fragrant, probably courtesy of the flowers and plants placed decoratively around the enclosed area.
The focal point of the polished, wooden door is a gold knocker in the shape of a bird. It is mounted at eye level and its trailing tail feathers act as a handle. I look to Brayden, then shrug as I reach for it.
Before I actually knock, Brayden says, “Look.” He’s nodding toward a brass plaque that is mounted just to the right of the door. I lean over and read it:
Dark Pleasures
Est. 1895
Members Only
“Guess we’re in the right place,” I say, then use the metal tail feathers to rap soundly on the door.
After a moment, the door opens to reveal an elderly man. With his neatly combed white hair, perfectly pressed livery, and don’t-fuck-with-me attitude, I assume he is the butler.
“Um.” I’m about to expand upon that auspicious conversational opener when he sniffs lightly.
“Ms. Hart. Mr. Kline.”
I look to Brayden, who shrugs. Apparently the staff at really exclusive private clubs are expected to identify potential members on sight.
I’m trying to decide if that’s really great customer service or just a little creepy when the butler inclines his head. “Welcome to Dark Pleasures. If you’d please follow me…”
Since there is no rational reason for me to feel so jittery, I resist the urge to take Brayden’s hand. Instead, I make do with meeting his eyes as we step over the threshold and into a dark wood-paneled foyer. Like the exterior suggested, the walls of this room are curved. Other than that architectural feature, though, there is nothing about the room itself that is particularly extraordinary. That honor is reserved to the contents of the room. Specifically, to an enormous glass bowl filled with what appears to be living, breathing fire.
I gasp and move toward it, compelled to take a closer look. The bowl sits atop a marble pedestal in the center of the foyer. Now that I am beside it—close enough that I could reach my hand into the flames—I see that the bowl is filled not with wood or some other fuel, but with red and blue glass pebbles.
I hug myself, squeezing tight to ward off a sudden flood of nervous energy even as Brayden moves to stand beside me.
“That’s pretty cool,” he says. He bends down and looks at it from underneath. “Is there a gas line running up the column?”
The butler’s brows rise slightly, but he says only, “That centerpiece is one of the treasures of the house. Please, follow me.”
The butler continues toward a set of double doors on the opposite side of the foyer. As I fall in step behind him, Brayden shoots me the quirky grin that I know so well—the one that suggests we are setting off on a great adventure. When we were kids, that look used to fill me with a sense of wondrous glee as we would go off to explore the vacant lots and empty houses in the growing subdivision where we lived.
Now, it is not glee that floods me but an oppressive sense of foreboding accompanied by the strange, unwelcome sensation that I am moving inexorably toward the one thing in all the world that has the power to destroy me.
“Jaynie?”
Brayden’s hand brushes my shoulder and I let out a yelp so loud it rips me from my reverie. “Sorry!” I take a deep breath. I am completely mortified, all the more so when I see the way the butler is looking at me, as if I am something unpleasant that a guest tracked in on the sole of his shoe. “I—I was thinking about that bowl. You just startled me. Sorry.” I say the last with a thin smile that I hope looks properly contrite.
It seems to satisfy the butler. Brayden, however, knows me too well. “Are you okay?” His eyes are on me and he speaks with such precision that I know he is worried. That’s fair, I suppose. I’m a little worried myself.
“I’m fine,” I say firmly. “I was imagining what this place may have been like back in the day. Just trying to picture it back then. And I was lost in thought when
The focal point of the polished, wooden door is a gold knocker in the shape of a bird. It is mounted at eye level and its trailing tail feathers act as a handle. I look to Brayden, then shrug as I reach for it.
Before I actually knock, Brayden says, “Look.” He’s nodding toward a brass plaque that is mounted just to the right of the door. I lean over and read it:
Dark Pleasures
Est. 1895
Members Only
“Guess we’re in the right place,” I say, then use the metal tail feathers to rap soundly on the door.
After a moment, the door opens to reveal an elderly man. With his neatly combed white hair, perfectly pressed livery, and don’t-fuck-with-me attitude, I assume he is the butler.
“Um.” I’m about to expand upon that auspicious conversational opener when he sniffs lightly.
“Ms. Hart. Mr. Kline.”
I look to Brayden, who shrugs. Apparently the staff at really exclusive private clubs are expected to identify potential members on sight.
I’m trying to decide if that’s really great customer service or just a little creepy when the butler inclines his head. “Welcome to Dark Pleasures. If you’d please follow me…”
Since there is no rational reason for me to feel so jittery, I resist the urge to take Brayden’s hand. Instead, I make do with meeting his eyes as we step over the threshold and into a dark wood-paneled foyer. Like the exterior suggested, the walls of this room are curved. Other than that architectural feature, though, there is nothing about the room itself that is particularly extraordinary. That honor is reserved to the contents of the room. Specifically, to an enormous glass bowl filled with what appears to be living, breathing fire.
I gasp and move toward it, compelled to take a closer look. The bowl sits atop a marble pedestal in the center of the foyer. Now that I am beside it—close enough that I could reach my hand into the flames—I see that the bowl is filled not with wood or some other fuel, but with red and blue glass pebbles.
I hug myself, squeezing tight to ward off a sudden flood of nervous energy even as Brayden moves to stand beside me.
“That’s pretty cool,” he says. He bends down and looks at it from underneath. “Is there a gas line running up the column?”
The butler’s brows rise slightly, but he says only, “That centerpiece is one of the treasures of the house. Please, follow me.”
The butler continues toward a set of double doors on the opposite side of the foyer. As I fall in step behind him, Brayden shoots me the quirky grin that I know so well—the one that suggests we are setting off on a great adventure. When we were kids, that look used to fill me with a sense of wondrous glee as we would go off to explore the vacant lots and empty houses in the growing subdivision where we lived.
Now, it is not glee that floods me but an oppressive sense of foreboding accompanied by the strange, unwelcome sensation that I am moving inexorably toward the one thing in all the world that has the power to destroy me.
“Jaynie?”
Brayden’s hand brushes my shoulder and I let out a yelp so loud it rips me from my reverie. “Sorry!” I take a deep breath. I am completely mortified, all the more so when I see the way the butler is looking at me, as if I am something unpleasant that a guest tracked in on the sole of his shoe. “I—I was thinking about that bowl. You just startled me. Sorry.” I say the last with a thin smile that I hope looks properly contrite.
It seems to satisfy the butler. Brayden, however, knows me too well. “Are you okay?” His eyes are on me and he speaks with such precision that I know he is worried. That’s fair, I suppose. I’m a little worried myself.
“I’m fine,” I say firmly. “I was imagining what this place may have been like back in the day. Just trying to picture it back then. And I was lost in thought when
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