A pebble skittered across the road, propelled by the toe of Michael’s boot, only to be caught and flung back at him by a passing car’s tyre. Above him, the overcast sky reflected the city’s lights and turned the moon into little more than a bright smudge. The wind was sticky with humidity. Michael pushed his hand deeper into his pockets as he turned down an unassuming alley between an adult store and a pawn shop. There, against the back wall of the pawn shop, was a steel door. Michael kicked the door once. An eye height slot swung open on rusted hinges, revealing a heavily made-up pair of poly-chromatic eyes looked out with feigned disinterest.<br/><br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">Baal kneels,</span>” muttered Michael without raising his head to meet the gatekeeper’s gaze.<br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">That was last week’s.</span>” The voice was a peculiar shrill drawl, like the sound of a ‘90s cool-guy teenager whose voice began to break.<br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">For fuck’s sake. Just let me in, Kenneth.</span>”<br/><br/>The slot slammed shut with its usual rusty squeal, followed by a louder grating as the lock bolt was removed and the door opened. Standing in the doorway was a sour-faced, pudgy goth trying his hardest to kill Michel with an evil look.<br/><br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">My name’s Abadon,</span>” the goth gatekeeper blurted. Michael knew how to wind the guy up. There were those that liked the scene, or the music, or the drugs. But then there were those who were caught up with the spectacle; those who took the sub-culture, and themselves, a little too seriously. Kenneth was one of the latter. Pushing past Kenneth, Michael ignored the man and began his descent down the narrow stairwell.<br/><br/>The Underground was nothing but a basement parking for the pawn shop above it. Instead of storing second hand vehicles that would spend more time gathering dust instead of interest, the owner figured that he could turn a tidy profit by illegally renting it out to Sasha. Sasha took advantage of the isolated entrance and the sound dampening effects of locating a bar in a hole to setting up a goth club. A bass-laden beat vibrated the drinks standing on the tables while black-clad bodies gyrated to its eclectic rhythms. Michael made his way to an empty bar stool, sat down, and began rolling a cigarette. A drink appeared in front of him. In the dark red light, the contents of the glass were undefinable, but Michael knew what it was. He also knew who put it there.<br/><br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">Need a pick me up, babe?</span>” Michael took a sip before looking at the woman behind the bar. She wore a tight-laced corset that glittered purple in the light. The black contact lenses in her eyes stood in stark contrast to the pale white of her skin.<br/><br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">Not tonight, Sasha.</span>” She pulled out two shot glasses and began filling them.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">How you coping?</span>” Michael’s expression didn’t change save for a pointed glance at his now half empty glass. He grabbed the shot glass and threw it back. The tequila burned down back of his throat. “<span style="font-style: italic">She was a good girl, but you knew what you were getting into. She was unstable. </span>” She leaned a little forward as she gently placed her hand over Michael’s.<br/><br/>Michael squeezed his drink, hoping that the glass would shatter in his hand. Just like he knew how to rake Kenneth’s nerves, Sasha knew how to rake his. She didn’t do it intentionally, or, at least Michael didn’t think so. But with Emily, Sasha always laced a little venom into her words. Michael paused to light his cigarette, drawing a deep drag to calm himself.<br/><br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">I’m cleaning out her place tonight</span>” Sasha immediately drew back from the counter, pulling her shawl across her exposed cleavage. Her stance became more casual as she took her shot.<br/><br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">Shit. I’m sorry. You here for her key?</span>” Michael just nodded. She disappeared into the storage room and emerged a few seconds later with the key. Michael left a couple pounds before Sasha could protest and headed towards the elevator.<br/><br/>Emily lived with Sasha in the apartment above the pawn shop. The apartment was a mess of miscellaneous esoterica, empty rock CD cases, Anne Rice novels, and fishnets. If you believed in chi and chakras, you’d say it has a fatal aura, but to Michael, it was just a whole lot of unwanted memories. He flicked on a light. The place always looked like it was robbed, but this time it was different. Half of Emily’s door was propped up against her bed. The other half was splintered. Michael still didn’t react. Not much phased him in the last two months. He trudged forward through the debris and began sifting through the discarded drawers, looking to see if there was anything notable that was stolen. Something was wrong. Flipping over a Black Sabbath CD case, Michael found Emily’s purse. He stooped down to pick it up, popped it open. There was cash in it. Then it hit him. The obvious error in the overturned room. Jewellery was still there; laptop, TV, DVD machine, cell phone. All the items that should be missing weren’t and only Emily’s bedroom door was broken<br/><br/>Only the books were gone. Emily was a prolific reader and Michael had been there so many times that the various books scattered around the apartment just melted into the usual mess. But there was nothing. The book shelf was lying empty and face-up on the bed. There were not even loose pages left lying about. Whoever broke in to Sasha and Emily’s apartment was looking for something specific, something written, something that belonged to Emily. . .