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At the bottom of the stairs is another door, this one solid and imposing. No guard here—just a small panel with a crimson clover embossed on it. Lena pushes it, and the door swings open silently.

The Crimson Clover is nothing like the rough sailors’ bar above. It’s a study in decadence—velvet drapes, crystal chandeliers, plush seating arranged for intimacy rather than convenience. The lighting is dim, most illumination coming from candles placed strategically throughout the space. A small stage hosts a jazz trio playing something slow and sensual, though few seem to be listening.

The clientele is equally upscale—men in expensive suits, women in evening gowns that cost more than most people make in a month. But there’s something strange about them all, astillness that feels unnatural, a predatory awareness that normal humans don’t possess.

“Vampires,” Lena breathes, confirming my suspicion.

Not just vampires. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I notice humans scattered throughout—but not as patrons. They sit or stand beside vampires, expressions vacant, eyes unfocused. Some bear visible marks on their necks or wrists, fresh or partially healed.

“Jesus,” I mutter, taking in the scene. “It’s a feeding ground.”

Lena’s hand tightens on my arm. “Worse than that. Look.”

She indicates a section at the back of the club, partially concealed behind ornate screens. I can just make out what appears to be a row of small alcoves, each containing a human—chained, docile, with IV lines running into their arms.

“They’re drugging them,” Lena says, horror evident in her voice despite her composed expression. “Keeping them sedated, available whenever a vampire wants to feed.”

My stomach turns. “Is this…normal?”

“No,” she says firmly. “Most of us feed consensually or from blood stores, or, uh, more private methods. But this,” she gestures subtly at the room, “this is perversion. Treating humans like livestock. It’s…violating.”

And now we know what Lena and I were drugged with at the mansion, how Short, Winters, and French all had drugs in their system.

A waitress approaches—human, from her scent, though her eyes have the same vacant look as the others. “May I seat you?” she asks, voice flat and mechanical.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply smoothly, falling into my role. “Somewhere with a view of the room, if possible.”

She leads us to a small table with a good vantage point of both the main floor and the feeding alcoves. Perfect for our reconnaissance.

“Would you care for refreshment?” she asks. “We have a selection of wines, spirits, or…alternatives.” The emphasis makes its meaning clear.

“Just red wine for now,” Lena says, compelling subtly. “And some privacy.”

The waitress nods and withdraws. Once she’s gone, Lena leans close and whispers to me.

“This must be how they select their victims,” she says. “The ritual murders. They bring them here first, evaluate them, perhaps test their blood. I don’t recall Betty ever going anywhere like this, but it was hard to know with her.”

“From what it sounds, the Ivanovs had their claws in Short for a long time. They probably had no need to bring her here. The others though…”

Before she can respond, a familiar voice cuts through the ambient noise of the club.

“Well, what a delightful surprise.”

We look up to see a stunning blonde approaching our table, her platinum hair styled in perfect waves. It takes me a moment to recognize her without the glamour—the blonde Ivanov from the night Lena and I were drugged and manipulated.

“Katya,” Lena says.

“You remember me!” Katya seems genuinely pleased. “Most don’t. Compulsion can lead to clouded minds. You must be special.” Her gaze shifts to me, eyes narrowing slightly. “In fact, I know you are. Both of you.”

She slides into the third chair at our table without invitation, her movements liquid and graceful. Up close, without the glamour that had concealed her true nature at the mansion, her vampire features are more evident—the unnatural stillness, the predatory focus, the faint luminescence of her skin.

“We didn’t properly introduce ourselves last time,” she says to me, smile revealing the edge of fangs. “I’m Katya Ivanov. Andyou’ve already met my sister Tatiana.” She gestures toward the bar, where the brunette from the mansion stands watching us, raising her glass in mocking salute.

“Charming family,” I say dryly. “Do you often drug and manipulate your guests?”

Katya laughs, the sound like crystal shattering. “Only the interesting ones.” She turns her attention to Lena. “And you, my dear, areveryinteresting, on top of being very, very pretty.”

She reaches out, taking Lena’s hand before either of us can react. Lena tries to pull her hand away, but Katya holds fast. “Let go,” Lena says, voice tight.