The Red Velvet was a legal club in London. It was frequented by the mayor of London, so it couldn’t very well be an illegal establishment, could it? 

This did not mean that the club paid its taxes as frequently as it paid its bribes. The liquor served was safe. The drugs that could be had were probably the safest in all of England. The club kept a well staffed medical team on site at all times. The inhouse clinic was probably better equiped than the city hospital. 

It was Angel’s club and people did not die in her club, unless she decreed it. If that happened a person could not run far or fast enough to evade her ruling. Just as the city did not talk about shifters, it also did not talk about the fae. Everything was normal. Everything was the way it always had been for thousands of years. There was nothing more powerful or more frightening than humans. Humans were definitely the apex predator around here. 

Angel’s gaze locked on Bernard and Lars when they stepped into the club. Bernard, being a regular, did not have to wait through the line, but was always let in when he arrived. The man on his arm was a different story all together. 

Angel finished her drink, stood up, and aimed right for them. She was a curvy woman, full of love for life and most things in it. Her hair made an aura around her pretty face, like the first blush of dawn. Her clothes also spoke of dawn, pinks that curved around her form as naturally as the skyline curved. Her heels clicked against the floor as she strode, like rattle of a dangerous snake warning people to get out of her way. And part they did! 

Bernard stood just inside the entrance, his hand resting on Lars’, which was on Bernard’s arm. The club was loud with a d.j. keeping the music both familiar and fresh for all three dance floors and the two bars. 

She pressed her hand to Bernard’s chest and looked up at him with stern pale eyes. “Bernard Hansen! What have you brought into my club?”

Bernard was dressed pretty normally. He wore black cargo pants and black cotton shirt that only buttoned on the yoke. They were practical clothes for a practical man. Lars wore a white linen jacket with flowers in blue shades of pastel embroidered over the lapels and shoulders. His dark hair lay loose on his shoulders, reflecting all the shades of light from the club. His shirt had a high collar, but parted to reveal his throat and a touch of chest before a snow white cravat that tucked under the blue brocade of his waist coat. His nails were onyx and looked sharp enough to be black diamond, which matched the two rings he wore, both matching titanium and diamond.

“This gentleman is Lars Durand, my neighbor. He’s a history student and my date tonight. He’s helping me with the issue that you and I discussed last week.”

“Oh my god,” she hissed. “You don’t know what he is, do you?”

“Aside from my neighbor, my date, and someone who agreed to help me.” Bernard nearly hissed back. “Half the people in here are shifters. It’s not like you to be concerned about such things, Angel.” 

“I’m not concerned that he’s a raven,” she snapped before turning to smile brightly at Lars. “Welcome to the Red Velvet, Sir. Please let me know if there’s anything I can get for you or do for you! I wish for your stay in my club to be the most pleasant possible.”  She held out her hand to him.

He shook her hand with a gentle confused smile. “Is there a VIP table for us tonight? We can charge it to my card.”

“There is always a VIP table for you, sir, but there will be no charging. Your experience is on the house, tonight and always, M. Durand.”

“You are too kind,” Lars said. He hadn’t quiet let go of her hand and drew her fingers up as he bent to brush a kiss across the back of her fingers. “We will do our best not to cause any avoidable commotion.” 

“That would be nice,” Angel said. She glared at Bernard, as if that would increase the chances of not having any scenes, when she knew he was there to draw out and catch a serial killer. 

An employee approached, with a tray of drinks, one for each of them. There was an old fashioned for Bernard, a tea for Lars, and a flute of champagne for Angel. “Charlotte, if you could see our guests to table 15. Anything they want is being comped.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the young woman said, with a slight, but meaningful bow. “Sirs, if you would please come with me.” 

“Table 15 is perfect,” Bernard said, his hand still on Lars’, pressing it to his own arm, even as he leaned closer to talk to him in the roar of the club. “This is perfect.”

“Are you going to tell me more about who we’re looking for?”

“No, not here. Don’t worry, Lars. I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is sip tea and enjoy the music.” 

“Do we get to dance?” Lars intentionally bumped his hip against Bernard’s, invitational, suggestive.

“If we catch our killer soon enough, perhaps. I’m not really a dancer.”

“I’ll take care of that part of the evening for us then.”

“I shall look forward to that,” Bernard said. He pulled out the chair for Lars, then pushed it back in when he sat. “Do you want some food? The club has an excellent kitchen.” 

“The kitchen would be delighted to make your favorite, M. Durand.” Charlotte offered. 

“How does the kitchen know what my favorite is,” Lars asked. The killer wasn’t the only mystery going around this evening.

“Mme. Angel knows everything,” Charlotte said with a smile. 

Bernard had turned his chair around and sat on it with his arms across the back. “That’s kind of Angel’s thing, Lars. She makes her living selling information. Anything you want to know, she can tell you and she’s always right.” 

“Then why didn’t you just ask her for the killer’s home address?”

“I never said she was affordable,” Bernard winked, then tossed back the last of his cocktail. “Charlie, can you get me another old fashioned and a burger? My usual?”

“Of course, sir. And for you, M. Durand?”

“I’ll have my favorite. I’ll be excited to see what it is. Please, call me Lars. Only professors who are about to ruin me call me M. Durand.”

“Of course, Lars. Would you like a pot of tea as well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Splendid! I’ll get that all in. There’s a button under the table. Please press it and I’ll be right here to help with whatever you may need.”

Almost as soon as she’d left, Bernard’s attention got swallowed by something on the far side of the dance floor.

“You’re completely safe here, at this table, Lars. The best security in the house focuses on it. I want to check out something and I’ll be right back. Do you feel okay if I leave you alone for like maybe fifteen minutes?”

“I’m not delicate, Bernard and I’m far from helpless. Go do your thing. I’m happy to sit here and think about dancing while I sip my tea.”

“I’ll be back shortly.” With that Bernard was striding across the dance floor towards whatever worry had caught his mind. 

Bernard was barely out of sight when a red-headed man in jeans and a tee-shirt stepped up to the table with a suggestive smile. “Hello, my lovely bird. Can I interest you in a dance?”