Page 13 of Ravenous Prophecy
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.”
Bradley held up one hand. “Hold on. Before we go any further—look.”
Up in the corners, their lenses glinting like glass eyes. Security cameras. There weren’t too many out on the dance floor, but it was fair to expect that surveillance was only going to get tighter and tighter the closer we got to the private areas of the club.
“One sec,” I said, sifting through my pockets, triumphantly pulling out something resembling an extremely ornate paper doll.
“Wait a minute.” Bradley narrowed his eyes, peering closer. “Is that what I think it is? One of those Balinese shadow puppets?”
I held back my smile, pleased that he’d recognized it for what it was. I’d picked it up on a job in Bali, an incredibly useful acquisition from an Indonesian mystic.Wayang kulitwas a beautiful art form, stories played out by intricate leather puppets lamplit against white screens.
I was always convinced that there was a delicate magic to shadow puppetry. This little guy held a different sort of magic, this flattened warrior with his ferocious sneer. I held him up against the light, handling the sticks that manipulated his multi-jointed limbs.
A copy of the puppet appeared on the far wall, a shadow in deepest midnight, followed by another, thenanother. One by one, they flitted toward the security cameras, covering the lenses with their ink-black bodies.
“That should buy us some time,” I said, again restraining a smirk when I saw the awestruck expression on Bradley’s face.
We headed past the bathrooms, no kitchen here, no food to serve apart from the bowls of candy at the bar. There it stood at the very end of the corridor, a door that suggested in bold, bright letters that it was, in fact, for employees only.
“There, Bradley. Behind that door. Grimm’s Scary Tales, probably.”
He wrinkled his nose. “A thousand dollars a day, Griffin Gallows. You’d better be right about this.”
I turned the knob, cold under my hand, defying the warning on the door, pushing it open to reveal a crappy back room, bare cement, exposed pipe, and all. But at the end of that room? Another door. Older. Varnished. A brass knob. A tingle of excitement went up my spine.
But first… the back room. I should have known. What a cliché. A bunch of dudes playing cards around a folding table, cheap beers warming, staining the surface. You knew they were criminals because they weren’t using any damn coasters. Five heads turned toward us, their beady eyes dark and unfriendly.
“Can we help you, gentlemen?” asked the biggest one, in a tone that suggested he didn’t think we were gentlemen at all. “Off limits. Employees only.”
“Oh dear, absolutely our mistake,” Bradley said, rubbing the back of his neck, playing up the oblivious starving academic act. “I’m sorry, I got caught up with thedecor—the pages from the Abdulov Grimoire? And tried to follow the rest of it back here.”
Very cute. Not the greatest performance, but almost convincing.
The man at the table scowled. “And you didn’t see the most important piece of ‘decor’ right outside the door? The one that said to stay the fuck out?”
I jabbed my finger at the air, possessive, defensive over my starving academic. “Hey, buddy. Relax. Innocent mistake. No need to get all worked up.”
Somehow he scowled even deeper, jowls like a bulldog. “Why don’t you just take your boyfriend and get the fuck out of here?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
The same words had spilled out of both of our mouths. I couldn’t tell if Mr. Card Table over here was being a bigot or trying to hint at something that wasn’t there. Either way, I was getting pretty pissed off. I reached into my pocket, slipping my fingers through the hoops of my brass knuckles.
A gift from a Filipino healer, disproportionately valuable for the small favor I did for her. All I did was help Mama Isabella carry a bushel of vegetables home from the market. Blistering hot day in the province, more a test of stamina than strength. Definitely taxing for a woman in her seventies. I couldn’t stand by and watch her lug all that stuff on her own.
The knuckles were smithed, so she explained, from a broken cannon, back in the times of the revolution against the Spanish occupation. The metal was laced with an enchantment that gave the knuckles a little extra oomph.An appropriately explosive punch, some might say. I tried to pay for them when I realized their value, but Mama Isabella had gasped in offense, then handed me a bonus basket of veggies. What an angel.
Brass knuckles were totally illegal in California, of course, but I was generally more concerned with what MEA had to say about the regulation of weapons, not mundane law enforcement. Nicoletta must have known that these were part of my regular arsenal, that they held plenty of sentimental value. Would’ve really chapped my ass if those MEA suits hadn’t returned them.
