Drok paused to speak with the armed guards on either side of the steps before following his guests upstairs.
Forcing himself to remain in place, Tenthil looked up at the top tier. The booths ringing the circle were likely but a hint of what was hidden above. Private dance chambers and secret meeting rooms were both the most probable and tamest of the possibilities—too tame, perhaps, for a place like Twisted Nethers.
The wealthy of the Infinite City sometimes pursued strange tastes.
Chance fell in Tenthil’s favor again when the ertraxxan entered the booth to the right of the stairs with the female and two of his vorgal guards in tow. Drok stepped inside a few moments later, ducking slightly to fit inside.
Drok settled himself into a seat across from the ertraxxan, who directed the terran onto the table with a flick of his wrist. Drok’s gaze locked on the female as she climbed up and began a slow, sensual dance, swaying and undulating her hips, causing her green skirt to brush around her long legs.
Warmth blossomed in the center of Tenthil’s chest and spread outward; the female’s hypnotic motions stirred something unfamiliar in his blood, something deep and powerful.
You have a job to do, he thought. The Void has accepted Drok’s name, and it must also receive his life.
Tenthil glanced down to find his hands clasped on the railing with knuckles white and claws extended. When he finally eased his grip and lifted his hands, they trembled. Unease sank like a leaden weight in his gut. What was wrong with him? He’d never been so distracted by anyone, by anything.
Rogue thoughts flitted, unbidden, through his mind. How would the female’s skin feel beneath his fingertips? What did she smell like, how did her voice sound? Venom flooded the glands above the roof of his mouth, a few drops leaking from his fangs and onto his tongue. Oddly, it lacked its usual bitterness—this was sweeter, with a hint of spice.
He barely suppressed the frustrated growl threatening to rise from his chest. Shoving away from the railing, he walked around the central level, forcing nonchalance into his steps, forcing himself to peruse the various stage shows as he passed. None of the dancers—male or female, clothed or nude—of any race incited the reaction his brief glimpses of the terran had.
Realization struck him—he couldn’t entirely rely upon himself or his body.
Tenthil should have left the club at that moment, should have walked on to the door through which he’d entered. He told himself he remained because of duty, because of his contract, because of his resentment for the Master, but none of that was true.
He remained because he wanted another look at the terran.
Clenching his jaw, he stopped when he was beneath Drok’s booth, leaned back against the railing, and watched the dancers on the nearby stage. The guards beside the staircase Drok had used loomed at the edge of Tenthil’s vision. Though their eyes were obscured by dark goggles, and their rigid postures were unwavering, Tenthil knew they were scanning the crowd, sizing up every patron in a ceaseless threat assessment.
Tenthil relaxed his jaw and tipped back a little further, pausing when the music from the nearby stage faded and he heard the deep, gravelly voice of a tralix from overhead. He focused on it.
“—can’t wait to push it. Think we’ll make a killing,” said Drok.
“Of course we will,” the ertraxxan replied in a high, reedy voice, his pronunciation of each word—in universal speech—was precise. “I provide only the highest quality goods.”
“You’d almost think you take pride in all this, Cullion.”
“I do,” Cullion said, “and it would comfort me if those with whom I do business show some pride of their own. A bit of poise would do you well, Drok.”
“We’re making money. What else really matters?”
“Status. Respect. Reputation.”
“I got all that. And fear, too—that’s more important. People around here know not to mess with me.”
“Few appreciate a braggart, Drok. I am not amongst them.”
“This braggart keeps the gangs in line and the money flowing, all while keeping the heat off you, so you look legitimate.”
Cullion made a frustrated sound—a sort of clicking growl. “I am a legit—”
Drok cut off the ertraxxan with a guttural laugh. “Yeah, and I’m running an innocent dance club here. There’s the difference between us, Cullion: you were born into what you got. I had to fight for every credit I’ve ever had. Try spending a few years in a fighting pit on Caldorius and then complain to me about this shit.”
“I find your language distasteful.”
“Yeah, you find everything about me distasteful—except that I turn you profit. Now we going to talk distribution, or what?”
“Once I dismiss my pet, yes.”
“I don’t mind her.”
“You are staring as though you wish to fornicate with her.”
“I like watching her. Definitely nicer to look at than you, Cullion. One of these days, you need to finally let me at her.”
“Just when I assumed you couldn’t be fouler. This thing is beneath even you, Drok. An animal here to perform for our visual entertainment and little more. I would be remiss if I allowed any of my associates, even the most distasteful, to stoop to such a low.”
Drok laughed again, a richer, fuller sound. “You’re nuts. You paid a small fortune to have her, and you could earn back that investment a hundred times over if you’d rent her out from time to time. Hell, half my staff wants a go at her just to know what it’s like. She looks soft. Real soft.”
“I will hear no more of this,” Cullion snapped. “If you cannot focus on the important matters at hand, I will—”
“Fine, fine. Send her to the lower stage. My customers appreciate a good show.”
“She is mine, Drok. Not an attraction in your house of debauchery.”
“If I didn’t know all ertraxxans were pricks, Cullion, I might believe you had a personality of your own,” Drok replied. “Send her to the stage. People will watch her, which means they’ll buy drinks and drugs a little longer. When my business prospers, yours does, too.”
“Fine. Go.”
The conversation ceased, and the other sounds flowed back into Tenthil’s awareness. A tall, naked cren female with long, pointed ears, two three-centimeter-long tusks protruding from her mouth, and small breasts had replaced the dancers on the stage. She undulated to the quick beat, bursts of vibrant color flashing across her skin to complement her movements. Thumping bass from the dance floor below ran beneath the music from this stage, an echoing beat just out of sync with the predominant song.
If Cullion or Drok spoke again, Tenthil didn’t notice—movement on the stairs caught his attention and held it in a vise grip. The terran female descended from the upper level, her long legs emerging one at a time from beneath the fabric of her skirt with each step down. His gaze dropped to her dainty toes with their short, painted nails, visible through her sandals, and rose slowly. Golden anklets sparkled around her ankles, and her shapely calves led to toned thighs—hers were the legs of a dancer who had honed her body into a precision instrument. Grace, skill, and confidence permeated her every movement despite the demure downward angle of her chin.