A woman appeared. Her tight black jeans and Doc Martens clashed with her Donna Karan blouse. Dyed black hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Nostril and lip holes with no jewelry in them. Simple makeup, but a heavy hand with the eyeliner. She looked like a Goth trying to play it straight, and failing.

She waved me into the darkness beyond. “Ignore him. He’s practicing for a new career as a comedian, which will come in handy when we kick his ass out of the door.” She turned to him. “Go get Sonny and track down Rodriguez. Guy wants to talk to him.”

His gaze hadn’t left me. “Do I get an introduction first?”

“Later. If you’re lucky. Now move.” She led me through a curtain into a lit storeroom. “Speaking of introductions, you are…?”

I thought she’d know, but presumed she was testing me. “Faith. Faith Edmonds.”

“The Expisco? Thank God. Guy almost had a fit when he learned we had a shot at an Expisco and might get a witch instead. But rules are rules, and the girl was the niece of a contact, so we had to give her a shot.” She extended her hand. “Bianca, Guy’s second-in-command.”

She opened a door and we stepped into the club.

I know horror films always take place in dilapidated old mansions with creaky stairs and hidden passages, but for spooky places, I’d nominate a dance club before the doors open at night.

When the music’s playing, clubs have an energy that’s undeniable—the heat of strangers crowding together, the pulsing beat interrupted by the occasional squeal of drunken delight, the sometimes sickening blend of perfume and sweet drinks and hastily wiped up vomit. If you’re not in the mood, it can seem like the ninth pit of Hell, but you still can’t deny the life of it. Walking through this club now was like creeping through a cemetery.

My footsteps and voice didn’t echo through the cavernous emptiness, but were swallowed by top-notch acoustics. Emergency lighting was the only illumination, too dim to even cast shadows. The overamped air-conditioning raised goose bumps on my arms and legs. The smell of cleaning chemicals barely covered the mildew from drinks spilled on the carpeted upper level. The only sound was the slow thump-thump-thump of music in a distant room, thudding like a dying heart.

Bianca was saying something ahead of me.

“Sorry. I missed that.”

“I said crew members don’t officially work in the club, but you could be called on to serve drinks or help behind the bar if we’re short-staffed. Everyone’s expected to do their part. Is that okay with you?”

I could tell by Bianca’s tone—friendly but firm—that this wasn’t open to negotiation.

“Can’t say I’ve ever waited tables, but there’s a first time for everything.”