Ceremony in Death - J. D. Robb [39]
Baffled, she shook her head. “It’s, what, an Irish thing?”
“If you like, though it’s certainly not limited to a single race or culture. You are grounded.” He ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders. “Almost brutal in your focus and your honesty. And I’ve lived, let’s say, a flexible life. I need you, and I’ll use whatever comes to hand to keep you safe.” He lifted the ring to his lips. “Let’s just call it covering the bases.”
“Okay.” This was a new aspect of him it would take time to explore. “But you don’t have, like, a secret room where you dance around naked and chant?”
He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “I did, but I turned it into a den. More versatile.”
“Good thinking. Okay, let’s eat.”
“Thank God.” He took her hand and tugged her toward the house.
chapter seven
The Athame slicked a high-gloss sheen over depravity, like the baby-kissing smile on a corrupt politician. One scan convinced Eve she’d have preferred to spend an evening in a low-level dive, smelling stale liquor and staler sweat.
Dives didn’t bother with disguises.
Revolving balconies of smoky glass and chrome trim ringed the main level in two tiers so that those who preferred a loftier view could circle slowly and check out the action. The central bar speared out in five points, and each was crowded with patrons perched on high stools fashioned to resemble optimistically exaggerated body parts.
A couple of women decked out in micro skirts sat spread-legged on a pair of bulging, flesh-toned cocks and laughed uproariously. A skinheaded bar surfer checked them out by prying his hand down their snug blouses.
All the walls were mirrored, and they pulsed with cloudy red lights. Some of the tables flanking the dance floor were tubed for privacy, some were smoked so that silhouettes of couples in various states of fornication wavered against the glass to entertain the crowd, and all were coated with a shiny black lacquer that made them resemble small, dark pools.
On a raised platform, the band pumped out harsh and clever rock. Eve wondered what Mavis would think of their wildly painted faces, tattooed chests, and black leather codpieces studded with silver spikes. She decided her friend would probably have dubbed them mag.
“Do we sit?” Roarke murmured in her ear, “or case the joint?”
“We go up,” she decided. “For the overview. What’s that smell?”
He stepped onto the auto-stairs with her. “Cannabis, incense. Sweat.”
She shook her head. There was something under that mix, something metallic. “Blood. Fresh blood.”
He’d caught it as well. That broody underlayer. “In a place like this, they put it in the air vents for mood enhancement.”
“Charming.”
They stepped off onto the second level. Here, rather than tables and chairs, there were floor pillows and thick rugs where patrons could lounge as they sipped their brew of choice. Those on the prowl leaned on the ornate chrome rail, scoping, Eve imagined, for a likely partner to lure into one of the privacy rooms.
There were a dozen such rooms on this level, all with heavy black doors bearing chrome plaques with such names as Perdition, Leviathan, and—more direct, in Eve’s opinion—Hell and Damnation.
She could too easily imagine the personality type who would find such invitations seductive.
As she watched, a man whose eyes were glazed with liquor began to slurp his way up his companion’s legs. His hand snuck under her crotch-skimming skirt as she giggled. Technically, she could have busted them both for engaging in a sexual act in public.
“What would be the point?” Roarke commented, reading her perfectly. His voice was mild. Anyone taking a casual glance would have seen a man faintly bored with the ambiance. But he was braced to attack or defend, whichever became necessary. “You’ve got more