Chapter 15: The Devil

Anton waits for Nick’s text in his apartment. Looking around, the unopened boxes and stuff that Kat still hasn’t picked up keep him in a strangely hopeful state. Like the fact that it is taking her so long somehow means she will come back, arms flung open for her poor misunderstood husband. But he knows the real reason. For years, they have eaten from across each other, and she has never truly known him. Their attempts to have children only sped up the inevitable. Anton picks at his lip, thinking of Nick seeing the boxes, what he’ll think of his older brother. The pity in Nick’s voice when he says something banal like “I’m sorry, Anton”. He texts Nick.

“Text me when you’re outside, no need to come up. We’re on deadline.”

Nick, already parked across the street, thinks nothing of it.

“I’m here.” The message reads.

The car ride is quiet. Nick sits behind the wheel, blowing cigarette smoke out the window as best he can.

“Can you put that out? The smell is nauseating.” Anton bounces his leg in the passenger seat, wishing they had taken his car. Katherine used to hate when Nick came over, stinking up their balcony.

Nick takes another drag, waiting for a green light. “It’s almost out.”

Anton nods his head, remembering what a pain in the ass his baby brother is. He looks around the fabric interior, ripped and worn. “So this is the van, huh? What is it, 2008?”

“2009.” They weave through traffic, the great sentinel buildings of New York towering above them. Anton always felt safe when huddled among these glass giants. The Other Side nightclub is nestled somewhere in an alley.

“It’s on Cliff Street,” Anton says, pointing to the next turn.

“No, it’s on Fulton and William,” Nick argues.

“Who lives here, you or me?”

“Dude, you are not arguing with me on where the Other Side is. When was the last time you were there?”

Anton pauses. “Just last month.”

Nick laughs. “Bullshit.”

“Why would I lie?” Anton’s voice rises in pitch, which makes Nick laugh even more.

“Because you hate being wrong.” Nick has been circling the block looking for a parking space.

“That’s not true.”

The two walk to the spot Nick thinks is the entrance. An old bulkhead door with a white symbol on it. An oval with two triangles intersecting at the center. “Told you it was here.”

“Whatever.” Anton follows him down. The bulkhead takes them to a dark basement. In the corner, hiding in the shadows, the two spot a figure.

“Evening, gentlemen.” The man’s knees are poking out from the shade, the polyester of his pants shining in the moonlight.

“Heya, Winston,” Nick says, slipping the man some money. The man leans forward and shakes Nick’s hand.

“Almost didn’t recognize you, fucker.” The two men exchange some pleasantries.

“Busy night?” Nick asks, hands in pockets.

“Eh, nothing too crazy. Folks are pretty jumpy these days.” The man chews on some tobacco, staring at Anton from the shadows. “Who’s the Panic?”

Nick bends down and whispers something in the man’s ear, both of them obscured from Anton’s sight, who simply crosses his arms and waits.

“I’d better not get into any trouble.” The two men shake hands once more, Nick slipping him even more money.

“Trouble fears us, Winston.” Nick says, opening the door behind the man, “Trouble fears us…” Anton follows Nick down the hallway. After a few feet, the basement hallway stops abruptly. Through a broken-down wall, the path then leads into a dark subway tunnel. Modern wiring is hidden deep within the brickwork, supplying the entire club with its own steady power. A swollen tick hidden, feeding off the power grid. Anton looks around the abandoned subway terminal, whistling to himself.

“They really moved up in the world.”

“Sure did. New owner too.” Nick says.

“Really? Last I heard it was that Hellqvist guy, the Swede.”

“No. Now it’s a Pari by the name of Aria.”

Anton slows his pace. “A Pari? That’s one I haven’t heard in a while.”

“Yeah. She’s a handful.”

Anton tries to remember what a Pari is, what their gimmick is. He is sure Nick remembers, but he would rather struggle with his own memory than ask. All he remembers from Dad’s lessons on them is that they are creatures of immense beauty and power. Dad said he saw a flying one in Iran when he was young. Anton always thought he was full of shit.

They arrive at a heavy door, bathed in yellow light. Nick knocks hard three times. A pair of eyes appears from the dark slit in the door’s middle.

“Code.” A gravelly voice demands.

“Kabul Rose,” Nick says.

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Any weapons?”

“Yes.”

He looks them up and down. “Panics?”

Nick looks at Anton, who is not a fan of the label. “I suppose so.”

“You here for trouble? We got a packed club here, and these folks just wanna have fun.”

“Just here for fun.”

The man closes the slit and opens the door. He’s revealed to be wearing a green ski mask and a dark blue bomber jacket. A big guy. After a quick pat-down by a smaller bouncer wearing the same ski mask, they are let into a cloak room and reception area. Anton notices the sticky floor, the kind he felt under his boots during his teenage years. Two old security cameras gaze down at them from each corner. Both can feel the thumping of the music before it can be heard. A rhythmic baseline, like a heartbeat.

The small bouncer speaks in a nasally voice. “Tonight’s specials are the Bloody Mary and Medusa shots. Welcome to the Other Side. Enjoy your night.” He puts small red stamps on both of their wrists.

Nick can tell which DJ is playing based purely on the song choice. Boys Noize and HEALTH. The thumping Nick heard becomes an explosion of electric sounds, a synthetic buzzsaw noise that evokes a wince out of Anton. Before the noise becomes unbearable, the song breaks into a female vocal performance.

They enter the atrium, their eyes sieged by flashing lights from different directions, some strobing white columns and others razors of toxic green. A blue laser contours the silhouettes of a group of young women to the left. The occasional flashing light provides only an afterimage; the women’s eyes are black, and their hair is corpse-white.

Nick leads Anton down a dim set of stairs. On the way, they squeeze past a kissing, drunk couple. The blaring music worsens as they cross the threshold into the dance floor. Nick motions to the bar. He leans in to yell to Anton. “Wait here, I’ll make contact.” Before he can turn, Anton’s hand has him in a vice grip.

He pulls Nick closer, “No. We stick together.”

“Fine.” Nick throws up his hands.

The two— using Nick’s cred—get past the guard standing at the base of the stairs. The terraced second floor, with its low ceiling, gives Anton reason to slouch. It offers precious breathing room. From the vantage point, the two brothers observe the chaos down below. Anton observes the water pooling behind the railing and scaffolding. This whole place is just one big flooded terminal, begging to be forgotten. The two scan the well-dressed crowd for Arya, whose right-hand man Nick spots conversing with a Connecticut congressman. The place beyond the velvet rope is a garden of white settees, half-gone in chalk-colored smoke.

“Kamak,” Nick calls out across the rope, with a bodyguard’s meaty hand pressed against his chest. “We need to see Arya.”

A figure parts the smoke. Black jeans peek out from under the white fur coat, which flanks a taut, lean body. A cliché rolled into a trope, wearing expensive sunglasses. Kamak gets a good look at the two before shaking Nick’s hand, beaming a silver-plated smile.

“Missed you, Casanova.” He yanks Nick into a hug and holds him like a brother. “Everyone here is so goddamn boring.” He looks at Anton. “And this is..?”

“A plus one,” Nick says. “We’re here on-“

“You’re gonna take us to see your boss,” Anton interjects. “Right now.” He says flashing PNCD identification.

“Believe me, pal,” Kamak puts his glasses back on. “I really didn’t need the ID. This way.” Kamak cuts a swathe through the crowd of bodyguards with a hand motion, Nick and Anton follow.

“God, he’s tacky,” Anton whispers to Nick, to no response. The corridor turns the blaring noise into a distant thumping. Green walls turn dark purple as they walk further. Nick wonders if Anton realizes they are not as untouchable as he thinks.

A few more turns before they see it, a rust-red metal door. Kamak salutes the bodyguards in the hallway before knocking. The room opens up to a panoramic view of the chaos on the dance floor below. The thump of the music and the people are all muffled by thick glass, reduced to vibrations. A long dark table stretches out, just in front of the glass. At the table sits a slender feminine figure.

All details of the room fade away behind her. Her cheekbones curve like the edge of a blade, her luminous skin kissed by the glow of some heavenly boom light. Her eyes, framed by dark curls, pierce through anyone bold enough to meet them, sharp and all-knowing. Nick and Anton both feel a scraping at the back of their minds as soon as they look at her. Nick tries to hide his discomfort behind pleasantries. Kamak, quiet as a soldier, waits to be excused. She smiles like it’s tiring to do so before waving everyone but one bodyguard away. She smiles again and points to two chairs in front of her desk. The two sit like troublesome schoolboys.

Anton clears his throat. “Miss Arya, we have some questions about a certain-“ Arya raises one finger, making Anton stop dead mid-sentence. Anton himself doesn’t understand why he stopped. She lights up a cigarette and pulls on it, long and hard. She ashes half of it and never exhales the smoke.

One thing Anton remembers about her kind—they have a way with words. They speak without uttering a word. Her voice tiptoes in a lilting rhythm, like she’s always arriving at the punchline of some sick joke. The smokiness cracks through the smooth tone. Under it all is a near mathematical cadence that sounds to Nick like Madame Sandu, whom he begins to miss. To Anton, it sounds like the voice of his Mother. The base of her voice arrives like an attack of tinnitus. The brothers tumble through her words like a maze.

She asks them what they are searching for.

Nick clears his head with a cigarette. “Miss Arya. We have it on good authority that a suspect in an official investigation might be hiding out here. All we want is to sit him down and ask him some questions.” She nods.

She tells them that her club is a refuge, on top of being neutral territory. The words pass through their minds like bullets, leaving their meaning like an exit wound.

Anton interjects. “Miss Arya, I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. The Division isn’t one of your business partners or allied gangs. If you’re harboring a suspect, we consider that obstruction. I don’t care how well-connected you are-“ Nick’s hand gently squeezes Anton’s forearm, while Arya smiles gently.

Nick whispers, “Let me speak.” Nick turns to Arya. “Miss Arya, while I appreciate the situation, I believe it would be best if you would simply let us speak to him.” Arya listens to Nick’s words, then turns to Anton.

Her words are twofold; she says simply that she cannot allow it, yet they bloom like a pop-up book in his mind, carrying a latent message. Anton can hear her ask him how much it hurt when his father used the belt on him. She prods further and asks how it made him feel when he felt his father’s frail neck under his forearm. Did he feel strong?

Anton sinks into his chair, expression drained. Nick takes over.

“Miss Arya, I’d like you to look into my soul.” The words intrigue her. “Our intentions are pure and simple. Your guest will not be harmed. I simply want to ask Dex a couple of questions.” Nick points to Anton. “Neither of us came to make an enemy out of you.” All Arya offers is a Cheshire smile. She then relents and peers deep into Nick, further than she needs to. What she sees makes her let out a low, dignified chuckle. What silly little pawns these men are. She speaks once more, asking them what on earth she would gain from this. They are not here representing the Division proper. They are here in secret.

Anton rubs his scalp. It’s always something in this city. Of course, Arya wants something from the PNCD. Who doesn’t?

He turns to Nick. “Nick, give us the room. I need to make it worth her while,” Anton says.

“You sure you’re good?”

“I’m good, man. When it’s settled, come back here. It won’t be long.”

Nick leaves Anton, returning to the VIP area. Kamak pats him on the shoulder and leads him to the dance floor. Nick resists but finds himself at the bar. This part always takes time. At the bar, halfway into the club, are metal stools and the staff with serious faces. People crowd around, dancing, thumping along to the music. Nick turns away from the dazzling light, shielding his eyes. The bartenders lean with their ear to the patrons, whose necks stretch over the bar to shout their order. Nick looks at the selection. Whiskey, vodka, gin; daiquiris and espresso martinis. He eyes the drinks of other people sitting at the bar. Amaretto sours, cosmopolitans, a couple of Moscow mules, shots of clear liquid sitting in a pool of condensation. Two years of sobriety are hitting Nick a little too hard tonight.

“Club soda!” Nick says to a bartender.

He turns around to see the dance floor spread out before him; a sea of dark bodies writhing and shimmering in the lights. Sobriety aside, Nick missed the club. He’s not the biggest fan of rave or techno, but he understands the appeal. The dance floor is a hole; the magician’s hat. It is a place one can disappear, opt out of life for a couple of hours. Nick peers into the crowd to test the theory, and he indeed cannot make any sense of who is who. He sips his club soda, thinking of how nice it must be to step onto the sticky floors of this place, and for a night, step off the planet. Dancing, in this way, Nick thinks, is like surrendering to something higher than you. You hand over your reins. Whether it’s to the church, the DJ, family, or the government, we all want to be told what to do, to be placed within walls painted like a horizon and allowed to run wild.

“I’ll have what he’s having.” A woman’s voice is barely audible next to Nick, who is happy just watching the crowd. She sips the club soda and grimaces. She taps him on the shoulder and shouts in his direction.

“So you just come to the club and drink fizzy water?” She asks. Nick turns to look at her. Intense round eyes, staring up at him. Strikingly beautiful. In the strobe lights and other special effects, she looks like the prettiest panic attack Nick has ever had.

Nick clinks his glass against hers. “I’m sober.”

She rolls her eyes, “Boring.”

Nick leans in, “Can I help you?”

“I don’t know, stranger. CAN you help me?” She puts her arm around him, her voice carrying a flirty note. She points up to the VIP area. “I saw you come down from there. I want to be there too.”

“You’re not missing anything.” Nick keeps staring into the crowd. “The real party’s down here.”

The woman sits closer, on the edge of her stool. Her hand glides more comfortably over his shoulder, but Nick maintains his balance.

“Maybe I’m looking for someone special.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“You look familiar.” The woman says into his ear. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

“Trust me, lady. You’d remember.” Nick smiles at her before flattening his face. “Look, you seem nice and all, but I’m gonna need you to leave me alone.”

“That’s how you talk to all pretty girls trying to make conversation?” She leans in closer. “Or just girls not named Liv?”

“What the fuck did you just—“ Nick turns to her, only to feel something cold and sharp press against his neck. In front of him, the woman shapeshifts, and the features and color of her face change into Liv. “Easy.” She says in Liv’s voice.

Nick takes a moment to piece things together. “Nice to finally meet you, Naomi.”

Her face rearranges itself once again, turning into Anton. “Let’s talk.”

In another part of the abandoned terminal, with soundproofing and ventilation, Nick and Naomi stand separate from the clumps of people. Others socialize and mingle, puffing away into the ceiling grates above them. Nick towers over Naomi, who has chosen this very unassuming form.

“So is the girl like your apprentice or something?”

Nick lights her cigarette and then his. “Let’s skip the foreplay. Tell me everything you know.” Nick swirls the ice in his club soda, feeling like he caught a contact high from all the alcohol in the air.

“Oh no, you don’t get to question me,” she shakes her head. “I’ve been doing some digging of my own. We’re not gonna compare notes. You’re gonna tell me what I need to know and then get out of my way.”

Nick puts his drink on a table and crosses his arms, looking curiously at Naomi. “Why are Nilalkali girls disappearing? Answer that simple question, and maybe I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Tell me how you know about Dex. Does he work for you?”

“Trust me, nobody works for me. I don’t know Dex. I’m former PNCD, no current affiliation.”

“So why do you even care?”

“That’s for me to know. But my goal is to find the person who committed a murder— in which you are a suspect, by the way—and bring them in. When it comes to your Nilalkali troubles, I couldn’t care less.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Nick explains what Sere told him, then goes over details that he decides are acceptable to disclose. He tells her about Tanzer, his daughter, about the Cherry Pit connection, and how he wound up on Clara’s trail. Naomi scoffs, realizing that Nick is not as far ahead of her as she thought.

“Maybe I don’t need your help.” She begins to walk away, only for her arm to be caught by Nick.

“But I need yours,” he pulls her closer to him. “I need to know if it was you impersonating Tanzer’s daughter in December of last year.”

“Yeah, that was me. Who gives a shit?”

“So the behavioral dossier was for Luisa?”

“Yeah, it was, now let go of me.” Nick lets her go.

“Tell me what happened the night Tanzer died. Why were you the one Dex always hired, but Clara is the one who disappeared? She never had any formal contact with him, so why are you here?”

“It would take too long to explain.”

“I got time.” The music booms in the background, vibrating their bones and pushing the smoke with each heavy bass drop.

“You got a lot of nerve, you know that? You’re in this for yourself. You don’t give a damn about Clara. If I didn’t hold that knife to your throat, you’d have strong-armed me like the Panic you are.”

“I’m not a Panic.”

“Save it.” She rubs her eyes. “Look… If you can give me Dex after you’re done with him, then maybe I’d tell you everything I know about Tanzer.”

“I don’t have that authority.”

Naomi looks long and hard at Nick.

“Alright.” She says before walking away. Nick goes after her, but as soon as she crosses the doors of the smoking area, she’s gone, blended into the crowd.

“Oh, great.”

Nick feels a hand on his shoulder. He spins around and nearly punches Kamak in the face.

He throws his hands up, feigning fear. “Whoa, relax, bro!” He laughs and pats Nick on the shoulder. The fumes and smoke machine have worn out their welcome in Nick’s mind. “They’re ready for you.”

Back upstairs, Nick nods to Anton, who is sweatier than he was before. His jaw is clenched, with his foot bobbing up and down. His brow twitches as it used to when he lost to Nick in a game as kids. Arya remains seated at her desk, unmoving. She does something resembling a smile and speaks. Her words carry different meanings for the two men, blooming like spice in hot oil. To Anton, a ‘thank you’ for the PNCD’s generous support and contribution. These words twist and ask once again if the belt marks under his sleeve still hurt. Anton swallows hard and nods his head, squeezing out a smile, wanting nothing more than to leave. In Nick’s mind, Arya wishes him happy hunting, followed by a question: ‘Are you even capable of doing anything happily anymore?’, further followed by an expression that doesn’t translate well. Nick understands the meaning of the foreign phrase somehow, making his stomach turn.

The meaning of her words eventually synchronizes in their minds, informing them that it’s the fourth door down the hall on the right. She then bids them both farewell, but the words push further into Nick’s mind specifically. ‘She will never forgive you.’

The fourth door down the hall is unlocked by a tall drink of water in a black suit.

Nick thanks the bodyguard, and the two men stand shoulder to shoulder.

“Punch and Judy?” Nick asks.

Anton shakes his head, still wiping sweat from his forehead. “Hot and cold.”

Nick nods. “Floor is yours.”

Inside, they are greeted by a dressing room, the floor strewn with fast food wrappers and musty clothes.

From around a corner, a voice calls, “Did you get the bacon one as I asked?” A shaggy blonde man stands frozen stupid at the sight of Nick and Anton, toothbrush in his mouth and dressed in a towel.

“Hello, Dex.” Anton approaches, cracking his knuckles, “Nice night…”