Page 68 of Throwing Shade
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I barreled forwardthrough the door marked “Employees Only” to catch up, but there was no sign of Emmett in the cool cement stairwell.
A door clattered from below. Taking the stairs two at a time, I jumped down and burst through into the subterranean level.
It was a totally different vibe down here. The long wide corridor was made of cement, not stone, and there were no torches, just regular overhead lights, along with staff changing rooms, a laundry room and a kitchen with Ohrists washing down trays and pulling glasses from dishwashers in billowing clouds of steam. The normalcy of it was jarring and almost creepy.
At the end of the hallway was a red door that Emmett must have gone through.
I made it halfway there.
Someone grabbed me by the collar and shook me gently, dislodging my magic invisibility cloak. Their touch was light, as if it was nothing that they’d plucked me out of thin air.
“Banim Shovavim. How delightful.” The smooth cultured voice poured gasoline on the spark of fear fluttering in my belly. “Ms. Feldman. Welcome.”
Chin up, I turned around. It was almost laughable that I’d questioned if any other vampire was the boss. While not as bulked up as the vampire I’d followed on the dance floor, Zev BatKian was a core of steel draped in fine fabrics, his navy pinstripe suit and silk tie straight off Saville Row and his brown eyes suffused with a piercing intelligence. He appeared to be around my age, with short mahogany hair, and a trim goatee.
“Mr. BatKian.” I nodded at him.
“I expected you earlier.” He looked around. “Where might Lindsey be?”
I clocked the distance to the red door. I’d never make it, and who’s to say it was even an exit? “She’s going to be a little late. She ate something that didn’t agree with her.”
His lips quirked up in a smile. “Proper diet is so important.” He waved a hand. “Ah well. Perhaps it’s better that she’s indisposed and I needn’t chasten her for allowing you to deliver yourself here unescorted. Terrible breach of protocol.”
Had Laurent been chastened for some breach?
“My apologies.” The words came out croaked and I cleared my throat. “I’ll be sure to follow proper procedure next time.”
“That is much appreciated. Please.” He extended an arm to the red door.
“Don’t mind if I do.” I showed myself in.
His office included an art gallery that ran under half of the club, though the soundproofing was top notch. Nary a rumble disturbed the hushed silence.
A Persian rug in deep reds and blues covered one small section of floor, the furniture on top of it tending to sleek lines and unusual wood grains. All the surfaces were bare, save for a silver laptop on his desk. Beyond the office area, art hung on white walls, each one bathed in its own spotlight.
“Allow me to give you a tour.” Zev spoke passionately about each piece.
Chagall paintings told stories steeped in Ashkenazi folk tales, while the play of light and shadow in the Rembrandts was almost ethereal, and marble sculptures depicted humanity in both the throes of ecstasy and despair’s lament.
They weren’t reproductions.
Secrets hidden in truths. A monster. An educated man. A level of civility and culture that was aspirational. Humanity’s worst nightmare.
“Impressive,” I said.
Zev led me over to a narrow cardboard box on a wooden pallet in the middle of the room, cut open the top flaps with an X-Acto knife, and peeled the cardboard away. The sculpture inside depicted a young boy writing in a book that was perched on his bent knee.
“What do you think?” Zev circled the piece.
It was exquisite. I crouched down, half-expecting the boy to notice me and look up from his scribblings. I reached out to touch it, then quickly reconsidered, curling my fingers into my palms.
“The artist perfectly captures the boy’s look of pensive concentration, but there’s this air that suggests he’s not writing down facts but dreams.” I straightened. “It’s incredible, especially given the cold hard nature of marble.”
“Mmm.” He traced his finger over the boy’s chipped elbow, then in a blur of motion, slammed his fist down on the top of the sculpture, pulverizing it.
I threw up a hand against a stray shard, unable to stifle my cry. The vampire could rip my throat open and drain the blood from my veins, but it was his expression of utter indifference to this violent act that sent a chill running down my spine. “Wh-why would you do that?”
