Vivian, The Queen of Nymphs | Book II of The Eresthai Series

Tae

A strip club… at least I’m doing something new today. It’s been a while since I’ve done something new.

I park my custom DeLorean in the club’s lot and check the time—I’m early. Stepping out, I pull the business card that my assistant George gave me from my pocket. To ordinary eyes, it would look like a blank piece of elegant cardstock, but through my Lycan’s sight, the pearlescent lettering stands out clearly: The Establishment, followed by an address. The enchantment isn’t unique—ancient, even—but executed with refined precision.

I take a moment to examine the building. To a human, it would seem like an abandoned tram depot, surrounded by rusted trams, dead rail lines, and broken shelters. They decommissioned the trams fifty years ago; I remember that day well. The humans called it progress. I called it the death of sentimentality.

As an architect, I always arrive early to new places, content to sit outside and take it all in. It’s not something I do consciously, but I’m still surprised my field hasn’t managed to bore me yet.

The original building must have been quite ordinary when it was built, but now it’s something remarkable. Whoever repurposed it did an excellent job of retaining the window arches and red brick façade. They respected the bones of the structure instead of gutting it and forcing it into something it isn’t.

Vines climb the walls, covered in small white blossoms. I don’t even have to sniff the air—the scent is so thick it practically drenches the atmosphere in Wild Bloom. Werewolves and Lycans use it to mask scent. Clever. With the whole building wrapped in it, no one could distinguish who—or what—is inside. It puts everyone on equal footing, unless they exude an aura—those are much more difficult to disguise. It took me two hundred years to coax my Lycan into muting our aura. I thought he’d have less fight in him as the years go by, but the beast is still a perpetually stubborn one.

George said this club was exclusive and high-end, but the idea of a high-end strip club baffles me—though I’m not exactly familiar with these kinds of establishments, so who am I to judge? I’ve walked this Earth for almost five centuries, and yet—even in my loneliest days—I’ve never stepped into a place like this.

My mind drifts back to Japan, centuries ago, when desire wore silk instead of sequins. I remember the okiya houses glowing softly through rice paper walls, the scent of incense and sakura petals lacing the air. Geisha moved like whispers—pouring tea with such grace that even the brief reveal of a pale wrist could send the human men around them breathless. Back then, companionship was an art form, one earned through years of discipline—music, poetry, conversation. A true geisha could captivate a man with a glance or a single, perfectly timed word.

I’d kill for a decent conversation with a beautiful woman these days. Most skip the prelude entirely, rushing straight to the part that used to mean something.

I think back on the films I’ve seen and recall the image of topless women spinning around gleaming poles, bills tucked into scraps of lace held together by flimsy straps. I can’t help but wonder if that’s reality or merely human fantasy. Then again, this is a Fae bar—it’s bound to be nothing like the movies.

It’s not the kind of place I’d ever choose for business, but the client insisted.

George’s prep speech this morning had been amusing enough to pique my curiosity, so—begrudgingly—I agreed.

He said, “The women look like Victoria’s Secret models, and most of them have magic, so don’t underestimate them. There’s no nudity in the public areas, and they only take the old currency as tips—so come prepared.”

I reach into my pocket and feel the weight of a few gold coins. I never thought I’d have a reason to use them again, but they’ll serve their purpose tonight. Unfortunately, my Lycan aura has a way of drawing women in when all I want is to be left alone. This place—built for men who crave attention—is the worst possible environment for someone like me. I don’t plan to buy affection with these coins, only a bit of peace and personal space. Goddess, when did I become such a curmudgeon?

I look around at the rows of gleaming luxury vehicles in the parking lot. By my estimate, there’s at least half a billion dollars’ worth of metal out here. George wasn’t kidding—this meeting is going to cost me a small fortune.

As I scan the lot, a woman pulls into a nearby space on a motorcycle—a classic Triumph, beautifully restored. My attention shifts from the chrome and engine to the rider herself. I can’t see her face beneath the mirrored helmet, but something about her—the poised line of her back, the easy control of the machine—commands my attention. There’s something inherently sexy about a woman with a motorcycle thundering between her legs.

My phone rings just as she cuts the engine. I answer, though my focus remains locked on the biker as she removes her gloves with unhurried grace. It’s George on the line, but his voice barely registers over the thrum of my pulse. The rider swings a leg over her bike and dismounts—black leather hugging her perfectly. I’m surprised I even noticed.

George’s sudden shout snaps me back. “Tae, did you hear me? Ben Morris just landed the Evans project.”

My jaw tightens. That’s a forty-million-dollar deal gone. “You’re joking. How the hell did that plebian win the Evans Project?”

“I’ve got an in at his office—they’re sending me a hard copy of their presentation tonight.”

The biker removes her helmet, and a cascade of blonde hair spills down her back. I catch a glimpse of a small tattoo at the base of her neck, but it’s too far to make out the design.

“Good. I’d like to see for myself what Ben Morris has to offer.” I glance at the time. I should probably head inside. I can hear bass-heavy music pulsing through George’s end of the call. “Are you already inside the club?”

“Yes, I got here early to make sure we didn’t lose the VIP section. If you’re a minute late, they give it away—and the deposit’s non-refundable. Some of the guys have already disappeared into private rooms, so I’m holding down the fort.”

“I’ll be in shortly,” I mutter before hanging up.

I take a deep, steadying breath, but it does nothing to ease the tension. The frustration only coils tighter, looping back to the eighty-hour weeks I poured into that presentation—only for Evans to hand it to an amateur like Ben fucking Morris. The bastards deserve each other.

I start toward the entrance.

“Yo, dude!” a woman’s voice calls from behind me, but I’m too irritated to care. “Oi! Marty!” she shouts again, louder.

Marty? Wait—the DeLorean. Back to the Future.

Thwack!

Something hits the back of my head. Instinct kicks in—I catch it midair.

That’s my wallet.

Well. That certainly got my attention.

I turn to see the biker chick slinging a large leather bag over her shoulder, eyes narrowed in open irritation. The curses she mutters under her breath would make a sailor blush. I can’t help but smile as she slides on her sunglasses with deliberate nonchalance and strides toward the club.

I’d rather not be used for target practice, but I have to admit—her aim is impressive. No supernatural aura about her, either. She’s human, and she nailed that throw from at least forty feet away. Very nice shot.

Lucky for me, she’s honest. Without my ID, entry would’ve been impossible. The Establishment doesn’t let just anyone in. You send your details ahead, and they run a background check, as well as review your bank records, to ensure you can pay the tab. The elite like to keep the riffraff out.

They sent me an agreement and a rulebook along with the invitation. Only after I signed and notarized the contract did they confirm my access, which was limited to five guests under my full liability. Daniels had better behave tonight—he’s a notorious party animal, and I’m not in the mood to pay for his recklessness.

From the outside, I never would’ve guessed what awaited within. The moment I step inside, the noise of the city fades. Warm, humid air greets me, thick with the scent of greenery and a faint hint of magic. The place feels alive—a jungle of vines, light, and sound tangled together in perfect chaos.

What walls that remain visible are painted with sweeping murals of wild animals and ethereal women, their forms shifting subtly as if reacting to movement in the room. Likely the work of a Fae illusionist. By the bar, a macaw and a small monkey sculpted entirely from Glow Stone emit a soft, golden radiance that dances across the glassware.

I stand there for a full minute, taking it in. Industrial bones meet colonial furnishings, all of it reclaimed by greenery and spellwork. It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does. George was right—the place is extraordinary.

I’m so caught up in the surroundings that I barely register the woman trying to catch my attention. Maybe I need my head examined.

After this many centuries, some things just lose their charm—and modern women, sadly, are among them. I miss the days when a single, measured gesture carried meaning, when the faintest glance could summon a blush, and desire was sustained by the quiet rhythm of restraint.

Sighing, I turn my focus to the ornate main stage. A woman performs beneath a cascade of water; the droplets slide over her skin as if defying gravity—most likely a water nymph, but with all the Wild Bloom in the air, it’s impossible to know for sure.

George was right again—none of the women who work here are nude. They’re elegantly dressed, their appeal built on poise and presence rather than exposure.

An exceptionally beautiful woman with long, fiery red hair and pale, porcelain skin approaches, her practiced smile softened by genuine warmth. “Hello, Mr. Lee. My name is Agnes. Please, allow me to escort you to your VIP area—your guests are already waiting.”

“Thank you,” I reply.

“My pleasure, Mr. Lee,” she says, looping her arm through mine—a gesture I’ll have to put an end to soon. I’m here for one reason: Daniels. He’s been my client for six years, and entertaining him and his crew is part of the job.

Agnes guides me through a pair of towering mirrored doors held open by two security guards built like statues. When we reach a smaller set of doors, she pauses and steps in closer, her tongue grazing her painted lips as she playfully tugs my tie free from beneath my vest.

“It’s your first time here, Mr. Lee,” she purrs. “If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

Her face drifts closer—far too close. Highly inappropriate.

I lift a gold coin between my fingers. Her eyes follow it instantly.

“Good. We speak the same language,” I murmur, slipping from her grasp and continuing on alone to find my client.