The Key (Sanguinem Emere) by Carmen Taxer

storm over to my desk and stuff what I can in my handbag. Avoiding the eyes of the others, I scribble a quick note on one of my numerous post-it’s that I’ll be back tomorrow for the rest.
    He is going to be so disappointed in me.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    TUESDAY 18 November 2008… 10:39
    I trudge through the heat of the city like John Coffey headed down the Green Mile towards his death. The sun beats down on me and even when I wander over to the opposite sidewalk to walk in the ample shade of buildings and skyscrapers and great, big, ridiculous glass and steel structures, glinting evilly in the sun, I can still feel the heat on my skin, trying to melt through my guardians to spread itself all over my body.
    What the hell am I going to do?
    I have no idea what is going to happen when I walk through that door. Will he kick me out? Or simply berate me? Or even more miserable a thought, will he have that revolting manservant of his do both for him?
    Shudders rattle through me at the thought, but the added movement makes me warmer and I stop, sweat trickling like tiny lava streams down my spine.
    Well, no point in worrying about it, I suppose. Whatever he does to me, it can’t be worse than what I am feeling right now. I failed him and myself. I couldn’t do what he wanted and now any hopes I may have had on an exclusive Dimitri Kron interview are gone.
    He chose me for my abilities. And even at what comes naturally, I failed.
    I pull out my phone which sticks to my pocket in the heat before jumping into my hand and dial the only person who could possibly calm me down at this point.
    “Hey, Babes!” Delilah’s voice is shrill and I can hear the deafening thrum of music in the background.
    “Jesus, D. You at Crème?”
    “Yeah! Hang on!’ After a few moments of more thudding, her voice comes back on the line, “Still there?”
    “Yup. So how’s the club going? Little early for metal, don’t you think?”
    “Nah! Never too early. Besides, I’m just doing a sound check on the speakers. Alex says they’ve been giving hassles.”
    “Oh.”
    “What’s wrong, Pet? You sound put out.”
    “No, it’s nothing, really.”
    For a moment the line goes quiet and then, “You’re lying,” Delilah accuses me in a flat voice, “Is this about last night? Where are you? I’ll come over and we can have coffee… Or maybe a really, really cold beer.”
    “No, it’s-
    “It’s not about last night. I just…. I don’t know what I’m going to do…
    “I lost my job.”
    Delilah’s voice sounds distracted, a sure sign that she is just as concerned as I am, but is trying incredibly hard not to let me notice it, “Come to the bar. We’ll sort this out.”
    “Funny you should suggest that, I’m just around the corner.”
    “Good stuff, Love. I’ll have a drink ready for you when you get here.”
    “Thanks, D.”
    I put the phone down and make my way to Crème. It takes me less than five minutes from my current location, and Delilah’s ridiculous trophy of a bar/club looms in front of me; delicately balancing between an adult shop by the name of Rusty’s and 24-hour liquor store with no name to be registered under.
    Crème is really your typical pick-up joint with a few glaring exceptions. Firstly, the club plays Metal. Only Metal. Constantly. From different genres and at such a volume that it becomes impossible to feel your ears after an hour on the premises. Secondly (and this is where the club has always made me think vividly of its owner), it may seem stereotypically pretty on the outside, but once you step foot inside its doors and take a closer look, you realise that the truth is anything but. Like with the metal music. There are things about Delilah that strangers will never spot.
    For one thing, the name is not there by accident. Every place to put one’s ass on in Crème is covered in a soft, wavy, velvet material in the colour of cream. Arrayed around the dance floor in dark,