Page 11 of Bent Out of Shade
Emmett almost sprained an ankle over the uneven cave floor, hurrying to the stone slab to pick a sock off the pile. He was like a little kid insisting on pressing the elevator button—which he also did. He circled the pile, his finger on his lip, muttering under his breath.
“Pick one and let’s go,” I said.
“This one.” His hand shot out, paused, then jumped two socks over to a bright yellow ankle sock with bumblebee stripes on the pompom.
The narrow green door that always led out of this section appeared in the rock face. The KH had never acknowledged Emmett’s presence, processing him as any other inanimate object with Ohrist magic on it. We exited, following the dimly lit path, but walked for only a couple of minutes before a purple door revealed itself and we stepped into the warm Vegas night.
I blinked my eyes against the riot of neon on the strip, an acid trip–inspired global journey from the Statue of Liberty to the Eiffel Tower, past an Egyptian pyramid, and along Italian fountains.
The streets thronged with tourists flitting from one casino to the other, kids with balloon hats taking photos with beloved fictional characters, and couples perusing brightly lit billboards for a celebrity act or a famous restaurant.
Emmett had stopped dead, his eyes wide and his mouth falling open.
I tugged on his arm, glancing around nervously, but this was Vegas, baby. Everyone assumed he was part of some schtick. Still, the clock was ticking. “This way.”
We darted down a side street, stopping in front of the entrance to Tempest. The neon sign had a palm tree for the T, but otherwise little to telegraph what to expect inside this nightclub.
“Let me do the talking,” I told my partner.
The bouncer’s impassive expression didn’t twitch a muscle at the sight of Emmett and me.
“Hi,” I said. “We—”
“Get in line,” he grunted and jerked his chin at the velvet rope with no one behind it.
A group of young, beautiful twentysomething men and women with glowing skin, salon-ad hair, and clothes that hugged their lithe bodies like a long-overdue reunion sailed past us into the club.
Emmett reached for one dude’s electric-blue velvet suit as he passed by, but I slapped his hand down.
Part of me wanted to absolutely destroy the bouncer with some viciously witty remarks on ageism, but I had a better card to play.
“We have an appointment with Mr. BatXoha.” I handed him a business card. “Still want us to get in line?”
Turning away, he touched his Bluetooth earpiece, talking softly into it. With a final, doubtful look, he allowed us entrance. “Head for the VIP area at the back. Boss will find you.”
“Welcome to Tempest,” I said, marching inside. “Have a great night.”
The sound of waves washed over us, timed to the pulsing of the glittering star show projected overhead in the wide foyer. Curving around the coat check, smoky glass doors slid open at our approach, leading to a manmade beach.
Revelers drank, danced, and flirted to the scent of coconut- and salt-tinged sea air artificially pumped in, while Latin music throbbed through speakers inset among the palm trees. It took a moment to figure out where the reality of this “tropical island” stopped and the nonmagical light of the moon casting a smudgy white glow on the horizon began because it was so cleverly done that I swore I was outside and across the water from the far-off lights of civilization.
I kept a tight hold on Emmett, who watched the proceedings with naked longing. Maybe he and Pyotr could go to Blood Alley or some other Ohrist nightlife space. Ooh, or he could take Marjorie somewhere safe on a date. I made a note to discuss that with him at some point.
For now, we pushed our way through the crowd, dodging servers carrying trays of huge colorful drinks and overly enthusiastic dancers on the sand.
The VIP lounge was nothing more than a large raised wooden floor dotted with private gazebos, their filmy curtains fluttering in the breeze. A female bouncer with a flat, hard stare and heels that made Emmett’s look like old lady slippers guarded another velvet rope.
I shivered involuntarily, keeping my gaze on her chin, instead of provoking her with direct contact. Her lips quirked up.
“Valentinos?” Emmett motioned at her shoes.
She gave an approving nod. “Good eye.”
Emmett shrugged. “A girl’s gotta know her shoes.” He frowned and pointed at my flats. “Strictly bargain bin, but we’re just work colleagues.”
After the number of times I’d saved his ungrateful ass, he was disavowing me? Emmett’s need to pump up his own confidence at the expense of others wasn’t exactly news to me, but it still grated. I unclenched my fists, reminding myself that he’d grown a lot in his short life and not to take too much offense at the areas still lacking in self-awareness.
“Can’t pick your coworkers.” The bouncer unclipped the rope.
