I’m drawn to a beacon at the back of the room. Hundreds of bottled spirits, backlit by an amber glow, sit on shelves that rise to the ceiling. We take a seat on the barstools, and the bearded bartender emerges from the shadows and slides two cocktail napkins before us. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a formfitting waistcoat that hugs his lean torso.
“Old-fashioned, Darcy?” he asks.
“Thanks, Chester.” Is it bad when you’re on a first-name basis with your bartender?
He turns to Paige. “Dirty martini?”
She nods.
Chester is a bartender who takes his time with each drink. He prechills each glass with ice then gets to work mixing. In no time I have my old-fashioned with a single ice cube and an inky-black maraschino cherry, and Paige has her perfect martini with a swirl of cloudy brine and two olives. We take our drinks to a quiet booth in the corner while the piano player moves on to a new song.
“Question,” Paige says as we slip in.
“Shoot.”
“What if Elizabeth isn’t entirely innocent in all this?” She pops the first olive in her mouth.
It’s a question I’ve considered. Somehow, this young college girl got mixed up in Santa Muerte. That doesn’t happen accidentally. Either she sought out this cult, or someone introduced her.
“Okay,” I say. “How did she find her way to that temple?”
“You said you recognized the symbol from Hugo’s tattoo.”
“Hugo introduced her to Santa Muerte?”
“Either that, or it’s a crazy coincidence.”
The pieces do add up. Sebastian was the first person to confirm Elizabeth’s involvement in Santa Muerte. By his account, she introduced him to the cult. And now I can tie Hugo into it as well. Which leaves me with just one question.
“Who is the lechuza?” I ask.
Paige shakes her head. “I don’t know, but you think she was there at the library?”
“If what Fiona said was true, she could have transformed into the owl…” My attention shifts from Paige to a large bald man in a suit, approaching her from behind. He’s mean looking, like he was asked to leave prison for being a bad influence on the other inmates.
I don’t notice the second guy sliding into the booth beside me until he’s already seated. He’s just as rough looking as the first man and similarly bald but more stylish in his attire. He wears a finely tailored suit—charcoal pinstripes—with tan shoes and a belt to match. The wrinkles on his face are not from age but from a hard life of constant scowling and sneering. His decision to wear a V-neck T-shirt under his suit jacket seems a curious fashion choice.
What catch my eye are his tattoos, which rise from beneath his white shirt. I can barely make out the tops of Russian cathedrals. Around his neck is a serpent coiled like a noose.
“May we join you?” His voice is deep and rough with a thick Russian accent. I see more tattoos, epaulets on his shoulders. He’s not trying to impress. He’s trying to intimidate.
I’m about to decline when Paige answers. “Actually, we’re in the middle of a private conversation, so if you wouldn’t mind…?” She waits for them to leave. They don’t. “Seriously,” she continues, undeterred, “we don’t feel like getting hit on right now.”
Poor sweet Paige. Most times, she’s the smartest girl I know. And honestly, I can’t blame her for assuming these guys are here to pick us up—most strange guys who talk to her are after one thing.
“Paige,” I say, disappointed, “these guys aren’t hitting on us. These gentlemen are drug dealers.”
At first, she clearly thinks I’m joking. I admit, my comment was made to both put them off their game and defuse the situation. To get through this conversation, I’m going to have to put on my tough-girl face and let these guys know I won’t be pushed around. But… I don’t want them to shoot me. I’m going to have to walk a fine line.
Paige scoots away from her guy. “Seriously?”
I jab a thumb at the guy beside me. “I think this one is.” I point my index finger at the one beside her. “I think he’s the muscle.”
She looks her companion up and down. Even sitting, the Muscle towers over her.
“I take it we don’t have to introduce ourselves, do we?” I ask.
The Russian next to me takes my hand and kisses it gently. “It is pleasure to make your acquaintance, Darcy.” He turns to Paige and reaches out for her hand. She recoils. “And you, too, Paige. Or should I say, Tiffany Maddox? My name is Yury. Yury Vilonov.”
It’s one thing that he knows our names. That he knows the catfish name suggests he might be connected to Sebastian.
“Okay, Yury Yury Vilonov,” I say. “And where is our mutual friend, Sebastian?”
Yury Yury exchanges a look with his partner. “Sebastian is missing.”
Missing? The wheels in my mind start spinning. Where could he have gone? Did he find Elizabeth?
“Are you here to ask me to find him?” I ask.
Yury Yury stifles a laugh. “Fuck him. He runs from city. I don’t care.”
Chester arrives and sets two chilled glasses of vodka before Yury Yury and the Muscle. He looks at me. “Everything okay?”
“We’re okay,” I say, nodding.
Paige pipes up. Her voice trembles as she says, “Can I order an angel shot?”
This is a nervous mistake on her part, because now the clock is ticking for me to figure how the who, what, and why of this situation. In many bars you will find a poster in the women’s restroom with a notification to the female patrons—if any men at the bar are harassing you, if your date is making you uncomfortable, or if you need assistance for any reason, order a fake drink from the bartender or wait staff, and they will enlist security’s assistance. That fake drink is called an angel shot.
Chester registers this and casts a worried
