by Juliet Lyons
Frowning, I jot down Tiffany necklace after the address.
“Is everything okay in London, Ronin? You sound tense.”
“Everything is grand,” I say. There is no way I’m about to mention I lost one of mine recently too.
Although rare, it isn’t unheard of within the vampire hierarchy for one ancient to challenge another for territory if someone thinks they’re not toeing the line. Despite growing tired of city life lately, there’s no way I’ll allow that to happen.
“I trust you’ll find out who murdered Roger?” Her voice, sweet as apple pie, is laced with a thinly veiled threat, like acid sprinkled with sugar.
“Why do you think I needed the details?”
“Good. If it’s a vampire, I shall look forward to avenging him.”
This is how it works with our kind—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
“I’ll be in touch.”
I hang up and stare down at the scribbled writing on the white napkin. Roger Devine. I’m almost positive we’ve never met. I reach for my laptop and flip it open, typing his name into the search engine and hitting enter.
Google is perhaps my favorite invention of recent times. Before it existed, I spent a small fortune on private investigators. The trouble was that, afterward, I was left with the dilemma of what to do with them. For some, a simple glamour would suffice, but others proved more elusive. Often I had to hire another PI to track down the original one—find them and make sure they kept their mouths shut permanently. Needless to say, it didn’t always end happily. These days, however, we have Google and humans know all about us. Life finds a way.
I’m pleased when I discover that, like most people these days, Roger Devine has left a sizable digital footprint. I click onto a LinkedIn page with his name and wait until a professional-looking photo pops up. He’s a good-looking bastard, very military, dark hair clipped close to the skull, groomed eyebrows. A firm believer in manscaping, no doubt. His profile gives little information besides his job title—commercial something or other at a company named Baverstock & Marshall. I’ve never heard of them before, but then, I’m not a Financial Times kind of guy.
I go back to the search page and click on all the other links, finding an old Facebook account that hasn’t been updated in five years. His profile picture is of him dressed in skiwear, standing with a blond woman who sports a strip of pink sunblock on her nose. This is what gives away the fact she’s human. Apart from the first few months of life, when the newly turned can be killed by sunlight, vampire skin needs no protection from the sun. If we ruled the earth, Hawaiian Tropics would go under in days.
All other social media accounts are like his Facebook. I’m starting to think Esme was right to call him a bit of a bore.
With a snort of frustration, I click open a second window and search for the other decapitated vampire, Isaac Levine. Isaac worked for me in the seventies. A good kid, but utterly screwed up and into every vice going. I caught him pushing drugs in the club one night, and for some reason, I didn’t kill him. I think maybe he reminded me of myself at his age: the same self-loathing lurking behind his empty eyes, the blatant lack of respect for human life. He begged for a second chance and I gave him one. Like cigarettes, drugs have little effect on vampires. If you’re hell-bent on self-destruction and the thing killing you suddenly stops killing you, it quickly loses its allure.
Simple, really. Isaac was clean in weeks.
Isaac’s stamp on cyber land is modest compared to Roger Devine’s—not a tweet to his name. Then a company profile image flashes up. I don’t recognize him at first because the old Isaac was reluctant to button his shirt, much less iron it and add a tie. But on closer inspection, it is without a doubt him. I’d know those vapid, gray eyes anywhere. I click on the picture and find myself immediately transferred to a company staff page.
At first I miss the obvious, preoccupied as I am with reading his job description and other pointless details. But then I see the company name sprawled across the top of the page, written in a black, swirly we’ve been around for years, you can trust us with your hard-earned cash font.
Baverstock & Marshall.
How interesting. I exit out of Isaac’s details and type Roger Devine into the company website’s search box. A page like Isaac’s pops up, giving similar details to those I found on LinkedIn. I lean back in my chair.
They both worked for the same company.
“There are no coincidences and no mistakes,” I mutter, clicking on Print and hitting Charlie’s extension number. He answers before the dial tone even connects.
“Boss?”
“Charlie, I’ve printed out some profiles of the dead vampires. There’s a company name on there I wouldn’t mind a bit of digging into—Baverstock & Marshall.”
I hear him rustling paper. “Right you are. No problem.”
“Good. I’m leaving the club for a bit. I might not be back today.”
Charlie seems surprised. “Not even tonight?”
I glance about the empty office. Catherine’s scent is still buzzing around me like a wasp, and if I stay here much longer, it’ll drive me to insanity.
“No, not even tonight.”
I know what he’s thinking. He’s never known me to take a night off before. The diversions of the club are usually enough to keep me entertained and then some.
Charlie knows better than to question me, however. “Have a good evening, Boss.”
“I will.”
I hang up the telephone feeling strangely lost. There’s a reason I don’t take nights off. My whole world is at this club, surrounded by strangers who do as I say, either because I pay them to or because they’re afraid of me.
Beyond these four walls, I’m not even sure who I am.
I rise from the leather chair and snatch up my car keys, ambling slowly to the door. I’m about to grab the handle when a twinkle of light catches my eye. I frown, reaching down to pluck a small diamond stud earring from the carpet. Catherine’s. She always wears this pair. It must have popped out during our kiss. I hold it up, mystified, musing at her power over me.
Then a realization hits me like a freight train. Catherine Adair is the only person who is ever real with me these days. She’s the only one who isn’t afraid to talk to me like an equal. She always has done, and although it’s such a turn on I can’t think straight, it goes beyond sex. I want her to like me. To know me.
I chuckle, twisting the tiny diamond between my forefinger and thumb before tucking it carefully into my suit pocket. Now I have the perfect excuse to pay her a long-overdue visit.
Won’t that make her the happiest vampire in London?
Chapter 5
Cat
For someone who runs a dating website, I’m surprisingly clueless when it comes to dates.
It’s been two days since that kiss with Ronin, and I’m standing in my dressing room at the flat, wondering what I should wear for my night out with Peter from next door. Last time I went on a date, flares were in fashion. I remember because some clumsy douchebag spilled a Singapore sling all over them and I wound up looking like I soiled myself. That’s how long it’s been since I played the game. The guy I went out with is probably six feet under by now.
I sigh, holding a tight, black dress against me and wondering if it’s still uncool to look like you’ve made too much of an effort. I fling the dress over a chair, deciding that it is.
Having spent the last few years of my life working nonstop means I own only two kinds of outfits—work clothes and pajamas. I should have gone and bought something new or ordered a dress online, but I’ve been working like a maniac for the past two days, trawling my V-Date database and checking the criminal records of the vampires I have registered.
Better late than never.
Of course, I shouldn’t be able to look at anyone’s records, but thanks to a c
ouple of contacts at Scotland Yard who owed me a favor, I managed to search the entire database.
The downside is I have nothing to wear. Despite the dilemma, I smile. It makes a pleasant change to have regular-world problems for once. No murderers, no lawyer’s letters, and absolutely no sexy ancient demons with piercing blue eyes. Bliss.
Deciding to cut my losses on the clothing front, I pick out a tan leather pencil skirt and long-sleeved black top. If I bypass the panty hose and team it with my Dolce & Gabbana ankle boots, I might just pass for trendy.
I throw it all on and stare into the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Not bad for a 185-year-old. I touch my thick, curly locks experimentally, wondering if they’re going to play nice this evening. My hair has had a mind of its own ever since I was a child. In those days, I thought it was because it was dirty and tangled, but after I turned and climbed out of poverty, I realized that’s just how it is. It’s a part of me, like the building I visit down on Beechwood Street—comforting and familiar.
Well, except when going on a date. Now, it’s just inconvenient.
Back in the bedroom, Wentworth is sitting on the end of the bed, eyes wide. We usually spend the evenings curled up on the sofa watching Netflix. He looks mildly disturbed by the change in routine.
“Relax, you’ll still get fed,” I say, tickling him under the chin.
His green eyes turn to slits and he begins purring like an engine. I’m filled with a sudden desire to stay in. Who needs dates when there are cats and central heating and DVD box sets? It’s a wonder anyone leaves the house at all.
Just then, I hear a gentle knock. My stomach lurches. Too late to back out now. I zip into the lounge and open the front door. The best thing about dating a neighbor is that there isn’t the whole where to meet crisis. Which is good, because I’m not sure I could handle waiting in a bar.
As I look up into Peter’s gentle, gray eyes, I realize how ridiculously nervous I am. He’s ditched the wire-framed spectacles this evening and looks very handsome, his dark-brown hair carefully parted to one side. He has a nice face. A face you might see over a garden fence, the face of someone who lets you skip ahead in the grocery queue when you have one item and they have ten. Nice. His name suits him too—Peter. A man who does the right thing. A person you can trust.
Unlike Ronin.
Even now, the image of him right before he kissed me tickles the edges of my conscience—eyes ablaze, square jaw clenched tight. Ronin is about as far removed from the man standing before me as day is to night.
If the name Peter encapsulates all that is honorable in the world, the name Ronin reeks of dark deeds, betrayal, and never having sex in a bed. Ronin is the type of guy who saunters out at 3:00 a.m. without leaving so much as a note. The only time Peter would leave is to pop out for newspapers and coffee the next morning.
I shiver, shoving all thoughts of the demon to the furthest part of my brain. “Hi, Peter,” I say in my best relaxed voice. “I’m almost ready. I just need to grab my bag.”
He nods, motioning to my outfit. “You look very lovely, Cat,” he says, a shy smile tugging the corners of his lips.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Thank you.”
A little unsteady in my Dolce & Gabbana boots, I head back into the bedroom.
“I thought you might like to try that new Hawaiian place in Dalston,” he calls, stepping in and closing the front door behind him.
“That sounds great. I’ve been meaning to visit.”
Total lie. The only new restaurants I intend to try are the ones who deliver.
Snatching my bag from the chair by the window, I drift back into the lounge.
Peter stands, hands thrust deep inside his jeans pockets, gazing around the room. “Your place is much nicer than mine. Very feminine.”
I follow his stare. He’s right; it is feminine. All distressed white furniture and chintz throws and cushions. A blind man could wander in here and know instantly there hasn’t been a man in my life for a long time.
“Your flat was empty for quite a while, so it’s bound to take time to feel at home,” I point out. “Where were you living before?”
His smile freezes. Right away I know I’ve stumbled across the ex file.
“With a friend,” he says quietly, breaking my gaze. “Ah, cool, you have a cat. I love cats.”
Before I think to warn him, he crosses the room to the sofa where Wentworth is perched and lifts the cat into his arms.
Wentworth lets out an earsplitting snarl, leaping into the air as if he’s been electrocuted. He lands hissing on the sofa, his fur standing on end.
“Oh God, are you okay?” Forgetting Peter doesn’t know I’m a vampire, I leap from the bedroom door to his side in a second. But he doesn’t notice, staring as he is at the blood streaked across his fingers. Wentworth has really gone to town on his face; a long scratch stretches from cheek to jaw.
Peter grimaces. “I guess I should have asked before touching him.”
I lift my fingers to his cheek, blotting at the tiny beads of blood, a sharp metallic tang filling my nostrils. Even though I’ve never really craved the taste of blood, I can’t help but wonder how he might taste. Probably sweet, like plums.
“I’ll get some antibacterial wipes,” I say, dashing off to the bathroom. This time I’m careful not to move too fast.
It hadn’t crossed my mind until now that I might have to tell him the truth about what I am.
When I’m back with my mini first aid kit and the blood is wiped off, I’m relieved to see it’s nothing more than a scratch. “I think you’ll live,” I say, giving his cheek one last swipe.
He smiles good-naturedly. “Women usually wait until after I’ve upset them before setting their pets on me.”
I chuckle. “I like to set the boundaries early.”
We gaze at each other for a few seconds, the only sound the rush of traffic outside. My earlier nerves have disappeared. There’s an easiness to his company, a normality I find comforting. Staring into his eyes, I feel lighter and more carefree than I have in years. I ball up the wad of wet wipes, pitching them at the small wastepaper basket in the corner. “Shall we leave before my cat goes to work on the other side of your face?” I tease, breaking the silence.
He straightens up, gray eyes twinkling. “Good idea.”
* * *
The restaurant is low-lit, tastefully decorated with factory-style light installations and bamboo cane furniture. The waiters are pleasant. They hover around, explaining the confusing names of the dishes and making suggestions. But that isn’t the main reason I end up having such a nice time—Peter is good company. Plus, I’m somehow managing to avoid the sticky subject of immortality.
In the days before vampires were common knowledge, things were far easier. We simply lied. Occasionally, if you grew to trust someone enough and thought they could handle it, you might one day reveal the truth. This happened to me once with a man named Eric and I never heard from him again. Ever. He simply disappeared. Mind you, it’s like my human friend Sandy often says: an asshole is an asshole. You can have the body of Gisele Bündchen and the personality of Mother Teresa and it’ll never turn out differently.
Eventually, my luck runs out. Being a vampire is a little like having a terminal illness in conversational terms. There’s only so far you can go before it rears its ugly head.
The waiter has just taken away our plates, and we’re sitting perfectly mirrored, elbows on the table, chins resting on our hands. Absorbed in each other.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
I flinch with surprise, leaning back in the chair. “Er…”
He throws up his hands. “That was rude, wasn’t it? I’m sorry. It’s just you made a passing comment about Margaret Thatcher earlier and it seemed like you remembered that era pretty well. I just wondered…”
<
br /> “It’s fine. I’m not Liza Minnelli. It’s a perfectly acceptable question to ask.”
He smiles at my little gag and I enjoy the last few seconds of staring into his serene, gray eyes before everything changes.
I exhale sharply, deciding to go about things Band-Aid style. Tear it off in one painful motion. “I’m one hundred and eighty-five.”
His thick brows knit, mouth opening. Suddenly, I can’t bear to look at him. It’s like watching an out-of-control vehicle spin into a ditch.
“Like I said, I’m originally from Hackney. But when I was born, it was King William IV on the throne, not Elizabeth II. I’m a—”
“Vampire,” he finishes, in a breathy tone not entirely dissimilar to Bella Swan in the first Twilight movie.
“Yeah.” I grab my jam-jar glass of margarita, tipping as much down my throat as possible.
“Cool.”
I begin coughing violently. “Cool?” I splutter in disbelief. “I’ve just told you I’m a supernatural creature and that’s your response?”
He shrugs, a bemused sparkle in his eyes. “Mrs. Colangelo told me as much the day I moved in.”
My jaw drops. “How does she know? She’s only lived there a few months herself.”
He calmly sips from his Budweiser. “She caught you speeding past her door one evening. Plus, she says you’re too beautiful to be mortal.” He lowers his eyes. “I have to say, that’s one thing I can absolutely agree with her on.”
Well, this is new.
“You’re not one of those sexual voyeurs, are you?” I ask suspiciously.
His gray eyes crinkle as he laughs. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re not going about with some weird sexual bucket list—older women, French women, vampire women…”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “No. I’m probably the most boring guy on the planet. The truth is, I just broke up with someone. Then I met you and—well, you’re nice and this is the twenty-first century. Who cares that you’ve been around a little longer than most of us?”
