Fire and Bone (Otherborn #1)(32)
We drive quite a ways down the Pacific Coast Highway to the 10, then head into Downtown. Our driver doesn’t seem to mind Aelia’s weird chanting, so it makes me think he’s used to the freaky. Maybe he’s a vampire? Or a pixie?
“Are there male pixies?” I ask.
Aelia gives me a tired look. “Tonight isn’t a factoid mission. It’s meant to be fun. But yes, there are guy pixies, though they tend to be rare.”
“What other kinds of creature things are there?”
“Are you serious? You’re going to ruin my night, aren’t you?”
“You’re ruining mine, so fair’s fair.”
“So rude.” She pulls a compact from her clutch and opens it, examining her makeup in the tiny mirror. “Our world isn’t some show on TeenNick. It doesn’t fit in a Hollywood box.”
She could’ve fooled me. “Fine, we’ll talk about how you’re a psycho manipulator who may be trying to get me killed, then.”
She glances at the driver like she’s worried. “Whatever, let’s not.” She pauses, then says, “It’s not that complex. I hear you already met Ben, a shade, so the bloodsuckers are checked off. And then you met Niamh, and she’s a pixie—though pixies are thick on the ground in LA, so you’ve probably met a few of those. There are also alfar, wraiths, and selkies—which are like mermaids, except they don’t have fins.”
I’m suddenly ten years old again. Part of your world . . . plays in my head. “Mermaids are real?”
“Don’t get too excited. Selkies aren’t anything like Ariel. Unless Ariel bit off people’s tongues.”
A shiver runs through me. Okay, I don’t really want to know more on that score, and she’s probably just trying to shock me, so I pretend I didn’t hear and ask, “What are alfar?” I’ve never even heard the word before.
“They’re earth-based beings, sort of like pixies—which are actually air based—but alfar are way more rare and a whole lot smarter. Tricky little bastards, usually. I guess you could say they’re similar to those elves from Lord of the Rings. They’re warriors and guards for the demi lines.”
“And wraiths are like ghosts?”
“No, ghosts are from human spirits. Wraiths were never human. They’re where humans got their legend of demons from, and alfar are sorta how they got angels. But trust me, you don’t want to run into either of them. Not while you’re so unaware. If you see one, just walk—or run—in the other direction.”
Nice. I want to tell her I don’t have a freaking clue what either look like, but realize it’s pointless. “So, where are we going exactly?”
“The Fitzgerald. Super exclusive.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“It’s a club.” She makes a duh face. “Humans don’t end up there much—or, I should say, not many are let in. Just enough so it’ll feel real. And the blood attracts the shades, which is good for business because shades tend to be . . . pretty.”
“That James guy is a shade,” I say, trying to link it all together.
She looks uncomfortable. “Yes, but remember, you never saw him at my house.”
Well, looks like I’ve got dirt on her too. Not murder dirt, but something to hold on to for later, in case I need ammo.
The car pulls up in front of a building, and I realize I’ve been so focused on getting information from Aelia that I didn’t even notice we were smack-dab in the middle of the city. It’s only nine o’clock, but there’s already a line down the street along the building; the figures are lit by the sign above, which in large cursive letters reads “The Fitz.” It looks like something from old Hollywood. And then it dawns on me—the club is named after F. Scott Fitzgerald, the author of The Great Gatsby. I assumed she’d be taking me to some gaudy neon palace of techno, but this place actually seems classy.
The structure is old—it looks like it might’ve been a municipal building, with white stone walls and a large metal door about ten feet high that’s etched with an Art Nouveau design. There are actual silk ropes marking off the waiting area and a red carpet leading from the sidewalk to the entrance.
Our driver puts the car in park and gets out, then comes around to open the door on Aelia’s side. She slides out gracefully, obviously practiced at presentation. She looks like she’s posing for paparazzi, but I don’t see any—just a couple of girls with their cell phones out, filming. I’m not so delicate when I emerge, feeling like a lobster escaping a trap as I scoot across the seat. My skirt ends up awkwardly hiked to my thighs by the time I finally get free of the car, and I have to straighten myself out with the whole line of club bunnies looking on. More phones lift to document.
I ignore the gawkers and follow Aelia as she heads for the entrance as if she owns the place. I’m a little wobbly in the heels on the red carpet behind her. One of the large men flanking the entrance nods to her like he knows her and opens the heavy door, ushering us inside. The guy with the clipboard gets on a walkie-talkie and says something, but I don’t hear what it is.
A strange combo of big band and electric music fills the air around us in the entryway. My skin tingles as the pulse of the notes crawls over me, and the smell of clove cigarettes and new paint fills my head.