“Not really.”

“Care to venture a guess at what is down there?”

“Subway tunnels?” I don’t want to live in tunnels and room with rats.

“No. Beneath is a long-neglected theater, barely more than a ruin. We are, of course, modifying it to accommodate our needs. It would have been a shame to destroy a beautiful structure, so the terrible state of disrepair was truthfully an advantage to us.”

“Aren’t you being a little Anne Rice Theatre-of-the-Vampires . . . minus Paris, of course.”

“Underground real estate is always hard to find. Especially in a big city on a lake. Our choices were limited.”

“Right.”

He directed me to pull over in front of the building, basically at the intersection of Euclid and Roadway, where a trio of men stood—men blatantly advertising they were the dangerous sort. My instinctive reaction was to drive the other way, fast, but Menessos got out and greeted them. They gave acquiescing nods, and I realized they were servants. More than that, they were vampires.

“You two, conduct the bags from the trunk to the appropriate rooms. You, park the car and return the keys to me.”

I popped the trunk and got out. Before either of the vampires could reach inside the Avalon’s back end, I removed my broom. “I’ll take this myself.” I quickly retreated.

Following Menessos, we approached what was basically a wall of particle board, with one rough-cut opening for a standard windowless steel door in ugly primer gray. keep out was spray-painted on the wall in bright colors and with graffiti artistic-style letters. Centered on the door was a circle of black, with the stylized fang symbol—six gleaming white teeth, the outer two were fangs. Like the universal symbols differentiating men’s and women’s bathrooms, this image indicated a vampire establishment. A governmental regulation meant to protect the innocent public, of course. It was a sign I knew to avoid, but I wasn’t avoiding it this time.

I’m about to enter a real vampire haven.

I had expected the gray door would be locked, but Menessos reached for the knob and opened it with a turn.

Before Goliath and Menessos crossed my path, I considered the undead anathema, and I avoided them. I wasn’t about to be converted by the new “Vampire Executives” campaign—which was trying to soften their image from demonic bloodsuckers to lawyer-type bloodsuckers.

What’s funny is they see that as an improvement.

Both Menessos and his next in command had shown evidence they were above-average violent offenders. Yet, I had seen both offer kindness and tenderness as if they were still people. It was hard to believe.

And here I was going into Menessos’s world, his haven. There would be a lot of vampires.

Like Krispy Kreme doughnuts at a Friday morning office meeting, I didn’t stand a chance.

“After you, Persephone.” He indicated for me to enter.

Had we been going into a normal public place, the “chivalry isn’t dead” gesture would have been more appreciated. Not knowing what to imagine on the other side of this under-construction vampire domain, my steps were hesitant.

A single light, the only illumination, beckoned me away from the empty, echoing department store entry toward a separate structure to my left. As I neared, the structure was revealed as an old ticket booth. Through the filthy glass, I saw a metal-caged bulb dangling from a now-exposed beam in its ceiling. The eerie glow was enough to make out that the booth was faced with deep cherrywood paneling and ornate molding. A thick coating of dust obscured the details.

It wouldn’t have surprised me to see a cobwebbed skeleton sitting inside that booth. The sound of distant pounding and power tools could easily have been mistaken for rattling chains and rapping spirits.

Menessos led me past the booth and through the dingy lobby behind it to a short hall where we passed a boarded-up elevator. We descended a wide stairway opposite the elevator. Occasional bare light bulbs screwed into once-elegant wall sconces provided minimal illumination. My fingers followed the wooden railing until I realized it was not only dirty but rotting and splintery, as well. Many of the iron spindles were missing.

The farther we went, the worse it became. I might have to use my broom to clear the way.

The stairs were covered in dust and debris, although the center portion was cleaner from obvious travel—and I could see why people were staying to the center. The walls were black with grime and mildew, the paint and paper peeling like diseased skin. It smelled moldy and musty, and underlying that was the damp odor of rusting metal. This is what abandonment smells like.

The staircase rounded down a quarter turn and a hallway stretched to either side. The ceiling here was as bad as the walls. The tiled floor was dirty, cracked, and broken—furthering the haunted-house atmosphere.

Menessos stopped and looked both ways thoughtfully.

“Are we waiting on ghostly traffic to stop so we can cross?”

The dim light caught the gray of his eyes, making crescent moons of them and the effect transfixed me. He said, “I am just trying to decide which way I should take you.”

Accustomed to Johnny’s innuendos, I found that his words had my mind flashing on various sexual positions. Stop it. He’s not Arthur.

“This way.” He led me to the left, past this level’s boarded-up elevator, and down a longer flight of steps. It, too, curved and was dilapidated in disgusting ways. We emerged into a lobby. Three sets of double doors were spaced along the wall on the far side. The centermost pair stood open with enough light streaming through to illuminate a considerable number of mostly large boxes sitting in the lobby.

Beyond the door, amid the sounds of construction, a female voice shouted, “Damn it! They better be furred out in ten minutes!”

Menessos strode ahead of me toward the open doors, but I guardedly kept three steps behind him. It wasn’t a full moon and if people were furring out—

As I peered around the door frame I saw a room covered in the expected layer of dust, but this was new dust from the renovation that was evidently in full swing here. The area was brightly lit with work lights. The shouting woman stood at a podium near the doors. She was slender and wore a turquoise tank top, black jeans, and work boots. Her black hair was woven into a waist-length braid. Her bare arms were lean but bore obvious muscle tone. Bracelets rounded each wrist.

In front of her, the theater “house” was a study in contrasts. Portions remained dilapidated, but just as much was fresh and new. All the seating in the orchestra level had been removed. Its gradual rake had been leveled and what appeared to be black marble was being installed as flooring. The stage—I could see right under it—was held up by a new framework. There were men under it, grunting and hammering and sweating.

Vampires working and sweating? I realized most of the workers’ shirts actually did show signs of wetness under the armpits. So these aren’t vampires but Beholders. A lot of them. My count topped twenty.

“Did you hear me? Where are those carpenters?” The female voice again.

“They went to get drinks,” came a static-laden reply through a two-way radio on the podium.

The woman grabbed the handset. “Mark,” she replied, no longer shouting. “I don’t care if they take their break early, but they didn’t check with me. I intend to stay ahead of schedule.”

“They checked with me. I meant to tell you.” He sounded apologetic.

After releasing an aggravated sigh toward the ceiling, she continued. “There’s nothing elegant about cinderblock. I want it furred out and I expect to see the drywall hung by dawn.”

“They’ll get that done. It’s this exterior wall I’m worried about.”