A Devil in the Dark

Chapter 10 - Blane

"This is a gym? Are you certain we're in the right place?"

Joseph mirrored my incredulity and rolled his eyes. "Only in Las Vegas."

Or possibly Ancient Rome. Power Zone occupied a cavernous warehouse whose ambience could best be described as Colosseum meets strip club. Somebody with dubious taste had recreated a gladiatorial arena in East Las Vegas, and it was every bit as horrific as you might imagine. And also historically inaccurate. I'd visited the original version several times back in the day, and sand had covered the floor, not grubby industrial carpet.

The reception desk sat in a small kiosk recessed in a stone archway, lit by pink neon lights. As we waited for the toga-clad receptionist to finish with the customer ahead of us, Joseph knocked on one wall.

"Fibreglass," he commented.

Cheap as well as tacky. Zion wouldn't be winning any design awards. Or hygiene awards—the smell of stale sweat was overpowering. Thank goodness my apartment came with its own gym, otherwise I might have to put on a pair of sandals and purchase a membership at a place like this.

Or not. I didn't feel inclined to give Zion a penny. After I'd tried researching Power Zone online and found nothing substantial—who didn't have a website in this day and age?—I'd called a couple of acquaintances to ask about the gym and the man who ran it. The general consensus? Zion was loyal to no one, a fixer who'd do everything from selling drugs to sourcing thugs in order to make a quick buck. The thugs were problematic enough on their own, but if Zion was dealing in illegal substances, that took my dislike of the man to a whole new level.

"What can I do for ya?" the receptionist asked. A badge pinned to her toga said "Minerva," and I wasn't sure whether that was her real name or a continuation of the Ancient Rome theme. Her hair was a spectacularly unnatural blonde, almost as white as her teeth, and her breasts defied gravity.

I offered a smile. "Who do we speak to about membership?"

"You want to join this place?" She studied us for a moment, chewing gum loudly at the same time. "You?"

Perhaps in hindsight, I should have worn sweats rather than a suit. But sweats were so...slouchy. "Excuse the attire—we swung by on our way to work. This place comes highly recommended."

"Uh-huh." Her tone said she didn't believe that for a moment. "What do you do? For work, I mean."

"I'm an entrepreneur, and my friend here is a lawyer."

"Yeah, so they don't allow lawyers in."

"Is that a joke?" Joseph asked.

"The boss hates lawyers." Minerva shrugged. "Ever since his divorce. His ex-wife was a real pain in the patootie, so I heard."

"I should sue for discrimination."

Oh, sure, that would help.

"How about we just don't mention our occupations to your boss?" I suggested.

"You mean lie on the application form?"

Minerva's tone was disapproving, but she'd said "they" don't allow lawyers in, not "we" don't allow lawyers in. No, she didn't feel like an integral part of the business. She wouldn't much care if we said we were astronauts as long as we ticked the right boxes. And in truth, Joseph was more of an astronaut than a lawyer—he'd travelled between worlds with me, but he'd never passed the bar exam. The sum total of his legal expertise came from Google, Netflix, and a dog-eared copy of Law for Dummies that my little sister had gifted him. But the human whose body he'd purloined soon after we arrived in Plane Five had graduated magna cum laude from NYU Law, so Joseph claimed knowledge by association.