Chapter One

According to everyone who's anyone, getting into Hell is a rare privilege. Getting in during a special occasion, like the masquerade party on Halloween? Practically unheard of for a normal girl like me. I have my friends to thank for it; Athena and Selene must have used their infinite money and/or connections to pull some strings. It's the kind of thing they do. We're not actually all that close, and though I've known them for years, I don't see them that often.

They're sort of a strange pair, like two exotic moths who flit into my life at random intervals, but whenever they do, they tend to have something good to share. Like tickets to The Underworld, the best club in the city. Which is precisely how I find myself bypassing a long line of desperate people to skip Purgatory, the upper level, and heading for the VIP entrance straight to Hell.

It's a chilly night, the sky cold and clear. Stars twinkle above, and the moon hangs fat and low with a faint red ring around it. Dry leaves scratch along the street, pushed by the breeze, and I can smell the faint scent of smoke from someone's backyard fire. It's late enough now that any stray trick-or-treaters will have gone home to gorge themselves on sugar, and the only costumed revelers out now are people like us, people ready to shake off the shackles of a dull work week and indulge in a little champagne.

The club is housed in an art deco building not unlike the Chrysler Building, and a bright neon light in what I recognize as the Metropolis typeface shines down on us, announcing our location as The Underworld. The wind keens, a low, ominous sound just as I enter the two-story club that is known for its fancy imported booze and lavish parties. I shiver at the noise; it's sorrowful and haunting, which I suppose is appropriate for the occasion.

Any other Halloween, I'd be at home in sweats and a messy bun, eating mini candy bars—because trick-or-treaters never swing by my apartment complex—and watching old horror movies from the days before slasher films got quite so bloody. But not tonight. After a tedious, mind-numbing few months of endless work and zero dates, I need a carefree night of drinks and dancing. The fact that I'm gonna do it at the most exclusive club I've ever been to is the carving on the pumpkin, so to speak.

Which is why, despite the chill, I'm wearing a fringed gold mini-dress I can barely afford, along with heels and an elaborate gold mask—intricately shaped like a butterfly—that disguises most of my face. My long blond hair is down in loose curls, and I feel ready for anything.

As usual, Athena and Selene are dressed similarly, in lacy black dresses with matching masks that leave their pert noses and full lips exposed. Athena's thick, dark hair is twisted up into a bun, the picture of elegance, while Selene's bouncing black curls twist down her back in a springier version of my own hairstyle, scattered through with braids, beads, and tiny bells.

Athena, older than her sister by two minutes, grips my forearm as we step into Hell. "Remember the rules," she says. "No accepting drinks from strangers, no taking off your mask, and no disappearing into a dark corner with a good-looking guy. Be good."

I laugh. "I got it, Grandma." The twins aren't that much older than I am, but sometimes they seem as prim as Victorian governesses, despite the fact that they are as gorgeous as goddesses and dress to highlight that fact: Athena always elegant and classy, and Selene wild and bohemian. They could take the same outfit—and often do—and achieve two vastly different looks with it. And yet, they share the same reserved, occasionally chilly, personality.

Athena rolls her blue eyes at me and I shake my head affectionately. I know she's just looking out for me, and it's true that she's been here many times before, but come on. I know better than to let someone spike my drink or to give my number out to strangers. I may be a new visitor to The Underworld, but I'm still a woman.

Selene leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek, and then drifts away into the crowd, disappearing like smoke. Unsurprising. She's a quiet one, as graceful as a panther, and loves to be in the mix of things. She has a talent for stirring up trouble from the sidelines and then observing what she wrought, entertained without being involved. I'm not sure if it's intentional or simply a side effect of the way people seem to flock to her, but where Selene goes, drama follows.

"I better keep an eye on her," Athena mutters, following her twin. "Have fun and be careful."

I grin at her departing back and drift deeper into Hell, finding a relatively clear spot where I can stand and take everything in.

This club must have some impressive insulation, because I can't hear anything from upstairs. Whatever is happening in Purgatory—the slightly more accessible half of the club—is completely muffled. Down here, the lights are dim, with spotlights aimed at a stage where burlesque dancers writhe and spin, wearing the most incredible costumes I've ever seen. They're all dressed as demons, with intricate scales painted on their exposed skin. Elaborate prosthetics, including horns and tails, decorate the men and women, casting eerie shadows into the crowd. The overall effect is both beautiful and strange.

Elsewhere, red velvet banquettes, long, lacquered bars, and gold, art deco chandeliers and sconces surround us. The effect is sexy, lush, and private, despite the fact that the place is huge and the dance floor is packed with masked club-goers grinding against each other.

In a corner near one of the bars, a man leans against the wall. Something about him catches my notice and I can't tear my gaze away. He seems perfectly normal, and yet there's a magnetic pull that keeps my attention fixed on him.

He's wearing black slacks, a black button-down open at the neck, and a black leather belt. Despite his slouch, I can tell he's tall, and regardless of the shadows that seem to surround him, I get an impression of strength and power. The upper two-thirds of his face are covered by a red and black devil mask, which makes me grin. Appropriate, given the name of this part of the club is Hell. I can't make out his eyes from this far away, but all the same, I feel his gaze when it lands on me, as surely as if he'd touched me.

Moving with all the grace of an ocean predator, he peels off the wall and strolls to me, a lowball glass hanging loosely in his left hand. Perhaps he feels as drawn to me as I do to him.

"Hello," he says, his voice low and silky. He extends a large hand. "I'm Ty. I don't think I've seen you here before."

I smile and gesture to my mask. "Penny. And how would you know? It's a masquerade." I shake his hand and an electric jolt zips through me, making me shiver. It's not the kind of thing where you build up too much static on the carpet and then shock your friend as a joke. This feels like bottled lightning in my veins, shooting tingles all up and down my back.

"True," he says, "but I'm very aware of the patrons of Hell. The regulars and the new ones. I would have remembered you."

"Is that so? But I'm just another faceless blonde." Despite the odd magnetism I feel from him, the idea of him excessively cataloging every person in here makes me take a step back. "You are aware that sounds a bit creepy, right? What, you lurk in shadows and keep track of everyone who comes through the door?"

His hard mouth turns up in a smile, which is reflected in his voice. "Well, yes," he says with a low chuckle. "But it's not as awful as you make it sound. As it happens, I own The Underworld. It's my business to pay attention to the clientele. I'm managing my investment, not stalking my customers. It's good business to know who patronizes the venue."

I catch a whiff of his scent as he leans close, and he smells like nighttime and secrets and Halloween. Like the velvet of an autumn sky and the smoke from a dying ember. The sweet lick of candy corn and the wind rustling through a broken branch. Like fallen apples and rising heat.

I've never smelled anything like it, and I want to drench myself in it. I inhale deeply, and I can feel it settle over me, almost like a blanket of scent, comforting and…well, embarrassing as it is to admit, kind of erotic.

I step closer to him, intoxicated. I can't help it. Who is this guy, and why is he having such a powerful effect on me? I've been talking to him for five minutes and I'm already turned on, already imagining that big hand touching me in all my neediest places.

When did I become such a hussy for a sexy voice and an appealing scent?

"A new burlesque show is about to start," he says, tipping his head toward the stage. "Would you like to join me at my private table to watch?"

I nod before I can stop myself. I know what Athena said when we entered; I know not to let myself get swept away by a stranger. I don't know anything about him, not even if he's telling the truth about owning this place. But everything in me wants to accompany him, so I do.

We're just watching a show, after all.