Page 4 of Kazimir

“They object to the blood purity requirements in the basement casino. They claim it discriminates against their preferred donors.”

“Tell them if they want pure, they may go to the effort of finding it themselves,” I said. “But if I catch any of them bleeding mortals without consent, I will make an example. They know the rules.”

“Of course.” Nikolay looked pleased. He always did when the work of administration could be reduced to a simple equation.

We reached the threshold of the club proper. The doors here were a masterwork: old wood from a Russian monastery, carved in relief with scenes of excess and punishment, every figure rendered in perfect agony or ecstasy. I ran my thumb over one of the faces—a woman’s mouth open in what could have been either pleasure or pain, or both. The grain of the wood had darkened to near black from the oil of a thousand hands.

Nikolay paused beside me, a shade closer than propriety dictated. “Are you attending the floor tonight, Father, or shall I announce you only in the lounge?”

“I will walk the floor. Then upstairs.”

He nodded, content. “I will send Kyra to you if anything requires urgent attention.”

“She’s good,” I said. “Watch her.”

“She worships you.”

I smirked. “That is rarely an asset.”

He bowed, this time with more affection than ceremony. “As you wish. Enjoy your evening, Father.”

I watched him slip away, the crowd parting for him as though his passage had the force of gravity. He was my son—flesh of my flesh, tempered by centuries, and still he was a stranger to me in a thousand ways.

Obsidian waited, pulsing on the far side of the doors. I opened them, and stepped through.

Obsidian’s main floor was its own continent—one with continents within it, a world designed to stoke pleasure and trade in debt. The air was thick with the scents of blood and aged wood, a heat rising from bodies pressed together in pursuit of desire or oblivion.

The bar was the club’s axis. A monument of obsidian and smoked glass, it ran the length of the back wall and was flanked on both sides by catwalks that led to the upper lounge. Behind the counter, bottles gleamed in pyramid stacks, but the real jewels were the glass decanters that held every blood type, harvested with the same precision as a perfumer extracting oils. Labels hand-lettered in gold leaf: O neg, young; AB+, heightened pleasure; B pos, adrenaline surge.

Raphael and Kyra tended the bar with a soldier’s discipline. Raphael’s arms bulged under his shirt sleeves, the tattoos on them more ancient than the city itself. His hands, moving with speed and grace, poured a triple bourbon for a witch who watched him with unconcealed hunger. She licked the salt rim off the glass before she drank.

Kyra worked the far end, building a blood-tinged cocktail for a trio of vampire girls in identical slip dresses. She flirted, as was her custom, but her eyes never left the room’s main viewpoint; every customer was inventory to her, and she could tell at a glance which ones might break a rule.

They both caught sight of me, and in tandem, each straightened their posture. Raphael nodded, low and respectful. Kyra flashed a smile that, on another face, would have been wolfish.

I moved through the press of bodies, past the booths that lined the wall. The booths were deep and shadowed, designed for intimacy and discretion. A pair of witches with razor-cut hair made out furiously in one, hands lost in each other’s dresses, while the third in their coven watched with possessive pride.

On the dance floor, rare humans and non-humans mingled, some open with their differences, some hiding it behind perfect skin or spells of concealment. The music was a modern sin—heavy beats, enough bass to vibrate the teeth, and a vocal line that looped the word “Want” until the club itself seemed to be chanting. The DJ was a vampire in sunglasses, and I wondered if he could even hear the music above his own heartbeat.

A table near the center of the floor drew my eye. There, a demon sat, black suit tailored tighter than skin, a witch perched between his knees. His long, ashen fingers—three knuckles each—disappeared beneath her skirt. The witch arched her back, hair cascading over his arm, mouth open in a soundless O. The demon met my gaze, and his yellow eyes flickered with challenge before returning to his play. I almost laughed. My house rules were clear: if it was consensual, and you didn’t break anything, there were no limits.

The casino entrance was flanked by two more staffers—one a witch, one a shifter. Their job was not just to check invitations, but to read the emotional state of every patron before they stepped into the game. You could not gamble here if you were desperate; desperation made for violence, and the club was not a hospital.

The casino itself was smaller than most imagined. I kept it that way on purpose. Low ceilings, red lamps, and tables custom-built from ironwood, the grain so dark it swallowed the light. The stakes were high, the drinks higher, and nothing ever left this room without being paid for.

Blackjack, roulette, and the Blood Cup—a game invented by a vampire centuries ago, and perfected here. Witches gambled in magical contracts, demons in ancient coin or promissory notes, vampires in favors or ounces of blood. Wolves and others always played with cash. The room generally ran a little cold, to make the blood rush.

I drifted past the blackjack table. There, a demon was on a losing streak. His jaw was set so tightly I could see the bone flex beneath his skin. He glared at the witch dealer, who smiled serenely as she drew a card: eight of clubs, a death sentence. The demon slammed a fist on the table, leaving a crescent-shaped dent.

Behind him stood Amelia, my security witch. She watched the demon with a researcher’s detachment, her copper hair wild as if she’d stuck her head in an electric socket. She noticed me, and arched a brow.

“Marker?” I said, voice pitched so only she could hear.

“He’s good for it,” she replied, glancing at the demon’s wrist. There, a sigil glowed faintly—a binding mark that would deliver him into servitude if he defaulted. “Still. I wouldn’t let him near the blood pantry for a while.”

“Noted.” I smiled, sharp. “Report to me if he tries to comp his way out.”

“He won’t.” She was already scanning the room for her next problem.