Alexandra Adornetto - Hades

“Excuse me?” I was taken aback.

“We man the entrance. Nobody gets in or out without our say-so.”

“But seeing as you’re a VIP,” Elliott jibed, “you can go right on in or should I say down ?” The pair shared a conspiratorial chuckle.

“And what if I don’t want to?” I said defiantly.

Elliott raised a quizzical eyebrow and waved his hand vaguely behind me. “Honey, can you see any place else to go?”

I had to admit he was right. Surrounding the alleyway was nothing but an oppressive swirling blackness, the kind that looked capable of devouring you. There was only one path with one door at the end of it. Only one direction any of us could take. As much as the idea of going through those doors made me feel queasy, I knew it couldn’t be as dangerous as wandering through the blackness alone. I didn’t know who or what was out there. I still didn’t even know where I was. I felt Jake’s warm breath behind my ear.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “I’ll look after you.” It was strange how they all waited to see what my decision would be. As if I actually had a choice.

I squared my shoulders and stepped forward with bravado I didn’t feel.

Larissa bared her teeth in a smile before grabbing a tight hold of my wrist and turning it upward. Her grip was cold and claw-like, but I tried not to flinch. She held my wrist faceup as Elliott pressed something down on the inside. I braced myself to feel pain, but when I looked, he’d only left an inky imprint behind. It was a stamp of admittance in the form of a smiley face.

Larissa pressed a buzzer and the heavy doors slid open. Jake ushered me into a vast carpeted foyer where flights of narrow corkscrew steps veered like a labyrinth in several directions. There was no time for closer inspection as he steered me swiftly toward the central steps. The pumping music grew louder once we started our descent underground. The sound was so overpowering that I looked hesitantly back toward the open door. Larissa appeared to read my mind.

“Too late to change your mind, sweetheart,” she said. “Welcome to our world.”

Then she slid the heavy doors shut behind us.

I followed Jake down the narrow stairwell until it led to an open dance floor, where a throng of bodies was pressed together, fists pumping the air and heads thrashing to the beat. The dance floor was a checkerboard of colored lights flashing on and off. I was surprised to see people of all ages on it. The sinewy, leather-clad limbs of the elderly contrasted sharply with the firm, exposed flesh of youth. I was startled to see a few children there too. They had the designated task of clearing the tables and refilling drinks. The one thing that united them all — young and old alike — was the vacant expression they shared. It was as if they were only physically present and some vital part of them had been erased. They were like sleepwalkers, consumed by mechanical movements that were only interrupted long enough to down another shot of liquor. Occasionally under the masklike faces I detected a darting eye or nervous flicker, as if something dire were coming. The track playing was a computerized dance number made up of a single line that was repeated continually: “I’m in Miami, bitch.” Light flashed across the polished concrete floor, casting shadows across the bodies moving in sync with the rhythmic beat. The mingled scent of cigarettes, spirits, and perfume was overwhelming.

I’d never stepped inside a club before so I had no point of comparison, but it looked surreal to me. The ceiling was illuminated by a myriad of tiny lights and the walls were lined with red velvet so they looked like upright couches. Scattered around the perimeters of the room were white cubes that served as tables, as well as low velvet couches that looked battered and well used. The tables had glowing, cone-shaped lamps on them and the bar that wound around one side of the club had been crafted to simulate the appearance of molten lava. Around the bar loitered black-suited security guards stonily nursing their drinks. A striking-looking woman behind the bar juggled shot glasses and threw bottles with the dexterity of a circus performer. Her woolly ringlets, flecked with gold, surrounded her face like a mane and she wore a figurehugging red bandage dress with brass armbands. An asp tattoo wound its way up the burnished dark skin of her throat. She watched us distractedly and didn’t avert her gaze even when someone ordered a drink.

As Jake and I inched our way through the press of bodies, the crowd parted to make way for us. They never stopped dancing, but their eyes followed our every move. When someone reached out a tentative hand to touch me, Jake made a low, hissing sound and threw a lethal look. The onlooker’s curiosity shriveled instantly. Jake acknowledged the barmaid with a formal nod that she doubtfully returned.

“What can I get you to drink?” he asked. He had to shout over the music to be heard.

“I don’t want a drink. I just want to know where I am.”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore.” Jake chuckled at his own joke. I had a sudden urge to make him listen — to see how frightened I was.

“Jake,” I insisted, grabbing his arm. “I don’t like it here. I want to leave. Please take me home.” Jake looked so taken aback by my touch he didn’t answer right away.

“You must be very tired,” he said finally. “How insensitive of me not to notice. Of course I’ll take you home.” He signaled to two bearlike men who were standing at the bar in black suits and sunglasses, which looked absurd given we were in a dimly lit club underground.

“This young lady is my guest. Take her to Hotel Ambrosia,” Jake instructed. “Make sure she’s safely delivered to the executive wing on the top floor. They’re expecting her.”

“Wait, where are you going?” I called out.

Jake directed his smoldering gaze at me and smirked, seeming to enjoy my dependence on him.

“I have some business to attend to,” he said. “But don’t worry, they’ll take care you.” He glanced at the bodyguards. “Their lives depend on it.”

The guards’ vacant expressions didn’t alter, but they nodded almost imperceptibly. Then I found myself enveloped by rockhard muscle as they shepherded me out of the club, roughly shoving aside dancers that got in our way.

Back in the underground lobby I peered past my escorts to see that Pride was only one of several clubs that wove their way underground like catacombs. From the murky depths of one stairwell I could hear muffled moans and soon two men in suits emerged dragging a disheveled-looking girl with a tear-stained face. She wore a lacy corset and a denim skirt that barely covered the tops of her thighs. Her struggle to free herself from their vise-like grip was futile. When her eyes met mine, I saw terror in her face. Instinctively I took a step forward, but my move was intercepted by one of the guards.

I brushed them off and tried to sound casual, doing my best rendition of the way the girls at school spoke. “What’s up with her?” I figured the more alarmed I appeared, the less information I’d be given.

“By the look of it she just ran out of luck,” replied one guard while the other punched numbers into his cell phone and muttered our location to the person on the receiving end.

“Luck?” I parroted.

“In the gaming room?” he replied as if the answer to my question was patently obvious.

“Where are they taking her?” This time he merely shook his head in disbelief at my ignorance and walked me toward a long car with tinted windows that had pulled up outside the club. It was strange to see a car indoors, but the underground tunnels, I realized, were wide enough to fit two cars side by side and were meant to serve as roads. The rear door was opened for me and the guards slid in on either side so I was ensconced between their bulky forms. The smell of cigar smoke clung to them.