Mortal Veil Page 2

  I massaged my temple, trying to ease the tension.

  “Boring,” came a female voice.

  I looked up to see Feebs sitting opposite, resting her chin casually on her hands and her attention fixed on my upside-down book.

  There came a rush of exhilaration to see her, but I tried to hide it, saying, “Jan de Beer was considered one of the greatest painters of the Antwerp Mannerists.” On her blank stare, I added, “It’s how they referred to the style of a group of anonymous painters from Antwerp during the sixteenth century.” I wondered if I’d impressed her.

  Her raised eyebrows served as her an unenthusiastic response. She waved a small, black book in front of me. “Poe!”

  She waited for my reaction and when none came, she said, “The gift I promised.”

  With the back of her hand, she nudged my book out of the way and placed hers down in its place. “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.”

  I sat back. “The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe.”

  “The second I saw your tattoo it was the first thing I thought of.” She opened the book. “Your raven is the exact same one that Poe sketched with his poem in his secret memoir. See?”

  I leaned forward and studied the upside-down drawing.

  “It’s Gothic,” she continued. “It symbolizes a dark secret. And also—” She looked up at me. “A never-ending love.”

  Something stirred within as I studied the small, black bird and then shifted my gaze over to my tattoo.

  She pointed to my forearm, directly at the small, round circle “And this means—”

  “Infinity.”

  “Isn’t it intriguing?”

  “Yeah, I just wish I could remember why I got it.”

  She jumped up and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “Come on, I’m taking you somewhere.”

  I shoved my books into my satchel. “Is this what you Brits call a date?”

  She pressed her index finger to her lips. “Shush, this is a library.” She laughed loudly, leading me out.

  * * * *

  I WAITED for the noisy double-decker bus to pass by us and then asked, “Do you have any idea how many tattoo parlors there are in London?” I dodged a pedestrian. “And yes, I have actually considered tracking down the artist myself.”

  “Then why haven’t you?”

  I hesitated. “Needle in a haystack.”

  From the way Feebs stomped on, turning onto Oxford Street, my reluctance to keep this up had no effect on her.

  She was breathless. “I have a feeling your tattoo might just be the key that unlocks your amnesia.”

  Feebs paused to gaze into the window of Selfridges, her eyes locked on a pair of strappy stiletto shoes. She reminded me of those nature documentaries I’d seen, where the predator locks onto its prey.

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  Quickly broken from her trance, she continued on, navigating her way through the crowd of late night shoppers, speeding up her pace as she tilted her head upward to better read the store names, seemingly knowing where she was going.

  Inside the cool, well-lit parlor, I took in the hundreds of tattoo designs showcased on the walls. To the left rested a bright blue leather couch and beside that, a coffee table strewn with magazines. At the back of the store were two work stations, each with their own metal cabinet, neatly stacked with the artists’ tools and multicolored inks.

  “Come on,” said Feebs, leading me toward a middle-aged man standing behind the counter.

  He looked up when we approached.

  Feebs peeled back my left shirt sleeve for the fifth time tonight, pointed at my raven and peered up expectantly at the heavily tattooed artist. “Does this look familiar?” she asked him.

  “You’re asking if I did it?” he said in a strong Russian accent, studying my forearm.

  “Yes,” she said triumphantly and surprisingly with as much enthusiasm as she’d had when she asked the first tattoo artist we’d met tonight.

  He pulled his lips back in a scowl and looked over at me. “You want to sue?”

  “No.” I hated the idea of having to explain again. “Never thought I’d ever get one though.” I turned to Feebs. “Permanence scares me.”

  “So you like it?” the Russian asked.

  “Sure.” I rolled up my sleeves neatly and admired the craftsmanship.

  “Makes you more interesting,” Feebs said, and grinned.

  The Russian raised an eyebrow. “Now that I remember, it is one of mine.”

  My jaw dropped, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  He rested his forefinger on the circle. “This is a brand. Not tattoo. See, it’s darker. The man you came with asked me to camouflage this—” He slid his finger over. “With the raven.”

  “Why?” Feebs asked the question I was thinking.

  “Didn’t say.” He narrowed his stare. “How can you not remember? You were sober?”

  I shook my head. “What’d this guy look like?”

  He shrugged. “English. Tall. Redhead. Money, you know. You could see he had wealth from the way he dressed.”

  “You don’t know where I might find him?” I asked.

  The Russian hesitated, studying us suspiciously.

  “Please,” I said. “It’s important.”

  He exhaled, relenting. “Don’t tell him it came from me.” He turned his attention to Feebs.

  She nodded in agreement she wouldn’t say anything either.

  “Belshazzar’s, the club in Belgravia.” He raised a long, bent finger. “That’s where he goes.”

  I turned to Feebs and she was already at work on her mobile finding the address.

  “You’ve been fantastic,” Feebs said, hoisting her bag over her shoulder.

  “Be careful,” the Russian said.

  I was about to ask what of, but he’d already moved away and was busy restocking supplies at his work station.

  This conversation was over.

  * * * *

  BELGRAVIA WAS ONE of the wealthiest of London’s districts, if not the world, with its pristine stucco designs and the grandest of classical terraces complimented by the lavish green spaces surrounding it and perfectly tended streets.

  Taking in the grandest of all the buildings, with its towering baroque pillars and opulent cream colored brickwork, Belshazzar’s appeared more like a luxury residence than a club, situated smack bang in the middle of Belgravia.

  Feebs was visibly excited. “See, I told you your tattoo was important.” She beamed a smile and asked, “Does this place seem familiar?”

  I shook my head, questioning her instincts as we approached.

  The front door opened and a man appeared, easily passing for a bouncer, albeit a well-dressed one.

  He seemed to be waiting for us to initiate the conversation and it suddenly dawned on me we probably needed a password.

  “Well, show it to me then,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” I cringed inside.

  Without a word, he grabbed my left arm, eased back my shirt sleeve and gazed down at my tattoo.

  Uncomfortable with his manhandling, I stepped back off the top step, bumping right into Feebs who was standing too close.

  “Well that’s original,” the bouncer said, leaning forward to open the door. “That allowed?”

  “What?” I stepped back up to his level.

  “Adding to the brand?” He gestured that Feebs could enter too.

  Once inside, we shared a congratulatory high-five and strolled down a long hallway decked with crystal chandeliers and a red lush carpet guiding our way.

  When the double doors opened the music hit us. We entered what looked like a swanky bar, the majority of the sharply dressed guests elegantly donned in black.

  Still wearing jeans and a plain white shirt, I felt underdressed and hated being so conspicuous.

  Feebs nudged up against me and said, “Look around, you might know someone. Someone might know you.”

  I gave a nod.


  “I need to find a loo,” she told me and headed over toward the barman.

  After exchanging a few words with him, he motioned toward the end of the sumptuously decorated room and Feebs started off in that direction.

  Discreetly, I scanned the many faces, hoping to recognize someone. I settled on the twenty-something blonde sitting at a table just a few feet away, her tight bodice emphasizing her small waist, her pretty face a little too still as she listened intently to her friend’s conversation, her rouged cheekbones accentuating her paleness. The man beside her, a few years older, possessed startling chiseled features, and his movement was slow and deliberant as he gracefully lifted a glass of wine to his lips and sipped; his eyelids half closed in pleasure.

  It was hard to recall ever seeing this many beautiful people in one place, many of them carrying an air of gothic elitism, a distinction I gathered from their majestic movement, bestowing a quality of preciseness that was compelling to watch.

  Still waiting for Feebs to return, there came a growing unease brought on by the occasional piercing stares that met mine. It appeared the other guests were also sussing me out.

  I was ready to leave and couldn’t wait for Feebs to get back.

  My vodka and Coke was free, but as I tasted it, eyeing the bartender, I had a sneaky suspicion he’d poured two shots of liquor into my glass.

  Only three sips later and I felt the drink.

  “Zach?” A pretty, young, tattooed Asian girl wrapped her arms around me.

  I waited for her to let go and smiled down at her, shouting over the music. “I’m sorry . . .” I could’ve sworn she’d said my name.

  Her expression changed to confusion. “Zach, it’s me.” And then she looked away, her gaze scanning the crowd though seemingly not really seeing it and then she faced me again.

  “What?” I shook my head. “Do I know you?”

  The bartender leaned over and called out to her. “Anaïs, want the usual?”

  There came the distinct impression she really did know me and a well of excitement rose in my chest that she might be able to shed light on those lost years.

  Anaïs ignored the barmen. “Come with me.”

  “I’m with someone.” I gestured toward the elevator.

  Anaïs gawped. “Who?”

  “A friend . . .” I hesitated, unsure how much to share.

  “But you pointed to the lift?”

  “She just went to the restroom. Look, um, Anaïs, pretty name by the way, how do we know each other?”

  She was glaring toward the lift. “She shouldn’t have gone down there.” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Why’d she go in there?”

  “The barman—” I gestured to him. “He said that was the way to the ladies room.”

  “It’s not.” She studied my face. “Why are you here?”

  “Long story.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  Her words stunned me.

  Anaïs clutched my shirt sleeve and tugged me toward the elevator. “We’re getting your friend and you out of here.”

  We edged our way through the crowd until we reached the elevator. She punched the down button.

  “I need you to keep quiet. Understand?” Anaïs stepped inside the cart.

  I followed her in. The doors slid closed and we began our descent.

  I tried to read her. “What’s going on?”

  “You should never have come back.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get your friend—”

  “Feebs.”

  “Feebs, and then you leave. You do not ask any more questions. You never come back here.”

  “Have I been here before?”

  The elevator doors slid open and we were met by what looked like another bouncer, only this one appeared slightly more refined, dressed smartly in black.

  “Which way did the girl go?” Anaïs asked him.

  “End door.”

  “She still in there?”

  “Yes.”

  Anaïs guided me on. “This isn’t good. What were you thinking?” She seemed close to tears. “You made your decision. I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You weren’t supposed to come back.”

  At the end of the sprawling hallway, a door opened and a tall, stunning redheaded man appeared and shut the door behind him.

  His face lit up when he saw me. “Impossible.”

  The Russian tattooist had mentioned a redhead, and this man was also stylishly dressed; it was too much of a coincidence for it not to be him.

  Anaïs looked frightened. “I’ll take care of this,” but it was barely a whisper.

  There was something about him that was difficult to ignore. Perhaps it was the contrast of his pale skin enhancing his shocking titian locks or the way his irises glistened in the dimness. He too carried himself with an unusual elegance, the quiet confidence of authority.

  “Hey,” I said, “I’m looking for my friend?”

  “That’s his friend?” He nodded toward the door.

  Anaïs hesitated.

  He glowered at Anaïs. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Marcus, he doesn’t remember,” Anaïs whispered.

  My focus was on the door behind which Feebs had disappeared and I hated myself for letting her wander off alone.

  Marcus was scrutinizing me.

  I considered going for the handle. If Feebs was indeed inside that room I needed to find her.

  “In there.” Marcus pointed to another room, a few doors down. “Now.”

  Anaïs flinched.

  “Do not for one minute consider this is a discussion,” he said to her.

  “Feebs!” I called out.

  Marcus grabbed my arm with an ironclad grip, forcing me along the corridor and then shoved open a door revealing a dusky room. He threw me in.

  I skidded forward and fell in a heap in the center.

  Shackles hung from the far wall and there was an antique mahogany table strewn with what looked like an equal number of accoutrements to induce torture and pleasure. This was the dungeon from my dreams.

  I swallowed hard to ease my dry throat, as though trying to suck the memories out of the ether.

  “Does this stir anything?” Marcus said, looming in the doorway.

  Pain shot through my shoulder, the soreness of his grip lingering. There was a bitter taste in my mouth, and I knew it was fear.

  I rose to my feet, readying to defend myself. “What’s this about?”

  Marcus was dangerously close. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

  I rubbed my shoulder to make a point. “How do you know me?”

  He stepped even closer, seemingly amused. “Zach, you were never like this.”

  “Like what?” I exhaled deeply, unable to hide my need for more air.

  “Look at you. Acting like a schoolgirl.” He beamed a smile and flashed sharp incisors before they disappeared again beneath full lips.

  “Where’s my friend?” I asked.

  “With Orpheus.”

  “Who?”

  “Take a moment to compose yourself.”

  “Who are you?” I sucked in my breath.

  Marcus strolled over to the far mahogany table and picked up a box of matches. He took his time, lighting several of the scarlet candles resting in brass sconces around the dungeon.

  The pathway to the doorway was open, the door ajar.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Marcus said, touching a dancing flame against a wick.

  I bolted for the only exit and the door shut in my face.

  A strong hand grabbed me from behind, dragging me backward and I was slammed against the wall, my arms violently stretched out either side of me.

  Full of terror, I realized my wrists were secured tightly inside metal cuffs. Marcus had shackled me to the wall.

  “What the fuck is going on?” I yelled, my head reeling.

  �
��I did warn you.” He stepped back.

  Marcus remained quite still; the only movement came from the flickering candle flames and the shadows they were throwing.

  “Get me out of these,” I said.

  He reached over and wrapped his fingers around the handcuff’s chain. “Preventing your escape wasn’t the usual reason you’d find yourself in these.” He gave a suggestive tug.

  I regretted drinking the vodka.

  “It probably helped calm your nerves,” he said.

  My head jolted up.

  “The booze,” he clarified, “you were just regretting drinking it.”

  “But I didn’t say—” I shook my head, trying to focus back on the moment and concentrate on saying the right thing to get me out of these cuffs and out of here. “How do you move so fast?”

  There came a sense that somewhere, at some other time, he had been part of my life. I wasn’t sure how I’d ever have forgotten such a charismatic presence. The way he lowered his chin and held my gaze, seemingly comfortable with the silence.

  “How do I know you?” I asked at last.

  “We were once . . . friends.”

  It was hard to work out if it was the room or him causing me to feel so lightheaded. I feared my drink had been drugged.

  “No one touched your drink,” he said. “It was straight Vodka.”

  Are you reading my mind?

  “Perhaps,” Marcus answered my thought.

  I swallowed hard.

  “Are you ready now,” he said, “for the answers you seek?”

  “Yes.”

  “That circle on your left forearm,” he began, “the brand we failed to conceal, is the mark of a Gothica.”

  “A what?”

  “A Gothica is a servant of the undead.” He moved closer and though his words were quietly spoken, they were resolute. “You were once a Gothica.”

  Whatever a Gothica was, it couldn’t be good.

  “A Vampire’s servant,” Marcus said, his eyes full of intensity. “One who commits their life to serve, in exchange for immortality. If they’re deemed worthy.” Marcus was close enough to touch. “You were my Gothica, Zach.”

  “Yours?” This unsteady feeling reached my legs, but I stood firm, readying for what was to follow.

  “Listen to your heart, you know what I’m saying is true.” He looked upon me with affection, as though remembering conversations we’d shared or perhaps recalling moments that had once passed between us. His expression became solemn. “A few months ago you confessed to me you’d decided not to proceed with the Gothica’s pathway.”