Read Online Hell's Horizon by Darren Shan - Free Book Online Page A

the absent master, so I said I had some personal belongings of Nic’s I wanted to pass on. He deliberated for a couple of grudging seconds, then told me I’d probably find Nick at a club called the Red Throat.
    I’d meant to ask the butler about Nic—household staff are supposed to know all the secrets of their lords and ladies—but his cool manner threw me. I’d felt like a fish out of water to begin with—the last thing I needed was to be taken down a peg by a gentleman’s gentleman.
    The Red Throat used to be called the Nag’s Ass. It had been a real dive until a decade ago. I’d come here a couple of times during my early tenure with the Troops, hunting scum. The neighborhood had improved since then and the Nag’s Ass had come up in the world. The name wasn’t the only change—it had undergone a complete renovation, an extra floor had been added, the front had been adorned with blushing red bricks, stained-glass windows of various designs dotted the walls. I wouldn’t have recognized the place if I’d been passing.
    Bouncers guarded the door, even though it was early in the day and there was no obvious call for them. They stared neutrally at me as I passed, eyes sloppily scanning my body for revealing bulges. Real amateurs. They wouldn’t be joining the Troops any time soon.
    The red walls inside were draped with pink banners and sensuous photos of James Dean, Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio and hordes more pinup boys. Low, throbbing music spilled from the many speakers. A “wet jockstrap” DVD played on the TV sets.
    I wandered to the bar and waited patiently while the barkeep—female in appearance, though I had my doubts—polished glasses. I was casing the joint (I had the detective lingo down pat!) when the barman—his voice ruined the illusion—cut in. “Hi. New in town?”
    “What makes you ask?”
    “Don’t recall seeing you before.”
    “You’ve got a memory for faces?”
    “No. We’re packed wall-to-wall most nights and I don’t even notice the regulars in the crush. But days are quieter. The usual crowd. You get to know them.” He went on polishing.
    “Do you know a guy called Nick Hornyak?” I asked.
    “Maybe.” He grew wary. The hand polishing the glass slowed. He was getting ready to call a bouncer.
    “A friend of mine told me to look him up,” I lied, upping my voice an octave. “Said he might show me around the city and set me up with a place to stay.”
    The barman resumed polishing, doubts vanishing with the smudges on the glass. “He’s shooting pool.” He nodded toward one of the tables in an alcove to the left. “Alone. Likes to work on his technique.” Eyes twinkling, he took my order—lemon juice—and put one of the spotless glasses to use.
    I walked over slowly, studying Nic’s brother. He looked younger than his years, tall, handsome, expensive silk shirt, a gold St. Christopher medallion dangling from his neck, long hair gelled back. He’d have to watch that hair—dangerously thin. By the time he was thirty-five he’d be sticking chunks back on with glue. I knew about hair. Used to date a hairdresser.
    He strolled around to my side of the table and I saw he was wearing a miniskirt. He flicked me the eye, grinned, bent to make his shot. I traced the hem of his blue tights up his long, shapely legs. From this angle he would have excited any guy who didn’t know better. He even had the roll of the hips pegged.
    He sank a ball, turned, leaned against the table and smiled. “I love playing with balls and forcing my way down dark, tight holes. How about you?” I’d watched a lot of noir flicks in my time, but I’d never seen Bogey come out with an innuendo as blatant as that!
    “I’m more into chess,” I replied drily. When he pouted, I added, “But I like your dress.”
    “Silly, isn’t it?” he simpered, lighting a cigarette. He offered one but I shook my head. “I only wear it when I’m hanging around. I would have made more of an effort if