Dangerous Creatures(42)

Careful, Ridley told herself. But Ridley also never listened to anyone—including herself. And she had spent far too long with Lennox Gates tonight to not know how high the stakes were.

There was no time for careful.

“Really, Link?” Ridley crossed her arms. “Do you really want to do this now?”

“Yeah, really,” Link said. He crossed his arms, too.

“Because I hate to break it to you, but everyone watching you was high.” There. She’d said it.

“What?”

“Sirensong. The joy juice. The Power of Persuasion. Whatever you want to call it. They were Charmed. This whole place is. It’s not you, it’s them.” She tossed her hair defiantly, just for emphasis.

“That’s not what you’re sayin’.” Link stiffened. “You’re sayin’ it’s not me, it’s you.” Link was madder than she could ever remember seeing him. Ridley hated to keep going, but she didn’t have a choice.

She shook her head. “Just listen to me. I didn’t Charm anyone tonight but the bouncer. I told you I wouldn’t do it, and I didn’t. But if someone else is messing with you like that, we need to get out of here.”

Link looked at her in disbelief. “Do you hear how crazy that sounds? You’re freakin’ out because I did okay for once?”

Ridley grabbed his sweaty sleeve. “Nobody’s going to be doing you any favors at Sirene. We can’t trust Lennox Gates. This whole thing is a setup. Why can’t you get it through your thick skull?”

“I don’t know, Rid. Maybe on account a the hole where my brain is supposed to be?”

“Link—”

“Well, don’t worry. Here’s another hole for you, and I’ll make sure it’s an even bigger one. The one between you and me.” Link took off before she could say a word.

Ridley was stunned.

She closed her eyes and held out her hands, using her powers to see what the club really felt like beneath the pounding beat of the bass, above the thick layer of conversation and clinking glasses, through the buzzing lights and the roar of the sound system.

What is going on in here?

She smelled the thick elixir of sugar in the air, the coppery scent of blood. A fire. A kitchen. Things cooking, like in any restaurant. Smoke from a cigar or two.

Her own sweet power.

Basically, it was the smell of Suffer, or Exile, or any Underground Caster club, so long as she was in it.

Ridley felt power, but it felt no different from her own. It spread thickly through the air around her, like the Power of Persuasion. But she didn’t know who was behind it. She was the only Siren in the club, as far as she knew. And she wasn’t using her powers on anyone.

Have I lost my mind? Or just my way?

But her boyfriend was disappearing through the crowd in front of her, and she didn’t have time to wait for the answer.





CHAPTER 19


Something to Believe In


Link!” Ridley pushed her way through the crowd after him, trying to catch up. She followed him up the stairs, down the hall, and through the doors marked BROOKLYN. Moments later, she found herself standing on the empty street, in the miserable, rainy night, but it was too late.

He was gone, and she wasn’t a hybrid Incubus. She couldn’t keep up. She could barely walk in these shoes. And she didn’t have a jacket.

Even Lucille Ball the cat looked sorry for her, dry as she was beneath the awning of the liquor store next door, beating her tail against a trash can lid.

Lucille let out a sympathetic howl.

What a mess.

This wasn’t the way they’d come in, and Ridley was pretty sure it wasn’t the way they should have come out. The doors that opened onto the street appeared to be the doors to a Chinese Laundromat. Signs in the windows in Mandarin advertised what looked like free detergent with every load. A neon sign in Kanji seemed to be the only marker for the club.

Ridley was a little rusty on her Kanji, but she knew this one. It was familiar to Sirens worldwide, and a popular tattoo—aside from the more magical Dark Caster variety. Plus, it was the same in Chinese characters, Japanese Kanji, or old Korean Hanja. In its most rudimentary form, the brushstrokes formed a square body with a tail.

A bird.

Sometimes the character was slightly different. Sometimes it was a person with wings; sometimes it was a bird rising from ashes, like a phoenix; and still other times it was the bird of long life and spirit, the crane.

But it was always the bird.

That was the mark of the Siren, even for a sophisticated, edgy club like Sirene. When it came right down to it, that was what Sirens were—pretty songbirds with nightmares for nests. Creatures with wings that still never managed to fly free. They sabotaged themselves too often for that. Talons for nails—so sharp they could draw blood, so fast you’d never know you were bleeding.

Even when, half the time, the blood was their own.

Sirens were messed-up Dark creations. There was no denying it.

Rid backed away from the door and the club, taking in the street. She was in Brooklyn. She knew that much.

Real Brooklyn. Mortal Brooklyn.

Home to a Siren club.

That was what this was. There was no doubt about it now. The sign, the name, the Sirenes—he wasn’t trying to hide it. It was his little inside joke.