Ch25

As evening fell, Nor whipped her truck beside Corvid’s tattoo parlor off Dendrocopos Street. Her eyes burned with adoration at the pale glow of Magpie Ink, with its blue and white neon raven hopping jauntily in the window.

On her eighteenth birthday, she’d gotten a small bird inked on her inner bicep where it could hide against her torso.

She’d asked a bearded artist with gauges and painted nails to tattoo her with a bird that was “badass and weird.” Thus, she ended up with a tiny black and white sparrow-sized beast with outstretched talons, reaching for her arteries. It wasn’t any breed that resided near Corvid and looked anything but menacing. When her adrenaline finally died down and the glamor of eternal art lost its sparkle, she had the nerve to ask the artist what type it was.

“Butcher bird,” he grumbled, wiping her inflamed skin with another dry rake of clenched paper towel. Content with having chased down and hog-tied her wild oats, she’d grinned. Those rebel years were as fleeting and destructive as bottle rockets.

Of course, she knew all that the little bird had truly symbolized for her was freedom. Freedom from her name. From what others expected of her. From her mother, most importantly.

Her relationship with Robin didn’t topple and burn like Rome. Rather, it was eroded by waves of time, by a sea that gutted them both from the inside out. And with time, young Norah Kestrel found it difficult to breathe, to find her footing, to stay afloat. So she had to choose: break free or be broken. Then, left alone to flounder, Robin drowned.

Decades of self-medicating, mixing drugs, alcohol, and tar had left her to suffer just floors above her daughter each day. Robin’s mortal clock ticked loudly as though it boomed through the hospital intercoms, beating against the halls. Her daughter could hear it in the clacking of her heels, in the tapping of the cold key at her navel.

Beckoned home to maintain the house in her mother’s absence, Norah didn’t mind emptying countless ashtrays and scrubbing hacked-upon countertops. She didn’t mind struggling to stretch their savings account for medications, meals, blood-thirsty insurance claims, and unpayable bills.

What truly ate at Robin’s child was far more pathetic.

It was the implicit obligation she minded most.

The expectation that her mother was owed this sacrifice of her daughter’s adult life. Norah was supposed to lay down her everything for the decaying and dying woman who hadn’t held the space for her ugliest emotions. The parent who never allowed her the anger, the grief, the agony of being not okay was entitled to their child’s thick, smothering mask of I’m fine.

That’s why she couldn’t go near the seventh floor without a panic attack gripping her throat, leaving her to wheeze on the stairs in a cold sweat. Stepping foot in that room again would surely crush her like the waves that’d dragged her down as a child. She’d relive that breathless betrayal of being held under by someone who was supposed to teach her to swim.

“Fuck,” adult Norah muttered, returning to Magpie Ink’s parking lot. She stretched the tight skin of her palm and inspected the strange building across the street. The glowing map on her phone had dutifully followed the coordinates from the business card on Dex’s table and stuck a red pin onto the dark lot before her. Though there was no evidence of a building or business on her GPS, a warehouse-sized structure loomed in the shadows. It was painted midnight black with no observable doors, windows, vehicles, or indicators of life.

How have I lived here for thirty years and never noticed this place?

Her heeled boots clacked against the street and stopped before the massive bricks.

You need to get your ass home before you get trafficked, you fucking blunder of a human.

But her fingers graced the beads on her wrist.

She thought of Alina. And Dex. She thought of the years she’d spent wasting in that mausoleum of a house, decaying. Hiding from the past. Cowardly clutching to her comforts that weren’t even all that comfortable.

Just like your mother.

Her heart pounded as she lapped the building, anxiety cranking her throat tight. The warehouse had no knobs, locks, windows, or signage. Not a single sound mumbled from within its inner caverns. There was no life, only leggy cords of black sweet potato vines strangling the brick in sheets of chaotic foliage. There was no way in.

An unexpected rush of tears welled at her lids. Angry, irritated, and bitter.

Had Dexteras Doe been a figment of my imagination?

Then, as the final rays of the sun dipped down past the horizon, a flash of metal gleamed in her periphery. She turned to see a set of brass hinges shining beneath black leaves. Her fingers found a door, matte black and seamless, nearly invisible in the gloom.

She rapped against it with a confident knock of knuckles. It gave a promising echo of something beyond. She knocked again.

No response.

Then, she kicked and shoved and pried at the metal with her chipped, black nails.

Fucking fuck.

Exhausted by dead ends, she rested her palms and forehead against the steel where it soothed her scar, sending currents of cold through her flesh. She was out of ideas, of avenues, of hope.

Click.

Her head snapped upwards at the shudder beneath her fingertips. Air whistled through a narrow crack, tossing her hair behind her. She slipped her fingers within the void and yanked, casting the steel aside.

“Hello?” she called into the darkness beyond. But her voice was consumed by deafening silence.

She stepped into a dark, vacant room, bruised with stormy walls and minimal decorum. There were no seats, front desk, insignia, nor pamphlets. Only shadows, charcoal walls, and black brick pillars which kissed a high tin ceiling, peeling with gold paint.

Black marble floors led her feet to the opposing side of the room. There, her options were simple: one hallway, which funneled to the left.

The hall was coated floor-to-ceiling in mirror pieces, sharp, aggressive and jarring shapes creating an illusion of endless blackness. As Nor’s reflection crept between the shards, she appeared as though she, too, was made of broken pieces. The door at the end of the hall was a mate to the first, unwelcoming and steel.

She pressed her right palm to the door.

It didn’t budge.

She presented her left, with its taut scars.

After a heartbeat, it clicked open.

As it cracked ajar, a surge of music and balmy heat gushed through. A metal platform and descending staircase awaited her, winding in chaotic twists and turns like a contorted snake.

She stepped from the hall and onto the grated balcony, taking in an aerial view of the humid underground expanse below. Her mouth fell open.

The scene before her looked like that of a nightclub: dark, moody, seductive, and glittering. Filled with winding bodies, tattooed flesh, and thick smoke, the crowd and its surroundings wore scarlet, black, and gold. Some dazzled in the light while others hid in the quiet, shadowy pockets.

The building’s bones were industrial, steel columns and black brick with contemporary, sparkling, and golden décor and fixtures. Countless large, red neon signs were embedded into the porous brickwork, illuminating the darkness with a bloody aura.

A majority of the club-goers were clustered, roaring, whooping, shaking their fists, and crushing one another around a circular stage at the expanse’s heart. The stage was elevated above their jeering heads and wrapped in yet another twisting ribbon of metal stairs. A tall fence of gold rails and chains surrounded the platform, glistening like a menacing cage beneath spotlights.

The stage was shining with polished gold tile, topped with puddles of crimson.

Norah blinked and leaned over the balcony’s railing, eyes squinting against the humid haze.

It was blood.

She watched a limp body being dragged beneath the rails and into the crowd like a garbage bag, arms and hair spread, smears of black blood following behind.

And with numb clarity, she understood.

It was a fighting ring.

If Dexteras was here, she prayed the floor hadn’t already been wiped with his insides. She hastened down the stairs.

Endless shapes, sizes, and colors of bodies cheered, danced, and sipped from their glasses, eyes heavy-lidded as though swimming through an opium fog. From a smaller, more distant stage, provocative music boomed through speakers, twisting and hypnotizing the surrounding patrons. A thick curtain hung still, dark like red wine.

Norah stuck to the shadows of the winding stairs, eyes flitting across the scene, lip bitten between her teeth. As soon as she stepped onto the ground floor and into the glow of red neon, staring eyes turned to drink her in.

She crept along the dark walls and followed it towards a black metalflake bar top, scattered with gold-rimmed glasses and tap handles. Sharp-featured beings hustled behind it with toothy grins and bony features. Behind them rose a floor-to-ceiling mirror laced in a vignette that stretched on for what seemed like miles. Gold shelves sparkled with vibrating liqueurs in red bottles, thrumming to the bass.

Above it all, grand, crimson text read, OBLITUS.

Shrill screams and baritone hollers swelled from the club’s center. On tiptoe, Nor sought out the commotion near the golden ring. Jostling bodies grappled and feet danced behind the bars. Rails and chains rattled.

She followed a handsome member of the bar staff to the sparkling bar top and perched upon a gold stool. She eyed the colorful liqueurs that lined the mirrored glass, the shining necks of tinctures, preserves, and bitters. Past them, she saw herself in the reflection, sporting her fitted black clothes, dark eyes, and lips. Feeling relentless eyes raking over her still, she zipped her leather jacket up to her throat.

Her gaze fell to the combat boots and dark pants of a handsome patron several seats from her, noting something strange about his tattoos in their closeness. What she’d assumed were tribal shapes and jagged symbols were instead chaotic, bold scribbles and winding black spills of ink. Some were narrow and others were coarse like lazy cover-up work done with crude tools. These sinewy blotches of ink dappled his chest, arms, jaw, throat, and even bled along his eyebrow like the stitching of black thread. A shock of gold twinkled in the hoop piercing his busted lip. He ran a tongue across its metal with a grin.

Norah’s eyes snapped to her hands, pretending to be enamored by her father’s coin as it padded across her knuckles. She also fidgeted with a black drink coaster, desperate for a distraction.

A tall slender logo bearing the letters OBLITUS sparkled in gold foil. On the back, Nor found familiar shaking scribbles in ballpoint pen, inscribing an assortment of dead languages in a rushed hand. She thought of the tag on Alina’s lioness and her heart skipped a beat.

Dex.

He so deeply wanted answers. To understand.

That’s why this place had kept him away for so long. He was looking for himself. For home.

But it was evident by the violent atmosphere and its scowling beings that what you’re looking for and what you find aren’t always the same thing.

Filled with fresh bravery, Nor sought one of the bustling barkeeps until their gaze locked onto hers. She raised her hand and he smiled.

Finishing a pour of liquor into ruby shot glasses, he tossed her a chin and paced to her on tall legs. He was a sharp man in his forties with a seamless golden complexion and dark dusting on his jaw. His hazel-gold eyes fluttered across Norah’s body from bottom to top before leaning across the bar and extending a ring-clad hand.

“Mikael.”

Nor squeezed his calloused fingers, noting that his nose had once been broken and reset and now adorned a tiny jewel at the nostril. It, along with his hairy chest, was scarred with the same chaotic black tattoo work. The corner of his mouth curled to reveal peeking teeth.

“Norah,” she said, blushing with his closeness.

“Welcome to Oblitus, Norah. Care for a drink?”

“Sure, surprise me,” she replied, surprising herself with her boldness. It’d been lifetimes since she’d stepped foot in a bar and ordered a drink. Since she’d known company for company’s sake.

In a puff of pale smoke, he held aloft a bottle-blue cocktail glass. Cold nitrogen gas spilled from it like a potion.

She blinked at the illusion and plucked the glass from his inked fingers. The liquid inside was a teal blue, glittering with bits of edible gold flake. An intricately folded origami bird was perched on its rim.

Eyes wide and fixed on Mikael, she sipped from the icy glass. It was chilled and tart like cider and it slipped all the way down to her gut with its bite.

Just after her first grateful swallow, Mikael closed his eyes and his breath hitched, as if in pain. His body grew rigid against the glassy marble, fingers clutching it. The episode seemed to subside quickly, leaving him to stand reorient his dizzy limbs.

“Are…you okay?” she dared to ask.

His striking eyes rolled open and he breathed deeply with a curt nod. “Yes. I-I apologize. We haven’t had anyone like you here before in Oblitus. Ever,” he muttered, clearing his throat and breathing deeply.

She scowled. “Like me?”

“Corporeal,” he replied, as though it were an obvious answer. “I don’t remember your kind, but I remember…how you felt.” He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes again, gathering his composure.

Norah set the glass back to the bar top. “What does any of that mean?” she asked, gut churning with his implications.

“This isn’t your home Norah,” he said, leaning closer, his warm charm returning to his features.

Her skin itched and her eyes dashed to the mirror behind Mikael. The whites of more watching eyes flashed and stared.

“I’ve lived in Corvid my whole life,” she said, still challenging the gaze of countless strangers in the glass.

Mikael’s lips stretched wider, and he opened them to speak-

But before he could unpack her endless questions, a crash exploded from deep within the belly of the club. A cacophony of chains trilled and the crowd electrified. Their jeers intensified. The floor trembled.

Kneeling on her barstool, Nor saw two men sparring and shoving in the snares of the golden ring. Their sweat and blood glowed violent red by a neon sign above the ring which read, Til Death. Fittingly, neither of the fighters seemed to follow any code, or obey any rules, or abide by the tolling of any match bells.

Then, with a horrifying war cry, one of the fighters was thrown into the crowd. The herd bubbled with excitement, making room for the uninvited guest. The crowd swelled and rippled, nearly engulfing Norah on her seat.

Mikael jerked his head at her, a request to retreat with him behind the bar.

But she hesitated. The intentions of everyone within this place were unreadable, polished in gorgeous bones, dazzling smiles, and jewel-toned irises.

Another crash shook the tile, closer now. The smack of flesh on flesh could be heard as the brawl of tearing beings approached. Curses in languages both foreign and familiar screamed atop the crowd and the aggressive music trembling through the speakers.

Before Nor could take Mikael’s outreached hand, a rinse of cold air rushed across her back and neck. The air at her lips suddenly became so chilly, she struggled to breathe it in. And as though the breeze itself twisted her by the shoulders, she pivoted into its owner with a gasp.

“I know who you’re looking for,” said a deep, crumbling voice with a cockney bite. She gazed upon a well-built man with black sunglasses who smelled of pine and cut vines. Woodsy, earthy, like Chinese black tea. The glass protecting his eyes twinkled in the red lights of the bar.

“It’s you...” she muttered, eyes wide on the handsome man who’d let her into The Aviary this morning.

“This way dollybird,” he purred at her earlobe. His throaty call and calming cold were compelling and confident, strumming the hairs on her neck. He was thick with rolling muscles, punctured with dramatic pockets of shadow in his features. Scars chopped the lines of his dark brow and his ears were studded with black and gold rings.

The flare of a strobe light struck his scars and dark lenses. Steely-black hair swept back from his face and the sides of his head were buzzed short. Chaotic tattoos like the others she’d seen peeked and played along his freckled skin, undecipherable in the dramatic shadow.

Nor couldn’t command her feet to unglue from the tile despite his compelling demands.

“Lenore Kestrel, aye?” His expression was cold and drunken. He was in a hurry, it seemed.

“Norah,” she corrected him, sick of these men knowing things about her that she hadn’t granted them permission to.

“On yer bike then, birdie.” This time, the stranger flashed a set of shark-white teeth to Mikael, who frowned and bared his jaw. Then, without so much as a glance over his shoulder, he shoved through the crowd and left her.

Though his pale skin was a beacon in the dark, every inch of his clothing was black. His long waistcoat, his thin undershirt. The spidery fingers of illegible ink.

Norah hurried after him, his massive form serving as a riot shield through the crowd. No one dared press against them while his shoulders were in the lead.

He led her along the bar and into the shadows of the unused music stage adorned with its wine-colored curtain and booming speakers that thundered like her pulse. A neon sign above it read in bold letters: WHO DARES, WINS. They ascended a squat set of hidden stairs and stepped in the shadow of the heavy curtain. The stranger tucked himself behind its velvet and lit a cigarette.

Nor hovered hesitantly in the space where neon red light and black shadow met. The balmy heat of the club slicked her fingertips with salt, streaking her phone’s glass screen in her palm.

This is stupid. You’re stupid. What the fuck are you doing?

The stranger leaned against the brick wall, bourbon smelling smoke rolling from his nostrils. His top lip snarled to one side as he pulled on the cigarette.

Norah’s lungs fell victim to the alluring aroma. She’d once been addicted to second-hand smoke it’d seemed, thanks to her mother’s frequent habit. But Nor hadn’t known the guilty satisfaction of its pungent sting in years. As he pulled on the thin cigarette, the tattoo of the warbling bird on his hand stretched, the creature’s eye milky and white.

“You,” she stammered. “I saw you…a-at The Aviary-”

But he seemed distracted by the commotion below. His ear was tipped to the chaos as though he were listening for something.

“Who are you?” she said above the crowd.

“Colleague to that feckin’ barmcake,” the stranger stated, tossing his chin towards the brawl that had spilled from the cage.

Norah cocked her head. “Wh-”

“Dexteras, yer ancient git, aye?” Smoke waterfalled up his sunglasses with frustration, his voice snappish and tired.

“How do you-”

“Colleague,” he interrupted again.

“But how do you know that I-”

“Cuz nobody goes to the feckin’ outside,” he stated, chin tossing towards the snaking staircase that carried her down. “And the both of ya wreak of the outside,” he grimaced.

Between Mikael and this stranger, she wasn’t sure whose words confused her more.

“Cecil,” he suddenly spat, still not looking at her.

Was this his idea of an introduction?

As he held open the velvet curtain with a propped arm, she couldn’t help but notice the thick blue veins that wrapped his hands and exposed arms. They reminded her of a man she’d dated once, Rook. He was as narrow as a stork, but had pale veiny arms she couldn’t look away from when they twisted around her.

“What is this place ?” Nor asked, eyes still shamelessly observing his peeking tattoos. A narrow, reaching, bird’s talon pierced beyond his black hairline and raked its claws against his rolling jaw. He didn’t seem to notice or mind her staring.

“I can promise ya dolly, tis not the place you’re s’posed to feckin’ be.”

She raised a brow, exasperated air spewing from her lips. “I need to talk to Dex.”

“Well, he’s busy with a pagga. Handbaggin’ Figgys.”

“Excuse me?” The fuck did this man just say?

Curses and crashes approached nearer. Stools and bottles smashed with upturning.

Cecil grinned like a demon. “He’s after a hell of a chicken dinner,” he said. “Gotta prove himself first.”

“Prove himself? Isn’t he here to figure out who he is?” she confirmed. Dex’s nearness to answers had awakened a hunger in her gut as well on his behalf.

“What he is, aye.” Smoke dotted the air with the stranger’s snickers. “To put pieces back together one must first get busted-a-feckin-part,” he said, manipulating impossible smoke shapes into the space between them. She swore they briefly took on the illustrations of a sword piercing a silver, pumping heart.

But then the reality of his words crashed upon her. She pointed to the chaos beyond.

“Wait, that’s…?”

His teeth peeked and his rumbling chuckles dashed through the thick smoke between them. He snapped the curtain aside.

“Have a butcher, dollybird.”

She peered around the velvet in time to watch a flash of snowy hair and bared teeth. He was a roaring beast in tattered dress clothes, draped suspenders bobbing at his hips. His ink, sweat, and blood were smeared across him like war paint.

Dexteras Doe was a flash of dirtied flesh, defending his skull, bending deep at his geriatric knees, delivering brutish blows as though he had trained for it his whole life. His teeth whistled with effort and his hands whooshed through the air like sledgehammers.

His opponent was dark, grinning, and slow on his feet, but catastrophic with his fists. One of these laid Dex flat on the tile where he was left to heave at the gold ceiling. Before Nor could gasp, he sprung back to his feet, a split in his forehead now leaking blood into his ivory hair.

The crowd screamed with fervor as though disappointed he hadn’t died. Their rallying bodies served as a barrier to the fight in lieu of the abandoned fight ring. They whistled and cursed.

Grappling with his opponent once more, Dex was reactive and righteous. He never accepted a hit without returning it in kind.

The once old and domesticated old man had become feral, blue eyes screaming beneath purple eye sockets, swollen like plums. Exposed, rolling muscles, rounded and stiffened with each effort. He was an absolute force of nature.

Holy shit, Dexteras.