Page 26 of Terror at the Gates

Why?I wanted to ask.So you can pretend we are one happy family?

Except that wouldn’t go over well, and I was also running out of time. I had thirty minutes to get to Praise, and it took about that long just to get back to Nineveh, and that was if traffic was good. Zahariev wasn’t joking about being late either. He was a man of his word to a fault.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, already in motion toward the waiting SUV.

My father followed, taking hold of the door. He filledthe entire opening, blocking the sun and its searing heat. I’d hoped I could just say goodbye and that would be it, but I should have known better.

He frowned at me, his lips tight and eyes slightly narrowed. I’d pushed my luck a little too hard. I was no longer face-to-face with my dad. I was face-to-face with Lucius, and I felt every ounce of his disapproval.

“Do more than think,” he said and shut the door.

I waited until the SUV was moving to let myself breathe, shuddering as the tension left my body.

I used to be better at navigating conversations with my father, able to deflect his attempts to pull me back into his world with a few carefully worded replies, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend I was someone I wasn’t. I thought my father could see that, and he wanted to remind me who I was supposed to be—quiet and compliant, a proper daughter.

Except that I’d never been those things, even when they’d tried to fit me into that box, even when my father had begged me to pretend.

“Would you like me to take you home, Miss Leviathan?”

Every driver who came to pick me up asked. I suspected they had been instructed to do so by my father, but I always said no. I was sure he knew where I lived, so it wasn’t about trying to hide; it was about maintaining my anonymity. The last thing I needed was one of my neighbors watching me arrive home in a vehicle that clearly belonged to the Leviathan household.

It was one thing to be associated with Zahariev, another to be associated with the House of the Sea Serpent.

“No, thank you,” I said. “You may drop me off at theborder.”

The chauffeur did not argue, a lesson they’d all learned the first time I’d journeyed between districts. A man my father had hired refused to let me out unless it was on my doorstep. I sent a single text to my father, which had resulted in a call to the driver. The moment he answered, he paled and unlocked the door without a word.

I never saw him again, and after that, no one argued with me.

I left my father’s car and watched as the driver made his way around the traffic circle, heading north on Procession Street and back to Hiram before I hailed a taxi.

This car was very different from my father’s. The blue leather on the seat was worn to the point that the yellow cushion peeked through. The windows were down, likely because the air conditioner didn’t work. The driver was an older man with long hair and a matching beard. He wore small, round sunglasses, and his arms bore faded greenish tattoos.

“Where to, darlin’?” he asked, flicking the ashes of his cigarette into a Styrofoam cup.

“Praise,” I said. “If you can get me there in seven minutes, I’ll pay you double.”

For someone who couldn’t afford her rent, it probably wasn’t the best move, but with Zahariev’s contribution and a job on the horizon, I was feeling hopeful that the extra cash in my wallet would only grow.

“You got it, darlin’,” he said and stepped on the gas.

***

I arrived at Praise a minute past two.

The club itself didn’t stand out from any other onSinners’ Row. The brick was painted black, and a red neon sign spelled out the name in cursive. There were no windows on the first floor, but the ones on the second were backlit in red at night. Sometimes performers danced in front of them to entice customers inside. That wasn’t unique to Praise though. A lot of the clubs showcased their talent in windows along the street, just in different shades of neon.

Despite the demure exterior, inside, the club was arranged for entertainment. The stage was low and large so that the entire audience would feel immersed in the experience. There was also a catwalk where the girls could saunter, suspended over the floor, to another stage. This one was round and sat atop the bar. Though there was seating—plush red sofas, chairs, and barstools—the floor was always packed beyond capacity, with standing room only. The exception was VIPs, who sat on the opposite side of the club, their balcony level with the bar stage.

When I entered the club, the floor lights were on, and the red tones of the carpet and furniture were almost garish. This was when Praise lost a bit of its luster. It needed the dark to come alive and hide the cracks in its facade—the stained floor, the peeling paint, the worn furniture—but that was true of the entirety of Nineveh.

Zahariev was waiting.

He stood, looking deep in thought, with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. His brows were furrowed, his mouth tight, a sign he was displeased with something—usually me.

His gaze shifted to mine when he heard the door close. He rarely let it trail my body, but today, he gave me a cold once-over.

“Is that outfit part of your routine?” he asked.