“It’s like the central hub,” Sterling told us in a hushed voice. “Everyone passes through here, but once you get into the Glovebox proper, it’s like being on a different planet.”
“It’s almost like a spa,” Gil said, his eyes flitting suspiciously to either side of him. Faint strains of what I guessed was traditional Balinese music streamed from unseen speakers, supporting his perception.
“Sounds like you come here a lot,” I told Sterling.
“Oh, I’ve been here enough times,” he said, grinning to himself. His eyes went distant with remembrance. “It’s a beautiful lifestyle, you know? There’s all this culture and history behind it.”
Gil blinked. “Plus you get to find willing humans who are into blood play.”
Sterling’s grin widened, revealing his fangs. “Exactly. Plus I get to find willing humans who are into blood play.”
I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”
Sterling shoved me lightly by the shoulder. “Whatever, Ethical Ethel. Come on. Let’s go find out why your eight-legged girlfriend sent us here.”
Gil held open an immense, heavy velvet curtain, which must have served to at least partially soundproof the next section of the Glovebox, because holy hell did the music start blaring.
And there it was, the exact kind of music I expected vampires to be into, pounding and thumping out of a large, darkened room illuminated by sparse neon light fixtures and artfully positioned daubs and slashes of luminescent paint. It was still a little bright enough to see, though, at least the two very large and very intimidating drag queens standing close to the entrance.
One of them put a hand at her hip, cocked a leg, and tilted her head at the sight of Sterling. “Well hello, stranger,” she said, in a deep baritone. “Been a long time.”
Sterling grinned, his fangs shifting from green to blue to pink in the club’s lighting.
The other drag queen mirrored her sister’s pose, then thrust a finger at Sterling’s chest. “You haven’t shown up in a while, Sterling,” she said in a British accent. “Too busy with your handsome little friends, I imagine. Won’t you introduce us?”
I stuck my chest out and smiled broadly. These were huge, burly men done up in some truly impressive outfits, massive wigs, and makeup so flawless their skin practically shone. Something about them made me comfortable in their presence, the way they wore their femininity so proudly. Their dresses were armor, their wigs their helms. The makeup was their war paint.
Gil stood with his lips half-open, a smile in the corner of his mouth. Aesthetic arrest, I think it’s called, when you see something so curious, so otherworldly in its beauty that it quite literally takes your breath away.
“This is Gil,” Sterling said, elbowing the werewolf in his stomach.
Gil snapped out of his trance, wiping his hand down on his shirt and offering it to the drag queens. They tittered at him. The one on the left patted him on the cheek in an almost motherly way, towering as she did over him – and Gil was already the tallest person I knew, mind you. The one on the right patted him gently on the shoulder, then tilted her head, appraising him.
“Lycanthrope,” said the American one. “Handsome, too.” Then she turned to me, cruelly-pointed acrylic nails looming too close for comfort as she moved a lock of my hair out of my face. “And this one? Hmm. Not a vampire. A mage, maybe?”
“Right on both counts, ma’am. Dustin Graves, at your service.”
The two queens squealed. “Sterling! What charming new friends you’ve brought us,” the American one said. She smiled at me openly. “My name is Metric Fuck-Ton.” She thumbed over her shoulder. “The one with all the teeth is Imperial.”
“You catty bitch,” Imperial Fuck-Ton said with a sneer. “She’s always been jealous of me. How do you do?”
“Quite well, thanks,” I said. “I’m going to guess you ladies are familiar with the Veil and the underground, then?”
“Oh yes,” Imperial said. “Enchanters, both of us. Enchantresses, if you prefer, but gender is a construct, you know?”
“Tear it apart,” Metric said, chuckling. “We run the place when we’re not out keeping the streets clean of magical menace. The Glovebox is our passion project, Imperial and I.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, her acrylic nails glowing hot pink as she did. Damn, you can enchant press-on nails? You learn something every day.
“We’re not here to play tonight though, girls,” Sterling said, stepping between them and draping his arms across their backs. He came up just short of their shoulders, and was approximately the size of one of Imperial’s thighs. It was hilarious. “Our friend Dustin here has been ordered to make an appearance at the Glovebox. Question is, we aren’t sure why.”
Imperial and Metric exchanged glances, then shrugged. Imperial poked a thumb over her shoulder. “If it’s information you want, you’ll want to talk to Jonnifer.”
She was gesturing at the bar, where someone was pouring a luminous purple drink into a cocktail glass.
“Jonnifer it is, then,” Sterling said. He stood on tiptoes, planting a kiss on each of their cheeks. The Fuck-Tons giggled. “Thanks, ladies.” He looped his arm through Gil’s elbow, dragging him along. “Come on,” Sterling said in a harsh whisper. “It’s not polite to stare.”
“Sorry,” Gil stammered. “You’re both just so beautiful. Sorry again.”