Chapter Text
The bouncer stared at Zoë in a dead-eyed way. Made sense, given he was a burly zombie, but she still hated the open suspicion she received as a human. She was coterie, damn it. She’d earned the right to step inside this nightclub, especially after everything that went down in New Orleans.
If she couldn’t, she’d never hear the end of it from Phil. Too many of their readers had been requesting a review.
The Underground Publishing site had gotten an overhaul shortly after she was hired, but with the help of storm-born air sprites, they’d expanded their socials as well. Bits of magic hidden in the code allowed only some visitors to see the site’s true content. It not only allowed them to stay current, but also do market research on the types of places that people were interested in.
And boy, were they interested in Club.
Appeals to being her coworkers’ plus-one hadn’t worked, so Zoë pointed at the sign that hung over the front door. “Listen,” she said. She spoke slowly in case the bouncer’s auditory processing centers were damaged. “I know this place is enchanted against non-coterie. But I see the sign!”
The bouncer frowned. His neck muscles creaked like thick ropes, standing out even more for the dead skin that stretched over them. “What sign?”
Zoë had flashbacks to the time she entered a filthy bookstore and was told that she couldn’t buy anything. “‘Club,’” she said. When he didn’t reply, she added, “It’s the name. Club.”
In that long pause after she spoke, when the bouncer gave no indication of even hearing what she said, Zoë contemplated if his reflexes were slow enough to where she could just walk in. She wasn’t as fast as any of her divine writers, but Granny Good Mae’s training had toughened her up.
Maybe it was the keen stare she gave the zombie’s neck that finally got him to nod. “Enjoy your evening,” he said, gesturing inside.
So inside she walked, hoping that everyone had waited for her to—nope. The foyer was grand and awe-inspiring and absolutely impossible, but it also was empty of Underground Publishing employees. She would have to grill them on their experiences later.
The columns seemed to border each of the different paths inside. One door led to a room so dark that it looked like an inky void. Another door had strobing, colorful lights that illuminated the doorframe, matching a thumping beat. She headed towards the music. As she passed the threshold, the lights grew even brighter, and two more doors presented themselves. One had a hastily painted smiley face.
“Should have called it Maze,” she muttered, heading once more towards the right.
The smiling door shutting behind her as the bass grew louder. The rumbling shot through her bones, rattling her from the inside out. Her head spun as if she were caught in an incubus’s swoon. When she pushed open yet another door, the sound increased tenfold. She squinted against the music. Around her were coterie in various states of undress. Some wore tiny shorts that glowed purple-hot under the blacklights. Others were oddly elegant in embroidered dresses, save for arms heavy with brightly-colored bracelets that said LOVE and PLUR.
“Are you ready?” a voice boomed. As cheers rose up, the voice continued, “Then put your hands in the air and wave ‘em like you just don’t care!”
Zoë watched a bat-shaped Perler bead charm sway as a vampire acquiesced. It looked like it was flying as it swung back and forth. The spell was broken by a sweaty body bumping against her. As Zoë stepped aside, she couldn’t help but tap her foot to the familiar song, one she hadn’t heard since middle school.
Ever since she stepped into Club, her thoughts had been racing. So much had happened in the past month. Phil told her about the citytalkers’ dark history. Arthur stepped further out of reach. And she was about to discover what tax season looked like in the coterie world.
It was a lot. But on the dance floor, it was nothing.
What the hell, she thought.
For a blissful seven minutes, Zoë closed her eyes, allowing her defenses to lower as the music grew inside her like the hum of a city. Then at 7:01, there was a squeal of a bullhorn and the crackle of a voice, though whether it shook from poorly maintained equipment or fear was unclear.
“NYPD! Shut down immediately!”
Zoë froze, even as the dancing continued. The officer was young, and painfully human. How he’d ended up here made no damn sense. He didn’t give off the grim determination of Public Works. His face was shiny and his eyes were wild.
“I s-said,” he continued. “I-I.”
His words were no longer certain. No more exclamations, only a fumbling shakiness.
The DJ said something, and the strobing lights turned into a wild flash of red and blue as the coterie laughed. The officer’s gaze slid to the DJ’s booth, and he became even paler and shinier as the DJ’s tentacles writhed over the decks. He sank to his knees, mouth open in a rictus scream.
That was her cue. Zoë headed out a nearby exit, entering a room with… two more doors. She groaned, unconsciously reaching out for the city but ending up with a fuzzy feeling in her skull. Not for nothing, she started towards the right-most door. There were strands of chunky beads affixed to the top of the doorframe, clattering invitingly. Just as she was about to walk through, a hand grabbed her wrist. She yelped as a shimmering… something appeared from nowhere.
“This room is not for you,” the something said.
Zoë drew herself up, trying and failing to free herself of the cool? hot? fizzling? grip. “I am with Underground Publishing,” she said, “and I’m trying to write a review—”
“It is not for you,” the something repeated.
She still couldn’t get free. It only let go after she stepped back. It stood as sentry while she stared.
“What is this room?” she asked after the silence grew too heavy.
“The Extradimensional Room.”
“And that’s… literal?”
The something inclined its head. “It is not for you.”
Something shivered on Zoë’s upper arms. She got the feeling of a faraway voice yelling at her to stay away. If there was one thing she’d learned about being a citytalker, it was to trust her instincts.
“Okay,” she said. Then, “Where’s the bar?”
(Somewhere in a speakeasy-themed room, Gwen felt the weight of probability lessen. She adjusted her feathered fascinator and beaded skirt. Then she raised her hands in the air like she just didn't care.)