The Inheritance: Part 1

Chaper 8

He leads her to an elevator in the main building that takes them to a sublevel, where they step into a dimly lit room cast in blue and purple hues. Almost immediately, they're greeted by security: two large men dressed in all black.

They make way for Red Hood but motion to hold her back.

Red Hood cuts them off. "She's with me. As a guest."

They nod and escort her off to the right. Red Hood heads left, not sparing a glance back at her.

She's led into a much larger, circular room of similar lighting. In the center, a guard rail borders a sunken pit. A spotlight overhead shines directly down. There are maybe a dozen or so patrons around, dressed to the nines and surrounded by personal security and a plus one or two. A few waiters and bottle girls weave through and around, offering drinks and appetizers.

The scent of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume sits heavy in the air.

To the right, the crowd is thinner, and she navigates close to the pit. Glancing over the rail, she sees that it's an actual dirt pit. There are no cages involved. There are two metal gates, reminiscent of ancient times, that provide the only entrances into the pit—unless someone were to leap over the side.

"Excuse me, miss."

Rachelle turns her head, and a waiter stands with a tray of thin flutes in his hand. Bubbly, light, with a lemon twist. He offers one to her.

She motions to dismiss, but he says, "Compliments of the house—our Valletta 75. Gentle, citrus, keeps the smoke off the palate."

"I really shouldn't," she starts to say but accepts it when he holds it out.

"Trust me, it'll help cut through the noise." Then he waltzes off to the next guest.

As she scans the crowd, she notices that most either already have a drink or are accepting the ones being offered.

She should probably keep one in hand just for appearances.

Looking down at the drink, she stifles a laugh. She's not even old enough to drink.

Curious, she takes a whiff, but all she smells is the lemon. She takes a sip. It's fizzy, a little citrusy, with a hint of an alcoholic aftertaste. Not something she'd consider enjoyable.

A few more patrons fill the mezzanine, and soon their attention is grabbed by an announcer coming through overhead speakers, announcing the first fights of the night. The space around the guard rails remains fairly open through the first few rounds. None of the fighters are particularly interesting, and only a few have more than basic fighting skills.

Back and forth– punches, knees– it's little more entertaining as a Friday night bar fight.

After the first half hour or so, she breaks from the rail and walks into the still-growing crowd. The scent of smoke is even thicker in the air, and back from the pit, music is playing like a toned-down club.

She walks past the bar, where a blonde woman in a black, low-cut dress is wiping the counter. Glancing up from the bar, she makes eye contact with Rachelle and waves her over with a small flick of her hand.

"Let me take that glass off your hands," she says with a warm, maternal smile. At the closer distance, Rachelle notes the faint smile lines at the woman's eyes.

She passes over the flute, which is now closer to empty than full. The woman dumps the drink, then washes the glass.

"I don't have much of a taste for it either," she says. "And you're young, so you probably prefer something a bit sweeter. Let me make you something I think you'll like."