Time to get this show on the road.
Stripping out of my faded jeans and tee, I step into the dress and lace up the corset, then turn to look at myself in my bedroom mirror.
This gown is unlike anything I’ve ever had in my closet; it’s brazen and eye-catching and absolutely gorgeous. The bodice is a corset, and the skirt flares out at the hip, with enough fabric for me to hide weapons inside it. Above the corset, my breasts are cupped in a semi-transparent halter which lets just enough of my nipples show to tease the eye. Below, the skirt and petticoats fall to my ankles, with a slit up to my hip on one side. I’ve sewn weapons between the layers of the skirt—just my two favorite knives, although I wish I could bring a whole fucking armory with me.
I do a practice spin in front of the mirror to make sure I’ve balanced it all properly and that the knives are truly undetectable. I think they are, but I can’t be entirely sure since I can’t really see how the back spins. I know I’ll be dead if I’m caught smuggling weapons in there, but there’s no way I’m leaving them at home.
I try to evaluate the odds in my head, but there are too many unknown variables. I know I look and smell good. I know that my weapons aren’t strictly visible. I just don’t know if I’m too obviously fit from fighting and training, or if any of them will recognize my face. I don’t think I’ve ever left a witness after a kill, but there’s really no way to be certain of that.
“Only one way to find out,” I tell my reflection, grimacing slightly
Blowing out my cheeks, I slide my feet into the new stilettos I bought this morning. They’re comfortable enough for what they are, but I can feel my anxiety start to increase as I straighten up. I can walk just fine, I’m light on my feet and have good balance. But there’s no fucking way I could run or climb in these—not without breaking a leg or two.
That’s the whole point, really. If I showed up in my black tactical gear and combat boots, they’d kill me before I could even get in the door. These shoes send a different kind of message.
And that message is: prey on me, I can’t get away if I change my mind.
“I can’t believe people actually do this shit for the thrill of it,” I mutter. I may have a personal vendetta against vampires, but even if I didn’t, I can’t imagine myself voluntarily choosing to throw myself into their clutches as a blood tribute. As a fucking groupie.
Shaking off the impulse to check and double check my weapons, I lock my feet in with the thin straps on the shoes, tuck a bejeweled comb in my dark hair, slip a pair of blood-drop earrings in my ears, and turn around in front of the mirror again to look at the final result.
My sharp features look almost model-like when combined with the stunning getup and the makeup I applied before getting dressed. My blue eyes look even brighter next to the red of the earrings and the scarlet color of my lips.
Good enough.
Passable, anyway, assuming I can get rid of this scowl.
I try on a few bubble-headed smiles and settle on wide-eyed awe.
That’ll work. Let’s do this.
I throw on a ratty trench coat so I can get downtown without too much hassle. This dress would have me stopped for solicitation in a heartbeat. Not without cause, I suppose, considering what I’m about to go do.
The cab I hail only takes me three-quarters of the way there before I stop the driver and tell him to pull over. It’s not so much because I’m afraid of being followed or traced, but because I really need to settle my nerves before I walk in there. Knowing that I’m going to be around dozens of vampires is making me itch to fight. I need to find softness somewhere inside of me, some sort of doe-eyed naivete, something to hold on to so that I can present the right face to these vermin.
The walk helps—a little, at least. Every time I feel my fingers curling into fists or my shoulders bunching up, I force myself to take a deep breath, hold it, and then release it.
When I finally arrive at my destination, I almost think I’m in the wrong place at first. The bar is fairly quiet, playing some soft-rock bullshit while middle-aged people sit around communing with their drinks. There’s a subtle black door in the back beyond the bathrooms. The bartender catches my eye, glances down at my feet, and nods his head that way.
Perfect, thanks dude.
At least I look the part enough to fool the human bartender. It’s not much, but it’s a start, and I’ll take it.
I follow his silent directions, heading toward the back. Through the door he indicated is a coat check, and beyond that, another door. The second door vibrates with the beat of the stage music beyond.
“Is there a cover charge to get into the club?” I ask the girl who’s standing at a little lectern to one side of the door. My heart stills as I look into her crystal blue eyes. Her narrowing pupils tell me she’s a vampire, and every instinct in me screams to take her out now, while no one is looking.
“Not for women,” she drawls in a bored tone as she takes my big coat and drapes it over one arm. “Here’s your coat-check ticket. Have fun.”
“Yeah, sure.” I crumple the ticket in my palm and toss it to the floor as soon as I’m through the door. I’m not planning to come back for the jacket anyway.
The club is about what you’d expect. It’s not at all my scene, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not why I’m here anyway. All I want is to find the door to the basement. Threading my way through the press of bodies, I pass by stages full of topless—and occasionally bottomless—women, keeping count of any vampires I notice. There are at least a dozen watching the dancers, and just as many dancing.
My stomach tightens, my jaw clenching. I guess that’s one way to get a meal.
When I’m about halfway across the large space, a burly man steps in my path. I stop quickly enough not to run into him, and he eyes me for a second, his gaze running up and down my body.
“You look lost,” he rumbles.
Shit. I knew I was being too obvious. I scramble to think of something to say, debating whether it’s better to attack now before he has a chance to anticipate it—but then he leans down next to my ear and whispers, “Employment or tribute?”
“Tribute,” I breathe.
He nods once and jerks his head, indicating for me to follow him. I do, taking several more breaths to unclench my muscles again as he leads me to a curtain. When he draws it aside with one hand, I see stairs covered in red carpet leading down to the basement.
“Take a left at the bottom,” he tells me. “Ask for Boris.”
“Thanks.”
Lifting the heavy skirts of my dress, I make my way down the stairs, not looking back at the man who waits at the top.
As I step off the last stair at the bottom, I can feel the change in the air. There’s a thick atmosphere of sex and debauchery down here. A flat-screen TV is playing porn on mute, and neon arrows are pointing to the left. There’s a window cut into the wall on the other side of the room with another bored-looking vampire sitting behind it. She flicks her gaze at me and away again, not seeming interested or impressed. She clearly knows why I’m here, and I allow that knowledge to bolster me a little. The disguise I picked is working.
Since the woman behind the window seems content to ignore me, I ignore her too, venturing deeper into the underground club. Scanning my surroundings with a subtle glance, I turn left and step through another curtain. This one leads to a narrow, dingy, poorly-lit hallway which, as soon as I turn the corner, becomes a narrow, dingy, poorly-lit tunnel.