Summoned
In a dodgy club in North London, Tess Bennett was hiding in plain sight.
The punk rock beat ricocheted roughshod through every cell in her body, and her heart rate accelerated to match its driving tempo. Drums pounded and electric guitars wailed in riffs so angry she could taste rebellion in her parched mouth. A kaleidoscope of purple-hued beams swirled around the club stage like warring light sabers. The mosh pit throbbed in time with the beat, and the crowd melded into a sweaty, pulsing amoeba which seeped into the bar area.
Noise crackled through her brain in quarter-time rhythm, crowding out everything else. Spilled beer coated the floor, adding a fresh, sticky layer of grime to ancient wood. The dance floor shook like an anarchist uprising, thundering vocals approaching primal screams. She needed this to forget.
As senior vice president of Kingsley Tech, she relished her anonymity here, far from the techies, investors, and sensibly dressed Londoners who populated the cybersecurity world. She’d spent the last year running from grief, circling the globe until her passport overflowed with stamps: Tokyo, Bengaluru, Seattle, Berlin. No matter—the loss always caught her. This club was the one place loud enough to block out her grief and shake her back to life.
Tomorrow marked one year. Somehow, she’d survived a full journey around the sun without her fiancé, Kyle. A car accident. Instant. Upon impact, the police had said, like those facts would console her. They didn’t. Around her, the club-goers rocked and swayed like a wheat field bending in a windstorm. With their feet planted on the ground, they waved their arms back and forth. The crush of revelers failed to cure her loneliness.
Someone tossed a pitcher of water over the dance floor, splashing dancers alongside the stage. Frenzied howls erupted. Sweat dripped down her cheeks, and she pumped her hands in the air, pulsating with the crowd while the song bulldozed to a deafening climax. Obliterate my every thought. Make this pain stop.
Before the song ended in a crash of drums, Tess snaked her way to the bar. She squeezed into a small opening with her elbows to stake her spot in the queue. The barkeep’s Mohawk spikes formed a line of neon-green swords, which were outnumbered by the metal piercings adorning his face. His tattooed arms strained his tight gray T-shirt, emblazoned Torque.
The barkeep ogled her Goth outfit. Tonight, she sported tight leather jeans with a lace-up corset layered over a sheer mesh top. A metal-studded dog collar and heavy rock-star makeup completed her ensemble. Except for her perfect pink nails, an aura of angst surrounded her. Here, she allowed herself to surrender to the darkness she carried every day, even wallow in it, without apology.
“Double vodka, right, bird?” he asked in a thick Cockney accent.
The subwoofer thumped so loud it drowned out her own heartbeat. “Make it strong.”
“What’s your name, American Goth chick?”
“Jinx.” Happy to abandon her corporate persona for the night, she embraced the freedom of nothing left to lose—no past, no future, just the present. She surveyed the swarming mosh pit while he poured her cocktail. “Right. Jinx. You’ve been here before.” His metal-laden eyebrows rose at her lie. After he slid her drink across the bar, he leaned toward her. “I know a guy who’s got snow, ecstasy, anything you want. Interested?
She drained her glass in one sip and, judging the vodka’s curative powers lacking, slammed the glass onto the counter. A dizzying array of bad choices enticed her toward recklessness. No one at work would ever find out. In the morning, she would depart for Paris to spend the weekend with her best friend, Sophie.
“If you want, talk to Frankie, the bloke in the red leather jacket, by the door. Discreet.” The barkeep polished a pint glass with a white, terry cloth towel.
She glanced over at the pock-faced man with a shaved head and wondered how many people he’d led straight to addiction, like innocent sheep to slaughter. While the devastation of losing Kyle eroded her sanity at times, she wanted to survive. Perhaps someday the grief would lift, although tonight she couldn’t imagine a future free from the weight of loss. “No. Just make it a double, please.
“This one’s on me.” The bartender poured her third vodka tonic and winked. “You fancy partying, bird? I’m off at two.”
He couldn’t be further from her type, and the odds she’d go home with a stranger ranged somewhere around one in three trillion. Still needing to numb her grief, she accepted the drink and downed it. Her phone vibrated against her hip, interrupting her train of thought. The familiar pulsing sequence meant one thing: work. “Give me a minute.”
Digging into her leather pants pocket, she withdrew her slim satellite phone, grateful for the convenient interruption. The screen flashed the time, almost two in the morning, before displaying David Kingsley’s text message.
—Stuck in Berlin. Need u to lead Timberline security summit for me. Tilly booked u next BA flight to YVR. Potential $20-30 million in venture capital if u convince Bouchard to go with us for medical acquisition. Sorry to ruin your Paris weekend.—
Without hesitation, she typed rapid-fire on her screen.
—On my way.—
The bartender had already placed another drink on the counter.
“Water, please.” She pushed the fourth cocktail away. Jarred back to reality, she stretched taller in her combat boots, determined to claw back some equilibrium. The barkeep handed her a huge glass of water, and she gulped it, resolving to leave before temptation and bad judgment took over.
Another text alert appeared.
—Eastern European security officials report a dramatic surge in attempted network attacks this week. Threat level elevated to orange.—
Work would be slammed for a week, and this Canadian summit alone would burn three days. While she’d enjoy a Paris weekend with Sophie more, any distraction helped blunt the loss she couldn’t bear: Kyle was dead.
“What do you say, Jinx?” The barkeep’s neon-green Mohawk glowed in the dim light.
His words barely registered. Instead, she saw the rain-slicked road east of London, brakes screeching. Wooden guardrails breaking. Kyle’s European sedan plunging over the high cliff, crashing into the water below. Icy water, then nothing. A sudden chill crept up her spine. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear before meeting his overt stare. “Sorry, I’ve got a flight to catch.”
