I can spy it from the moment you wander uncertainly in, sodden from the rain, soaked to the bone, but with that light of curiosity in your eyes absolutely undimmed. You're here, looking for something you can't quite put your finger on, something that stole you from your bed, late at night when you couldn't sleep, and whispered to an old, deep part of your brain that you ought to go wandering. Tonight, of all nights, when the black glow of a new moon bathes the world in something sideways to light.

Where your journey's taken you, or what path you've followed to arrive here, I shan't hazard a guess, but you are, I can tell, in the right place. There are eyes upon you from the moment the door swings shut - Nera, with her bone-white locks buzzed fashionably short, sipping on a coffee as her legs idly spin snowflakes in the air beneath the rafters, notices you. And how could she not, when shades and shadows part to let everyone get a glimpse.

And, of course, to reveal to you just what sort of establishment your feet have carried you to. True, there are a dozen, dozen things on tap, here, behind the bar, from liqueurs and brandies of an ancient make, to things that steam when they're uncorked, or whose shimmering depths can entrance the unwary for seven years, even within their bottles. We serve all kinds, here - all kinds - and I pride myself on offering everything to whet one's thirsts, no matter how esoteric they might be.

But there are, naturally, thirsts of a different sort, on display. In flowing, silk-walled rooms around the bar, bodies writhe and rut, sounds of pleasure and ecstasy mingling in the low light and cool night breeze. To your left, just out of reach, a dark-eyed woman with horns like a ram reclines on a couch of satin, a maiden her very twin knelt before her, head bobbing and an elegant hand splayed through ink-black locks. A man whose eyes pierce like stars watches, lazily, his hand gliding on a column of smoke as his body shifts between shadows, and a flittering circle of nymphs ply all with their tongues.

Sleek sidhe couple in alcoves, too beautiful to watch directly, and the hard stamp of hooves sounds, antlers flaring up from behind a curtain as torchlight flickers and something huge comes together with a willing worshiper, there.

Monsters, you could call them. All the voices lost to time, gathered here for an evening or an eternity. Freed of the need to hide, and, finally, allowed to indulge.

All eyes are on you - black ones, glittering from gaps in doors, bright ones, shining out with slender, beckoning hands. Gazes of primal lust and refined longing alike, a curiosity for our new curio.

Yet you're coming here, first. To the bar, as they always do, questions on your tongue and your eyes wide, taking in all of them. Figments and faeries, relicts and rogues, and, now, me.

What, might you ask, am I?

You'll find out.

Just a little pre-Halloween vision I thought I'd offer up - wide open and, admittedly, springing entirely from the title that popped into my head. Care to pay this corner of salubrious sin a visit? You're in luck, as I'm always, always open.

^{(And there are, as usual, a multitude of past prompts in my history, if this one isn't quite to your taste!})