Free The Dark Communion (The Midnight Defenders) by Joey Ruff

I’d been. Maybe I would have even said yes, but as she looked at me, I felt a tingle play along the back of my neck and felt the familiar warmth of her subtle charm spread through my extremities. That was all the sobering I needed. And laughed.
    “I haven’t seen you before,” I said. “You new?”
    Her smile widened, and the warmth I felt began to spread. “Been here a couple years. Haven’t seen you before, though.”
    “I used to be a regular,” I said. “I’m an old friend of your boss.”
    “Lorelei?” She looked only a bit surprised. “You don’t look like a Congressman.”
    “I’m not.” Nor a CEO or a billionaire playboy. “I was her one exception. What’s your name?”
    “Opal,” she said in a sultry, gravelly voice.
    I reached in my jacket and pulled out one of my cards, slid it across the bar to her. “My name’s Swyftt.” I studied her eyes as she took my card and looked it over. If she recognized my name, she didn’t show it.
    “I’ve heard of you,” she said at length.
    “Have you? Then I’m surprised no one told you those Siren charms don’t work on me, love. Don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful in every way, and if I could spare a few moments, I’d play for the sheer thrill of it all, but you can’t work your suggestion ju-ju on me. So why don’t we just fucking cut the foreplay here and get down to business.”
    In the next heartbeat, she was stoic, serious, guarded. The warmth I felt was suddenly replaced with a frosty chill. “You can get in a lot of trouble coming in to a place like this. What are you, local law enforcement?”
    “The card says Private Investigations, doesn’t it. Probably means I’m not a cop.”
    “So, what? You a detective? Nobody’s done anything wrong here.”
    “Then why are you getting so defensive, love?” I stood from the stool and leaned in closer to her. She smelled like the beach: coconuts and suntan oil. “I told you, I’m an old friend of Lorelei’s. Out of respect for the lady of the house, I’m not here to disrupt what’s going on.”
    “I should probably call her,” she said, a bit sheepishly, but made no move for the phone.
    I shook my head. “No need. I’m sure you can help me. See, I’m looking for a missing boy. Guy I know who might have some information about that usually comes in here. Name’s Seven.”
    She studied me for a minute, considering. “I know Seven.”
    “I heard he’s here tonight. You mind pointing me in the right direction?”
    “Hard to say. Place is crowded.”
    I scanned the two dozen tables, only three of which were occupied. When I turned back to her, she’d resumed her bottle-stocking role, having evidently lost interest in someone she couldn’t charm.
    Sirens were tricky bitches. If I’d been anyone else, she would have made me forget why I’d even come in the first place. Different Sirens reacted differently when their mojo didn’t take hold; it made them feel insecure. Some felt threatened and attacked, others grew confused, felt weak, became elusive. Opal, apparently, was one of the latter. All the better for me.
    “Well,” I said to no one in particular, “I guess I’ll have to find him myself.”
    One table bore four of what looked like children in the darkness, but could have just as easily been midgets, or more likely, some kind of beardless dwarf. They laughed and carried on, waved empty bottles and glasses in the air. Another table sat two middle-aged men in business suits, stacks of bills in their hands. They sat closest to the genie, waved hundred dollar bills at her. She crawled like a kitten toward them, perched on the edge, arched her back suggestively.
    A little further back was a man in a backwards ball cap, torn jeans, and a bomber jacket. He nursed a frosty mug, but didn’t seem to be paying too much attention to what was happening around him.
    No Seven.
    Which left only one place, really, and I headed for the dozen, round private dance tents that littered