Chapter 8

The air in the speakeasy was thick enough to chew, a humid soup of cigarette smoke, expensive perfume, and the low, brassy groan of the jazz trio playing in the corner. It was a world we had carved out of the mundane, a secret society of two hidden behind a velvet curtain that smelled of old dust and history. But the night had to end. The clock on the wall, ticking with the lazy indifference of a man who didn’t have to leave, had long since passed midnight. I sat in the deep, crimson booth, my fingers tracing the rim of my empty glass. The ice had melted, diluting the last of the bourbon. Across from me, he watched me. He wasn’t looking at the drink, or the band, or the other patrons slipping in and out of the shadows. He was looking at me. Those dark, heavy eyes held a weight that made my skin prickle, a silent command that vibrated through the small space between our knees. It was time. The spell was fraying at the edges. The reality of the world beyond this door was calling, pulling at my heels with a dull, persistent tug. I knew