That Killer Smile

by Juliet Lyons

  He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Oh. For a second there I thought… I mean, there was that guy in your apartment last night, and he was a bit, well…”

  “What?” I demand.

  “Scary.”

  Try sexy, I think, drifting into a lust-induced reverie. Very sexy.

  I’ve almost forgotten Peter is there, until he says, “Is he really an ancient demon?”

  “Huh?” I ask, snapping back to the present.

  The tips of his ears glow red. “That afternoon, when I accidently overheard your conversation with Mrs. Colangelo—you told her he’s an ancient demon.”

  I blush scarlet, remembering how I brazenly informed Mrs. Colangelo about my historical lack of orgasms. “Oh, well, yes. He’s not a regular vampire. There’s a small group we call ‘ancients.’ They’re the only ones capable of turning humans into vampires.”

  Peter’s eyes widen, an odd gleam of satisfaction swirling within the gray depths. “I see.”

  I edge along the corridor. “The cat needs feeding. I’d better dash.”

  He holds up a hand. “See you later.”

  I fish the keys from my coat pocket. “Bye.”

  “Catherine?” he calls, as I open my apartment door.

  “Hmm?”

  “I know it’s none of my business, but I think you could do better.”

  I frown. “Than Lucifer? Let me guess: you’re more of a Breaking Bad kind of guy.”

  Though there are several meters between us, I see a hot flush creep up over the collar of his shirt. “No, I meant better than the guy in your apartment. None of my business, I know.”

  “Oh.” With all the Ronin drama these past few days, I’d almost forgotten Peter and I were once romantically inclined toward each other.

  “He’s just…” I trail into silence. “It’s complicated.”

  Peter shakes his head. “My apologies. It’s none of my business.”

  I flash him a brief smile before diving into the safety of the flat and slamming the door behind me. Wentworth pokes his head over the edge of the sofa as I collapse against the door in relief.

  “Never date a neighbor, Wentworth,” I say, peeling myself from the wood and crossing the room to tickle his chin. “It’s just not worth the stress.”

  * * *

  Over the next few days, I hear less and less from Ronin. The phone calls turn to text messages, which slowly turn to silence. By the end of the week, I’m a morose lump of depression, binging on junk food and bawling my eyes out at every sad romantic drama to cross the TV screen. Though I’ve previously gone years without sex, I spend each night longing for his hands on me, craving the intimacy we shared.

  But I will not call him. Not in a million years. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

  On Friday night, Sandy calls, hungry for an update on what she refers to as “Bastard Gate.” Funny how friends are always far more interested in your life when there’s a romantic interest on the scene.

  “Nothing since Wednesday night,” I tell her, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into my voice.

  I hear a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing,” I affirm. “I’ve been ghosted.”

  “You’ve been what?”

  I sigh, twirling a curl around my finger before letting it spring loose. “Ghosted. Don’t tell me you’re not familiar with the term?”

  “I’m not familiar with any terms when it comes to the crazy, modern world of dating.”

  She wouldn’t be, considering she’s still in a monogamous relationship with her childhood sweetheart.

  “It’s a phenomenon many of my clients have experienced over the years,” I explain. “A person meets someone, and they have a few dates, maybe even some explosive sex. Everything on the surface appears to be going well, and then poof! The other person disappears from the face of the earth. Text messages and phone calls go unanswered. They vanish, never to be seen or heard from again. Ghosted.”

  “Fuck,” Sandy mutters. “But you have heard from him. He didn’t completely go poof.”

  “But he’s not here. He’s faded out. A slightly less-offensive subcategory of ghosting.”

  Sandy bursts into laughter. “I’m sorry, but you’re over a hundred years old and you’re willing to put up with that shit?”

  I sink lower into the armchair. “Maybe it was only ever about the anger and fire, and now that we’re past that, he’s not interested anymore.” Although my voice is calm, sadness rises within me, and my throat turns dry. “It’s probably for the best.”

  “Best how?” Sandy asks. “So you can go back to your happy celibate life and never have to take risks again?”

  I flinch as if she’s struck me. “Huh?”

  She sighs. “Oh, come on, Catherine. In the whole time I’ve known you, you’ve barely dated.”

  “Dating isn’t the sole reason for living, Sandy,” I snap. “I don’t need a man to feel like a success in life.”

  “It’s not about needing a man. You’ve already proven that you don’t need one. It’s about letting go of the past and enjoying yourself.”

  “This isn’t some great guy we’re talking about,” I say, anger rising in my voice like bile. “This is a creature who’s murdered entire villages during his time on earth. He’s a flawed egotist who doesn’t have a loyal bone in his body.”

  “Maybe that’s just who you want him to be,” she says, “so you can stay cozily tucked up inside your comfort zone.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but find I don’t have an answer.

  “Look,” she continues, “all I’m saying is, give this relationship a chance. Call him. Open yourself up to the possibility of love.”

  “With a demon?” I scoff.

  Sandy chuckles. “In case it’s escaped your attention recently, you’re hardly the girl next door yourself.”

  “True,” I grudgingly admit.

  We both fall silent. Outside the window, I hear the rush of traffic, the blast of car horns. Life going on. The same way it always has.

  I pull pajama-clad knees to my chest, rocking slightly. Sandy makes a good point—I’m afraid.

  “But what if I make a massive fool out of myself?” I burst out.

  “Cat,” Sandy says in soft tones. “It’s love. That’s what people do. Embrace it.”

  “Okay,” I murmur, my stomach fluttering. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Good. Do that.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  We hang up and I take a deep breath, staring at the phone in my hand. I could sit here in my pajamas and watch Pride and Prejudice for the hundredth time, or I could discover once and for all what’s behind the curtain of Ronin McDermott.

  In a fit of resolve, I rocket out of the seat and dive into the bedroom. I’ll go to the club in Soho tonight to visit him. Watching him do his thing in that cesspit of vice will be kill or cure.

  I tear open the closet doors with a flourish, rifling through the racks of clothing for something suitable to wear. As usual there’s nothing—I really should go shopping more. In the end, I settle on a PVC-look skirt with a tight, long-sleeved black top. With my Dolce & Gabbana boots and a slick of red lipstick, I should feel right at home.

  “I can do this,” I tell myself in the mirror, combing my hair into submission. “It’s the only way.”

  Deciding I could do without a Mrs. Colangelo intervention, I clamber over the table by the french doors and ease myself onto the tiny balcony. An icy gust of chilly night air cuts into my skin like knives. Wentworth glares at me from his spot on the sofa as if to say Really? All this for a man?

  “I’ll be back for your midnight feed,” I tell him. “Promise.”

  He half closes his eyes in response, purring loudly.
>
  It’s been a long time since I jumped out a window. As I close the doors behind me and I climb onto the railings, I gaze upward for a few seconds, marveling—as I often do—that the stars shining down on me are the same as those I gazed at as a child. I close my eyes briefly, fighting back a memory of Jonjo and the night he asked me to marry him. Sandy is right—I must try to move forward. Whatever happens.

  I fling myself from the wrought-iron railings and land, neat as a cat, on a dark balcony opposite. Pushing up from my knees, I leap up onto the roof, the wind whipping hair around my head like Medusa as I pick up speed.

  After Anastasia found me all those years ago, rotting in a cell in Newgate Prison, I remember thinking my life was over, that I would never experience a moment’s happiness ever again. Then, a few months after the change, when she allowed us out for the first time and I discovered my ability to move faster than a panther, I experienced a rush of joy, a new sense of freedom. I felt like I could run to the moon if I wanted. No one would ever stop me again.

  As the street sounds transform to a blur of white noise, London’s dazzling lights flashing before my eyes, I realize Sandy was right—I’m not the girl next door. I’ve been living as a human for so long, trying to fit in, that I’ve ignored a massive part of who I am.

  I’m enjoying myself so much I almost miss my stop—the timber-framed arches of Liberty department store, reminding me that I’ve reached my destination. I drop down into a back alley, amid the stench of kitchen waste and rat droppings, and straighten my skirt.

  Here goes nothing.

  Weaving my way through packs of revelers and tourists, I feel like a fish out of water. I can barely remember the last time I visited a nightclub. Probably the nineteen eighties. I seem to remember dancing to Depeche Mode.

  Broadwick Street is less crowded than Regent Street. My heart lurches in my chest as I spot the entrance to number sixty-six. A knot of people stands in a cordoned-off area, smoking and laughing, while a broad-shouldered doorman in a black suit hovers just outside the entrance. I don’t recognize him from my visit the other day—the one where I stormed in and demanded to see his royal shitness—but from his lack of heartbeat, I know he’s a vampire.

  I waltz up nonchalantly, my high-heeled boots clipping the pavement, fully prepared to throw myself on the mercy of Ronin’s gatekeeper. To my surprise, he steps aside and smiles, waving me through into the passageway beyond. My guess is they’re running low on female vampires this evening and are keen to appease their clients.

  I drop him a nod before stepping across the threshold, following the path of crystal light fixtures dotted along the walls. At the end of the corridor, I’m surprised to see a coat check tucked into the corner, a young woman with a nose ring sitting with her feet up on the partition. Beneath me, the pulsing beat of drum and bass rattles the floor.

  “Slow night?” I ask her.

  She smiles, smoothing her sleek, red hair. “It’s been busier. Did you want to check anything in?”

  “Er, no thanks. I’m good,” I say, holding my arms out to show I’m not carrying a bag.

  I stand frozen to the spot for a few seconds. It’s only just occurred to me that I dashed all the way over here without having a clue what I’m going to say. I throw a glance over my shoulder, tempted to slip back outside and beat a hasty retreat to Hackney. But no, I’ve come this far. Squaring my shoulders, I reach for the door handle and step into the fray.

  For several moments, I’m blinded by bright strobe lighting, slashing at the walls like silver blades. A steady pulse of colored lights sweeps across the dance floor, illuminating a tight knot of revelers, their arms swaying back and forth to the beat of the music.

  I’m too old for this.

  For a supposedly slow night, there are certainly a lot of people here. And not just dancers—the leather booths are crammed with pleasure seekers. A couple who are fiercely making out against the bar draw bemused looks from those waiting to be served. The whole place reeks of sweat and blood and sex, the sour aroma of dry ice permeating the air.

  Ronin’s spiritual home.

  I shake my head as I drift down the narrow flight of stairs into the murky depths of the club. We are so different, too different. I can’t imagine a worse fate than having to spend every night within these four walls.

  My heel has barely hit the floor when an eager human man bounds toward me from one of the booths in the corner. I was definitely right about the lack of female vampires here tonight. As he sticks out his hand, his desperation is almost as strong as his cologne.

  “I’m Nico,” he says, his dark eyes sliding over me, “and can I just say wow, you—”

  I press a finger to his lips, stopping him midsentence. “I’m here to meet someone, Nico. That someone isn’t you.”

  Nico steps back and shrugs. “Can’t blame a fella for trying. It’s slim pickings here tonight, babe.”

  Yep. Nightclubbing hasn’t changed a bit.

  I turn away from Nico, cutting through the writhing bodies toward the safe haven of the bar. I’m halfway across the dance floor when a woman with loose mahogany curls and red-painted lips steps out from one of the booths, drink in hand.

  “Hey,” she shouts over the thud of music, “it’s Miss Snooty!”

  I do a double take. “Have we met?”

  She jabs a thumb into her chest. “I’m Annie. I was here that day you stormed in and bawled out the boss man.”

  My stomach lurches as I remember that afternoon. The two bunnies sat outside with Ronin’s buddy. The same intense stab of envy I felt then hits me square in the chest. “I remember,” I say, the words sticking in my throat.

  She points at my boots. “You have the best taste in shoes!”

  I barely hear her as a wave of fear rocks me. It’s like my body knows what I’m about to ask before my head does.

  I lean closer. “You and Ronin. Have you guys ever—” I pause. Even though I’m immortal, I feel dangerously short of breath. “Slept together?”

  She draws back, her perfect smile wavering. “Yes,” she says, staring down into her drink. “We have.”

  The floor moves beneath me, as if I’m standing in the middle of a choppy sea. Get your act together, Cat. What did you expect?

  My whole body begins to tremble. “When was the last time?”

  “On Wednesday,” she says, blinking. “In his office. That’s where we always do it.”

  Her words are a sword through my heart, but it’s only when I feel moisture trickling down my face, wet and warm, that I realize I’m crying.

  Annie’s brow knit tightly, her mouth agape. “But he likes you,” she says. “I know he does.”

  I hold up a hand to silence her. “Thank you. That’s all I needed to hear.”

  Spinning around, I dash from the room, sending Nico flying into a packed booth on the way past as I take the stairs in a single bound.

  Out on Broadwick Street, I don’t even bother to wait until I’m hidden to use my speed. I blur past the stunned doorman into the nearest side street, blinded by tears, and practically fly back to Hackney.

  I don’t go home, however. I head straight for Beechwood Street, frantic to be back in the comforting arms of the past.

  The road is empty as I approach the beauty salon, the only movement the skittering of leaves as a chilly wind whips them into the air. From the main road, I can hear the rush of traffic and the blast of car horns, but I cast the noise aside as I sink onto the cold step, desperate to conjure up the memory of Jonjo the first day we spoke.

  Except the image doesn’t come. I screw my eyes shut, rubbing my temples. “Remember,” I mutter feverishly, “remember, remember.”

  But instead of Jonjo’s eyes, I see Ronin’s—warm and blue, twinkling like stars the night we made love in his bedroom. I picture red hair flopping onto his forehead as he pulled a sheet ove
r our naked bodies, asking me about my past as if I meant something to him. As if I mattered.

  I’d bought it—lapped it up faster than a stray dog with a bone—even though I knew his past. Even though I’d hated him for so long.

  All these years and I haven’t changed a bit. I’m that same pathetic creature who agreed to marry a stranger rather than take a chance on herself in the workhouse.

  I hold my head in my hands, hot tears of frustration dripping off my chin. “Ronin McDermott,” I say aloud. Then louder, until I’m yelling, my voice echoing around the deserted street. “Ronin McDermott!”

  He knows me better than I ever imagined—recognized that I was so starved of affection I would cave to his seduction almost immediately. A few kind words and mission accomplished.

  For the first time in many years, I wish to be mortal. At least as a human, there would be an end in sight. A way out of this unsatisfying rat race.

  Then I remember that if it wasn’t for Ronin and his venom, I would be.

  In this moment, I’ve never hated him more.

  Chapter 19

  Ronin

  “George Whinny,” I say, drawing a frown from Esme as she sits tapping at a laptop. “Where the fuck is he?”

  Esme stops typing and glances up, her dark skin flawless in the glow of the screen. “If you don’t have anything helpful to say, might I suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself?”

  I glower at her, stretching in my chair. Though Vincent seemed happy enough to help when I spoke to him on the phone, I haven’t heard from him all week. Which means we’re no further along than Charlie had been before he died.

  “What day is it?” I ask suddenly, staring at the clock above the door.

  We’ve been holed up here in Soho night and day since Wednesday, when we transported Charlie’s remains to a small churchyard in the rural Berkshire village where he grew up.

  We must have made quite the odd scene, showing up the way we did. Esme, draped in more furs than Joan Rivers, leading the procession like a queen as the club’s entire staff—vampires and humans alike—trailed behind her in various shades of black. Even Melda insisted on coming, clutching her rosary and chanting Hail Marys under her breath, as if we might savage her at any second.