Part Eight
I understand that, typically, going clubbing isn’t something that would inspire dread and horror unless you’re an introvert, agoraphobic, or both. To explain it, I’ll have to go into the warm, comfortable blanket that is the human capacity for denial.
I mentioned that as far as society is concerned, necromancers don’t exist, yet here I am, a person who’s talked to the dead and bummed a ride from the Lord of the Underworld. Before all this happened, ghosts and demons and vampires and werewolves and zombies and magic were just flavor text for movies or haunts. It’s scary and startling, but in the end just make-believe to keep you entertained, or find a way to express some things that regular concepts seem too small to fit. It’s a way to escape, even if just for a little while, kind of like a romance novel for your anxieties.
Or, you’re one of those people who mutter about how they’d like to see a zombie apocalypse happen, and speaking as someone who deals with zombies, I’m pretty sure those people just want an excuse to shoot someone in the head without guilt or consequence.
Regardless, it all tends to come crashing down when you see an actual werewolf get shot in the head in a busy intersection by a shortbow-wielding man that possesses a level of ethereal beauty not found outside, well, mythology. Also that man is riding a unicorn, has green skin, and his voice gives you an idea what an angel’s should sound like.
Now, I would see this going on and do my best not to stare.
The other people? They hit the brakes and honk their horns and yell profanities because while I just saw a murder? They see a rich asshole who hit a big dog and tied it to the roof of his Bentley before driving away. Unusual? Of course! Supernatural? What, are you crazy?
To put it simply, we humans can’t handle a sight like that. We’ve spent millennia convincing ourselves that we are the top-tier apex of evolution, and that the world works in a very specific way. The moment we see differently? It can drive someone insane.
Why aren’t I crazy? Jury’s still out on that, if I want to be honest.
But back to clubbing.
There are quite a few nightclubs and bars in the City, and most of the good ones are over in Allora, with all the rich people, and the most popular is The Palace of Wisdom. It’s a club built into an old movie palace that never closes, and the line to get in, snarkily referred to as “The Path of Excess”, has a pair of actual satyrs manning the door. There are also a lot of mythical types waiting in line as well, so at first glance, this would be the place to start developing contacts and dance a bit after my detective work was done.
However, it’s two satyrs manning the door, and there are legends about satyrs.
Rape-y kind of legends.
Also I don’t have twenty-five bucks for the cover, and thanks to a certain prick in a black limo, I don’t have my UTA pass, so taking the Blue Line is out, and I’m not walking that many city blocks in Doc Martens, thank you very much.
Which brings me to the other option.
I’m sure there are other places where people and things that shouldn’t exist congregate, but this place isn’t too far from home and there’s decent sandwich place on the walk back that’s open late.
At first glance someone would probably call it a dive bar. And then they’d pat themselves on the back and move on because they’d be right. The parking lot has the prerequisite cigarette butts, crushed beer cans, abandoned junkers, and stray animals rummaging about. No zombies, mostly because they’d likely be killed for wandering this far into Beckettsville, and because the bar’s clientele are the type to not let the walking dead loiter for any purpose save target practice. It’s how I found out about this place, as I had to dig a knife and arrow out of Les one night and he can be chatty when I’m not in work-mode.
My attire is another reason I’m here instead of the Palace, as black cargos, Doc Martens, black t-shirt, and a navy blue leather jacket from a thrift store dive isn’t the club kid couture expected in a place like that.
Before going in, I check my pockets. Phone, keys, five bucks, knife in the back pocket. Left Pumpkin at home, because tonight’s going to be weird enough.
Time to stop stalling.
It’s not all that dramatic when I enter. It’s a bar like most others, with simple tables, chairs, some booths with red leather, a big bar, pool table, jukebox filled with rock music from myriad era, the heavy smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol. The main difference are the people, who all have skin colors outside the human spectrum and pointed ears, some with horns, some with bone ridges, others with “I woke up like this” hair, various spots on the weight and muscle spectrum.
I get attention, mostly because I don’t come in here, I don’t know anyone, and I’m clearly human. A few tense up, I see a couple of hands nonchalantly drop to the hilt of knives. There’s a temptation to just announce myself, make a big production of it to break the tension, but I’m not an idiot. Instead, I just go to the bar.
I want to believe that stereotype about bartenders having information holds true, and that they’ll generally talk to you as long as you aren’t an asshole about it. I say this because the bartender is seven feet tall, has blue skin, horns that curl back from his forehead to behind his ears, black eyes, angular features, and plenty of muscle. I’d snerk at his Iron Maiden t-shirt if I didn’t suspect he not only had one but knew how to use it.
The big gun at his hip doesn’t help, either.
Upon approaching the bar, I’m greeted with little more than a snort. I don’t know what the Hell this guy is, but I’m not planning on pissing him off.
“May I have a glass of water, please?” The quiver in my voice is forced down by sheer will.
I’ve got his attention now, and soon there’s water in front of me.
In a shot glass.
“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”
He turns around, gets two beers and slides then down the bar to other patrons, neither of whom look at me with any interest. I didn’t think anyone actually did that but I’m not about to contradict him. Regardless, I don’t get an answer.
“I’m just looking into something that happened over in the Benedict. I’ll be out of your… er, hair as soon as I know.”
“This isn’t a place for people like you, girl.” His voice is just as deep and gruff as I expected.
“C’mon, Bjorn.” Another voice, down the bar, pale green skin, pointed ears, sort of attractive, and comic-book-character blue hair. His voice is more lilted, but more implying he’s to the right on the Kinsey Scale than inhuman. “Maybe she’ll braid your hair in return? Isn’t it good luck for a maiden to do that for a troll?”
At least I get the name of the bar now.
Under the Bridge