Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) by Matthew Hattersley (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

the contents for a moment, she cast her attention down the stairwell leading into the club. The steps and walls were painted bright red with three mirrored panels bolted together on the roof. It was these little touches, along with the neon palm tree and the sticky handrail, that told her it was a real classy joint.

“Is fine,” the bouncer growled. He shoved the bag at her and stepped aside, already more interested in a group of boisterous young men standing behind her.

“Good luck, boys,” Acid muttered to herself, as she hurried down the steps. At the door of the club she paused to get her head back in the game. Whether she was walking into a trap or Magpie really was running scared, the same guidance was true – she had to be focused and she had to be ready. There was no room for mistakes. Magpie was a dangerous woman, and they were playing for keeps. Acid rolled her shoulders back, leaned into the heavy door and entered the club.

Thirty-Six

The hot stuffy air hit her full in the face as she let the door swing shut behind her. In front of her was a corridor, with a coat attendant to her left and an illuminated hatch in the wall to her right. Another bouncer, friendlier than the one outside but only relatively, gestured for her to move towards the hatch where she was confronted with a blue-haired girl wearing a skin-tight silver top and a fake smile.

“Hello,” she sang. “Is thirty euros.”

“Woah, thirty, okay.” Acid reached into the bag and found the roll of notes, peeling off a ten and a twenty and handing them over.

“You want to put bag in locker?” the girl asked, taking the money.

She shook her head. “No, I’ll keep it with me. Is that okay?”

The girl replied with a brief shrug as she bopped her head to the music coming from the main room. Electronic dance music. The sort Danny liked. The sort Acid hated.

She offered up the back of her fist for the girl to stamp and nodded thanks before sashaying along the corridor. It opened out into a circular dancefloor which took up most of the room. High tables had been placed at intervals with chairs around their circumference, whilst a long and curved bar took up a quarter of the back wall. Next to this was what some might call a ‘chill-out area’ comprising of six booths underneath a mezzanine level that jutted out over the edge of the dancefloor.

It being early for this sort of thing, the club was only a fraction full, but Magpie was nowhere in sight. Acid prowled around the edge of the dancefloor, scanning her gaze around the faces. Her heightened senses were on overdrive, but in the dinginess of the basement club her vision was skewed. A growing fog of dry ice pumping out from hidden units in the walls didn’t help. Half a circuit of the club and she found herself at the bar eyeing the extensive array of liquor on the back wall.

No. Not a good idea.

Except over by the entrance she clocked the bouncer, watching her with a curious expression on his face. That settled it then. Whether you were the hunter or the one being hunted, it was important to blend into your environment. The only problem was, right now Acid had no idea which of those two positions she inhabited. Hunter or hunted. If she knew she could act accordingly rather than feeling out of step, unbalanced. But perhaps that was exactly what Magpie was hoping for.

Shit.

She was overthinking it again. Second-guessing herself. It wasn’t like her, and it certainly was not a good head space to be in currently. Magpie Stiletto was getting to her.

And maybe that was exactly what she was hoping for.

She rested one arm on the bar top, keeping side-on to the room. Next to her a group of giggling girls wearing skimpy dresses were necking back a row of bright blue shots. Ignoring them she leaned over the bar as a swarthy young barman spotted her and walked over.

“Please?” He had big expressive eyes and his thick shiny hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

“If I order a spirit, will it come in an actual glass?” she asked.

The man – a boy, really – tilted his head to one side, demonstrating with an over-the-top expression he was confused.

She sighed. “What glasses do you use for the whisky?”

Still frowning, the man picked up a bright pink beaker made of plastic. “You want whisky and coke?”

Acid baulked at the sight. “God no. I’ll have a beer. Please. Cerveza, gracias.”

With a big smile (bright blue teeth under the UV lights), he spun around and returned almost instantly with a bottle of Mahou. He placed it down in front of her and made a show of opening it with a bottle opener attached to his belt by a piece of elastic. “Ten euro,” he told her.

Biting her tongue, she pulled out another ten note. “Here you go,” she told him, before scrabbling around in the bottom of the bag and retrieving a handful of coins. “And here. For you.”

The man smiled again, scooping up the change and taking it to the till. Acid took a long swig of the beer. It was ice cold and incredibly welcome. But she wasn’t here to have fun.

Holding the drink down by her side but keeping her arm tense, ready to employ the glass bottle as a weapon if needed, she moved away from the bar. By the entrance she clocked the three men who’d arrived just behind her. They were standing by the door and taking in the club with greedy eyes. Yet as Acid watched, she also noticed a certain stiffness in the way they held themselves that belied the cocksure attitude on show. They were young bucks. Harmless enough. And wasn’t everyone wearing a mask of some kind? Some were just easier to spot than others.

She carried