The man’s eyebrows rise now as he blinks. Though he’s fierce, I see shock come into his dark crimson and copper eyes, as he says, “Wait a moment.” He steps back, then slams the door in our faces. We’ve been waiting so long, I’m just about to tell Ström that Emil’s ruse hasn’tworked and we need to try to use our chartreuse tattooing to get in the normal way when the man hauls the door back open.
Then steps back into an alcove—inviting us inside. “This way.”
We don’t hesitate, as Ström takes point again, leading us inside. I go second and Bjorn guards our rear, all three of us looking around now as we scan the shadows for threats.
Even Ström is in uncharted territory now, with Emil’s secret entrance to The Chartreuse. As we receive an indication to hand over our weapons, me turning over all my knives just like Ström said would happen, we’re led through a dark series of plain back hallways that are clearly for the staff.
I know this isn’t a normal entrance to the club, as we head past dressing rooms for bartenders, then other areas for performers and musical acts. We move through a backstage spot, and I hear riveting EDM music, much like what Mikkel and Lærke had going at The Vault near the Old Palace.
We bypass those areas, however, and soon come to a quieter 1800s-styled parlor, entirely decorated in spring green and gold. It’s like the Victorian era never died, with a wash of green fairy opulence and Absinthe, as couples chat on vibrant spring green velvet lounges all around.
Ornate mirrors and chandeliers absolutely dripping with crystal throw that heady green color everywhere. I know how The Chartreuse got its name now, as I see what was the original styling of the club in this sprawling, secluded parlor.
But as I get a glance at people coming in through spring green velvet curtains, I see the club beyond is more modern now, done mostly in gold and black. It still has elements of Victorian styling and splashes of vibrant chartreuse color everywhere, though, in massive pop art pieces on the walls, and graffiti murals.
We’re led through the chartreuse foyer, then in through a heavily guarded whitesilberskraedoor into a private VIP area. The door is guarded by security personnel in black t-shirts and jeans, who are allpacking black kevlar shoulder holsters and modern, military-issue handguns.
They’re Mikkel and Lærke’s best, I know, as we’re ushered into the VIP area beyond. This area is decorated just the same as the Victorian salon, though far more cozy. An opulent smoking lounge and gaming area, it’s vacant right now, except for two people lounging at a set of spring green scrollback chaises near a crackling fireplace.
Idly, they reach out, making moves on an ornate mother-of-pearl and black onyx chess set on a gilded table between them. As they sip chartreuse cocktails in matching martini glasses, I feel their dark, massively intense energy.
And I know it’s Mikkel and Lærke Thorsen before they even notice we’ve arrived.
They do now, however, as both stand and turn towards us, setting down their drinks. Statuesque, Lærke is as white-blonde as Mikkel is gloriously dark.
Wearing a spring green cocktail dress with cream lace at the shoulders, Lærke’s exceedingly long platinum blonde hair is braided half-back from her crown in Viking style, cascading down her back to her butt. Her bright lavender eyes hold a fiery ring of crimson at their center, her full lips so red and her complexion so pale, she looks almost like a Vampire, except for her roaring energy, which is all dragon.
Mikkel is just as arresting as his sister, with his glorious lean height and dark brown hair that’s nearly black, slicked back tonight in a short, rakish style that suits him. He’s almost casual compared to her, wearing only a crisp white shirt and charcoal slacks, his shirtsleeves rolled up and the same silver and gold dragon ring on his left index finger I saw last time we met.
But Mikkel’s handsome Adonis face and chiseled, sculpted beauty with his full lips make him drop-dead gorgeous. It’s an all male beauty, however, as his dark eyes pin me.
The cinnabar color of his dragon flaring in them—roaring to see me.
Reprimand is on Lærke’s tongue as she opens her full lips, however.Fury is in her eyes that she and her twin were interrupted—until she sees us.
Her demeanor goes ice cold now as her fiery eyes pin me. Ström she notes with wariness, Bjorn with a tight frown, but I’m definitely on her shit list, as she comes right to me, her energy surging in a tirade to pummel me.
Even as she does, Mikkel moves in fast. He holds a hand out in front of his twin, stopping her from accosting me—even as my energy surges up fast for a fight. His eyes pin me again as wariness—and eagerness—war inside him to see me. He holds out a hand to me, asking me to stand down now, and for some reason, I do.
As Mikkel turns to his sister—pinning her with his dark eyes.
“Lærke,” he says firmly now as he stands between us. “These are friends of ours. Can it.”
“They’re going to lead the Black Dragon Knights’ Council right to us, if they haven’t already by their stupidity coming here!” Lærke huffs now, as she throws a hand up at us. She’s not menacing me with her magic anymore, as I feel its terrible, dark coils ease back from where they were about to cinch me up like a boa constrictor, but she’s not far from it.
Suspicion and wariness in her, as she regards us.
“These ones came in through the underground gate,” our bouncer says now as he juts his chin at us. “Said they’re special friends of Emil’s.”
“Are they?” Mikkel’s gaze looks surprised now as he blinks, then looks quickly at Ström. “I didn’t know you were a personal friend of Emil Beck, Ström Eriksson. You have many surprises.”
“And many more to come, I’m sure.” Ström nods, even as he flashes a hard smile at the twins. “In any case, we didn’t come into your club via normal means, so I doubt the Council trailed us. We’re staying at the Gilded Cage; you know their searches can’t penetrate Emil’s wards, and his protection goes with whoever stays there, for a time. Even if we’d waltzed in through your front door, the Council wouldn’t have been able to tail us. So leaveoff.”
“He’s right, Lærke.” Mikkel’s gaze pins his wrathful sister, who has crossed her arms now as she fumes, tapping her foot. “Emil’s wards are potent; even you and I could not crack them. He’s ancient and has his ways… far stronger than us modern Blood Dragons, by a lot.”
“Emil’s old?” I blink then, having not gotten that feeling from him at all.
I know now just how strong he was to hide it.
