Dec necked his second pint of beer and slammed it on the wood coffin bar beside the words 'Mansions - Night of the Dead' branded on the surface. He'd taken the night off work to see Tommy, and now his best friend was late again.

Five more minutes, he thought. He had to speak to Tommy about the incident with the police in-person, just incase his palm pod had been compromised.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

Getting to the secret underground nightclub had been a convoluted procedure. On the corner of twelfth avenue stood the abandoned carcass of the Lady Josephine, an old dilapidated church which had gone into recess between swaths of ivy and wood rot. Beneath the plaster cast statue of the lady herself was a trapdoor, leading to a series of tunnels that ran in a complicated grid underground. Most of the tunnels came to dead ends or had been blocked off. But one particular tunnel extended all the way to a large crypt beneath the supermarket on the main street of Blackforest Range.

'Secret club' was a subjective description as it was practically impossible to hide a club at capacity. The police knew of its existence, and would probably have shut it down if it hadn't been for generous pay-offs from the mysterious owners. Someone with a lot of money was keeping the place running, keeping the alcohol flowing. Those in the know were glad. It was one of the few remaining establishments completely owned and run independently from the government and provided a safe-haven away from the daily grind of Nocturnal life.

Moonstep music thudded against Dec's alcohol-compromised senses—the wallow of a church organ intersected by pulsing electronic beats. Blood red lights bruised his eyes, serving to annoy him further. He motioned for the tattooed bartender to bring him another beer, but the idiot's gaze glanced off him as though he were made of oil and settled down-bar, on a leggy blonde in a tight black dress, lace accentuated in all the right places. His eyes goggled as far as his eyebrow piercings would allow and he re-filled her glass of red wine until it overflowed. "A Midnight Beauty grape for a midnight beauty," he said in a low tone, adorning the rim of her glass with a dark blue grape.

The girl giggled.

Dec groaned. He was used to being overlooked, despite his height. It was another one of his dung beetle talents. It wasn't as though his features were plain. When considered individually from each other, they were harsh and angular—dark hair and eyes prominent against his long, pale face. Tommy had once described the phenomena of his 'forget-ability' as 'turps on paint'—a clash of strong features serving to strike each other out.

This forgeability-factor had served him well for going fairly unnoticed when 'shaking shit up' with Tommy. Except the Crabman was on his case now, so his looks had failed him on two counts. His hand moved subconsciously to the scrunched up note in his pocket—the one Dirk had given him the night before. He hadn't destroyed it as directed. He wanted to get Tommy's opinion on it first.

Where was Tommy?

He stared out at the dance floor where mow-hawked men in ripped tight-legged jeans strutted and posed, pointy patent shoes clicking as they peacocked for attention. Girls in bone corsets with blood red laces and chain jewellery closed their eyes and swayed out of time with the music. Glow-in-the-dark tattoos flashed aquarium blue under the UV lights—yet another sweeping Nocturnal trend of which Dec was apparently unaware. He tugged the collar of his baggy blue t-shirt and sighed. 'Night of the Dead' must be the theme. He'd clearly missed the memo.

There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned, slowly, to make a show of his annoyance. "About fucking time," he growled.

But the person wasn't Tommy. It was the girl in the lacy dress, holding her tulip-shaped wine glass in one hand, and a stein of dark purple liquid in the other.

"Nectar of the Sol?" she said, proffering the stein while bringing her own glass to her lips and sipping.

"Nectar of the what?" Dec said.

"Sol," the girl repeated, leaning closer to speak in his ear. "It's their house beer."

"It's red," Dec stated, leaning back. She smelled of flowers and honey and an all-over sickly sweet that made his heat hurt.

The girl rolled her eyes in an impressive optical show of exasperation. "It's supposed to look like blood. Sol short for soul. Also for the sun. It's a play on words."

Dec stared. Of course he knew it was a play on words. He was more confused about why she was talking to him. People didn't generally go out of their way to speak to him. Especially girls.

"Oh, for daylight's sake," the girl said. "I just bought you a fucking drink. A simple thank you would suffice."

The heat rose in Dec's cheeks. "Sorry," he said, taking the beer and sipping it for good measure. "Tastes ... great. Thanks."

It tasted shit—like fermented cherry cough syrup or something equally as rancid.

The girl raised her eyebrows. "Tastes like shit, doesn't it."

He scrunched his nose. "Yeah."

The girl sighed and slid onto the silver bar stool next to him. "Teegan." She held out her hand. "With two e's."

Dec pursed his lips. Anyone who felt he need to spell their name when nobody was writing it, had to be a little daft. "Dec," he said, taking her hand and feeling the scratch of her oversized acrylic nails against his skin. "With a C," he added more than a little sarcastically.

"Well, Dec with a C, what grave have you risen from tonight?" she said. "No offence, but you look a little lost."

"Waiting for a friend," he said, gulping down his 'soul' and gazing about the room for Tommy.

Teegan sipped her wine, eyes narrowing. "Let me guess. You're the oldest of two children, raised by a single mother. You try to be the man of the house when really, you're actually kinda crap at it. Your friends constantly let you down." She gestured around. "You've taken the night off work to be here. Am I right?"

Dec sat in an open-mouthed stare.

"Psychology major," she explained. "Masters in chemical engineering. I'm doing my PhD on the effect of new antidepressants on the Nocturnal psyche."

Dec stared. That was unexpected.

"I bet you didn't expect that," Teegan said, tipping the remainder of her wine down her throat and popping the 'midnight beauty' grape into her mouth. "Better to be underestimated in life. Gives you a leveraging surprise factor when you break someone's expectations."

Casting Dec a pointed look, she straightened her dress and shuffled towards the dance floor, tower heels wobbling as though there were invisible cracks in the polished concrete. "Your friend's an asshole for standing you up," she said over her shoulder. "You shouldn't put up with it."

Dec skolled the rest of his 'soul' and watched her go. Strange girl, he thought before turning back to the bar to find the idiot bartender oogling over the next long-legged girl with a generous rack.

By the time Tommy arrived, Dec was four beers down and neck deep in his fifth. The club had filled to the edge of his claustrophobic tolerance while his inhibitions had dissolved to the point where he was considering trying his hand on the Black Knight gaming machine with his last few coins—coins that should really go towards their next electricity bill.

He was about to make his way over to the velvet draped corner, lit by iron sconces, when someone whacked him on the back.

"Dec!" It was Tommy. "You made it." He said it as though Dec was the one who was late. Turning to his right, he held out his hand. "This is my trainer, Janet. Janet, my best friend Dec."

And that was it. No 'sorry for keeping you waiting'.

Janet jutted her chin in greeting before turning to the bar and ordering a water. She didn't have any trouble gaining the bartender's attention, though Dec suspected this could've had something to do with the circumference of her biceps, which she flexed menacingly as she waited.

Dec took the opportunity to study the 'kickboxing champion' Tommy had piped about all year and subsequently elevated to something akin to a War God. She wore baggy khaki pants with deep pockets and combat boots—fashions even more relic than Dec's. A tight white tank top accentuated her biceps and contrasted with her light-absorbing skin, which was almost as dark as Tommy's. She accepted her glass of water from the bartender with another jut of her chin. No smile. Dec made a mental note not to get on Janet's bad side... or right hand hook for that matter.

"Not drinking?" Tommy asked her.

"Comp tomorrow," Janet said, her voice, contrary to her appearance, gentle, fluid, a singer's voice. "Speaking of which, neither should you." She eyed Tommy's interest in Dec's house beer.

"The beer's shit," Dec said. "You're not missing out on much."

Tommy sighed and ordered himself a water which, as soon as Janet excused herself for the bathroom, he exchanged for beer. Dec resisted the urge to roll his eyes as impressively as that strange girl Teegan had.

"Let's talk," Tommy said, leading Dec to an adjoining crypt, where empty booths decorated with fake taxidermy deer heads and plush velvet cushions offered some privacy away from the lights and music. Couples cozied up in the darkened corners, and a group of vampire costumed underagers played a sadistic version of spin the bottle where instead of kissing, they pretended to bite each other's necks, sucking and nibbling until they left dark red hickies on their victim's skin.

Tommy's voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone once they were seated. "Mel told me what happened. Did they get anything on us?"

Again with Tommy and Mel talking behind his back. "Nah, nothing," Dec said.

"Thank the light of freaking day for that," Tommy said, leaning back with a relieved sigh.

"I would've told you myself, but I figured my Palm Pod might be tagged," Dec said.

"Good thinking." Tommy said. "So, what now?"

"I think I need to lie low for a bit," Dec said, slipping his hand into his pocket and grasping the scrunched up paper from Dirk. "I got this weird note from some lawyer guy at the police station. Bailed me out and everything. Said it wasn't the first time he'd had to get me out of trouble. Wouldn't tell me who hired him though."

"Mmm ... " Tommy said, swirling his stein and staring past Dec's shoulder, faraway thoughts glazing his expression.

Dec unfolded the note on the table between them. "Tommy. I'm being serious here. There's a shit-storm brewing and—"

At that moment, Janet returned from the toilet with an impeccably over-dressed man by her side. He had dirty blonde hair, pointed features and clothes that reminded Dec of something a magician might've worn in another age—upturned beige shirt bolstered by a blood red cravat.

Dec re-scrunched the note and stuffed it back in his pocket.

"I thought I said no alcohol," Janet said, plucking the beer from Tommy's hand and tipping it into the helmet of a decorative suit of armour that had been soldered into its gauntlet, earning her dagger eyes from the glassy. Gesturing to the magician she said, "Tommy, this is Lazar, the guy who got you your supplies. Lazar, this is Tommy. The client I was telling you about."