Persephone Alcmedi 00 - Wicked Circle

To either side of this wooden structure, velvet ropes blocked passage. Just behind the ropes, two guards waited with their hands clasped before them.
    Inside the booth stood a vampire with golden brown hair secured in a curly ponytail. He left the booth with the air of an undergraduate who’d rather be playing drinking games at a frat house than playing the part of the haven concierge. “Meroveus Franciscus, Advisor to the Excelsior, and party, welcome to the haven of the Northeastern Quarterlord. I’m Sever. We’ve been expecting you,” he said. “If you will follow Sergei?” He gestured to one of the guards and unhooked the velvet rope to allow them through.
    Mero detected the true life around Sergei; an Offerling. He led them to an area out of sight of the main doors and to some fine leather seating near the elevators. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Your escort will join you shortly.” The guard excused himself to a position politely far away, but kept them in sight.
    Mero sat on one of the leather chairs with the case upon his lap while the women discussed Sergei’s and Sever’s merits. The modern world had them enthralled, as did nearly every male their eyes beheld, but Mero was wary. He could not allow himself to think he could anticipate their behavior, or expect their compliance.
    Also weighing on his mind was Menessos. It had been a long time since they had last seen each other. The world was so different. From the recent reports to VEIN, he had reason to think Menessos was perhaps very different as well. Mero did not want to make an enemy of him, yet with the duty set before him, it seemed impossible to avoid.
    The elevator gears hummed. The bell dinged to announce its arrival and the doors opened. A raven-haired woman with stunning blue eyes strolled out. A beaded teal dress clung to her every curve, and he could not fail to recognize Seven. She assessed the group as she neared. Mero stood. She bowed her head. “Greetings, Meroveus Franciscus and honored guests. Welcome to the Quarterlord’s haven. I am Seven and will accompany you to our Lord.”
    He knew she knew him, but she introduced herself just the same. Perhaps because he did not greet her by name on sight. Better to play this cool and distant. “Of course.”
    Seven walked toward the stairwell and said, “If you will follow me.”
    Following Seven, Mero led his group down the grand stairwell. Behind him he heard the light footfalls of the shabbubitum, the heavier tread of Sergei. When they arrived at the great doors, Seven brought them forward.
    Directly around him was a railed reception area with a DJ station. Music was playing softly, but at a signal from Seven, the DJ lowered the volume even more.
    Before him, stairs led down to the expanse of a theater house that was no longer sloped and filled with rows of seats, but level and filled—like a nightclub or restaurant—with tables and gilt chairs. Mero noted that, modern clichés created by famous authors notwithstanding, Menessos had managed to find and convert an underground theater into an elegant new haven, one that brilliantly, dramatically, unquestionably reflected Menessos.
    And there he was. Menessos sat enthroned onstage under flattering lights. Goliath Kline sat to his right, and the E.V. to his left. To either side, the fanged symbol of the haven floated across a series of large screens.
    The house lighting lowered. A spotlight illuminated Seven where she stood just in front of them. “Meroveus Franciscus, Advisor to the Excelsior . . . and party,” she announced. She stepped out of the light, allowing Mero and the shabbubitum to replace her in the glow and on the screens placed to either side of the stage.
    He felt the scrutiny of the haven members from the darkness below them. Seven gestured for him to descend the steps. Mero preceded the women down into the midst of the haven members at their tables, crossing the floor and pausing before the stage. He admired the setup. Most havens he’d seen of late positioned the master on a dais of some kind, but this, this was tactically superior. One had to climb a ramp to get to the otherwise railed-off stage. Retreating would involve ascending the equivalent of three flights of stairs just to make the hallway.
    And anything could be behind those stage curtains.
    Knowing what he had been sent here to do, and how outnumbered he was, understanding the security and the location of exits was necessary. There weren’t