by Juliet Lyons
She nods before slowly ducking into the vehicle, and I slam the door after her, watching as the car disappears into a throng of taillights. For those few seconds, standing at the side of the road, I envy her the luxury of forgetting. Of having the weight of decision taken out of her hands. I shudder, though not because of the chill in the crisp London air. I’m restless, an awful sensation of being trapped in my own skin settling around my shoulders. It happens often of late—the notion that I could pack up and go anywhere in the world and never shake it. A dark dog, snapping at my heels.
Thrusting my hands into my pockets, I turn and head back into the club. Downstairs, Harper is practically inside the blond in our booth—her long legs are wrapped around his hips, ankles crossed at the bottom of his spine. His mouth is buried in her throat, a curtain of her blond hair concealing his rampant thirst from the other patrons. I shake my head with a bemused smile. He had better glamour her afterward.
In my office, I buzz for Charlie. He takes a little longer to arrive than usual, but when he steps through the door I see why. A streak of blood stains his starched, white shirt, a deep-red ribbon dropped in snow.
“The man. Is he…?”
“Alive. His girlfriend’s taken him to the hospital.”
I arch a brow.
“She won’t mention the club. Don’t worry. Stiven and I made sure of it.”
I open the bottom drawer of the desk to take out a crystal decanter of scotch. “Drink?”
Charlie nods, a faraway gaze in his toffee-colored eyes as I line up two matching tumblers and remove the stopper.
“How long do you think we can go on like this, Charlie?” I ask as amber liquid splashes onto the bottom of the crystal.
Charlie frowns, breaking from his reverie. “Like what?”
“This.” I circle a finger around the room. “The nightly bloodlust, the accidental deaths, outsiders coming in to gawp and spy.”
Charlie shrugs. “It’s the way things have always been done,” he says simply, reaching for his drink. “We put the bell in for those who might want to leave before it gets messy.”
I swirl scotch around the glass. “Aye, but times have changed. There are even vampire dating websites nowadays.” What’s left of my cold, dead heart flickers like a faulty bulb in my chest. “Perhaps it’s time to change the way we do things.”
Charlie snorts derisively. “What, try speed dating?”
Speed dating. An idea begins to unfurl in my mind. A wicked idea. One that would definitely make a certain lady very angry.
And as everyone knows, hatred is far preferable to indifference.
“Charlie, you could be on to something.”
The image of the journalist pops into my mind, her face wan with horror. That place is so fucked up.
Time for a change.
For the first time in a long while, the dark dog at my heels falls silent.
Chapter 2
Cat
Wednesday morning and I’m already on my third cancellation of the day. The deserter: Miss Belinda Pearce of Saint Albans. With the four from yesterday and the three on Monday, that makes ten this week alone. Ten clients jumping ship. And it’s not even eleven o’clock.
Although I could tell from her tone what she was going to say, I inject a measure of surprise into my voice. “Oh, Belinda, really? I’m so sorry to hear that. Why the change of heart?”
I minimize the internet window on my Mac and click into the Accounts screen, pulling up her bank details from among the P’s.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “It’s just I…er… Well, this is actually a little awkward.”
“Go on.”
“I’m trying something new.”
“New?”
Could this be the moment I’ve been dreading since I started the site five years ago? Humans are finally bored of us—vampire dating is no longer hip. Or maybe she’s realized that all the good men are taken. Married to females named Fiona or Faye. Women who provide healthy children, juggle playdates and a career, and still manage to look half-decent at the end of an exhausting day.
I picture Belinda twisting her hands nervously, worrying at her bottom lip. Despite never meeting in person, I’ve gotten to know her well over the past few months. She’s one of those zesty, bubbly types who like to give anyone who will listen every sordid detail of her love life. She often calls to debrief me on her dates.
“Speed dating,” she says at last.
Where’s she been hiding? “Oh, good for you.”
“With vampires.”
My smile freezes. What the actual fuck?
“Vampires?” I splutter.
“Yes. It’s been a thing for the past couple of months. They hold special nights at this club in Soho.”
My chest turns to cold, hard stone. “Soho?”
“Yes. Broadwick Street, to be exact.”
Of course it is. I grip the computer mouse so tight I almost break the damn thing to pieces. “Tell me more,” I say in a low voice.
Belinda titters nervously. “Well, it’s just a bit of fun, really. The guy hands you a number and the ladies stay sitting—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I know how speed dating works. I mean tell me about the club. The owner.”
Belinda suddenly seems to have difficulty breathing she’s so excited. “The owner. Funny you mention him. Most of the women go for that reason alone. He’s this hot Scottish hunk with red hair and the bluest, most amazing eyes.”
I wince as an unwanted image pops into my head. Those eyes are practically burned into my brain.
“But that’s not the only reason,” Belinda continues.
“Really?” I ask, sarcasm creeping into my voice. “What else is he offering? A Thai massage for every hundredth customer?”
She lets out an uneasy chuckle. “No. The thing is, I heard a rumor at the speed dating. About the safety of V-Date.”
“A rumor?”
“That a few years ago, women were murdered by a vampire using the site.”
My heart drops like a stone into the pit of my stomach. If only it were a just a rumor.
“Oh.”
“I’m sure it’s rubbish, of course, but I thought you should know.”
“Yes,” I say grimly. “Thank you, Belinda. I’ll cancel your account today.”
Without another word, I slip the phone back into the cradle, hands trembling.
“Piece of shit,” I tell the empty office, and then louder for good measure, not caring if the hypnotherapist renting the space upstairs complains I’m messing with her inner chi again. “Piece of shit bastard.”
Ronin McDermott.
Ancient demon. Manipulative piece of trash. And the last man you shagged, a nasty little voice in my head reminds me.
On impulse, I leap from the swivel chair and grab my coat from the back of the door. I make it all the way to the top of the spiral staircase before it hits me I’m playing straight into his hands. Me careering off to Soho is exactly the reaction he’s after.
I retreat into the office, flinging my coat onto the heart-shaped sofa and raking fingers through my thick, black curls. Needing to do something to let off steam, I sink back into my chair and pull up an internet window, jabbing the name of douche bag’s club into Google. A map pops up, along with contact details. Bingo. I lift the telephone and dial the number, clicking a pen like it’s a flick knife held to Ronin’s throat.
After a few rings, a female voice answers, silky smooth and elegant. I shove down a ridiculous pang of jealousy. “I need to speak to Ronin,” I snap.
“May I ask who’s calling?” Miss Moneypenny purrs.
“Cat Adair.”
Without another word, she places me on hold, the theme to Downton Abbey tinkering down the line. Since when did Ronin associate with middle-of-t
he-road, Sunday night drama?
The music plays for so long I almost hang up. But then a familiar, loathsome sound vibrates in my ear, a voice as mellow and gravelly as a whiskey on the rocks—Ronin.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Ms. Catherine?”
My fangs slip out, nearly shredding my lower lip.
“First of all—speed dating,” I hiss.
He lets out a low chuckle. “Fancy giving it a go? I can put you on the guest list if you like. Or are you still enjoying the single life? Lonely nights in front of CSI? Did you ever finish that blanket you were knitting for Cats Protection?”
“Screw you.”
“We tried that once, remember? What am I saying? Of course you do. As I recall, you hadn’t made love in so long there were cobwebs on the sheets.”
White-hot rage clouds my vision, but I keep my voice steady. I will not rise to his ugly bait. “Actually, I don’t remember. I think I must have nodded off halfway through.”
He gives a snort of derision. “You’re confusing me with someone else, mo chridhe. No woman sleeps on my watch.”
Unbidden, a shiver zigzags up my spine. “I didn’t call to discuss your sexual hang-ups, Ronin,” I snap, ignoring the tingle. “Though I’m sure there are plenty to keep us talking long into the night. I’m calling because I’ve heard the nasty rumors you’re spreading about my business.”
“I’m sorry to be the one to remind you,” he says smugly, “but if by rumors you mean a serial killer using your site to find victims, then I’m afraid they’re mostly true.”
“Three years ago they were true,” I hiss. “If you were at all concerned about my clients’ safety, why wait so long to say anything?”
A deep clunk echoes down the line.
“Did you just put me on speakerphone?” I demand.
“No. I put the phone on the desk. There’s no need for speakerphone with that foghorn voice of yours. I could probably hear you from my apartment on the other side of the river. Possibly even in Norwich.” He pauses. “If there are rumors circulating about your dating service, Catherine, they haven’t come from me.”
“Yeah right,” I mutter, before erupting, “Speed dating?”
I can practically hear him smirk. “Genius, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not genius. It’s stealing. Stealing my idea and shoving it facedown in your rat-infested, back-alley club.”
“Back-alley club? We’re only a few doors down from Liberty. Hardly slumming it. Or maybe you’re thinking of how it was in the nineties—the eighteen nineties. Admit it. That’s the last time you actually visited a bar, wasn’t it?”
“Not so long ago,” I continue, ignoring the comment, especially because he has a point, “you were doing everything in your power to stop humans and vampires fraternizing. Now you’re running social mixers. What is this? The ancient-demon version of a midlife crisis?”
“I’ve decided to move with the times.”
“Why? One too many bodies to hide? Of course, it must be hard without Logan around to mop up for you anymore.”
He sucks in a breath of what I assume, at first, is anger. But then exhales slowly.
“Are you smoking?”
“It’s the only thing getting me through this tedious conversation.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
I slam the phone down so hard my pen pot topples onto the carpet. I pride myself on rarely losing my cool. But Ronin McDermott never fails to bring out the worst in me.
After I’ve picked up the pens and ceased shaking with rage, I divert the office calls to my cell phone and leave. There isn’t a hope of getting anything constructive done today. Not with the mood I’m in.
Outside, the day is bright, watery sunlight filtering through puffy, gray clouds. I pick my way around sandwich boards lining the cobbled streets of trendy East London, past the coffee bars and craft shops. I remember them, like I always do, as the slum houses from a hundred years ago—families of ten in a single room, children barefoot and starving, excrement and dead animals clogging the gutters. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my two hundred years of living, it’s that human memories are ridiculously short-lived. Places change and begin over in an endless cycle of birth and death, and what went before is always forgotten.
But I, and those like me, can never forget. Which is why when I reach the corner of Beechwood Street, I linger outside the door of a small beauty salon, placing a palm against the cool, red brick. I remember a small girl, bony and hollow-eyed, sitting cross-legged on the dirty threshold, a book balanced on her lap. Next to her is a bow-legged boy, downtrodden and grimy but with eyes that sparkle like stars in the night sky. When the receptionist inside notices me, I move on. Over the years, the shop has lived many lives—barber, chemist, dentist—but while it’s still standing I will always return, will always live close by. It’s an anchor to a familiar shore. By the time I reach my apartment block, I’m grounded.
That is, until I’m accosted by Mrs. Colangelo, the elderly Italian lady who moved into number twenty-three a few months ago.
“You’re early,” she says in accusatory tones, appearing from behind her door in a paisley robe. So far, I’ve never seen Mrs. Colangelo dressed. Or outside, for that matter.
I toss her a weak smile. “I decided to work from home.” Not that it’s any of your business, I almost add.
“Probably for the best,” she says, leaning against the doorpost. “There are many crazy people around at the moment. It’s not safe for a young, pretty girl like you to be out alone after dark.”
Like the rest of my neighbors, Mrs. Colangelo hasn’t a clue I’m a vampire. Although I could tell the whole of London now if I so desired, I still abide by my old, self-inflicted rules, which involve moving house every ten years, so no one begins to question why I haven’t aged.
“They found a body on Canal Street at the weekend, you know?” Mrs. Colangelo, the eternal optimist, continues. “Badly decomposed, and that’s not the worst part.”
I begin to edge past her doorway, the delicious freedom of the next flight of stairs beckoning. “What’s the worst part, Mrs. Colangelo?”
“No head,” she says with a hint of triumph. And then, just so I’m completely up to speed, “Decapitated.” She crosses herself. “Poor soul.”
I frown. Decapitation is quite unusual among humans. Vampires, on the other hand…
“Dreadful,” I agree, shaking my head. “Well, I have to feed the cat, so I must dash.”
“We have a new man moving in next door to you. He came today to measure up.”
Now that catches my attention. The flat next door has been empty since I moved in ten years ago. I’ve gotten used to having the whole third floor to myself. “Oh, who is he?”
“A musician. Young man. Unmarried. No girlfriend.”
Once upon a time, I might have been excited hearing those last three sentences, one after the other. Those days are gone. Now the only part I linger on is musician. I sigh. Please, God, not a wretched saxophone player.
“Maybe we can have a bit of romance in our building, eh?” Mrs. Colangelo smiles, puckered lips parting to reveal a set of bright-white dentures.
I cock my head to the side. “I didn’t know you were keen on younger men, Mrs. Colangelo.” She begins shaking her head, but I don’t let her get a word in. “But if that’s your thing, go for it. You deserve to find happiness, and age is just a number, right?” Before she can utter a denial, I swivel around to the stairs. “Enjoy the rest of the day!”
She’s still babbling about the misunderstanding when I slam the front door shut behind me and swing my bag into an armchair, kicking off my Louboutins and dropping about six inches in height. Designer footwear is a constant weakness. Having spent my childhood barefoot in Victorian England, being at liberty to buy shoes whenever I like is dizzying.
&n
bsp; Wentworth the cat, who narrowly missed being hit by a red-soled shoe, strolls over. He wraps himself around my legs and purrs like a tractor. Forgetting myself, I reach down to lift him up, making him squeal loudly and jump five feet into the air. Wentworth was a stray who hates to be picked up.
We’re a lot alike, Wentworth and I.
“What happened to you, Wentworth?” I ask, crossing the room to scratch his head. “Who hurt you in your old life?”
The outburst forgotten, he stares up at me with dilated, emerald eyes. Despite the erratic behavior and occasional bit of cat vomit, he’s easily the best flatmate I’ve ever had. For starters, he never makes me feel bad about the state of my love life—or lack thereof.
If someone had told me a quarter of a century ago I’d be running a vampire/human dating service, I would have ruptured my spleen laughing.
Then, around a decade ago in the media scoop of all time, a famous Hollywood actress publicly announced she was a vampire. The day it hit the tabloids, I was down at my local 7-Eleven buying milk. There, emblazoned across the front page, screamed the headline VAMPIRES EXIST. At first I thought it was some kind of joke. After all, the National Enquirer had been running the same story sporadically for years. But no, it wasn’t April Fools’ Day or even Halloween—this was the Daily Telegraph, and it didn’t end there.
In the following weeks, vampires across the globe began to out themselves. The hysteria didn’t last long, however. As soon as humans discovered we don’t survive on blood and sleep in dirt from our motherland, everyone calmed the heck down. We became like a half sibling finally invited to the family reunion. We even got the vote.
It was during the calm after the storm that I got the idea for V-Date. Places like Ronin’s club would always cater to the fetish end of the vampire dating market, but for those craving romance, there was zilch. Sex is all well and good, but it isn’t what folks drive themselves nuts looking for. Love is the prize.
So I hired a web designer and rented an office, and the rest is history. For a somewhat costly monthly fee, humans and vampires can access a database of eligible partners. I was even planning to launch a mobile app, which may have to be scrapped if my clients continue to jump ship.
