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Chapter One Hundred Five

LUNA

“Stay close,” Orlando says when the Uber pulls up to an address on Fourteenth Street.

“Okay.” I agree without thinking much about it. I’ve already opened the back door and put my foot on the curb. There’s a crowd I have to get through.

At another time, before Italy, before Carmine, before meeting vampires, werewolves, and seraphs, I would have been very impressed that the Fifth Chamber had a line around the block.

I would have been proud that the huge guy in the bomber jacket with 5C on the back opened the rope for me before I even started for the end of the line.

I was in before Orlando was even fully out of the car.

At another time, I might have even said, “No, it’s fine, thanks, but we’ll wait.”

Not today.

Today, I don’t care. I have to beat Carmine down there. I can be annoyed that it took extra time to get dressed instead of just coming as I was, but I’m pretty sure the orange dress is how I’m avoiding the line.

Orlando is talking to a guy in horn-rimmed glasses, holding an iPad and pointing at some faraway place that I’m not. They do a dance, turning around each other to get a better view of something down the block. Probably the end of the line, which I’ve already taken care of with a magic closet.

He needs to get a move on. I know this site is his job, but I’m too antsy to join him for a make-nice session with the security team.

“This way,” a woman in camo culottes says, hand out to a narrow, open door.

Orlando has his back to me. He’s nodding.

I go through the door. He can catch up.

In two steps, the hall gets very dark. It’s fine. He’ll find me by the scent of garlic.

Around a corner, I can see better. The floor slopes down into a ramp.

All the lights are so red, my dress looks light gray.

A man and a woman are ahead of me. I look for Orlando behind, but I only see a woman in a long white skirt, corset, and a long silky scarf around her neck.

The two in front are also wearing narrow, drapey scarves.

The deep red light does not affect the color of their heightened excitement.

Over the side of the ramp, the club thumps with rave music and the lights flash color after color. The dance floor is a donut enclosing a round bar with a tube in the center that reaches to the ceiling. The tube is filled with water and bright fish.

Where’s Orlando?

I backtrack and meet a small guy with really long hair who’s trying to pass me on the left. His emotional shapes are urgency, urgency, urgency.

“Excuse me,” I say. He slows down, walking backward to face me as he passes, still scrolling his iPad as if there are emergencies on it. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I left my friend outside? Can I exit this way?”

“You can try, but if you want to come back in, you have to wait on the line.” With a quick turn, he trots down the red hall and out of sight.

Well, shit.

I take out my phone to text Orlando, but he’s already left a message.

—did you seriously go in the

donor’s door?