StarGazer86: So… secret society or urban legend?
GoodGuy33: Urban legend. It doesn’t exist.
PinkySwear91: Agreed. Probably a myth made up by someone with an overactive imagination. Tourists love the idea of secret clubs and shit. Makes them excited about the city — excited tourists spend more money. Simple.
Stargazer86: Damn, too bad. I was hoping it would be something cool.
MadHatter666: It’s not a legend or a myth —Labyrinthis real enough. It’s on E. 65thbetween Madison and Park. Though I wouldn’t recommend walking through the front doors. Not unless you’ve got a death wish.
GoodGuy33: A name like MadHatter really makes you sound legit, bro. Go back to playing World of Warcraft and stop cluttering our threads with bullshit.
There were no more comments, and the thread had been inactive for more than four years.
I felt a chill race up my spine. So, it wasn’t the most credible lead. GoodGuy33 was probably right — MadHatter666 was likely insane.
But what if he wasn’t?
There was only one person I could think of who made knowing about the city’s most exclusive venues a priority. If there really were a secret society calledLabyrinth, she’d have heard of it. I scrolled through my phone to her name and dialed, wincing when I saw it was past midnight. Fae was a big proponent of beauty sleep and, as such, had a strictno-calls-after-ten-unless-you-are-dying-or-pregnantpolicy on weeknights.
Oh well. The phone rang in my ear three times before it connected.
“I know you’re not preggers, so you better be dying,” she muttered into the receiver.
“Well, I mean, technically we’realldying. Just at different paces,” I noted. “But am I bleeding out at this exact moment? No.”
“Hanging up, now.”
“Wait! I’m sorry to call so late, but it’s important.” She couldn’t have missed the strain in my words. “Please.”
“Fine, five minutes,” she agreed, sighing. “What is it?”
“Have you ever heard ofLabyrinth?” I asked. “It could be a club or a restaurant, I’m not sure.”
There was a pause over the line. I pictured her lying in bed, her tired mind reeling through thousands of restaurants, nightclubs, and organizations as she tried to conjure up a memory of the place I’d mentioned.
“Is it in Upper East? Near Madison and Park?”
At her words, I felt my throat constrict. I stared at MadHatter’s comment with wide eyes. “Yeah, that’s the one,” I whispered.
“I don’t know much.” She yawned audibly. “I think it’s members-only. Elite —veryexclusive. We’re talking old money. Some of the city’s oldest, wealthiest families are supposedly affiliated. Politicians, professional athletes, mega-wealthy power players. But I don’t know for sure; no one does. They don’t exactly publish members’ names in thePoston Sundays.”
A sinking feeling turned my stomach when I realized that, if Fae and MadHatter were correct aboutLabyrinth, it would throw a major wrench in my plans to search the building. I couldn’t simply follow this lead and walk through the front doors. Places like this, with their closely guarded velvet ropes and multitude of bouncers, were harder to get into than the White House.
“Hypothetically, if someone who wasn’t a member wanted to get in… how would someone do it?”
Fae was silent for a moment, then sighed deeply. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Humor me,” I appealed.
“It’s impossible,” she said. “You can’t get in unless you’re either a member yourself or the guest of one.”
Damn. I thought for a moment before further querying my annoyed friend.
“Hypothetically, if someone wanted to find out the members’ names… how would someone go about it?”
“Hypothetically?” Fae’s tone was skeptical but amused. “Thatsomeonewould have to call her best friend at well past a decent hour, in the middle of the night, and ask said friend to make a call.”
“Seriously?”