Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

wine decanter? Although you will find many pieces of glass for sale in Venice, the artistry of our master glassblowers is unparalleled. The pieces are all lovingly crafted on the neighboring island of Murano, where all the factories were originally established because of the risk of fire to the wooden buildings of Venice—”
    He cut off her sales pitch with a quick jerk of his hand and said quietly, too low for the others to hear, “I don’t have time for a history lesson. I’m looking for Luciana Rossetti. Don’t pretend you don’t know where she is.”
    “Now look here,” she said. He caught the demonic spark that lit in her eye, and her voice dropped to a hiss. “In Venice, we live in agreement, your kind and ours. Don’t upset the balance.”
    “Then tell me, where’s Luciana?”
    “I haven’t seen that bitch for years,” she choked, spitting out the words. “She would not deign to enter this place.”
    She was lying. Brandon knew it in his gut, as surely as he knew his own name.
    “I guess you won’t mind if I search the gallery, then,” he said.
    The woman grabbed his arm. “What do you think you’re doing? You have no right to march in here and start poking your vulgar nose into this business.”
    He held up his arms, the healing cuts still visible. “I have every right in the world.”
    In the shop’s back room, he looked among the shelves. Nothing. Not a single hint of anything amiss. He stood for a moment, waiting in the stillness.
    Then his eye caught the movement of a door in the very back of the shop opening, noiselessly. Just a tiny crack, a sliver of darkness that shifted. And then it shut again.
    He looked down at the shop assistant. “What’s back there?”
    “Nothing,” she said. Her eyes flickered to the customers inside the shop, perusing the glass. “Sir, you are disturbing our patrons. Please leave.”
    The humans looked over at him, whispering.
    “The shop is shutting for an emergency right now. If you’re interested in purchasing something, please come back later,” he told them. He pulled open the front door and flipped the sign to Chiuso— Closed. As the humans scurried out, Brandon said to the salesgirl, “There. No customers to worry about.”
    He marched to the back of the store, hauled open that door.
    “Wait!” the woman shouted. “You can’t go up there.”
    Ignoring her, he peered into the darkness, up the staircase. “Oh, but I can.”
    Brandon charged his way up the stairs.
    At the top, he entered the foyer of a grand space designed as an entertainment area, which looked as if it was waiting for a party to begin. Velvet sofas and sumptuous draperies furnished the space. A sweeping staircase led to yet another floor above, with a long row of closed doors behind carved balustrades overhead. Above it all, the high ceilings were hung with elaborate chandeliers.
    One of those doors opened, and a girl peered down to call out, “È lui un cliente, Carlotta? ”
    “No, he’s not a client. Not at this time of day,” the saleswoman snapped in English, as she came barreling up the stairs after Brandon.
    The noise prompted more doors opening. On the balcony overhead, girls in various states of undress came out of their rooms, gathering as they peered down over the carved banister. They clustered in a pack together, looking down at him, the collective hiss of their hypnotic voices, whispering, “Angelo.”
    Eyes burning bright in the dimmed light inside the brothel.
    Because that’s what this was, he realized.
    A demon brothel in the middle of Venice.
    The first girl who had spoken sauntered up to him, fingering her cleavage so that he had nowhere else to look. “I have a tattoo, too. Would you like to see it?”
    She pulled her bodice open, flashing her breasts at him. He looked away quickly, pushed her aside without looking for the promised tattoo.
    “Where is Luciana Rossetti?” Brandon demanded, calling up to the rest of the women. “Who among you has seen her?”
    “La Lucciola?” one of them crowed.
    They laughed, all of them, the sound of it like a siren’s call, the promise and the smell of sex hanging in the air. Their nearly naked breasts, pushed up and mounded in corsets and clothing designed to accentuate their assets, shook with their laughter.
    Behind him, Carlotta said smoothly, “Luciana is not here.”
    “What does that mean?” he asked gruffly. “La Lucciola?”
    Hearing the sound of the Italian words coming out of his