by Juliet Lyons
I gaze at him across the table as he toys with the cuff of his gray sweater. After all these years, is karma finally about to pay up?
“I think you’re nice too,” I say, taking a long, deep breath. Probably my first since I told him my age.
“Good. Let’s just enjoy ourselves then. Life is too short for regrets.”
I cock a brow. “For some of us.”
“I have to ask though,” he begins, picking at the label on his bottle, “what’s it like living so long and never aging?”
“Lonely,” I say honestly. “And, all too often, exhausting.”
He begins to speak and then stops himself midway, biting his lower lip.
“What?” I ask. “It’s okay. You can say whatever you want. I don’t bite.”
He laughs nervously. “I was going to ask the question everyone must ask. That’s why I stopped myself.”
I hold up my hands. “I don’t sleep in a coffin, promise.”
He squirms on his seat. “No. I wanted to ask how it happened. Becoming a vampire, I mean.”
That old chestnut.
I glance over his shoulder at the other diners, wishing we were discussing what they probably are—train strikes, people they hate at work, whether they should order dessert.
“It’s a long story,” I say finally. “With a lot of sadness. I’m not sure it’s first-date material.”
“I understand,” he says softly. “Perhaps you could tell me on our third date.”
I blush like a teenager at the insinuation we’ll be seeing each other again. “Maybe.”
Except how do you tell a man you like that the night you turned into a vampire, you were languishing in Newgate Prison, sentenced to hang for killing your husband? There’s never a good time to tell a potential boyfriend you’re a murderer.
“Have you always lived in London?” he asks, leaning back in his seat.
“Almost always. I lived in Liverpool for a while, and during the world wars, I moved to Canada. But other than that, yes, I’ve mostly lived in East London.”
“Do you miss your family?”
A breath sticks in my throat. I want to change the subject, go back to talking about the music we enjoy and the famous people we’ve seen on the tube, but at the same time, I feel compelled to share things with him. I’ve stuck to the shadows for too long.
“Is it awful to say no?”
I only miss Jonjo. That sadness will haunt me forever.
“We were very poor,” I say slowly, remembering the two squalid rooms eight of us were crammed into, sack mattresses teeming with lice, the only warmth coming from the dim light of the fireplace. “But that didn’t mean we were close. In those days, there were so many people that most of us ended up spilling onto the streets. When children were old enough, they were sent to work or beg. I used to go with my older sister to Saint Paul’s and she’d use me as bait for the rich folk. They usually gave more if they saw smaller children. Liza, my sister, used to make me cough all the time. She would tell them I had consumption and that a bit of money might buy me some medicine. I coughed so much, my throat was red and raw. Then Liza died of the illness herself at fourteen. She said it was God’s way of punishing her for her lies. It wasn’t, of course. The child mortality rate was appalling.”
I pause, fiddling with my straw. How strange it is to sit here in designer clothes in a smart London bar and talk about a time almost no one else in London remembers.
Peter is staring in horror. If he knew the half of it, he would need a sedative.
“I’m so sorry, Cat,” he says, as if I truly have just announced a terminal disease.
I brush off his apology with a flick of my hand. “It was life for so many of us, and elsewhere in the world it’s happening at this very second. That’s just how it goes.”
The clink of cutlery and the buzz of chatter continues, but between us, a heavy silence falls.
“A bit of a conversation killer,” I say with forced perkiness.
His lips twitch. “I did ask.”
“Yes, you did.”
He snatches the linen napkin from his lap, tossing it into the middle of the table. “Let’s go somewhere else and have more drinks.”
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” I say, reaching for my purse.
Peter holds up his hands. “No, dinner is on me. I insist.”
“I know. I just need to visit the ladies’.”
His cheeks redden. “Sorry. I’m used to battling bill-paying feminists.”
“I am one usually,” I say with a wink, tossing my napkin onto his and rising from the table. “But since you know all about my poverty-stricken upbringing, I think I’ll work the poor-girl angle for a bit longer.”
His laughter dispels the tension between us, its sound pulling me right back to the present. “I’ll be back,” I say, taking my leave and winding through the tables to the bathroom at the back of the restaurant.
Once in the safety of the ladies’ room, I sag in relief, staring into the round mirrors above the sinks. Despite the dim lighting, my eyes are bright.
“He didn’t freak out,” I murmur, quite unable to believe it.
No wonder people pay that ridiculous monthly fee I charge if this is how good acceptance feels. I puff up my hair and smile into the mirror. Why didn’t I do this years ago? All those wasted nights in front of the television when men like Peter have been out in the world. I mean, I probably have most on them on my database. How blind could I be?
The door swings inward, and a girl in a leather biker jacket walks in. She stops dead in her tracks, staring at my feet. “I love your boots,” she says. “Please tell me they’re from Topshop.”
I wince apologetically. “Dolce and Gabbana.”
She shakes her head sadly. “Well, they look great on you.”
“Thanks.”
She smiles, ducking into one of the cubicles, and even though it’s such a simple compliment, it only validates this feeling growing inside me—that I belong in the world once more.
I redo my lipstick and straighten my skirt, a powerful surge of positivity making me light-headed with relief.
Things are going to get better. Way better.
And Ronin McDermott can go fuck himself.
Chapter 6
Ronin
Though it’s been years since I’ve visited Catherine Adair’s flat in Hackney, the route is etched in my memory like a tattoo.
I take a right at the end of the High Street, stepping onto a road lined with Chinese restaurants and convenience stores. The streets, though slightly less animated than in the daytime, are swarming with life. Groups of restless youths sit on benches, talking loudly, suspiciously fat rolled “cigarettes” hanging from their lips. An endless stream of cars and buses hurtle along, a distant shriek of sirens cutting through the damp, dirty air.
I follow the road at a leisurely pace, and when I reach the old Catholic church of Saint Barnabas on the corner, I pause. Standing outside the square-set, dark-brick building, I fight the urge to make the sign of the cross. It’s a habit that never seems to fade, no matter how many centuries pass.
I rock back and forth on the balls of my feet, tempted to go inside and confess. Then I notice the thick chain around the door and remember this is London, not a village in the Highlands. There will be no priest waiting serenely in his vestibule for sinners here.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 329 years since my last confession.
That part is always fun to say.
Stifling a grin, I turn onto Church Street, just a couple of blocks away from Catherine’s apartment. If I use my speed, I could be there in an instant, but being the whipped little bitch that I am, I want to walk, to pound the path she treads every day—as if following her footsteps might somehow give me an insight into what goes on in t
hat repressed, angry head of hers.
So far, I’m none the wiser.
I trail past a dirty low-rise, wet washing hanging over brick balconies, and then at once, poverty gives way to affluence. Cherry blossom trees spring up on the pavements, guiding a path through large Georgian houses and a neat row of terraces.
Though London is a mishmash of rich and poor, its people exist alongside each other in relative peace. Council flats next to luxury apartments, a beat-up Ford sitting neatly beside a hundred-grand Audi.
At the end of Church Street is another main road, a less-populated version of the one I just walked along. I head toward the storefront with the green-and-white Starbucks logo. Knowing Catherine’s apartment building is just a few meters away, my pace picks up.
Nerves turn the inside of my mouth dry, and my palms prickle with warmth.
“Fucking ridiculous,” I mutter under my breath. If I continue in this vein, I might as well climb up to her balcony with a goddamn rose between my teeth.
I duck into the street next to the Starbucks where her building—Montague Place, a pale-brick affair, six stories tall—is neatly tucked into a corner. Exhaling a sharp breath, I scan the buzzers on the entrance. Hers is number twenty-five. My index finger hovers over the chrome button as I remember our encounter a couple of days ago, her magnificent, brown-green eyes flashing with rage. There is no way on God’s earth she’ll let me in. I hit twenty-three instead.
A female voice crackles over the intercom. “Who is it?”
“I’m from number twenty-four. I forgot my keys.”
She clicks her tongue and then a loud buzzing reverberates through the speaker.
Londoners. No wonder Jack the Ripper found a home here.
I push open the door and step into the entryway, my palms sticky as I reach for the handle of the second door. Being inside her building sends a strange rush of adrenaline shooting through my veins. I’m almost giddy with excitement as I climb the cream-carpeted stairs toward her flat.
First, however, there is a gatekeeper to deal with. The trusting inhabitant of number twenty-three is not so trusting after all.
An elderly woman with black hair and dark eyes stands outside her apartment door, holding a floral robe tightly across her withered neck. “You’re not Peter from number twenty-four,” she exclaims with a hint of triumph.
I survey her calmly for a few seconds, trying to get a read on her. Hers is the only heartbeat on the entire floor. She clearly lives alone. Well, not totally alone, if the cat smells wafting from her apartment are anything to go by. From her unflinching stare, I can tell she isn’t the sort of person who suffers from shyness. I decide to be equally bold.
“I’m visiting,” I say. “I’m his boyfriend.”
That does the trick. She is completely thrown off balance, her clumpy eyelashes fluttering furiously as she struggles to compose herself.
“But he’s not gay,” she says, shaking her head. “He took out the girl from number twenty-five just this evening. They’re not even home yet.”
The words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. I place a hand on the wall for balance, my fangs threatening to drop.
She is on a date. Catherine—my Catherine—out with another man.
The old lady mistakes my dismay for distress over my “boyfriend.”
“Poor darling,” she says, reaching over to pat my shoulder and frowning.
Resisting the urge to snarl, I straighten up. “I’m going upstairs to wait,” I say, edging toward the stairs. “Confront the spineless bastard.”
Her dark eyes light up. “Good idea. He should see firsthand how badly he’s hurt you.”
I feign a look of heartache, chewing at my bottom lip. I could just glamour her into not calling the cops about a strange man roaming the halls, but where’s the fun in that?
“He said he loved me,” I say in a glum voice. “I thought he was the one.”
Leaving the nosy neighbor nodding in sympathy, I take the stairs in two leaps, bounding into Catherine’s hallway.
To reach her apartment, I have to walk past number twenty-four, the flat where this man Peter lives. A snarl escapes my throat as I stare at the shiny gold numbers on his door, fighting the urge to tear the door from its hinges and set his belongings on fire.
“Who the fuck is he anyway?” I mutter to myself. If Catherine was seeing someone, surely she would have flung it in my face during one of our fights.
Outside her door, I inhale deeply. Even if I didn’t already know which flat is hers, it would be obvious now. Her scent is here—a delicious blend of fresh fruit and perfume. My cock stirs inside my trousers as I remember how she tasted two days ago when we kissed in my office.
Without thinking, my hand goes to the door and I shove hard. The lock breaks, the wood on the frame splintering.
Uh-oh.
“Everything okay up there?” a voice asks from downstairs.
Mrs. Nosy again.
“Fine!” I yell.
Shit. Catherine will go mental.
Figuring I might as well go the whole hog, I step inside the apartment, closing the broken door behind me.
Her place is everything I remember it to be: feminine, mature, as if she’s put her soul into a can and painted herself all around the room. The floors are polished wood, a large taupe rug covering the space between the cream sofa and large-screen television. By the window across the room is a white, distressed table and chairs, and behind that shelves crammed with books and DVDs. I drift through the open space, brushing fingertips over her things, reveling in her scent.
When I reach the door that leads into the bedroom, I push it open. It doesn’t look so different from the night we fell into it—or crashed, I should say. I smile to myself as I remember us going at it. Her fingers knotted in my hair, her cries of pleasure as I moved deep inside her. Neither of us held back, and sweet Jesus, it had felt glorious to let go. With Catherine, I don’t have to be Ronin McDermott, ancient overlord of London. I can be anyone I want to be—I can go back to being that innocent lad trailing up the mountainside after his mother if I so desire.
Outwardly, there is no reason why Catherine Adair should make me feel this way. I’ve met all kinds of women over the years.
I guess some people just feel like home.
A loud purring noise cuts into my thoughts. A green-eyed ginger cat is threading itself through my legs.
“Scram,” I hiss.
The creature gazes up at me, eyes dilating.
“Your owner hates me,” I say, untangling my legs from the unwanted affection. “Go cough up a hair ball.”
I cross to the lounge and sink into the floral armchair that faces the door, taking out the tiny diamond earring from my shirt pocket and twisting it between my forefinger and thumb. The cat jumps onto the chair and settles himself in the crook of my arm before I can stop him, purring all the while.
“Put in a good word for me, will you?” I say, scratching the silky fur at the top of its head. “Tell her I’m not as bad as she thinks.”
Fantastic. Now I’m conversing with animals too.
Just then, I hear a door slam somewhere below, followed by muffled voices and laughter. I clench my fists, my body tensing. What if she brings him in here for a coffee? Worse still, what if they go next door?
I remain frozen in the chair as the voices get louder, Catherine’s dulcet tones drifting through the hall. They’re talking about a woman causing a scene in the bar they’ve just been to and laughing. Hearing the man’s voice, a growl escapes me. I fantasize about ripping out his voice box and shoving it up his arse.
It’s been a long time since I’ve murdered a human, but if he so much as lays one finger on her, I’ll be tempted. Sorely tempted.
As they climb the staircase, their conversation becomes easier to follow.
“I
mean if she really wanted to ditch the poor guy, she could have waited until they were home.” This is the guy. Peter. He speaks like an accountant or a lawyer—slow, monotone, contained.
Unlike me.
An uncontrollable surge of jealousy courses through my body. I bare my fangs, a snakelike hiss rising in my throat like bile. I dig fingernails into the arms of the chair to keep from bursting out into the hallway.
Catherine speaks next. “I know. Though maybe he’s volatile and she thought being in a public place would be the better option.”
Instantly, some of the tension leaks out of me. Her voice is free from hostility for once—lighthearted, happy.
Maybe it was a mistake to come.
Still, if he kisses her, he’s dead meat.
“Possibly,” Peter says.
Their footsteps are out in the corridor now, somewhere in the space between her apartment door and his. I thank God for the indecision.
“Thank you for a lovely evening, Peter.”
I’m struck again by the sweetness of her tone. But then, it isn’t Peter she hates with the strength of a thousand suns. That honor is mine alone.
“I had a great time, Cat.”
My body is as stiff as a corpse as I wait, rigid in the seat. This is the moment the kiss—if there is one—will happen.
“Well, good night. Knock tomorrow and I’ll give you that spare bottle opener.”
I sag in relief. There’s no way a kiss can follow the words bottle opener.
“Night, Cat. Sweet dreams.”
Fucking pansy.
His door opens and closes as her footsteps inch along the carpet toward her flat. Then she pauses. I hear a sharp intake of breath as she notices the smashed lock. “What the fuck?”
I wince and glance down at the cat, who’s staring up at me with a smug expression, as if to say You’re screwed now.
* * *
Cat
My first thought when I see the smashed lock is How on earth did a burglar make it past Mrs. Colangelo?
I shove the door open and step inside. There, sitting—no, lounging—in my Laura Ashley recliner and stroking Wentworth, is Ronin fuck weasel McDermott.
