Shadow Walker

Mansions

Dec necked his second pint of beer and slammed it on the wood coffin bar beside the words 'Mansions - Night of the Dead' branded on the surface. He'd taken the night off work to see Tommy, and now his best friend was late again.

Five more minutes, he thought. He had to speak to Tommy about the incident with the police in-person, just incase his palm pod had been compromised.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

Getting to the secret underground nightclub had been a convoluted procedure. On the corner of twelfth avenue stood the abandoned carcass of the Lady Josephine, an old dilapidated church which had gone into recess between swaths of ivy and wood rot. Beneath the plaster cast statue of the lady herself was a trapdoor, leading to a series of tunnels that ran in a complicated grid underground. Most of the tunnels came to dead ends or had been blocked off. But one particular tunnel extended all the way to a large crypt beneath the supermarket on the main street of Blackforest Range.

'Secret club' was a subjective description as it was practically impossible to hide a club at capacity. The police knew of its existence, and would probably have shut it down if it hadn't been for generous pay-offs from the mysterious owners. Someone with a lot of money was keeping the place running, keeping the alcohol flowing. Those in the know were glad. It was one of the few remaining establishments completely owned and run independently from the government and provided a safe-haven away from the daily grind of Nocturnal life.

Moonstep music thudded against Dec's alcohol-compromised senses—the wallow of a church organ intersected by pulsing electronic beats. Blood red lights bruised his eyes, serving to annoy him further. He motioned for the tattooed bartender to bring him another beer, but the idiot's gaze glanced off him as though he were made of oil and settled down-bar, on a leggy blonde in a tight black dress, lace accentuated in all the right places. His eyes goggled as far as his eyebrow piercings would allow and he re-filled her glass of red wine until it overflowed. "A Midnight Beauty grape for a midnight beauty," he said in a low tone, adorning the rim of her glass with a dark blue grape.

The girl giggled.

Dec groaned. He was used to being overlooked, despite his height. It was another one of his dung beetle talents. It wasn't as though his features were plain. When considered individually from each other, they were harsh and angular—dark hair and eyes prominent against his long, pale face. Tommy had once described the phenomena of his 'forget-ability' as 'turps on paint'—a clash of strong features serving to strike each other out.

This forgeability-factor had served him well for going fairly unnoticed when 'shaking shit up' with Tommy. Except the Crabman was on his case now, so his looks had failed him on two counts. His hand moved subconsciously to the scrunched up note in his pocket—the one Dirk had given him the night before. He hadn't destroyed it as directed. He wanted to get Tommy's opinion on it first.

Where was Tommy?

He stared out at the dance floor where mow-hawked men in ripped tight-legged jeans strutted and posed, pointy patent shoes clicking as they peacocked for attention. Girls in bone corsets with blood red laces and chain jewellery closed their eyes and swayed out of time with the music. Glow-in-the-dark tattoos flashed aquarium blue under the UV lights—yet another sweeping Nocturnal trend of which Dec was apparently unaware. He tugged the collar of his baggy blue t-shirt and sighed. 'Night of the Dead' must be the theme. He'd clearly missed the memo.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned, slowly, to make a show of his annoyance. "About fucking time," he growled.

But the person wasn't Tommy. It was the girl in the lacy dress, holding her tulip-shaped wine glass in one hand, and a stein of dark purple liquid in the other.