The Source (Witching Savannah #2)

The Source (Witching Savannah #2) Page 55

“We don’t have to stay, Mercy. We can find Ellen and leave if that is what you would prefer.”

“If you are speaking of Mrs. Weber,” the servant said using the correct German pronunciation, “she is already in there with her friends.” He stretched his hand out to indicate the room into which we had just been invited. Emmet and I looked at each other, each reflecting the other’s uncertainty. “Don’t be shy. Dive on in,” the servant said. “The water’s warm.”

I nodded to Emmet, and he placed his arm around my shoulder and led me from the entrance into what I’d assumed was the party room. Once there, I realized that the old parlor was simply being used as a cloakroom. At one end, a female attendant, pretty close to my own age, stood perfectly naked and totally unashamed. At the other end, a muscular man, nude except for a gun belt, stood guard at the door that led from the cloakroom into what I now knew to be the party room.

“Welcome, y’all,” the attendant said, offering us rubber bracelets with numbers printed on them. “Here are your claim numbers when you are ready to head out tonight, so take care not to lose them.” She dropped both bands into Emmet’s large hand, and then held up two black vinyl garment bags with the corresponding numbers written on them.

“That’s all right,” I said. “I think we’ll keep our clothes on for now.”

“Oh, I am sorry. This must be your first time.” She smiled congenially at us newbies. “No one gets in without, well, displaying their goods.”

“In our case, you will please make an exception,” Emmet said in a calm voice. He wasn’t attempting to charm her magically, as Oliver would have done; he was simply stating his wish in his habitual, matter-of-fact manner.

“I am afraid we can’t do that, sir. Fair is fair. Besides, I am sure that neither you nor your pretty lady has anything to be ashamed of.” She smiled at me, her eyes asking me to talk some sense into my date. “Your lady friend can keep her pearls, if she likes. And her shoes,” she offered.

“When in Rome, I guess,” I said, and when Emmet looked at me, his eyes were filled with surprise. “We’ll only need one bag.”

“Oh, sweetie,” the attendant said, her shoulders relaxed. She seemed relieved by my surrender. “Don’t go making that mistake. You are a true beauty and all, but it’s quite a rarity for a couple that comes to Tillandsia together to leave together.”

Emmet’s face clouded over like a storm about to burst. His eyes narrowed and his brow creased. “I apologize. I believe when I used the word ‘please’ earlier, you thought I was making a request. I am telling you that in our case, you will make an exception.”

The woman lowered the bags as Emmet dropped the bands on her table.

“Listen here,” the doorman said, moving his hand to his holster. “Everybody’s just here to have a good time. Loosen up or leave.”

Emmet turned to face the guard. Even though the man was close to six feet tall and had the muscles of a professional bodybuilder, Emmet towered over him by nearly a foot. I could tell the guard feared Emmet might call his bluff and make him pull his pistol from its holster. Emmet stood firm, and after a few taut moments, the guard drew aside. Emmet placed his arm around my shoulder again and led me into hell’s second circle.

The hall, for you couldn’t simply call it a room, stretched out much larger than I had imagined it could, or perhaps the sense of size was an optical illusion created by the numerous gilt-framed mirrors that lined its walls and had been suspended from the ceiling. Still, even with the hall’s size, it felt close and claustrophobic. It had no windows, and the only perceivable exit was the entrance through which we’d just come. It was too dark to even determine the color of the walls, save in one corner where a bright spotlight illuminated a stage and the wall behind it. It had been painted plum—a good shade for debauchery, I decided.

Deep inhalations and sighs sounded from one end of the hall to the other, answered by soft moans and whispers and the occasional alarming cry of pleasure. I lowered my eyes, trying not to look at anything. But there, all along the floor, writhed piles and mounds and rows of bodies, lying together, caressing one another, in kaleidoscopic combinations. A heaving, groaning work by Bosch. A green scent like acacia in hot sun. Another, seaweed washed up on the damp shore. Tattoos and scars and every shade in the rainbow of flesh. Faces contorted with pleasure or contorted with pain, as per their inclination, appeared from the shadows only to be swallowed again by the darkness moments later. Waiters circled, offering any vice from alcohol to tiny packets of white powder to hypodermic needles loaded with God only knows what. Pillars of smoke floated in and out around us, some smelling sweet—cloying, even—others like vinegar. I tried not to breathe the smoke in, fearing the effect it might have on my baby. I should never have come here. I should never have risked Colin. I should have put him first, before Maisie, before my own selfish need to prove to myself that my mother loved me. I wanted to scream as the truth hit me. Regardless of my reasons, my justifications, that was the true reason I’d come. Well, I no longer cared. All that mattered was proving to my son that I loved him.

I turned and tried to push my way back to the exit, desperate to leave the hall, but dozens of revelers had followed us in and were crowding around us. I started to panic, striking out, slapping, clawing at those who surrounded me. Emmet picked me up and strode away from the center of the room, where we had somehow found ourselves. He sat me down with my back against the far wall, and used his own mass to shield me from those who would have crushed up against us. “I want to get out of here. I need to get out of here,” I cried into his ear. “Forget the plan.”

“I know, and I will find us a way to do just that.”

“Just get us to the exit,” I said, not comprehending why this wouldn’t show itself as the obvious solution.

“The wall behind us is where the exit was . . . Your back is directly against it.”

I felt around behind myself, feeling nothing but wall, but then I turned and saw my own eyes dimly reflected back at me by a mirror that had taken the place of the door. They mimicked the eyes of a trapped and desperate animal. Emmet put his hands on my shoulders and turned me back toward him. “Don’t panic,” he said. “It’s the magic in this room. It is seeking to master us, but we must take control and become its master instead . . . We must continue with the plan. You can do this. We can do this.”

His words calmed me, and I found myself unconsciously mimicking his breathing. Deep, slow breaths. My heart slowed its wild beating.

“There is only one way out of here, and that is to capture the magic,” he whispered in my ear, his hot breath tickling the sensitive skin beneath it. “And there is only one way to capture the magic.” He pressed my back gently against the mirrored surface. His hands reached out and found mine, pressing our palms together, lacing our fingers. His heat consumed me, and again I felt his energy, his power, coalesce at the tip of my spine and climb its way up through me. In spite of my fear, in spite of the revulsion that the gathering had engendered in me, I felt my body give into pleasure. “Picture it, Mercy,” he said, his lips brushing against my earlobe. “See the power of this room becoming yours.”