The Skimpy Devil lived up to its name—a gaudy, one-story building with a massive red neon devil figure complete with pitchfork and suggestively wiggling tail. The windows were blacked out, and a steady beat of music thumped from within, vibrating the sidewalk as Victor approached.
Outside the entrance stood a mountain of a man. Victor recognized him immediately-Tiny Tim, the ironically named bouncer was sort of a fixture of the night life, working the door of many establishments. He had to be at least six-foot-eight, with shoulders wide enough to block the doorway entirely, and arms the size of Victor's thighs.
As Victor approached, Tiny Tim's eyes widened slightly in recognition.
“Victor RedRose,” the bouncer rumbled, his deep voice surprisingly soft. “Been a while.”
“Tim,” Victor acknowledged with a nod. “Business good?”
“Good enough.” Tiny Tim shifted his weight, blocking the entrance more firmly. “Listen, if you're going in, I gotta ask you not to cause any trouble. Boss don't like trouble.”
Victor raised an eyebrow. “The boss being Prince Charmin'?”
Something flickered across Tiny Tim's face. “That's right. And he runs a clean place.”
Victor nearly laughed at that. “Clean” wasn't the word he'd use for a model bar. Places that typically served as a recruitment pipeline for demonic brothels. But he kept that thought to himself.
“No trouble from me, Tiny Tim,” Victor said, the half-truth rolling easily off his tongue. “Just looking for a drink and some conversation.”
Tiny Tim studied him for a long moment, clearly not believing a word. But eventually, he stepped aside. “Your funeral if you're lying.”
Victor passed by him, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Wouldn't be my first.”
As the door opened, a wave of pulsing music, colored lights, and the scent of cheap perfume mixed with cheaper liquor washed over him. The interior of The Skimpy Devil was exactly what Victor expected—all flash and no substance, designed to separate fools from their money.
Three stages owned the floor, each one lit up by a woman shedding clothes and inhibitions. Above them, massive screens streamed every move, complete with flashing viewer counts and QR codes for the lonely and loaded. The crowd was a cocktail of bad decisions—business suits, out-of-towners, and locals who thought money excused everything.
He headed to the bar. Nyx was there—wings shimmering like oil slicks, hands moving faster than reason. When she saw him, a smile curled slow and sly, like she knew a secret and was deciding whether to sell it.
“Well, well,” she purred, her voice musical with that faint echo her kind always carried. “If it isn't Victor RedRose. I was wondering when you'd show up.”
“Nyx,” Victor greeted her, settling onto a barstool. “Seems like you're behind a bar at nearly every establishment I visit these days.”
“Just lucky, I guess,” she replied with a wink. Her skin had a subtle shimmer to it, and her wings—translucent and delicate—fluttered occasionally as she moved. “The usual?”
Without waiting for an answer, she reached beneath the counter and produced a bottle of Soul Shine that glowed considerably brighter and closer to the purple than the nearly black cheaper stuff Victor usually had at home. She poured a generous measure into a glass and slid it across to him.
“The good stuff, or the best they got here,” she said. “On the house.”
Victor raised an eyebrow. “Nothing's ever free with you, Nyx. What's the catch?”
Her laughter tinkled like wind chimes. “So suspicious! Can’t a girl be happy to see an old, broken—yet undeniably sexy—friend?”
“We're not friends,” Victor replied, though without much heat. He took a sip of the Soul Shine. It burned its way down, turning pain into background noise.
“Ouch,” Nyx placed a hand over her heart in mock hurt. “And here I thought we had something special.”
Victor ignored her theatrics and placed two photographs on the bar. “Ever seen either of these dames around here?”
Nyx glanced at the photos—one of Sele?a, one of Carla—but made no move to pick them up. Instead, she busied herself wiping down the already spotless bar top.“You know fairies can't lie outright,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And you're asking dangerous questions, RedRose.”
“Just answer the question, Nyx.”
The fairy looked around, as if checking for who might be watching, then suddenly shrank down to the size of a hummingbird. In a blur of movement, she zipped over the bar and resumed her full size, landing gracefully on Victor's lap.
Before he could react, she pressed her lips against his in a kiss that tasted of honey and something wilder—mountain air and lightning.
“Let's call that a partial payment,” she whispered against his ear. “For what I'm about to tell you.”
Victor remained still, his face impassive despite the unexpected intimacy. Fae magic always came with strings attached, and he'd just incurred a debt he'd have to pay eventually.
“The girl,” Nyx said, barely louder than the bass thudding through the floor, “left with a man—Greg Palmer. Movie star type. Big wallet, bigger ego.” She tilted her chin toward one of the stages, where a dancer moved like she’d seen too much and cared too little. “Toxic might know more. She’s been here longer than most and forgets less than she pretends to.”
Victor followed her gaze to the dancer. Unlike the other performers, her stage was less crowded, her tip count on the lower end. She moved with practiced ease but lacked the confident allure of the others.
“And Sele?a?” he asked, turning back to Nyx.
The fairy's expression shifted subtly. “A witch? Even if I had seen her, I couldn't tell you, could I?”
To Victor, that was as good as a confirmation. Witches could bind fae to silence, and Sele?a would have done exactly that if she'd been here. That was enough for him.
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“Thanks,” he said, gently easing Nyx off his lap. “I appreciate the intel.”
She fluttered her wings, rising slightly off the ground. “The next one will cost you more.” With a wink, she blew him a kiss that manifested as a softly floating heart, drifting from her to him before dissolving into the air. “Don’t forget,” she added with a smirk. “You owe me.”
Victor nodded, knowing all too well how fae debts worked. He picked up his drink and made his way toward the stage where Toxic was performing, leaving a trail of whispers in his wake.
The music's tempo increased as he approached, the bass thumping in time with his footsteps. Around him, the neon lights painted the clientele in garish hues, highlighting the desperation in their eyes as they sought escape in the fantasy of the place. But Victor knew better. In Los Angeles, every fantasy had a price tag- and that didn’t factor in the tax.
He took a position near the stage, studying the dancer and the setup. Cameras were positioned strategically around her, capturing every angle for the online audience. Screens displayed her performance from different views, along with her tip count and a “menu” of services available for the right price. Off to a corner of the stage were a few... toys that coincided with the menu.
He dropped the kind of tip that didn’t just ask for attention—it bought it. She glanced his way, smile sliding into place like it had been waiting in the wings, and her body shifted mid-routine, all angles now for him.
As she moved, Victor noticed a small charm on her ankle—a weak talisman for protection. His gut told him it wasn't demonic in nature, though in this city, such protection rarely lasted. None of the angels stayed pure for long.
The song ended with Toxic in a provocative pose, topless but clearly not meeting her quota for anything more explicit. The sparse audience's tepid applause suggested it was a slow night for her.
She approached the edge of the stage where Victor stood, her smile never reaching her eyes. “Private dance?” she offered, a note of hopeful desperation in her voice. “I could make it worth your while.”
Victor nodded, dropping another bill onto the stage. “Lead the way.”
As she guided him toward the back of the club, Victor's senses remained alert. The course of demonic energy tugging at his soul was palpable. Whatever was happening at The Skimpy Devil went beyond the usual exploitation of desperate dreams. There was something darker at work here- something powerful.
And if there was one thing Victor RedRose knew, it was how to follow the trail of corruption straight to its infernal source.
The “VIP Room” was a generous name for what amounted to a shabby closet with a threadbare velvet couch, dim red lighting, and a small speaker piping in the same thumping music from the main floor. The walls were thin enough that the bass from outside vibrated the cheap wood paneling. Nothing about the space suggested "Very Important" except perhaps the prices they charged for time spent in it.
Toxic closed the door behind them and immediately shifted into performance mode, her movements becoming more fluid, her smile more inviting. The transformation was impressive—a professional mask slipping seamlessly into place.
“What's your name, handsome?” she asked, her voice taking on a husky quality that hadn't been there moments before.
“Victor,” he replied, settling onto the couch. “And you?”
“Toxic,” she purred, beginning a slow, rhythmic sway to the music. “But you can call me whatever you want.”
Victor watched her for a moment, allowing her to go through the motions. Up close, he could see the exhaustion beneath her makeup, the slight hesitation in her movements that spoke of a long shift. The charm bracelet on her ankle caught the red light as she moved, revealing itself to be a basic protection ward probably by a budget spiritualist. Better than nothing, but barely.
“Nice charm,” he commented, nodding toward her ankle.
A flicker of surprise crossed her face. Most clients didn't notice such details—or if they did, they certainly didn't comment on them.
“Thanks,” she replied cautiously. “So, what are you in the mood for tonight?”
Victor reached into his coat and produced a fold of bills, setting them on the small table beside the couch. Toxic's eyes followed the money, a calculation visibly running behind her eyes. “Information,” Victor said simply.
Her dance faltered for just a moment before she recovered, but her smile tightened at the corners. “I'm not sure what you mean. I'm here to dance for you, not talk.”
“I'll pay for both,” Victor countered, adding another bill to the stack. “I'm looking for someone who used to work here. Name's Carla.”
The name caused a more noticeable reaction. A slight stiffening of her shoulders, a wariness entering her eyes. “Is that what you’re into? Missing girls and lost causes? ‘Cause I’m neither.” she said, attempting to redirect his attention with a more provocative move.
Victor remained unmoved. “Because Carla's in trouble, and I'm trying to help her.”
Toxic studied him for a moment, clearly weighing her options. The stack of bills was persuasive, but fear was evident in her hesitation. Finally, she stopped dancing and perched on the arm of the couch, keeping a careful distance between them.
“Look, I don't know anything,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And around here, not knowing things is how you stay employed. And alive.”
Victor added another bill to the stack. "” understand discretion. This conversation stays between us. I hear she left with a guy named Palmer.”
The money worked its persuasive magic. Toxic glanced at the door, then leaned closer.
“Greg Palmer,” she said, the name coming out like a confession. “He comes here a lot. Big spender, famous actor, you know the type—thinks the world exists for his amusement.” Her lips curled in distaste. “Sometimes he takes girls to fancy parties in the Hills. They come back well paid... sometimes a little traumatized... sometimes not at all.”
“What do you mean, ‘not at al’?”
Toxic shrugged. “They don't come back. Prince Charmin' tells us they met some rich guy who took a fancy to them, swept them off to better things.” She didn't sound convinced. “Only his favorites get to party with Greg and the Hollywood elites.”
“His favorites?”
“Yeah. Charmin' has his pets.” Her voice took on a bitter edge. “They get gifts—jewelry usually, but also clothes, jewelry, trips. They get the best time slots when tips are higher and more frequent.” Her gaze flicked to the charm at her ankle. Flashy enough to look like safety, useless enough to prove it wasn’t.
“Let me guess,” Victor said. “Carla was one of his favorites.”
Toxic laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Oh, he was always giving her stuff. Necklaces, bracelets, rings...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “The weird thing is, she kept breaking them somehow, and he kept giving her more. I don't hate Carla, but we all got bills to pay, and his favorites get paid whether they dance or not.”
Victor frowned. “How long was she performing here?”
“That's the thing,” Toxic said, her expression souring further. “She'd only been on stage a couple of weeks, and all this tasteful burlesque stuff.” She made a face. “Before that, she was just a waitress for about three months. But Charmin' had a real hard-on for her, kept trying to get her on the cam stage.”
“But she only wanted to do 'real dancing'?” Victor guessed.
Toxic rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like what we do isn't real. Little Miss Better-Than-Everyone with her fancy dance training. I went to AADA!” The bitterness in her voice couldn't quite mask the envy. “Anyway, she's gone now.”
“Any idea where?”
“Prince Charmin' told everyone she's working at another one of his clubs now. The 'Big Leagues,' he called it.” She made air quotes around the phrase.
Victor studied her face, looking for any sign she knew more than she was letting on. “And you believe that?”
Toxic's eyes glazed over. “Of course, why would he lie?” She said, in an almost rehearsed fashion. There was demon magic at work, Victor could sense it on her as well as he could sense the little charm try and fail to repel it.
An idea formed in Victor's mind. “I need to get into the locker room.”
The dancer's eyes widened. “No way.” She said, her voice normal again. If they catch you-”
“They won't,” Victor interrupted, adding several more bills to the stack. “And if they do, you knew nothing about it. I overpowered you, forced my way in.”
She stared at the money for a long moment before finally nodding. “Fine. But you're on your own if you get caught.”
“Deal.”
Toxic stood, straightening her minimal costume. “I'll tell them you're getting a special dance. That should buy you maybe fifteen minutes before someone gets suspicious.” She moved to the door, then paused. "Whatever you're looking for, I hope it's worth it."
“It usually isn't,” Victor admitted. “But here we are anyway.”
