Hidden Things by Doyce Testerman

foot, kicking your ass, very soon, I swear.” She checked her jacket pockets once and went to meet the fat man.
    Â 
    Their route took them east three streets, over a glass-enclosed pedestrian overpass and, inexplicably, through a construction site. Vikous shuffled along in his ridiculous, oversized shoes, passing through the automatic doors of a glass-fronted executive high-rise. At the security desk he paused, his hands jammed in his coat pockets, the cigar leaking a thin line of smoke into the air from the corner of his mouth. The guard eyed them both suspiciously.
    â€œBusiness?” he asked.
    â€œTop floor. The party.” Vikous looked bored.
    â€œInvitation.” The guard leaned forward, hand extended. Vikous just looked at him. The guard settled back in his seat, his eyes hooded. “How do you know there’s a party if you don’t have an invitation?”
    Vikous watched the guard, black eyes shining under the fluorescents. Like a great cat lowering itself to the ground before pouncing, he pulled his gloved right hand out of his pocket, laid it on the counter, and leaned toward the guard. “Well, there would have to be a party, wouldn’t there?”
    Calliope couldn’t see Vikous’s face clearly from that angle, but something in the guard’s face seemed to give way for just a moment, leaving his eyes showing white all the way around as he looked at Vikous.
    â€œSecond elevator on the right.” His voice was barely audible. Vikous pushed himself upright and turned to the elevator banks without another glance at the guard. After pressing the call button, he put his hand back in his pocket and watched the LED display on the wall descend to 01.
    Once the doors had opened and closed behind them, Calliope spoke. “Was that like the thing with Lauren?”
    Vikous was watching the display above the doors climb. Neither he nor Calliope had touched any of the buttons inside the car. “What?” he said without looking at her.
    â€œWith the guard. What did you do to him?”
    He looked at her, his painted face expressionless. “I suppose you could say I scared the devil out of him.”
    â€œHow?”
    He glanced at her sidelong for a moment, one eyebrow raised, then turned back to the opening elevator doors. “I guess clowns scare some people.”
    Noise flooded the elevator as the doors opened. Calliope followed Vikous out of the car and into a room that looked like a private club, almost a miniaturized version of the one where Tom had been playing, although Calliope had to admit that the costumes here were much better. Succubi and dark-suited G-men with gray skin circled pale, silk-clad vampires and cat people on the dance floor. There were definitely no angels or middle-management Valkyries. A young, androgynous man in a sleek suit—his face shaped by what had to be movie-studio-level makeup and prosthetics into something that looked like a cross between Legolas and an insect—moved to meet them, arms positioned in a way that, to Calliope, said “security” rather than “host”.
    â€œHere to see himself,” Vikous said.
    Without shifting his gaze, the guard seemed to indicate Calliope.
    â€œShe’s clear,” Vikous said.
    The guard’s glistening eyes flickered over her for moment, appraising, before he turned to lead them across the club.
    The office they entered was spacious and utterly soundproof once the doors had been pulled shut. The fat man glided across the thick plush carpet to greet them.
    His was not the firm sort of fat found in those who are forced to be active against the trend of their predilections. Parts of him—his cheeks, chins, limbs—shook as he moved, jiggled with each step despite the apparent ease of his gait. His torso was a broad, taut teardrop that extended to his knees; his arms, also quivering, were flat wide sacks that swung ineffectually at his sides in counterpoint