Sakrilege.
The name of the club is a blinding white slash of letters over the door. Spanning nearly a block, the building has all the attractiveness of an industrial factory without the offending smoke stash. But just inside, beyond the lithe press of the crowd and the towering bouncers, is another world entirely.
Through a hallway steeped in deep gray, the crimson carpet spills into a large chamber with a glossy black dance floor. White and black and reds clash together in shredded tapestries on the walls; the chandeliers are macabre creations forged from shards of broken glass. Square marble tables surround the center floor while cozy black leather booths hug the walls like circular niches. The D.J. occupies one corner while another houses one of the best-stocked bars this side of Philadelphia.
I glide in, warming already to the press of the bodies on the dance floor and the thrilling beat of electronica. Black leather sheathes my hips over ripped thigh-high stockings. Amble curves threaten to spill from a corset endowed with a single zipper down the front. My hair is a dark mass of curls that caresses the middle of my back.
I don't look like a killer.
Not me with the vibrant jade eyes and creamy mocha skin, stepping onto the dance floor with knee-high boots. I slither through the crowd, feeling anonymous hands reaching for my breasts, my ass, and my thighs. I sigh as fingers twine beneath my skirt to caress my bare skin.
There is PVC and vinyl. Leather and chains. Piercings and tattoos. The glitter of a hundred freaks spiraling towards the dark pyres churching within us all.
I don't move like a killer.
Not tonight when the music is pumping through my veins like some glorious black poison, speeding down my arteries with the juice of the pill I took moments before. My hips sway and my arms move on their own volition. I give myself over to the feeling and let go fully. Forgetting everything but this.
Somewhere during the fourth song an arm snakes around my waist. I am not surprised to find a familiar whisper in my ear.
"Enid, you've been away too long."
I turn to face the man behind me. He towers over me, thin yet so powerful, his eyes obsidian mirrors of what are assumed to be sclera contacts. But they are real.
"Then show me what I've missed, Kale."
He takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor. We find the narrow staircase near the bar and ascend to the upper level. I follow him through an arched doorway to a narrow balcony that we have all to ourselves. Below us, we see the mesh of people dancing. I spy couples dueling tongues at the tables while long-legged waitresses showcase their assets as they serve them.