A cool morning breeze whips through the street. I flip up the collar of the double-breasted jacket Fiona loaned me. The golden-brown Harris Tweed isn’t my normal fashion choice, but she insisted I “dress for the occasion” and not like some “dosser in mourning.”
Fiona accepts a ticket from a valet and joins us on the sidewalk. We follow her to a front door of one of the older buildings, a gothic structure ten stories tall. She punches a code into the security box, and a loud buzz-and-click sound informs us the door is now open.
Fiona turns to Paige. “I’m sorry, dear. This is as far as you go.”
Paige looks at me. We discussed this on the car ride over. The place was “not for the uninitiated,” Fiona said—which to me meant not for Muggles. Despite Paige’s initial protestations, she ultimately understood that this was a world where she was not permitted.
“Text me when you’re done. I’ll be at the coffee shop next door.” Paige gestures to her laptop bag, letting me know she’ll be able to keep herself busy for a while. Then she disappears around the corner, and I follow Fiona inside.
“You’re right,” Fiona says. “She’s protective of you.”
“She would take a bullet for me.”
Fiona glances at my shoulder. “Maybe to return the favor.”
We enter a lobby to find one uniformed guard standing by two old elevators and another sitting at a reception station. Fiona approaches the reception guard.
He smiles as she arrives at his desk. “Good afternoon, Ms. Flanagan. It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you, Charles.” Fiona scribbles information in a logbook.
Charles smiles at me. “Good morning, miss. I hope you’re having an excellent day.”
I nod a thank-you.
Charles turns back to Fiona. “New member?”
“Not yet. She’s a guest.”
Charles continues to smile. “He won’t allow guests.” This is stated as a fact, not a challenge or confrontation. His tone is cheery, like a kind stranger commenting on a sunny day.
Fiona finishes her entry in the logbook. “He’ll allow this one.” She leads me to the elevators. The other guard nods to us. Fiona pulls out a black plastic card and waves it at a sensor panel at the elevator. A light flashes green, and the elevator door opens.
We step inside. The elevator door closes. We stand there, not moving.
“What floor?” I ask.
“Just wait.”
Moments later, the intercom system crackles to life. “No guests, Ms. Flanagan,” says a disembodied voice with an English accent.
“I’m aware of the rules. He’ll make an exception,” Fiona answers.
“He never makes exceptions,” says the voice.
“Just tell him this—tell him I bring two guests.”
There’s a pause before the speaker crackles again. “I only see one other with you.”
“Tell him.”
Silence follows. After a couple of minutes, the elevator jostles with no forewarning. We rise, and I watch the light panel and read the floors as they go by. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…
Then the panel goes black, but we keep moving. Finally, the doors open. Fiona steps out, and I follow her into a large two-level penthouse. Every wall is covered in dark oak panels framed by ornate molding. While some panels display framed photos and paintings, many others are carved with symbols, sigils, and veves.
My eyes rise to the mezzanine level, where two rows of tables overlook the space. There are people seated and chatting noisily, most of them either drinking some cocktail or smoking. Directly above is an enormous skylight that stretches the length of the floor.
Fiona leads us to a reception stand, where a tall, thin man towers over us. He wears a pinstriped suit. That outfit, coupled with his bald head, makes him look like Jack Skellington.
“Did he make an exception?” Fiona asks with a wry smile.
“This way, please,” Jack says. I recognize the voice I heard on the elevator.
We follow Jack up the stairs that lead to the mezzanine. As we climb, I notice more and more faces turning in our direction. And when I say our direction, I mean my direction. By the time we’re at the top of the stairs the entire place is completely quiet, and all eyes are on me.
By all accounts, everyone looks normal—well, normal for Los Angeles. There are people of all ages, from teens to the elderly, and all ethnicities. Some are dressed in suits, some in eclectic casual garb. One woman is even dressed in yoga pants and a hoodie. Still, there’s something off about all of them. As we hurry through, I don’t have the time to observe them and put my finger on it.
Jack leads us past a large island bar where I spy a selection of top-shelf-only spirits. We move down a hallway, past various clubrooms and antechambers. Still, there are carvings of symbols on the walls—symbols I recognize from years of researching religions, magic, and the occult. We pass one after another. There are some with Christian origins. Egyptian. Celtic. Hindu…
We walk through the main dining area. Three living trees burst from the floor, their gnarled trunks twisting over the tables while their large limbs sprout a canopy of leaves. Black-and-white photos of members are hung on the walls, memorializing past events at the venue.
And every time we approach a new group of patrons, they stop and stare. No one speaks, not even in hushed tones, as I pass. It’s as if they collectively understand the same secret. Whatever that secret is, it seems to be about me.
We finally arrive at an oak door at the end of a long hall. Jack Skellington knocks. “They’re here.”
The large wooden door creaks open. Jack nods to us and retreats down the hall.
Fiona waltzes inside, and I follow. I’m not sure what to make of this room.
