All pairings—ages, races, and genders—slink in the crowd together to a mysterious melody. Black walls are empty save for the purple beams projecting upward from fluorescent lamps on the floor. Where would Angela be? Would she hide here? What does she want me to find?

“Shayna?” Hugo stands before me, a plastic cup with clear liquid in hand. Vodka, probably. Or rum, on the rocks. Good choice.

He says something else, then breaks into a grin; I can’t hear him so close to the speakers, and he gestures away from the dance floor. We move into a hallway beside the restrooms. My eardrums throb with the volume change while I take the opportunity to scan these walls for more of our secret language. Two unisex bathroom doors line up adjacent to an unmarked door. I take another step down the hall when the door opens. A young man emerges, donning an apron. A barback.

“Shayna?” Hugo waves a hand in front of my face. “Good to see you again, chérie.” Full lips pout at the end of each word, mirroring his mild accent. He kisses me hello on both cheeks.

“You, too. I didn’t mean to take you from your friends.”

Hugo smiles. “No worries. Nour said you had questions about Parisian history. I love that stuff.”

I peer behind him, back into the growing mass of bodies, then eye his cup. The dry scent of vodka tingles my nostrils. “Actually, I had some questions about the layout.”

He leans against a framed photo of a couple dancing. “I know Paris better than anyone. Above and belowground.”

A shiver skips along my back despite the venue’s raging body heat. “You mean the catacombs? I’ve already been there.”

“If you want the boring, sterile tour, then you have it available Monday through Friday. There are entrances that offer more interesting scenery, though not as pretty as the main one. Sorry—am I going on a tantric?”

Two excited girls flounce past and give Hugo a flirtatious giggle. He wrinkles his nose at me, and we share our own laugh. “No, I’m interested,” I reply, understanding he meant tangent. “How do these entrances differ from Denfert Rochereau?”

Hugo casts his eyes to the side. “In the unofficial doors, you don’t have the fancy stairwell with railing that takes you one hundred steps underground. You have to earn the catacombs, ma belle. There is one good entrance left on this side of the city that hasn’t been shut down by police.”

The reminder of so many steps beneath fresh air and daylight constricts my chest. My pulse races, but I muster a smile. “I almost puked on that staircase. Don’t know if I could do anything else less luxurious.”

“Suit yourself, chérie. But Impasse de Valmy is full of history, if that is your goal.” He smiles, then turns back to the dance floor. “Shall we?”