That Killer Smile

by Juliet Lyons

  “Bastard,” I spit, meaning both Peter’s father and the vampire. “Why bother telling me all this? Why not just hand me over to your friend?”

  Peter makes a sudden grab for my hands, leaning across the console toward me, and I spring back against the car door, tucking them out of reach.

  “Because it wasn’t a ruse, Cat,” he exclaims, his handsome features twisted in despair. “I really do like you. You’re wonderful and kind, and I wish we could have met under different circumstances.”

  I push farther against the door. “I’m not sure spineless creeps are my cup of tea. Sorry.”

  He slumps back in the seat and mumbles, “I had a feeling you might say something like that.”

  While he’s been talking, I’ve been throwing discreet glances around the car, desperately searching for anything I might be able to use as a weapon against the vampire in the white van. The only thing that looks remotely feasible is a heavy metal foot pump on the back seat. It wouldn’t kill the vampire, obviously, but it might put him out of action for the few precious minutes I need to make my escape.

  First, though, I need to deal with Peter. “What makes you think your father isn’t already dead?” I ask.

  He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the stubbly column of his throat. “That’s the thing. If Dad doesn’t call Mr. Vampire over there at five o’clock, he has orders to”—he closes his eyes for a second, lashes fluttering—“kill you.”

  “Kill me?” I repeat, my palms prickling with sweat. “What happened to not letting any harm come to me?”

  Peter raises his hands. “It won’t come to that, of course. It’s merely an insurance policy to keep Dad alive.”

  I’ve heard enough. Before Peter can utter another pathetic excuse, I spring into action, diving into the gap between the front seats and wrenching the foot pump from the back. Before he has a chance to blink, I swing it into the side of his head. By the time his cry of pain cuts through the air, I’m already shoving the car door open and making a bid for freedom.

  Just as I suspected, the vampire wastes no time in leaping from the van. I’m barely able to clock his enormous size as he makes his move—a black blur lunging at me like a shadow of death. I take aim with the foot pump, hearing a satisfying thwack as it makes contact with his skull. He collapses against the side of the van and I pause, letting the metal pump slip from my grasp—maybe I’m stunned, or maybe it’s because I want to see if I recognize him, but I don’t move as fast as I should.

  The lapse in concentration costs me dearly. He’s on his feet in an instant, but he doesn’t come straight at me. He leans through the open van window, reaching for something large and shiny—a metallic object that catches the orange glint of the sunset as it reflects off the sea.

  A machete.

  I don’t run. If there’s one thing you don’t do when a machete-wielding vampire is after you, it’s give him your back. I edge away, toward the rear of the van, the wind whipping wild tendrils of hair across my vision as I stare into the face of my enemy.

  His sunglasses have fallen off in the scuffle, giving me a clear view. Though I don’t recognize him, a cold wave of terror passes over me. There is death in his eyes, a soulless emptiness yawning beyond his black orbs. Although undeniably bigger than me in all respects, he isn’t tall—not like Ronin. But what he lacks in stature he makes up for in sheer breadth. Every inch of him is packed tight with solid muscle. He’s built like a bull.

  In an attempt to push aside the panic steadily building inside me, I smile sweetly. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” I say, the smoothness of my tone belying the fact that my knees are knocking together. A metallic taste of fear floods my mouth.

  He smiles, though there’s no warmth in the slow twitch of his thin lips. “No,” he says, his voice thick with a European accent. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “I’m not sure what they’ve offered you by way of reward,” I say, motioning to Peter’s car. “But I can’t imagine your ancient will be too happy to find out you’ve been working for humans and making threats against other vampires.”

  “My ancient is none of your concern,” he hisses, inching closer across the concrete. “I’m guessing lover boy told you about the five o’clock phone call I’m expecting?”

  “He’s not my lover,” I say, flicking a glance through the rear windshield of the purple car—where, to my relief, Peter is conscious and rubbing his injured head. “And yes, I know all about the arrangement.”

  The vampire grins, turning the machete over and examining the blade. “Let’s hope for your sake I get that call. I think you have about five minutes.”

  I swallow heavily, trying to clear the fog of fear in my brain to think clearly. I need a distraction, anything to buy me a few seconds.

  As if reading my thoughts, there is a groan of hinges, and the driver’s door to the Beetle pops open. Peter lolls from the car, still clutching his head, a dazed look in his gray eyes. “Look, Tomas,” he says, addressing the muscular vampire. “No one has to get hurt. I know what my father said, but—”

  I don’t hear the rest of the sentence as I leap forward, grasping the handle of the machete and toppling the massive vampire backward, to the ground. Despite my assault with the foot pump, he is clearly surprised. Perhaps he thought I would run instead of fight. Whatever the reason, this time, I don’t falter. I cling to the machete handle with every iota of strength I possess. When his fingers don’t budge, his hard features contorted in rage, I sink my fangs deeply into the back of his hand, trying to ignore the taste of his rotten blood as it hits my tongue.

  He must see a flash of my life essence because his grip on the machete loosens. I’m pulling so fiercely I end up stumbling backward, the machete clattering to the concrete.

  The vampire doesn’t take long to spring back into action. One second, he’s flat on his back; the next, he’s a blur of speed. The air is knocked from my lungs as his bulk smashes into me. We tumble to the ground, his hands finding their way around my neck.

  “I’m not so sure I’ll bother waiting for that phone call now,” he says, face inches from mine, dark eyes flashing with rage as fangs protrude over his thin lips.

  I lash out with my arms and legs, trying to muster some leverage against his solid weight, but his grip is tireless. His fingers squeeze tighter. Though I have a far higher pain threshold than the average human, white dots appear in my vision, streaking the dark-blue sky beyond like blurry stars.

  As a roaring noise fills my ears, I’m convinced I’m hallucinating, that any moment I’ll slip into unconsciousness. I close my eyes, picturing Ronin’s beautiful eyes when he left my apartment. I wonder if I’ll ever gaze into those bottomless, blue depths again.

  But then the fingers loosen on my neck. When I flip open my eyes, I realize the roaring sound is not because I’m about to pass out. The noise is coming from Peter, who stands over me, holding the machete aloft and emitting a deep, guttural howl. It takes a few stunned seconds to realize the heavy weight pinning me down is gone. I spring up, my head spinning, confused when what feels like a sack of bones drops to the ground at my feet.

  Peter stops bellowing. I spin on the spot, wondering where on earth the vampire is.

  “I killed him,” Peter says in clipped tones. Before he can utter another word, his eyes roll back into his skull and he drops to the ground, fainting in a heap beside the dusty clothes.

  I stare between him and the black bag of dust and bones in shock. A few feet away, sitting ominously beside one of the van’s rear wheels, is a hollow-eyed skull, severed from the rest of the body.

  Who knew Peter from number twenty-four had it in him?

  A buzzing sound wrenches me from my stunned trance. One of the dead vampire’s pockets is vibrating. I reach down to remove a cell phone.

  I hit answer and hold it up to my ear. “I take it this is George Whi
nny. Can you please tell Ronin not to kill you until I get there?”

  I hear a gasp of surprise from the other end of the line, followed by scuffling. The line cuts out.

  Peter sits up, his hair all over the place, a red lump burgeoning on the side of his head from where I hit him with the foot pump. “I’m not sure I’m fit for the drive home,” he says, his wild eyes darting from side to side.

  I roll my eyes, tapping a number into the phone. “I’ll drive,” I say, “but first, I have a phone call to make.”

  “Let me guess,” Peter says miserably. “The demon boyfriend.”

  “No,” I say, giving him a sickly sweet smile. “My friends at Scotland Yard.”

  Chapter 22

  Ronin

  As soon as I hear Cat’s voice on the other end of the line, a wave of relief pulses through me with such intensity that I forget to give the order to kill George Whinny’s vampire. Esme, however, is soon on the case. In a wordless exchange, Harper tosses her the machete, a flash of light glinting off the blade as she spins the vampire from her grasp and slashes the weapon across his throat. He crumples to the floor in a heap of bones and clothing, a plume of smoke mushrooming around his shrunken form.

  “Wow,” Esme says, brushing dust from her trousers. “He was an old one.” She kisses her fingertips and holds them aloft, staring up at the ceiling. “Rest in peace, Roger. Your death is avenged.”

  We all turn at the same time to face the man in the chair. The arrogant set of his shoulders is gone, the confident gleam in his beady eyes obliterated. His breathing is labored, his chest rising and falling beneath his starched, white shirt. He lifts a finger to point at Esme’s face. “The eyes… She’s one too, isn’t she?” he asks, staring between us.

  Esme smiles sweetly, red lips parting to reveal pearly-white fangs. “Two demons for the price of one. The stuff dreams are made of, right, George?”

  The shrill noise of the chair scraping across the floor cuts through the air as George Whinny makes his dash for freedom. Esme has time to roll her eyes before blocking the bottom of the stairs. “Usually, I love nothing more than a bit of a chase. But really, George, that was pathetic even by human standards.”

  Whinny backs away from her. “Stay away from me, bitch. My men will deal with you when they get here.”

  Harper snatches him up and flings him against the wall. “Watch your mouth,” he hisses. With fingers wrapped around Whinny’s throat, he glances over his shoulder at me. “Will you do the honors, or shall I?”

  “We can’t kill him yet,” I say.

  Esme’s jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?”

  I shake my head. “Catherine said to wait. She’s a smart woman. There will be a reason.”

  “It all makes sense now,” Esme says, shaking her head. “Love has turned you soft in the head.”

  I open my mouth to protest before closing it again. There’s no point in pretending. “Perhaps,” I say quietly.

  Harper drags George across the floor, tossing him into a chair like a rag doll. “I’m looking forward to watching you die,” he tells George. “How long do you think it’ll be before she gets here?”

  “That depends on where she is,” I say. “Maybe Mr. Whinny here would care to enlighten us with the details.”

  The man spits on the floor. “I don’t think so.”

  I level my gaze at him, my voice menacing. “Oh, I very much think so. Where is she?”

  His eyes flicker between the three of us until he eventually says, “Southend.”

  “That’s a good hour away, even if she’s running,” I explain to a confused-looking Esme.

  Esme sighs. “What shall we do in the meantime? Torture? Where do you keep your instruments?”

  “They’re belowstairs, in the dungeon.” Although I’m kidding, her face lights up like a Christmas tree.

  George Whinny, in the meantime, begins trembling all over, his teeth knocking together like loose marbles in a bag. “Let me go and I’ll pay you off,” he pleads. “I’ve a son, people I care about. I can’t leave them.”

  “Please,” Esme says, arms folded across her chest. “Do you really expect our sympathy after everything you’ve done?”

  We spend the next hour listening to George Whinny’s pathetic pleas. Esme, who’s disappointed to discover there’s no torture dungeon, amuses herself by mixing cocktails at the bar. Harper looks on like a lovesick puppy.

  When a crashing noise from the alley outside breaks the silence, I jump to my feet.

  Catherine’s scent tickles my nostrils. Despite the situation, my heart leaps in my chest at the prospect of seeing her.

  Stiven and Paulo, who both showed up for work in the interim, go off to investigate. Like a frenzy of sharks, Esme, Harper, and I circle George Whinny, the latter whimpering like a child who’s lost his mother.

  Death makes babies of us all.

  A few seconds later, Stiven returns. Catherine strides purposefully along beside him, a third man shuffling in their wake.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” I ask, a familiar jealously stirring in the pit of my stomach as I recognize the tall, dark-haired man as the neighbor from her apartment building. The horror that Catherine might have brought him along for moral support momentarily eclipses my relief at seeing her unharmed.

  Catherine ignores my question, staring past me to the man sitting on the chair. “I take it this is daddy dearest,” she says, her eyes flicking to Peter.

  Esme, Harper, and I stare between them in bewilderment.

  “So can we kill him yet or what?” Esme pipes up.

  I ignore her, my gaze fixed on Catherine. “Are you hurt?” I ask, my whole body itching to go to her, fold her into my arms.

  She continues to glare at George Whinny. “A few scrapes and bruises courtesy of a recently deceased vampire, but I’ll live. This is Peter Whinny, by the way—George’s son.”

  My eyes widen, and Esme gasps, though I think for dramatic effect rather than genuine surprise. Needing no further encouragement to smash the guy’s face in, I dive for Peter. But Catherine blocks my path, standing in front of him like a shield.

  “No,” she says, grabbing the lapels of my suit. “We do this the proper way. None of your mafioso shite.”

  “Him?” I say, jerking my head in Peter’s direction. “He’s the one who’s been holding you hostage, and you expect me to let that slide?” Hot, fierce anger blinds me to the fact that Catherine is practically pressed up against me, her fiery, brown-green eyes blazing.

  “Yes,” she says. “The police are on their way. They’ll deal with this.”

  “The cops?” Esme sneers. “You have to be kidding.”

  Forgetting everyone else is in the room, I grasp Catherine gently by the shoulders. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I whisper, dangerously close to putting my arms around her.

  She drops her hands from my jacket and steps backward, out of my reach. “I’m fine. Peter here managed to decapitate his father’s vampire friend before he could do any real damage.” She turns to her neighbor, who is as pale as parchment as he stares at his father with wide eyes. “Take a seat next to George, Peter,” Cat says, “before you keel over again.”

  A thought occurs to me. “Is he the son whose girlfriend Isaac stole?”

  George glances up. “Yes. That’s one I’ll never be sorry for. Cheeky sod.”

  Catherine crosses the room to get a gander at George. “You don’t look alike,” she says, staring between them.

  “How exactly did this tool get you to Southend?” I ask her.

  She continues to gaze between the pair. “Peter’s father owns the freehold of the building I live in. When a certain nosy neighbor of mine wrote him a letter to complain about a vampire living in the building, he saw his chance. He moved his son into the empty apartment next door as bait. He wanted to get to
you, Ronin. But I’m guessing you know that by this point.”

  “Aye,” I say, staring at the man. “It’s come up several times in conversation.”

  George hangs his head in defeat. “I can transfer money into your account if you let us go now. I can’t have the police involved in this.”

  The shrill noise of the buzzer sounds through the intercom. “Too late,” Catherine says. “They’re already here.”

  Paulo whizzes off to let them in, and a few seconds later, two plainclothes officers troop downstairs. I recognize them immediately from the night I helped Vincent rescue his girlfriend, Mila. The tall man with a mop of silver hair and a baggy suit hanging from his lanky frame is Burke, and the short, bald man beside him is Davies.

  Davies’s round face lights up upon seeing Catherine. “Miss Adair,” he says warmly. “How have you been?”

  “Lee Davies,” she says, returning his warm smile. “Not bad, given the circumstances. How about you? How’s the wife?”

  “Good. Runs a book club now. No more slimmer’s world.” He winks, indicating some private joke between them.

  The tall officer is already sizing up his prey, his gaze fixed on the two men sitting on the chairs. “George Whinny,” he says dryly. “It’s been a long time.”

  George snorts. “Linton Burke. I almost didn’t recognize you with the gray hair. I see the late nights finally caught up to you.”

  Burke, unfazed, surveys the rest of us. “Miss Adair informed me there is evidence this man is responsible for the recent vampire deaths in London.”

  “There is,” I say. “As well as his own confession, which we were all present to witness.” Unable to help myself I add, “Seems you were wrong to assume another vampire was behind the murders.”

  Burke nods, ignoring the last sentence. “We’ll have to call on each of you at some point over the next few days for statements. In the meantime, Mr. and Mr. Whinny, I’m arresting you both for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Miss Catherine Adair.” He removes a set of handcuffs from his suit pocket.