The Original Sinners: The Red Years. Tiffany Reisz
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was the second circle. The eighth circle was the destination for those who abused their power—panderers, seducers, simonists, false counselors.”
“Simonists?”
Nora’s smiled widened.
“Corrupt priests.”
“Abused their power…very clever.”
“The name is all too apt.”
Zach turned to her and didn’t ask what she meant by that. He’d already lost his train of thought as he watched Nora shift gears with the practiced ease of a race-car driver. Her touch was easy and smooth; the engine responded to her every whim. Zach couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t stop imagining her dexterous hands on him.
“How did you learn to drive like this?” Zach asked, trying to ignore his growing arousal.
“I can drive anything—any car, any kind. I’ve been driving a stick shift since I was thirteen.”
Zach started to open his mouth to ask her another question. But Nora took a sharp turn to the left and pulled into what appeared to be an abandoned parking structure attached to a dingy squat concrete block of a building. Windowless, lifeless and covered in graffiti, the building seemed the last place in the city Nora would want to enter.
“Why did you stop?”
Nora pulled in and parked next to a sleek, silver Porsche.
“Because we’re here.”
“Here?” Zach looked around in disbelief as they both left the car. The place seemed dismal and far too quiet. Only the wind sliding around the concrete columns made any sound at all. He looked back at the Aston Martin.
“Are you sure it’s safe to leave it here?” Zach asked even though it was just one of many luxury cars in the garage.
“This is the safest parking garage in New York. Trust me.”
Nora brought them to a gunmetal-gray door and pulled out her keys again. She slid one into the lock and turned it. Zach expected the roar of a nightclub to greet them but he heard nothing but silence.
He found himself standing at the end of a long hallway. It seemed to be part of an old hotel. The walls and carpets were a deep red; small aging chandeliers hung from the ceiling and cast broken light over the paisley squares of threadbare carpeting. They came to the end of the hall where an old-fashioned coat check booth stood. Nora rang the silver desk bell and shed her coat.
A girl came out of the back and flashed them both a courteous smile.
“How may I serve you?” she asked. Her smile wavered and widened as the young woman seemed to suddenly register Nora’s identity. “Mistress Nora,” she said, bobbing a perfect curtsy. She looked positively starstruck. The girl wore a classic cigarette girl costume, blue and black striped, and her lush dark hair was coiffed Bettie-Page style.
“Hello, dear,” Nora said with a magnanimous air as she gave the girl her coat. Zach surrendered his, as well, grateful to be rid of it. In the stifling hallway, he instantly felt more comfortable in his jeans and T-shirt. “Are you new? Did King bring you in?”
“Yes, mistress. Mr. K. brought me in a few weeks ago.”
“King always did have good taste,” Nora said, eliciting a blush from the beaming young woman. “Have you made it to the floor yet?”
“No, mistress,” the girl said, her voice aflutter with nervousness. “I’m so sorry. It’s just…I’m such a fan.”
Zach smiled at the girl. “You should enjoy her next book, too. It’s coming along very well.”
The girl looked puzzled.
“You write books too, mistress?”
Nora laughed but didn’t meet Zach’s eyes.
“You’re adorable,” Nora said to the girl. “I’ll talk to King about getting you on the floor.”
“Thank you, mistress,” the girl breathed. She seemed to remember herself and said with a more professional tone, “Can I get anything for you, mistress? For your guest?”
“A white scarf, please. And my case. The black one.”
With another curtsy the girl left and promptly returned with a plain white handkerchief and a small box that looked like a flute case only much longer.
Nora took the white scarf and wrapped it around his bicep.
“What on earth—”
“The Circle revived the flag and scarf signal system from the old guard leather scene,” Nora explained. “We revised it quite a bit to suit the specific clientele that comes here. The scarves are signals or advertisements. Here white means you’re an S&M virgin who only wants to observe. Should keep the wolves at bay.”
“Should?” Zach asked skeptically. “I really need a stop signal? A simple ‘no, thanks’ wouldn’t do?”
“Trust me, as gorgeous as you are, Zach, you would be in big trouble down there without a little armor on.”
“Wouldn’t red make for a better stop signal?” Zach asked, not wanting to be labeled as a “virgin” anything.
“A red scarf would signal you were into blood-play.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Could be worse,” Nora said as she finished knotting the scarf around his arm. “It could be a brown scarf.”
“And brown means?”
The young woman and Nora gave each other conspiratorial glances.
“Keep the wolves at bay…should I be nervous, Nora?”
Nora didn’t answer. She snapped open the black case and took out a riding crop, black with white braiding and quite professional-looking. She took a step back and twirled the crop with stunning expertise. With a quick flick she struck it against her own leather-clad calf. The sound echoed down the hall like a gunshot.
“Kingsley Edge was the first person who put a riding crop in my hand. It was like Arthur with Excalibur.” She winked at the girl and the girl could only smile in awe. Zach tried not to roll his eyes. Disheartening to think Nora had better luck with women than he did.
“Come, Zachary,” Nora said, tapping her leather-clad calf with the crop.
“Yes, mistress,” he said, with minimal irony.
Nora started to turn but stopped in midstep.
“Tell me your name,” she ordered the girl.
“Robin,” she replied.
“Ah, a little bird,” Nora purred. She reached out and caressed the girl’s burning cheek with the back of her hand. “I’ll remember that.”
Nora lowered her hand and stepped away. She pushed the down button on the elevator and the door slid open. They entered and Zach saw there was only a down button inside.
“This elevator only goes down?”
“Apparently so.” Nora held the handle of her crop in her right hand and the tip in her left. She held it, he discovered with a jolt of recognition, like a scepter. Even her posture, usually intimate and conspiratorial, had transformed. She held herself like a queen, her chin high, her back straight. She wore the hauteur well.
“Then how will we get out?”
Nora looked at him as if the thought had never occurred to her.
“I suppose we won’t.”
“That girl worships you but she doesn’t know you’re a writer. How did she know you, Nora?”
“Down here everyone knows me. Oh, and to answer your earlier question,”