Elixir (3 page)

I found a sliver of space in the crowd and perched myself there, a vantage point from which I could see both the door and the stage. I stared at the dancers, my mouth gaping open. Everyone was ridiculously good-looking, their statuesque bodies swaying in perfect rhythm to the bluesy beat. I’d never seen dancing like that. They all moved like professionals, like this was some sort of movie set, but their ease and familiarity with each other told me they couldn’t be actors. The dancers’ hips and limbs glided with a sensual grace I could only marvel at. I knew I didn’t dance like that. Was I going to have to dance in order to play the part here? My stomach did a nervous flip.

I glanced back towards the door and noticed there was a row of colored lamps hanging over the front entrance. The big glass globes looked like whale-oil lamps, fitting the old-fashioned décor; except that they flashed bright colors whenever someone walked under them. There were different colors turned on depending on who was walking through.

A sallow-cheeked girl in a blood-red cloak sauntered in; I caught a whiff of the heavy perfume she wore as the purple lamp illuminated over her head. But when a group of scruffy young men entered, laughing too loud and playfully punching each other, the light changed to white. Then a bevy of ethereal blondes passed by, and the lamps flashed an eerie emerald green.

My attention returned to the dance floor. I could see now that there were distinctly different groups and factions within the crowd, whereas before it all seemed like a big, swirling mass.

The young men who’d just entered were showing off now, breaking out hip-hop moves and manly acrobatics, egging each other on into more and more dangerous stunts. Elsewhere other cliques were emerging; the ethereal blonde girls had formed an impenetrable circle and were dancing almost in unison. The best dancers were a group of dark-haired women closest to the stage. The band had switched to a sultry tango and I watched the women’s legs in awe as they sashayed and serpentined and slipped coyly between their partners.

As I observed them all, I became aware of a few people who weren’t on the dance floor. They were hanging to the sides—some seated at the tables, some just standing by the edge of the stage, their hands jammed in their pockets, gazing longingly at the dancers. Unlike everyone else in the room, they weren’t perfectly beautiful, and their bodies were of all shapes and sizes. Instead of resembling Greek statues, they looked like ordinary folks.
At least I’m not the only one.
But I didn’t want to be one of the gawkers. If I was going to do this assignment, I needed to be on the inside.

I walked towards the glittering black-haired tango dancers, and then stopped. I could smell their heady perfume, so chokingly sweet and thickly floral it made me feel dizzy and faint.

“Can I help you, miss?” said a growling voice. The tone was threatening. I nearly jumped as I turned around. I hadn’t known anyone was behind me, but when I saw him, I didn’t know how I could have missed him. The man staring down at me was enormously tall and hulking, his arms like two boulders, with a rough, whiskery beard. He wasn’t bad-looking, though there was something wolfish about his eyes . . .

I remembered the name from the scrap of paper Reggie had given me.

“Obadiah Savage?” I asked.

The man grinned, showing yellowed, unusually large canine teeth. I heard him chuckle deep and low.

“Oh, I’m not Obadiah,” he said on a laugh, his voice thick with a Southern drawl, out of place in New York City. He gestured with his head to the far corner of the room. “
He’s
Obadiah.”

Of course he is,
was all I could think as I turned to where the bouncer had pointed.

A man was standing with his back against the bar top, next to the velvet stage curtains. He was devastatingly handsome, but unlike the perfect bodies of the dancers, there was something rough about him, restless. His skin was a sun-weathered brown and there was a dark shadow of stubble along the square lines of his jaw. He leaned up against the shining marble, one hand cocked on his hip—seemingly relaxed, but I could see a tension in his muscles that reminded me of a jaguar poised to spring.

He was wearing a crisp white linen shirt, like a gentleman from days of yore, rolled up at the elbows as if braced for a fight. The material was thin, and I could see the flat planes of his chest as a shaft of stage light hit him. His dark eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence as he surveyed the room—he was taking in everything, like a director watching his play being performed.

From his body, I would have guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties, but the expression in his eyes was much older than that. It lacked innocence. It cut right through the sparkle of the party and hinted at something dark at its core.

The floater hovered just above his head.

Then Obadiah turned towards me.

I almost lost my footing as the full force of his attention landed on me, his gaze boring into my skin. He was staring right at me, not even pausing to blink. It was as if his eyes were searching me, trying to figure out who I was, what I was, what right I had to be there. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring—just looked straight at me with such intensity that I had to lower my eyes and turn away because I couldn’t bear it a moment longer.

The man I’d been talking to before, the bouncer, walked over to Obadiah. As he did so, he glanced back at me from over his shoulder, and I detected nervousness in his eyes. He whispered something in Obadiah’s ear. Without taking his eyes off me, Obadiah nodded.

Fear simmering in my stomach, I stepped closer, trying to hear what they were saying.

“Boss, I think it’s her. Should I . . .  ?”

“No.”

“But you saw . . .  !”

“I saw
both.
” Obadiah held up his hand for silence. “Just wait. I’ll take care of this.”

The big man stepped back, his head down, like a wolf submitting to its pack leader. Clearly Obadiah was the boss here. But what was he saying? Was the “her” they were talking about me? What had he seen?

My stomach clenched.
He knows,
I thought, beginning to panic.
He must know you’re a P.I. Why else would Obadiah be staring at you like that?

My breath was coming faster, and I tried to slow it down, tried to think.

But how would he know? I hadn’t done anything to give myself away. All I’d done was come through the door, walk a few steps, notice the dancers. I was being paranoid, I told myself.

He knows you don’t belong here,
the little voice in my head chastised me.
How could you? Look at the people on the stage and then look at yourself.

Maybe he doesn’t know,
I thought, trying to comfort myself, trying to get my breathing back to normal.
Maybe they were talking about something else?
Maybe you’re just reading way too much into a stare?

I took a deep breath, hoping for the best.

When I looked up, Obadiah had stopped staring. But then the other man turned away and Obadiah was walking towards me. My stomach fluttered as I wondered what I should do or say.

As he approached me, his manner totally changed. His full lips curled upwards into an amiable smile. I noticed the floater moved with him, following his every step, hovering just above his head. There was a slow, sensual confidence in the way he walked; almost a swagger, but more restrained. The crowd of people parted to let him through; it was obvious he owned this place in more ways than one. He walked right up to me, and I felt my heartbeat quicken as he got closer, so close I could smell him—the rich old-world scent of his cologne mixed with a darker and earthier masculine fragrance all his own.

His eyes sparkled darkly and he gave a little bow.

“I hope you will forgive me for being so rude,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “I didn’t mean to stare at you like that. For a moment, I thought you were someone else. But I must have been mistaken. My apologies.”

He had a hint of an accent, but I couldn’t place where it was from. Then I realized it wasn’t really an accent at all, just a more formal, deliberate way of speaking than I was used to.

“I’m Mabily Jones,” I said, nervously extending my hand.

“Welcome to my club, Mabily Jones.” His hand was warm as he shook mine, and he gave another little bow.

“Thank you,” I replied, trying to sound breezy and confident, like Eva would have. But inside my heart was fluttering nervously. Who was this man? Right now he seemed so nice—the perfect host—but a moment ago I’d felt genuinely afraid of him.

“So, what do you think of the party?” said Obadiah, making a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the whole room and everyone inside it.

“I didn’t know anything like this existed,” I replied. “I feel like I stepped back in time, or into some other world.”

He smiled at me enigmatically. “Perhaps a bit of both? But where are my manners? May I offer you a drink?”

I demurred. I was, after all, on the job.

“As you wish,” said Obadiah.

There was a pause, and I wondered if now would be a good time to say the speech I’d been preparing, to ask him about Charlotte. There was a twinkling light in his eyes, a mischievous sort of gleam, and for a moment it distracted me completely from why I’d come here. The last song had ended and the room was quiet.

Then all at once the musicians struck up again. But the music was very different now. The new song was a slow dance, the tune almost mournful, but with a sensuous rhythm. The dancers began to couple up and slowly sway, while the others took their seats and watched them enviously from the tables next to the floor.

“Would you like to dance?” Obadiah asked, with another little bow.

The question startled me. I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. It was like he was still trying to figure me out.
You and me both,
I thought.

I hesitated. I wanted to say yes, but I wasn’t the greatest dancer. Slow dancing wasn’t that hard—all you had to do was sort of rock back and forth—but it always left me in perpetual fear of stepping on my partner’s toes, which had happened on more than one occasion. This human body thing . . . it didn’t always work out for me. And yet—the thought of dancing with this man, to be that close to him, skin against skin, sent a little tingle through my spine.
Don’t even go there,
I told myself.
You have a job to do.
Maybe Eva was right—maybe it had been too long since I’d been with a man. I wasn’t even able to hold my concentration in the presence of one. But then again, I needed to talk to Obadiah about the case, and slow dancing was often a good way to talk . . .

“I’d love to dance,” I said, flushing a bit.

His black eyes sparkled. And before I could say anything more he took my hand and led me out onto the floor. All around us the dancers were swaying slowly with perfect grace. The nervousness rose in my stomach again. But then Obadiah clasped my hand in his and pressed the other against the small of my back.

For a second I could hardly think. His fingers were warm against mine, and I could feel the heat of his other hand through the thin material of the back of my dress. I was so close to him now, I could feel the palpable maleness he exuded, the quiet confidence. With a small shift of his palm against my skin, he directed our dance, and to my amazement, my movements fell in line with his—we were dancing as one. Without once thinking about the steps, we glided across the floor. I’d never had a great partner before. He made it easy. In his arms, suddenly, I could dance.

I noticed I was smiling, the tension slipping from my body as we moved together, though my heart still fluttered.

Remember what you’re here to do,
I had to tell myself.
You’re not here to dance. You’re here to find out information.

“I have to ask you.” I leaned in close to whisper in his ear. There was a gap between us and the other couples; it gave us a breath of privacy to talk. “I came here tonight because of one of my friends. Maybe you know her—Charlotte Mercado?” I said, trying to let the missing girl’s name roll off my tongue like I’d practiced with Eva. “I haven’t seen Charlotte in a while. The last time I talked to her, she mentioned she’d been coming here a lot. I just . . . I wondered if maybe you’d seen her around?”

His body froze for a second, and I saw him nod, but it was like a shadow passed over his face at the mention of the missing girl’s name. He let out a sigh.

“I wish I could help you, I really do. But I haven’t seen her lately either,” he said slowly. “I don’t think anyone has. I heard her parents filed a report with the police.”

“Yeah, I heard that too.”

A beat of quiet passed between us.

“I truly am afraid for her,” Obadiah said, breaking the silence.

There was genuine pain in his voice as he said it.

“What do you think happened?” I asked, beginning to feel scared myself.

“Well, if you were really friends with Charlotte, you would know she had a lot of problems.”