then paused, uncertain. I tugged it open enough to slip through into what looked like another, longer hallway. Ronald scurried after us. He passed me and jostled Cassandra's heels. At a glare from her, he backed off, but only a step.
"I-I think you'll like what we've done here, Cassandra," Ronald said. "It's a new age for us, and we're taking advantage of it. Adapting to the times. Refusal to change is the death knell of any civilization-that's what Hans says."
"Step on my heels again and you'll hear a death knell."
She stopped before another door, waved me forward. I slipped past Ronald.
"I want you to wait out here," Cassandra said.
I shook my head. "You go, I go."
"I won't be responsible for you, Paige."
"You aren't," I said, and pushed open the door.
Beyond the door was a cavernous room, just barely illuminated by a dull red glow. At first, I couldn't make out the source of the lighting, but then I noticed that the faux Grecian pillars were pieced with tiny holes, each letting out a thin ray of red light, like an infrared pointer.
One glance around and I knew the designation "bar" no longer applied to the Rampart. It was a club, probably a private one. The only furnishings were a half-dozen couches and divans, most of them occupied. Areas on either side of the room had been cordoned off with beaded curtains. Only the occasional murmur or muffled laugh broke the silence.
On the nearest sofa, two women were curled up together, one semireclined, holding her hand out, the other bending over whatever her companion held. Cocaine, maybe methamphetamine. If Hans and his bunch had opened an exclusive drug club, they were treading dangerous ground for people who had to stay below the radar. I wasn't sure whether this violated the council's statutes, but we'd need to look into it after this investigation was over.
One of the women on the divan leaned over her partner's arm. I tried to glance over discreetly, to see what kind of drugs they were using, but the woman wasn't holding anything. Instead, she stretched out her arm, empty palm up, forearm braced with her other hand. A dark line bisected the inside of her forearm. She clenched her fist and a rivulet of blood trickled down. Her companion lowered her mouth to the cut.
I stumbled back, hitting Cassandra. She turned sharply, mouth opening to snap at me, then followed my gaze. She wheeled on Ronald.