THE MIRACULOUS RETURN OF DAMIEN BLACK

Chapter 7

Meanwhile, the taxi carrying Damian wove through traffic, the driver sensing his passenger's urgency and taking shortcuts wherever possible. Damian sat in the back seat, his hands clenched into fists on his thighs, his jaw locked so tight it ached. Every second felt like an eternity. Every red light felt like a personal insult from the universe.

His mind kept circling back to Penelope's words, the casual cruelty in her voice when she'd talked about breaking Rebecca, about crushing her down until she became a shadow of herself. What did that mean? What had they done to his little sister while he was gone?

Rebecca had only been twenty years old when he left for the war. She'd been bright, full of life, with dreams of becoming a teacher. She loved books and children, spent her free time volunteering at the local school even though they barely had enough money to feed themselves. She'd been so excited when Damian married into the Nathaniel family, believing it meant a better life for both of them, believing that finally they would have the resources and connections to lift themselves out of poverty.

And he'd believed it too. He'd actually trusted Mabel's promises, trusted that the family would take care of Rebecca while he was gone fighting for their country. What a fool he'd been. What an absolute fool.

"Faster," he said to the driver, unable to help himself even though he knew they were already pushing the speed limit.

After what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes, the taxi finally pulled up in front of Zed Bar. Damian threw some money at the driver without even checking the amount and practically leaped out of the vehicle before it had come to a complete stop.

The bar stood before him, and one look at the exterior told him everything he needed to know about what kind of establishment this was. Neon lights flickered in the fading daylight, advertising drinks and entertainment. The windows were tinted so dark anymore couldn't see inside, and the entrance was guarded by a bored-looking bouncer who barely glanced at Damian as he approached.

But it wasn't just a bar. Damian could see that immediately from the additional signs posted near the door, the kind of signs that used careful language to advertise services without saying anything explicitly illegal. This was a bar where sex workers plied their trade, where strip dancers performed for men with money and no morals, where anything could be bought for the right price.

Immediately his stomach turned to ice.

The anger that had been simmering inside him since he first saw his mother's grave exploded into something nuclear. His vision actually blurred red at the edges, and for a moment he couldn't see anything except the implications of what it meant for his baby sister to be working in a place like this.

Rebecca. His Rebecca, who blushed when boys looked at her too long, who dressed modestly and carried herself with quiet dignity despite their poverty. Rebecca, who dreamed of teaching children to read, who wanted nothing more than a simple, honest life. They had reduced her to this? They had forced her into this kind of place?

"God, please," he whispered under his breath as he pushed past the bouncer and into the dimly lit interior. 

"Please let me find her. Please let her be okay. Please don't let it be as bad as I'm imagining."

But even as he prayed, he knew his mother would never forgive him if something terrible had happened to Rebecca. And more importantly, he would never forgive himself.

The inside of Zed Bar assaulted his senses immediately. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, perfume, and the sour smell of spilled alcohol that had soaked into the carpets.

 Music pounded from speakers mounted in the corners, the bass so heavy it made his chest vibrate. Red and purple lights cast everything in an otherworldly glow, making it hard to see clearly, to distinguish faces in the shadows.

Women in various states of undress moved through the space, some serving drinks, others dancing on raised platforms scattered throughout the room, still others sitting in the laps of men who pawed at them with drunk, careless hands. The whole place felt sticky, dirty, wrong.

Damian moved through the crowd like a ghost, his eyes scanning every face, every corner, searching desperately for any sign of his sister. His height gave him an advantage, allowing him to see over most of the other patrons, but the dim lighting and the constant movement made it nearly impossible to identify anyone with certainty.

Minutes passed. Five. Ten. He walked through the entire main room twice, then checked the side areas, the alcoves where private dances took place, anywhere he could access without drawing too much attention from security.

Nothing. He couldn't find her.

The panic that had been lurking at the edges of his consciousness began to creep inward, wrapping cold fingers around his heart. What if Penelope had been right? What if Rebecca was already dead? What if he was too late, if he'd wasted precious time confronting Penelope instead of coming straight here?

No. He forced the thoughts away. He couldn't think like that. He had to believe she was here somewhere, had to believe he could still save her.

That was when he noticed one of the women, a young girl who couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty, walking past him carrying a tray of empty glasses. She had tired eyes that had seen too much too young, and she moved with the weary efficiency of someone who'd learned to navigate this environment by instinct.

Damian reached out and gently touched her arm, careful not to startle her.

She turned, looking up at him with wary eyes, probably expecting either a customer or trouble. Most likely both.

"Excuse me," Damian said, keeping his voice as gentle as possible despite the urgency clawing at his throat. "I'm looking for someone. My sister. She's about five foot four, slim build, long dark hair, usually wears it in a braid. She has a small scar on her left eyebrow from when she fell off a bike as a kid. Her name is Rebecca. Rebecca Cross. Have you seen her? Do you know if she works here?"

He watched the girl's face carefully, looking for any sign of recognition, any flicker of knowledge.

The girl's expression shifted, something complicated passing across her features.

"Oh," the girl said slowly. "Are you referring to the little witch?"