Chapter Text
Perhaps he was at the wrong address.
Quite clearly, the engraved numbers at the shop's entrance read "2154". And this, Simon knew, was Vanover Street.
But Gavin Brothers' Instruments was closed—a wooden sign propped at the front windows said as much.
As Simon paced about, debating if he should chance knocking, a blond man emerged from the entrance and locked the door behind him. He looked to be a couple years younger than Simon and was, if the height of his stylish boater hat was included, nearly as tall.
"Might I help you?" he asked, an accent Simon couldn't place inflecting his words. He eyed Simon with curiosity and a dash of suspicion. When Simon's answer didn't come immediately, the man—who must've been one of the Gavin brothers, the shop's proprietors—stated, "I'm afraid we're closed."
Already, this was off to a dismal start. But for Aura, he had to gather the courage to do this.
"I understand that, but..." Simon hesitated only a fraction before repeating the phrase Ema told him was the password for wishing to access the speakeasy allegedly beneath the shop. "I was hoping to peruse your selection of harpsichords."
Gavin's gaze dragged over Simon, from his newsboy-capped head to the tips of his patent-leather toes. Though he'd purchased a pair of second-hand trousers and suspenders solely for this outing, the fact that he was lacking in any scuffs or grit about his person was a dead giveaway. He should have listened to Ema and gotten them smoky and stained in other speakeasies before coming here to the one Aura so loved to frequent.
Except he'd been too terrified. He was still too terrified at the prospect of entering a place as iniquitous as a speakeasy, knowing what it could cost him.
But he knew not risking this would cost him so much more. He needed Aura back.
Simon fiddled with his cap, hoping the motion would shield what surely must have been an apprehensive expression. "You see, my sister... Aura, that is. She has quite a love for harpsichords."
"Aura?" Gavin asked, in a way denoting this was a name he'd heard before. As he very well should have, given Aura's role with the Gavins' shop—rather, the business run illegally beneath it.
"Yes. Aura Blackquill."
"Ah." Understanding passed across Gavin's face. Then, he fixed on everything past Simon, presumably surveying their surroundings for anyone else in the vicinity. There mustn't have been—strange, Simon thought, if this place were really as popular as Ema had impressed upon him it was—and Gavin turned around, unlocking the front door and motioning for Simon to follow.
Simon did so, trailing after Gavin through the darkened shop. How he wished to linger, to take in the elegant instruments that, as of yet, he'd only seen in passing through the shop's windows. Violas and cellos stood proudly at one side of the shop, shiny flutes and other sleek woodwinds further along. But he had a mission, being here, and could not allow for distractions.
They reached the rear of the shop, which housed an assortment of music stands, as well as rosins, reeds and bowstrings. A door was tucked away in the far corner, and Gavin chose another key from the ring he'd used, revealing entry to somewhere that was, somehow, even darker.
Even though it was in Simon's nature to ask questions—taught to him, too, from all the law classes he'd attended—he kept his lips sealed and allowed Gavin to lead him through the door and down a narrow set of stairs.
"Aura's brother... is that so?" Simon could hear the amusement in Gavin's tone. "I didn't know she had one."
Of course not. Simon was grateful that Gavin wasn't facing him, wasn't able to see the disappointment at being told such a thing in a casual manner. Yet, the words that slipped out betrayed everything he was feeling.
"I'm certain she is oftentimes unaware that she has a brother, either."
A pause. Gavin must be letting the statement process, and Simon cursed himself for making it in the first place.
"But we don't talk all that much; she associates much more with Kristoph. Her boss, ja?” German, then, Simon noted as Gavin pressed on. “Everyone's boss, actually. Even mine. So that makes us co-workers, not friends. Achtung, watch your last step here, it's a doozy!"
Even with the forewarning, Simon stumbled slightly as his foot transferred from the wooden stairs to the solid, concrete floor. Gavin was right; it was more of a step-and-a-half drop compared to the ones before. Luckily the banister, albeit in need of repair, was there to steady him. The banister, and Gavin's hand at Simon's elbow.
"There you go, Herr Ballonmütze."
Simon wanted to jerk his arm away, but found himself too stunned by the rakish smile Gavin was flashing him, that lit the room more than the bulb that had just been switched on overhead. It was far too friendly a smile for them having just met, and perfectly fit the description Ema had given him from her jaunt out here a few weeks ago. This was, unmistakably, Klavier Gavin.
But Ema was a girl—a woman, rather, and an attractive one at that (not that Simon, personally, found himself attracted to her). She would be subjected to such a flirtatious look. Simon was neither female nor attractive, and because of this, couldn't comprehend why Gavin would opt to act in such a way towards him.
Gavin removed his hold first. He swept an arm out to the area around them, which appeared to be less storage and more of a workshop of sorts—including precisely what Simon had requested to see, against the wall several strides away. "Your harpsichord, as promised. Would you like to give her a listen?"
Simon nodded in silent assent, and followed as Gavin moved closer to the harpsichord. "Pardon but... Herr...?" He trailed off, unable to get out the far trickier word. "What did you call me?"
Nevermind that it was distinctly German, a language no one openly spoke if they'd any care for personal safety.
"Ballonmütze," Gavin repeated. With the same winning smile, he put a hand to the brim of his boater hat and doffed it, revealing a head of slightly mussed hair—which, Simon suspected, had been styled that way purposefully. "That which you wish to hide yourself behind. Besides, I never got your name, and I don't think either you or I want me calling you, 'Aura's bruderlein.'"
Simon touched his cap, feeling terrifically self-conscious about having worn it. It wasn't even his; it belonged to the family footman, Yuri. But Simon couldn't very well stroll into any speakeasy with the pricey Homburg his father had purchased him a couple months ago upon his graduation from law school.
"Simon," he introduced himself, wondering if he should extend a handshake. He decided against it, having reached his capacity for physical contact with Gavin for the evening. "Simon Blackquill."
Gavin stood at the harpsichord, fingers idly brushing its keys but not pressing. "Simon," he confirmed. "It suits you. But then, so does Herr Ballonmütze, so I may stick with that for the time being."
Simon frowned. "It sounds childish."
"Trailing after one's older sibling is acting childish, wouldn't you agree?"
Simon didn't like Gavin's response, but nor could he refute it. Perhaps at its core, yes, what he was doing was rather juvenile in nature. But Gavin didn't—couldn't—comprehend the reasoning behind it. Even Simon found himself perplexed at his own determination; all his pleasant memories of Aura were buried under more recent events. Suppressed, Doctor Cykes would say, and it was only through her that Simon was able to have a sliver of understanding as to what his distress was truly rooted in.
"The harpsichord, Mr. Gavin," was Simon's stern reply.
"Mister Gavin, he says! Hah!" Gavin gave a light laugh, rolling his eyes. "Oh, Herr Ballonmütze, you might resemble your sister, but you don't share her spirit, by any means. But soon enough, we will remedy that, and have you sharing many spirits. If you catch my meaning."
Gavin turned back to the harpsichord, readying his fingers at the keys, one hand at each level. It was a fine specimen, a gold finish, an intricate and lush mural painted upon its open lid. Simon wondered what it was doing down here, and not up in the shop for sale, but then again it could hold a certain sentimental value to one or both of the Gavin brothers.
When Gavin began, Simon recognized the melody instantly: the opening to Für Elise by Ludwig van Beethoven. And only the opening line, for then Gavin halted, looking to the wall behind the harpsichord. It gave a great shudder, like a last dying breath, causing Simon to back up and for Gavin to chuckle. Then, the wall—it wasn't a wall any longer. It fell backwards, slowly, like a drawbridge being lowered, creating a shallow ramp into a dimly-lit corridor.
Simon stood, dumbstruck, staring at the large, square hole in the wall. The whole production, one particular song triggering a secret passageway, was uncannily like something Aura would attempt to create
"Schnell, schnell!" Grinning, Gavin motioned Simon into the passageway. "We don't want to be late—not that there is any appointed time for you to arrive, but I don't want the rest of my band to worry."
"You speak an awful lot of German," Simon commented, following Gavin. This young man was tremendously brazen, using even the simplest of German words. Then again, if he was a musician at this speakeasy Simon had learned so much about, it was hardly the most egregious offense he was guilty of.
Simon could sense the ceiling mere inches above, crowding him and causing him to hunch slightly as they moved along. He had a hard time picturing it ending at a booming speakeasy spilling over with the frenetic energy Ema had claimed it possessed.
"I am German," Gavin replied once they were fully swallowed into the dank, dreary corridor. "And I must pretend otherwise all day when interacting with our customers—the law-abiding ones, that is. I'm Konrad and Kristoph is Kristopher—or, Kris, to me. He loathes both, but understands it's a small sacrifice, masquerading as Americans to make real American money."
"And in truly American fashion, I see," Simon said, alluding to where they were headed. "I wonder, is this... typical, that you escort your guests personally through here?"
"Nein, never personally—but for the brother of our reliable supplier, an exception I can make. Families—siblings—those are important bonds that I will gladly honor. Just do not let Kristoph catch wind of it. He is... shall we say, much more stringent about our security measures and would not see you as someone worthy of exception. It took a great deal of begging and groveling for me to convince him the other members of my own band—a lifelong friend, included—were worthy."
Simon's mind slipped into prosecutor mode. Should he be filing this away, relay it to the proper department when he went back to the office on Monday? Oh, but would they even bother to listen to him? He doubted it.
"I suppose you can't be too careful," Simon said, in a similarly careful tone. Gavin had yet to fully answer his question—namely, about the corridor's use itself.
"Exactly! While it would please me greatly if I were to be your personal escort should you ever come visit us again—which, I hope you do—it’s better you enter from the new patrons' entrance. It's at the end of the block, behind Hart's Photography Studio."
The photography studio? But that was three buildings away. Just how big was this Devil's Den?
And what exactly did Gavin mean by new? Something had happened between Ema's visit and tonight, and Simon's first and foremost worry was that Aura had been affected by it somehow. Was she safe, healthy? Or had she been arrested? If she had, he doubted he would have found out, with the nature of her crimes—prohibition had its own division of officers and other civil servants enforcing it.
Which did not include Simon. He was a newcomer at the city's prosecutors' office; he didn't even have a detective assigned to him yet, and the only case he'd worked had been prosecuting a petty thief accused of snatching and hoarding women's undergarments. Not the most illustrious start to a career, especially one that he already lacked passion for.
"We came dangerously close to being raided just two weeks ago," said Gavin, snapping Simon out of his ruminations. "That's when Kristoph decided to tighten up with who can access the speakeasy and how. Letting people in through the shop was a mistake, he said. That they could have seen too much, and ah, he doesn't take lightly to being proven he was even slightly mistaken. The passageway in the workshop never used to require the harpsichord to open it—that was Aura's idea. Her handiwork, too."
"I believe it," Simon interrupted, able to smile for the first time thus far this evening. His assumption had been correct; he still knew Aura well enough.
"Only a select few of us have the knowledge of how to open it—including you, now. I hope I haven't been mistaken in providing that information to you."
"No, you..." Simon's words died off as he heard, faintly but distinctly there, the hum and chatter of a thriving crowd. And then it was no longer faint, it was almost deafening, that he couldn't make out what it was Gavin was saying to him as he turned to Simon while reaching his arm straight ahead.
There was no door, only a heavy velvet curtain that Gavin swooshed aside. They'd been walking at a normal pace, but Simon might as well been thrown, pitched off a cliff, for how quickly it all came at him, and impacted him so severely.
They were on a stage now, that ran from one end of the room—hall, really, as it reminded Simon of the lecture hall he'd taken his Evidence Law course in—to the other. And it overlooked the most electric crowd Simon had ever seen—even the fraternity parties he'd been dragged to while in college, which he thought were outlandish, paled in comparison to what was before him. It was like being insider a powder keg, fit to combust from all the laughter and gaiety. Flashy suits and short gowns with fringe fanning every which-way; glitzy jewels and accessories on every available limb blurring with the glinting glasses and flutes full of, surely, alcohol being passed around without the slightest care. He felt sinful for even witnessing it, that he might as well face the gallows, by all accounts guilty by association hundreds of times over. Such brazen debauchery, that smelled like cigar smoke and floral perfumes and sweat.
And the decor: the decadent combination of red and black creating a sensation of being somewhere forbidden and at the same time, renowned. The austere paintings along the walls, so many of which depicting scenes that Simon recognized as being from Dante's Inferno or Paradise Lost.
The Devil's Den lived up to its name.
He was going to be ill. His stomach felt so heavy, the weight of his disgust anchoring him to where he stood; it was beyond what he could have imagined. This is what Aura made her daily life about—how she saw fit to earn a living. A dishonest, depraved living and worst of all, she was proud of it.
More so, he felt a twinge of disappointment towards Gavin, too. But why? He knew going in tonight that the Gavins saw themselves somewhere above and beyond American laws, allowed to amend them as they saw fit. But the younger one, Klavier—he'd been so kind thus far. Overly friendly, if anything. Or, at the very least, more friendly than what Simon had experienced while in college. He didn't comport himself like someone morally objectionable. Certainly not like a criminal.
Criminals. Simon was drifting amidst an ocean of them—everyone person here, himself included, technically speaking, was complicit in engaging in illegal activity.
Aura was here among them, she had to be. He needed to find her, and the stage would make a perfect vantage point, but he found himself drawn to look for Gavin, who'd left his side, first.
He didn't have to search far. Gavin had crossed to the stage's center, where he stood talking with two other musicians beside a piano. His aforementioned band.
Simon wanted to cry out for him to come back, but would he be heard, over the sound whirling around and around the establishment, a funnel of noise? Over all the tinkling laughter and jubilant cheers as the patrons danced and drank, drank and danced, even without music?
Of the two men, one was closer to Aura's age and with a darker complexion. He had a rough appearance about him, marked by a hooked smile as he set his saxophone down, trading it for a mug that had been placed on the piano's arm.
The other man was younger, likely Gavin's age, given how he was angled closer to Gavin, a relaxed posture to him that could only come about from familiarity bred long ago. His black hair was somewhat longer than Simon's and combed in a more modern fashion, styled with product, and he was dressed much like Gavin. Patterned neutral-toned vests and oxfords replacing the more formal jackets and patent leathers like what Simon favored. His string double bass appeared to follow suit in terms of modernity; Simon couldn't spot a bow anywhere, despite how many he'd seen available in the shop above.
Simon found the wherewithal to move, and took the several steps required towards Gavin. It was an action he immediately regretted; the bassist spotted him and threw a nod Simon's way, tight smile spreading into a shark-like grin.
"Oh. Mixing business with pleasure, huh? Explains why you were late." His eyes were on Simon, but his cutting words were pointedly meant for Gavin.
Simon's mouth fell open. Did this bass player honestly assume that Gavin—and Simon himself!—were homosexuals, just because they'd walked in together? How obnoxious, especially considering (not that the bass player would know) Aura was already openly vocal about her various sexual pursuits of women. One child with such misgivings was enough in this family.
Gavin, however, simply laughed. As if this was not the first time he'd been accused of such apparent indiscretions. He reached out, gave the piano a pat. "Hah, oh, Daryan, you know I've only eyes for Speiler. And I don't think Herr Ballonmütze here even knows the meaning of the word 'pleasure'." He threw a nod towards Simon, then faced his friend again, mimicking the sullen expression Simon had worn most of the evening.
Why was this so humorous? Even with his longest-standing friends—that is, his one friend, Ema, who he'd known for barely over a year—Simon wouldn't dare to crack jokes about such a topic.
The saxophonist swaggered up to the three of them, and Simon could see—and smell—that his mug, shockingly, did not contain alcohol. The fragrance of dark coffee wafted into the air, turning Simon's insides even more. He wasn't fond of the beverage.
If the saxophonist had heard any part of the exchange between Gavin and Daryan, he didn't show it. Instead, he just drew a slow, thoughtful sip of his coffee.
"Ha...! Why don't you see how he holds up once we start playing hot and fast, Piano Man? You shouldn't judge a brew by the mug it's in," he said, raising his mug towards Simon. "That's one of my rules."
Again, Gavin laughed. This was all fun to him. Amusing. Was that what Simon was meant to be, too? Just another source of this amusement, something for him and his fellow musicians to point at, heckle? He should have assumed as much from someone Ema had described as a "real sheik".
"Simon, this is my band: Daryan and Diego," he indicated the men respectively, then turned to look at Simon. “And I'm Klavier, by the way. I never did introduce myself, did I?"
"I know who you are."
"They all do." Daryan elbowed Gavin, still sporting that caustic smile.
Gavin shoved him back playfully. "Simon is a guest of honor tonight, ja?"
"Oh, one of those, huh?" Diego said, another sip of coffee half-hiding a knowing smirk.
"One of those," Gavin confirmed. To Simon, he added, "If you want to be, of course."
"What does being a 'guest of honor' entail, exactly?" Simon didn't wish to be rude, but he was here to find Aura. Gavin had led him to his destination; this would be where they parted ways—for good, if he could help it.
"Not much at all! Just you watching us from the best seat in the house: side-stage."
That didn't sound too complicated. It wasn't ideal; he’d be blinded to certain parts of the hall versus being out on the stage. But there was the plus of Simon potentially spotting Aura from here without her spotting him, giving him time to plan a way to reach her before she, once again, expertly avoided him.
"In that case, yes. It sounds... er... smashing."
Daryan laughed through his nose, and Diego was rather unreadable, still sipping at his coffee. Gavin, on the other hand, seemed absolutely thrilled at this development, in a smug way as if he'd planned for everything leading to this moment.
"Excellent! Then how about a round, Herr Ballonmütze? Before we go on in ten?"
A round? Of what...? The only things Simon knew that came in rounds were applause or bullets, neither of which he was particularly keen on accepting...
Oh. Right. He'd never tasted alcohol in his life, save for that one sip of sake Doctor Cykes had shared with him soon after Aura'd introduced them last year—it was how he'd met Ema; she'd been the one who'd fermented it, gifted it to Doctor Cykes. It was as illegal as all the bathtub gin being transported to every corner of the city but they could get away with it since there was little (no) priority placed on a product half the Feds likely couldn't even pronounce correctly. That, and an instructor at a women's college would be under no suspicion. Simon had reasoned all this to himself, that it was merely Doctor Cykes wishing to share with him the culture they were both enamored with—he, a part of. Not criminal activity.
He could only imagine what she might think of him now—what she'd think about Aura, too—if she knew they were at a place like this, a far cry from testing a students' experiment. It could be the end of their friendship as they knew it.
Shaking the possibility away, he put a false enthusiasm into his voice. "Yes, absolutely! I'm here, aren't I?"
Gavin sent Daryan and Diego to obtain the drinks, and they did so without dissent; it was obvious he was the leader, and likely not just because his name was on the shop's sign. No, Gavin had confidence about him that made it all too easy to respect him. Do whatever he asked.
Like staying to watch a jazz band from the side stage, instead of looking for his sister and taking the lengths to put as much space between them and this wicked place as humanly possible.
Already close to Simon, Gavin leaned closer. Which wasn't entirely necessary, since, despite the raucous nature of the speakeasy, the distance of the stage from the crowd made it fairly easy to hold a conversation. That is, if you were versed in that sort of thing, which Simon wasn’t. Gavin, though, had proven to be skilled enough for the both of them.
"So you know who I am, do you?"
"Yes. Is that surprising? Word of mouth, all that. You're quite... infamous among my peers."
Simon had spent his own time researching the Gavin brothers and their background since discovering Aura's connection to them a couple months ago, after he'd returned home. Granted, there wasn't much he could look into, not with being a neophyte at the Prosecutors' Office. But he'd kept his eyes and ears open. Asked the right questions, and wiser yet, kept his mouth shut at the appropriate times.
"Your peers, you say?" Was that disbelief in Gavin's tone? "So then, what is it that you do, Herr Ballonmütze, a.ka. Simon Blackquill, a.k.a. Aura's younger brother?"
"Do?"
"Yes, as a job. We all have one—or several, like your sister does."
"I'm not sure, exactly, what it is that I do," he answered truthfully. Yes, he worked at the prosecutors' office, but what did he do, really? Nothing of true import, at least as of yet. He wanted to help the public, in ways he himself had never been helped, but that felt unattainable from where he currently resided: on the lowest rung, constantly being stepped on by others as they made their way to the top.
"I don't believe that," Gavin said, still sounding quite casual for such a deep subject. "But, then, what is it that you wish to do?"
And that's when Simon knew: this wasn't a conversation. This was an interrogation. He hadn't counted on such a thing occurring—really, he hadn't anticipated true interaction with anyone at the speakeasy. He did not consider himself socially adept; for his profession, he could interact with others decently enough, but for the sake of pleasure, the purpose of forming friendships, Simon had had too many missteps over the course of his adolescence and university years to be inclined towards even trying. Aura did the work for him, and it was through her that he'd gotten to know Dr. Cykes, and by extension, Ema. None of it would have happened through his own efforts.
"Well, I recently graduated college, so I haven't settled into anything quite yet." He was careful not to mention law in any way. Gavin acted friendly enough, but that could change in a blink if he discovered what Simon's field of study had been. "Although I've been continuing my studies with a psychology specialist, and hope to pursue a career in that field. Someday."
"Interesting..." Gavin said, rather detached. "Hm, and here I would have thought you'd take after Aura more in that regard—since you did come here to see her, after all. That you'd possess more ambition. Would have certain goals in mind."
No, Gavin couldn't... know, could he? Unless his older brother had put the idea in his head to watch Simon, but then, when would that have happened? Simon had been with Gavin the whole time, and even if Aura had mentioned Simon before, she'd never think of him as a threat. Not her shy, passive little brother...
"Hey, who's thirsty?" Daryan hurried over to the two of them, Diego close behind. "Aw, I ain't interrupting anything, am I?"
"Just getting to know the man behind the ballonmütze." Gavin flicked the brim of Simon's hat, causing him to flinch and the two other men to laugh.
Simon wished Aura was here, to defend him, but then again, she might as well have followed up Gavin's gesture with an even harder flick of her own. He really couldn't say.
"Here, on us." Diego handed Simon a crystal tumbler approximately three-quarters full. His own coffee mug was refilled. "Your welcome to the Devil's Den. Where temperance is out—"
"—and temptation is in," finished Daryan, as he passed one of his glasses to Gavin.
"What's this?" Simon asked, but the bitter smell drifting from the glass answered his question. Gin, if he wasn't mistaken. Mixed with tonic water. He took a careful sip, wincing at its sharp bite. This is what thousands upon thousands of people snuck about to partake in illegally? He couldn't imagine why, and yet, felt so inclined to take another sip, this one longer. Perhaps it was something one learned to enjoy, or at least tolerate over time, much like Simon's own father had with him.
"You can thank your sister for that. G'suffa!" Gavin clinked his tumbler to the one Simon held, then to Daryan's, and downed twice as much as what Simon had taken two sips to swallow. Daryan mirrored it, downing even more, nearly the whole glass.
"Bottoms up, mac." Daryan nodded towards Simon, at the glass stilled at his lips.
Simon obeyed, draining the rest of his glass and wincing as it burned down his throat. It surprised him by returning in a half-hiccup, half-belch. He clapped a hand to his mouth, mortified. The other three men laughed, Gavin's bright between two lower, subdued rolls.
"It takes some getting used to, ja?" Gavin put an arm around Simon, on his opposite shoulder, and led him away from Daryan and Diego. Towards the opposite side of the stage, to the 'best seat' he had promised. He dropped his voice, but the cheerfulness remained. "But you're a determined sort, aren't you, Herr Ballonmütze?"
There was insinuation in Gavin's words that Simon didn't miss. But showing that would be unwise. He wasn't astute and perceptive. He wasn't a prosecutor, or even studying to be one. He was simply an ignorant, worried younger brother. That was all.
"I don't think so, no."
"No? Then we'll have to work even harder to inspire you, won't we?"
Past Gavin, Simon could see Daryan and Diego readying their instruments. Daryan's mouth was moving, just barely, but who was he muttering to? His double bass, perhaps? At the stage's edge and holding his saxophone securely, Diego leaned down to speak with a brown-haired woman who was smiling up at him admiringly.
They, too, all seemed decent enough. Not... criminals.
"I don't think they're terribly concerned with inspiring me... Gavin." Simon barely caught himself in time, editing the prefix out. "I believe that's all you."
As expected, Gavin laughed. But it was hardly amused, more of a "Ha!" puffed out telling Simon that, for once, he hadn't planned this out. It felt strangely... good to give such a quip of a response. Mostly because Simon had an inkling that repartee such as this was something Gavin found stimulating. Why, he'd rival some of Simon's fellow prosecutors, with his ability to always find something to say, some way to respond—
No. Simon didn't know he'd been smiling, but he felt it fall. Why was he entertaining such a ludicrous idea? Gavin would never be welcomed in the prosecutors' office, with his background and, if Daryan's needling were true, his proclivities. And Simon couldn't pretend to know him based on this one short evening—he shouldn't be creating a hypothetical future, not when the only chance they'd have of crossing paths again would be in the courtroom, Simon behind the bench, Gavin and his brother in chains.
Gavin wasn't frowning, though, even though he must have seen Simon's expression. He was staring at—no, studying him.
"Oh, Herr Ballonmütze, you think too much! This is not a place to think, to do anything other than act. Live! What's the saying? Eat, drink and be merry!"
"For tomorrow we die," Simon completed.
"But then we've all already arrived at our destination, haven't we?" Gavin removed his hat, used it as a prop as he turned and swept his arm in an arc, indicating the whole of the speakeasy.
"Hell," Simon said, then repeated, "Hell. You're saying—with such pride—that you think of your own... business as nothing less than the Lake of Fire itself."
"Oh, this isn't Hell. Not to a single soul here. It's Heaven. Here, they're saved. A sanctuary, if you will. They seek refuge, and my brother and I are all too happy to provide it. But you must know that, coming here." Gavin paused, just enough that Simon was about to retort. But before he could, Gavin continued, "Whether you'd like to admit it or not."
Damn and blast! Simon backed up deeper into the wings of the stage, hoping the shadows obscured the thick swallow he forced down. But it didn't hide Gavin's pleased countenance, that was only becoming more so. He appeared ready to say something even more challenging, but his name being barked out from the stage proper prevented any further remarks.
"Klavier!" It was Daryan; his voice, Simon concluded, must simply be aggressive by nature. "Park it over here, would'ja?"
"Forgive me." Gavin legitimately bowed, like a man departing his dance partner after a social function. As he rose, he fired off a wink at Simon. "Until we meet again, ja?"
He didn't wait for an answer from Simon, sauntering away and emerging on stage like an actor receiving a curtain call. There were cheers—a mix, Simon discerned, of men and women—as Gavin took his seat at the piano and adjusted his hat.
Could he really feel the effects after one drink? The edges of Simon's vision were hazy, and his thoughts were muddling together, watching Gavin absorb the crowd's adulation. This would be the perfect opportunity to survey the crowd, search for Aura. But Gavin was too magnetic, compelling, and Simon had arrived unprepared, defenseless. As naive as Aura and Ema insisted.
Thusly, he couldn't take his eyes off Gavin, staring transfixed as Gavin counted off.
"Ein, zwei, drei and away we go!" he called out loud enough to be heard over the crowd. But his words weren't for them, not when Gavin's gaze was averted, tunneling through his bandmates and finding Simon's.
Again, Simon swallowed, wishing for another gin and tonic to wet his suddenly dry mouth.
He'd come to the right address. But arrived at a very wrong sort of place.