By the time we arrived in Martinsburg, I wanted to jump from the moving vehicle. As we neared the Falling Waters exit, Daemon asked, “Which one?”
Blake popped forward, dropping his elbows on the backs of our seats. “One more exit—Spring Mills. You’re going to take a left off the exit, like you’re heading back to Hedgesville or Back Creek.”
Back Creek? I shook my head. We’d gone farther into civilization, but the names of some of these towns begged to differ.
About two miles off the exit, Blake said, “See the old gas station up ahead—the pumps?”
Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”
“Turn there.”
I leaned forward to get a better view. Tall weeds surrounded old, worn-out pumps. There was a building—mostly a shack—behind them. “The club is in a gas station?”
Blake laughed. “No. Just drive around the building. Stay on the dirt road.”
Muttering about getting Dolly dirty, Daemon followed Blake’s sketchy directions. The dirt road was more like a path cleared by thousands of tires. This was so shady I wanted to demand we turn around.
The farther we went, the scarier the scenery got. Thick trees crowded the path, broken up by rundown buildings with boarded-up windows and empty black spaces where doors once stood.
“I don’t know about this,” I admitted. “I think I’ve seen all of this in Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
Daemon snorted. The SUV bumped over the uneven terrain, and then there were cars. Everywhere. Cars parked in haphazard lines, beside trees, crammed across a field. Beyond the endless rows of vehicles was a squat, square-shaped building with no outdoor lighting.
“Okay. I think I actually saw this in Hostel—One and Two.”
“You’ll be fine,” Blake said. “The place is hidden so it stays off the grid, not because they kidnap and kill unsuspecting tourists.”
I totally reserved the right to disagree on that.
Daemon parked as far away as he could, obviously more afraid of getting dings in Dolly’s sides than us being eaten by Bigfoot.
A guy stumbled out from among a pack of cars. Moonlight glinted off his spiked collar and green Mohawk.
Or getting eaten by a goth kid.
I opened the door and climbed out, hugging my peacoat close. “What kind of place is this?”
“A very different kind of place,” was Blake’s answer. He slammed his door shut, and Daemon about snapped off his head. Rolling his eyes, Blake stepped around me. “You’ll have to lose the jacket.”
“What?” I glared at him. “It’s freezing out. See my breath?”
“You’re not going to freeze in the seconds it takes us to walk to the door. They’re not going to let you in.”
I felt like stomping my feet as I looked at Daemon helplessly. Like Blake, he was dressed in dark jeans and a shirt. Yep. That’s all. Apparently, these people didn’t care about the male dress code.
“I don’t get it,” I whined. My jacket was my saving grace. It was bad enough that the torn tights did nothing to hide my legs. “So not fair.”
Daemon sauntered up to me, placing his hands on mine. A lock of wavy hair fell into his eyes. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I mean it.”
“If she doesn’t, then this was one huge time waster.”
“Shut up,” Daemon growled over his shoulder and then to me, “I’m serious. Tell me now, and we’ll go home. There’s got to be another way.”
But there wasn’t another way. Blake, God forgive me, was right. I was wasting time. Shaking my head, I stepped back and started unbuttoning my jacket. “I’m fine. Pulling on big girl undies and all that jazz.”
Daemon watched quietly as I stripped away what felt like armor. My jacket off, he sucked in a low breath as I tossed it on the passenger seat. As cold as it was, my entire body somehow managed to feel like it was on fire.
“Yeah,” he muttered, stepping in front of me like a shield. “I’m not so sure about this.”
Over his shoulder, Blake’s brows shut up. “Wow.”
Daemon whipped around, arm flying out, but Blake darted to the left, narrowly missing Daemon’s hand. Whitish-red sparks flew, lighting up the dark lot like firecrackers.
I crossed my arms over my bare midsection, exposed by the cropped sweater and the low-rise skirt. I felt naked, which was stupid, because I wore bathing suits. Shaking my head, I stepped around Daemon. “Let’s get in there.”
Blake’s eyes drifted over me quickly enough to avoid certain death from the irritated alien behind me. My hand itched to smack his eyeballs out of the back of his head.
Our walk to the steel door at the corner of the building was quick. There were no windows or anything, but as we drew closer, the heavy beat of music could be felt outside.
“So do we knock—?”
Out of the shadows, a huge mother of a dude appeared. Arms like tree trunks were shown off by the torn overalls he wore. No shirt, because it was, like, a hundred degrees out here or something. The guy’s hair was spiked into three sections across the center of his otherwise shaved skull. They were purple.
I liked purple.
I swallowed nervously.
Studs glinted all over his face: nose, lips, and eyebrows. Two thick bolts pierced his earlobes. He said nothing as he stopped in front of us, his dark eyes roaming over the guys and then stopping on me.
I took a step back, bumping into Daemon, who placed a hand on my shoulder.
“See something you like?” Daemon asked.
The dude was big—pro wrestler big—and he smirked like he was sizing Daemon up for dinner. And I knew Daemon was probably doing the same thing. The likelihood of us getting out of here without a massive brawl was slim.
Blake intervened. “We’re here to party. That’s all.”
Pro Wrestler said nothing for a second and then reached for the door. Eyes fastened on Daemon, he opened the door and music blared. He gave a mocking bow. “Welcome to The Harbinger. Have fun.”
The Harbinger? What a…lovely, reassuring name for a club.
Blake glanced over his shoulder and said, “I think he liked you, Daemon.”
“Shut up,” Daemon said.
Blake let out a low laugh and went in, and my legs carried me through a tight hallway that suddenly spilled into a different world. One full of shadowed enclaves and flashing strobe lights, and the smell alone was almost overwhelming. Not bad, but a potent mixture of sweat, perfume, and other questionable aromas. The bitter taste of alcohol was thick in the air.
Blue, red, and white lights streamed and dazzled over the teeming throng of undulating bodies in dizzying intervals. If I were prone to seizures, I’d be on the floor in a heartbeat. All the bare skin—mostly female—shimmered like the girls had been dusted with glitter. The dance floor was packed, bodies moving, some in rhythm, others just thrusting. Beyond it was a raised dance stage. A girl with long, blonde hair whirled in the center of the chaos; her slender body was short but she moved like a dancer, all graceful and fluid motions as she spun.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She stopped spinning; her lower half still swayed in tune to the beat as she shoved the damp hair back. Her face was radiant with innocence, her smile beautiful and wide. She was young—too young to be in a place like this.
Then again, as my eyes scanned the crowd, a lot of the kids were definitely not of drinking age. Some were, but the vast majority looked like they were our age.
But the most interesting part was what was above the stage. Cages hung from the ceiling, occupied by scantily clad girls. Go-go dancers was what my mom would’ve called them. I wasn’t sure what the name was now, but the chicks had on some kick-ass boots. The top halves of their faces were covered with glittery masks. All of them had hair that was all the colors of the rainbow.