As soon as I get within fifteen feet of the nightclub, my head begins to buzz, divulging the presence of way too many Eklyptors—monsters that I could believe human from a few paces away, but that might hide some terrible deformation under their clothes or might one day grow claws. I take a deep breath and stretch my neck from side to side, my thoughts jumping like bunnies on steroids.
Dance music.
Clustermess.
Glitter.
A couple is let in. She’s a victim; he, a predator.
Next comes a girl. She’s by herself, looking hopeful, bouncing on the balls of her feet and sucking in her stomach. They turn her down. Too young? Too short? Too human? Too alone?
Lucky, lucky girl.
A tall guy in jeans and a black leather jacket walks right in. One less buzz thrills through my head as he disappears behind the large doors. Another girl walks up, alone like the last one. She’s also human through and through, except the bouncer lets her pass.
No!
Unlucky, unlucky girl.
Why? Why? Why?
Then it hits me. They let the guy in the leather jacket in. He went alone, so she’s meant to balance the ratio. One to one. Victim to predator. Human to monster.
It’s Elliot Whitehouse’s party all over again—another venue for Eklyptors to bring in a human they can infect, to contribute to the growth of their species—and Xave is about to go in, which is a terrible idea considering what happened last time. At least Rheema won’t freak and scream her head off when she sees the creatures, so he might be all right. She knows everything about the monsters already. Heck, she’s half of one, neurotoxin-ridden fangs and all.
Another couple steps up to the front of the line. Now that I’ve figured out the pattern, my attention focuses on other details. They’ve paused in front of the bouncer. He asks them something. The freak half of the couple answers. The bouncer—a massive hulk of an Eklyptor—nods and lets them in.
There’s more than a pattern. There’s a password, too.
I move closer. My head vibrates like a piano string out of tune. I stare at the lips of the next Eklyptor in line, trying to make out the words. I get nothing. Super hearing would be nice at the moment.
Blare and Aydan are next. The bouncer puts a hand up, asks for the password straight away, without carding Aydan. Cold sweat slides down my back. Aydan’s lips move, speak the words and must deliver the right ones because he goes in, his arm intertwined with Blare’s, his slender body stiff and elegant, made more so by the bombshell walking at his side. Whatever he said to the bouncer starts with an “A” or an “E,” I think. Oh, who am I kidding? I couldn’t read lips to save my life.
Squinting at their mouths, I watch people get processed by the bouncer. I’m trying very hard, but I’m getting zero. My hand flies into my hair in frustration, ready to uproot it. I need to get in there. My brother’s inside and my boyfriend is about to make it to the bouncer. I can’t stay out here waiting, waiting, waiting until I’ve eaten all my fingernails and the crud beneath them.
A night to rebel rather than wait. Isn’t that how it went?
Frustration bubbles up my chest and I want to scream. I’m pacing in place, thinking about crossing the street to try and overhear the password, when my cell phone vibrates with a text message.
Unknown: You look desperate there :)
I jump, press my back to the coffee shop window with its huge display of mouth-watering treats. My gaze darts in all directions until I catch Rheema giving me an amused smirk. I look down at my phone and consider a reply.
“Bitch”?
“Go to hell”?
“That’s my boyfriend, you skank”?
I rub a hand across my mouth, considering. The buzzing in my head gets worse, incited by stress. I take a deep breath that seems to get oxygen to my bone marrow. My cell phone vibrates again. I blink my eyes open.
Unknown: “Hailstone Reign” will get u in. Ur welcome.
Hailstone? The faction fighting for territory against Whitehouse’s faction? Oh, shit.
My gut twists with a strange feeling, something I can’t quite put a finger on. James says I have ESP abilities. We’re yet to agree on that, but if this is what being psychic is like, the hell with it. Half-baked premonitions are about as good as half-baked baguettes.
My eyes cut to Rheema, but she’s not looking at me anymore. She and Xave have made it to the bouncer. Like Aydan, Xave isn’t asked to show an ID. Rheema’s mouth moves very slowly, enunciating every syllable, leaving me no doubt as to what I need to say to get in, giving me more than what I need to look after my boyfriend. And my brother. That’s if I’m not here to find out something that will cause me to lose him again. Because what the hell is he doing in a place that belongs to an Eklyptor faction strong enough to challenge Elliot’s?
Chapter 7
I rush into the coffee shop’s bathroom, trying to shove my premonition to the background. Not caring if anyone sees me, I strip off my leather jacket and ratty shirt, and I’m left in my black push-up bra. The mirror in front of me reflects a bleary-eyed girl with black hair matted to her head.
A twenty-something walks in and looks me up and down as if I’m infectious. If she only knew. She slips into a stall.
The sweet aroma of coffee and the hissing sound of an espresso machine pumping steam into milk gets through the door before it closes. The coffee shop was the most accessible place to do this, not to mention my need for a very strong dose of joe with lots of sugar. No way I’m going anywhere near that nightclub without some backup.
I throw the shirt in the garbage can—been meaning to do that, anyway—and put my jacket back on. I zip it but only to my breastbone, leaving what little cleavage there is exposed. Thank God for Victoria’s Secret. The bruises on my neck will just have to pass for hickeys. Leaning forward until my long hair hangs over my face, I work my fingers into it and muss it around for some much needed body.
I look up and check my efforts in the mirror. My leathers are tight-fitting and can pass for some Catwoman wannabe outfit—pretentious enough for a night out at the club. Not bad. As a final touch, I pinch my cheeks and wet my lips.
A toilet flushes and the woman walks out of the stall. When she sees me, she does a double take and raises her eyebrows. I smirk and walk out. Can’t wait until Xave sees me.
While I order a large iced coffee, I catch several looks. They’re all from yuppies pretending to stare at their drinks and looking mortified by the way their eyes have wandered to a not-yet-legal girl.
Amused by their discomfort, I dump ten packets of sugar in my coffee and guzzle it in a matter of seconds. I shake my head to dispel a sharp brain freeze, then dump the empty cup in the nearest bin. I square my shoulders and look out the window toward the club. I search the crowd until I spot a young guy standing alone.
“All right,” I say under my breath, then walk out and cross the street, my hips doing their best to keep up with the forced sashay that seems appropriate for the situation. I feel like a fool.
My breaths quicken as the buzzing inside my head deepens and the uneasy feeling doubles. I can only imagine how it’ll feel inside the nightclub, if I manage to get in.
Just breathe, Marci.
Breathe.
The premonition is no premonition at all, just nerves. The buzzing can’t hurt me. It’s annoying in a you-might-soon-be-a-monster kind of way, but I can handle it. I’ve done it before.
I plaster a smile on my face, hop on the sidewalk and head for my target. He’s looking straight ahead, fidgeting and getting on tiptoes to look at the front of the line. He seems nice and non-threatening in every imaginable way, especially since he is perfectly human. Most importantly, he’s alone. Just what I need to make the perfect couple.
With certainty, I can say the word “outgoing” has never been used to describe me. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what I need to be right now, which seems about as creepy as turning into a full-blown Eklyptor.
�
��Hi, there,” I say as I sidle next to the guy. By my estimation, he’s over twenty-one years old, probably a college student out to have a good time. He wears glasses that make him look bookish and approachable.
His head snaps my way and he looks me up and down with wide, blue eyes. “Um, hi.”
“You, uh, have no chance of getting in, you know?” I smile.
Like I have a chance! They might find me too young and send me packing. I’m counting the buzzing will give me the edge I need. Also the fact that Aydan and Xave got through without problems is an encouraging sign.
“I don’t? Why not?” he asks a bit defensively, eyes widening behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
“Oh, nothing against you.” I flip my hair to the side. God, I feel so out of my element. “I don’t stand a chance either and I so want to get in.”
He gives me another once over.
“They’re letting in mostly couples,” I smile again, this time provocatively, I hope. I’ll need a good shower after this. How do women stand to act this way? How do men fall for it?
His eyebrows do this little wiggle that seems quite involuntary. “Well, then …” He crosses his arms, leans his weight on one leg and relaxes the other one. His smile twitches, then he nervously strikes a different pose. Man, his attempt to be smooth is more pathetic than mine and that’s saying a lot.
“Know what?” I say with a sigh. “Let’s just agree to help each other get in, okay? And FYI, I’d be helping you more than you would be helping me.”
“Oh, yeah? How do you figure?”
“Well, there’s a password and I know it.”
“Oh.” His shoulders drop about two inches.
“What do you say?”
“Yeah, sure.”
For some reason, he looks as if I just ruined his evening. I feel terrible, especially because he has no idea that, possibly, I’ve ruined more than just that.
Pretense gone, we take small steps as the line slowly moves forward. When it is our turn to face the bouncer, my heart begins to hammer in time with the bass thumping through the club’s entrance. I’ve never liked the song that is playing, but the bass house mix the DJ is working is a definite improvement.
The meathead looks me straight in the eye, not even acknowledging Mr. Smooth by my side. The man is unnaturally wide with a small head, ears the size of cashew nuts, and gloved hands. He leans into me and asks for the password with a simple nod.
“Hailstone Reign,” I say in a hushed tone that cracks at the end and might give me away. To make up for it, I add a smile. But my mouth trembles, so I press my lips together and eye my supposed pet human as if he’s a chunk of succulent meat I’m ready to devour.
The bouncer gives me a knowing nod and waves us in without a second look. I walk in, my heart slowing for only a fraction of a second, then speeding up again when my head explodes into a mad cacophony of dance beats and Eklyptor brainwaves. I have entered the mouth of the beast once more, this time fully aware of what I’m doing. I’m scared and can definitely say this is one of the dumbest things I’ve done, but I can’t let Xave go through this alone. This fight is also mine.
The world before me sways in blinding lights and smothers me in body heat. There are so many people inside I don’t see how I’ll be able to find anyone before I suffocate.
So much for rebelling.
Chapter 8
I blink against the light and smoke wafting through the air. My eyes and ears take a while to adjust to the relentless assault of strobe lights and synthesized, blaring music. I stand off to the side, waiting for the world to make sense again.
Everywhere I look, people seem to throb in and out of existence. One second they’re there as if under a camera flash, the next they’re nothing but a shadow. My stomach flips and it takes a tremendous effort to breathe deeply, to stay and not run back outside.
“That thing is huge,” someone says.
I’m startled, a little surprised to see that Mr. Smooth is still here. I’d forgotten all about him already. His chin is pointing upward as he focuses on a rather large disco ball. It hangs and twirls fifty feet above the center of the building, sending glittery outbursts in all directions. The club seems to be designed around a large circular dance floor. Above it, on the second floor, there’s a balcony. It is also circular and allows full view of the revelers below. Small tables are arranged around the cylindrical middle. Further back there’s more, but it’s hard to see past the snug crowd.
“Retro cool,” Mr. Smooth says, lowering his eyes to mine.
“Um, thanks for your help, but I have to …” I hook my thumb in no particular direction.
He shrugs and gives me a regretful look.
“Be careful,” I say, feeling awful for helping him get into this hellhole.
“Sure.” He frowns as if that’s the dumbest thing I can say.
I take a few steps back, wave, then march in the opposite direction, hoping he gets home safely tonight.
Squeezing between the oppressive bodies of Eklyptors and humans alike, I make my way around the club, trying to spot a familiar face. All I see are strangers; though, strangers I quickly catalog in a species chart: homo sapiens who don’t make my head buzz on the left and worthless parasites on the right.
The DJ’s voice bursts through the club’s speakers, encouraging everyone to clap. He’s up on a stage at the front of the crowd—surrounded by multiple mixers, controllers, amplifiers—and wearing nothing but a pair of white pants and matching fedora hat. He must be some famous DJ to be in such a prominent position, though I don’t recognize him. His skin is dark and gleaming with sweat. From this distance and due to all the buzzing signals around me, I can’t tell whether he’s human or not. He seems to be having the time of his life, dancing and mixing music. The crowd is totally feeling him, shuffling, fist pumping, and even twerking to his beats.
I make my way up the stairs to the second level to get a better view. From here, the disco ball looks even bigger, like a toy for some giant princess with a taste for shiny things. It’s hideous. I make my way to the railing and wiggle my body between two human women, earning a dirty look from each of them. I ignore them and stare at the round dance floor below.
There are doers and there are … well … non-doers. Right now, the ones below are clearly the former, while we—up here—are content with just gawking. And it is a sight, a spectacle that sends icy tremors straight into my veins.
Below is a pit of sweltering bodies moving, sliding, grinding against each other. They’re prey and predator in a literal dance, a morbid ritual of doom and extinction. There’s wicked pleasure in the movements, in the sensual allure of a camouflaged hunter. Eklyptors tempt their victims with their stolen human camouflage and—unconscious of the danger—the helpless quarry takes the bait.
A shadow rises inside my mind, groping, ravenous for control of my senses. It swarms all at once but I start thought-jumping.
Glittering lights.
Blinking LEDs.
Server racks.
I shut my eyes. My hands grip the railing with white-knuckled strength. My chest pumps and I force myself to breathe purposefully and focus. My eyes want to roll to the back of my head. I shake myself, flex my neck, loosen my shoulders. To anyone on the outside it might look like a nervous tic, but it’s my defense mechanism, a way to tell myself that I’m here, that this is my body. The almost-ritual reminds me of President Helms, and how, in a video of one of his State of the Union Addresses, I learned he has acquired the same affectations.
As I blink my eyes open, feeling back in control, I see a familiar shape cutting across the dance floor below, forcing his path between the throng of bodies, making his way toward the back of the building. I try to see exactly where he’s headed but it’s impossible from up here. A pang of sadness hits me in the gut, twisting my insides into a tight knot. James doesn’t trust me enough to let me help, to let me fight against this evil. But it’s not his call, is it? I can fight just the same, b
ecause everyone should if we’re to survive.
I push past the crowd behind me, eliciting more dirty looks and some insults. The stairs leading downstairs are jam-packed in both directions. I try to get ahead but only manage to overtake a few drunken guys before a bouncer yells at me to slow down.
Grinding my teeth, I wait and descend the stairs at an infuriating rate. When I finally make it to the main floor, I follow James’s path, eyes flickering from face to face, but fail to spot him again.
I push further back, right of the stage from where the DJ enthralls the dancers, and try to see past the thick crowd and find a slick bar lined with backlit panels that give a cool blue glow. People sit in front of it, atop expensive leather barstools, ordering drinks. A staggering array of bottles adorn the illuminated back wall, looking like some modern piece of art, instead of what it really is: a foul collection of overpriced intoxicants meant to rob you of what little control you have over your life.
My gaze sweeps down to the other side of the bar and I notice an additional room at the end of it, marked with three large, gold letters: VIP. I make my way in that direction and stop a distance away from the entrance. Two cashew-eared bouncers stand at either side, looking as inaccessible as the door. I curse, guessing the crew must be in there since I haven’t been able to spot anyone out here and that was the direction James was headed.
I’m fidgeting restlessly, wondering what to do, when I spot my brother at the bar. My feet become lead blocks, and I just stand there, staring, as he talks to a middle-aged woman instead of the girl he was supposed to be meeting. His head leans into hers in an intimate way. His expression is almost feral, completely foreign to me, and I feel I’m looking at a different person to the guy who lives under my roof. The woman puts a hand on his shoulder and pats him. He nods, but looks frustrated as hell, as if whatever comfort she just offered him isn’t nearly enough. Her copper-colored hair hoods her eyes and half of her face, making it impossible to get a good look. All I can say is that she makes my head feel like it’s been invaded by yellow jackets.
Eclipse the Flame Page 5