That Killer Smile

by Juliet Lyons

  “Goodbye,” I whisper.

  My heart is light as I turn on my heel, continuing toward Roseberry Place.

  In my office, I wade through the piles of post shoved under the door. Lara, the hypnotherapist who rents the space upstairs, appears as I’m separating the junk from the bills. She looks as Zen as ever with her thick, blond rope of hair hanging stylishly across one shoulder.

  “You’re back,” she says, stating the obvious.

  I smile, tossing a pile of takeout menus into the wastepaper basket. “Yes. Thanks for keeping an eye on the place while I’ve been away.”

  She folds her arms across her pristine, pale-blue sweater. “It’s no trouble. Did you have a good break?”

  I nod. “I had the best break. In fact, I’m considering giving up the place for good.”

  “The dating agency?” she asks.

  “No. Just the office. I’m thinking of moving it southwest. To Fulham.”

  Lara remains unmoved, which isn’t surprising. She’s one of those people who never really listens. She’s probably thinking about what carb-free lunch she’ll have today.

  “I see. Well, be sure to let your clients know. I had a vampire up here last week looking for you.”

  I frown. “Really? Did they leave a name?”

  “Sure,” she says, motioning to a Post-it Note stuck on my computer screen. “I had her write it down for me. I knew I wouldn’t remember it in a million years.”

  I reach across to the monitor and peel off the note.

  Karolina Dobrescu.

  “Something up?” Lara asks as I screw up my face in confusion.

  “What day was this?”

  She shrugs. “Monday or Tuesday. Her telephone number is written on the back.”

  I flip over the yellow sticker to find a number staring back at me. “Not a London number,” I murmur.

  Lara sighs. “I better be going back upstairs. My two o’clock is due any minute and she has some serious past-life issues to resolve.”

  I know that feeling. Staring at the slip of paper in my hand, I think I might have a few myself.

  “Sure. Thanks again for not letting the squatters move in.”

  I wait until Lara has disappeared upstairs to her office before sinking into my swivel chair. Why would Karolina Dobrescu be calling me?

  On impulse, I snatch up the phone and punch in her number. My stomach twists as the dial tone pulses in my ear.

  After a few rings, Karolina’s smooth Romanian voice echoes down the line. “Hello?”

  “Karolina?” I say, my voice wobbling. “This is Catherine Adair. You came by my office last week.”

  A long pause ensues. I begin to wonder if she’s still there. “Hello, Cat. Yes, I did. But you were not there.”

  “I’ve been away. Sorting out some stuff.” Another silence descends. “Why was it you wanted to see me?”

  She sighs. “I’m wondering if it might be better to do this in person. But I am staying in Brighton with friends.”

  “Do what?”

  “Promise you won’t hang up.”

  This is getting weirder. “Why would I hang up?”

  “He said you might when I say his name.”

  Even though the heating is on, an icy shiver zigzags up my spine. “Who?”

  Like I need to ask.

  “Ronin McDermott. He paid for my flight from Romania, had his friend Vincent Ferrer find me.”

  I daren’t breathe. “Why?” I ask, the word sticking to the back of my throat like tar.

  “To make you human again.”

  My heart drops like a stone. “You would do that?” I whisper.

  “Yes. As you know, I’ve done it before. Ronin McDermott has provided me the vial of blood I would need. But I tell him I will only do it if you’re one hundred percent sure it’s what you want.”

  “Why?” I ask again. “Why would he go to that trouble?”

  “He said he wants you to be happy.”

  I slump farther into the seat. The shutters I’ve pulled down around my heart lift a fraction. There’s nothing in this for him. If I take Karolina up on her offer. I would be free of his influence forever.

  I could be human, live a regular life. There could even be children.

  “What about him?” I say, more to myself than to Karolina. Because, if I take her up on the offer, Ronin McDermott and I will never cross paths again.

  Karolina, misunderstanding me, says, “He is a demon. There is nothing I can do for him.”

  I jump to my feet, my heart bursting free from its constraints. “I have to go,” I say.

  “I’m in town until next Wednesday,” she says. “If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll return Ronin’s blood on my way to the airport.”

  “Okay,” I say, very nearly hanging up without saying goodbye. “Thanks, Karolina.”

  “Welcome.”

  I slam the phone back into its cradle and dash from the office. Outside on the street, it’s far too bright to get to Soho the vampire way. I hurry toward the main road, my chest so tight I feel as if my heart might burst through my rib cage. Flagging down the first black cab I see, I wrench open the door and dive into the back seat. “Broadwick Street, Soho,” I tell the driver.

  Sensing my urgency, the driver wastes no time pulling out into traffic. My breathing quickens. What on earth will I say when I get there?

  Suddenly, like a dam bursting, every thought and memory I’ve repressed these last couple of months—good and bad—comes flooding back. How broken Ronin seemed when he told me he loved me in my old apartment, his face the last time I saw him, his blue eyes—sincere and filled with pain. How could I have gotten everything so muddled? The only person who has ever cared enough to sift through my emotional wreckage, who knows me better than I know myself, and I blocked him out. Sandy was right—he was right. I’ve shut people out deliberately, sought comfort in loneliness and solitude, spent my whole life hanging on to a ghost because I was too afraid to trust anyone.

  I’m so deep in thought that the journey across town is over in a flash. I recognize the black timber frame of Liberty’s department store on Regent Street and realize we’re already nearing Soho.

  I still have no idea what I’m going to say.

  I ask the driver to pull over, deciding to walk the last few blocks to clear my head, but it isn’t long before I’m standing outside the club, the black door glinting ominously in the sun.

  Taking a deep breath, I push the buzzer beside the gold plaque. My mind, which was a whirring carnival ride of emotions until a few moments ago, is utterly and completely blank.

  “66 Broadwick,” a male voice says over the intercom.

  Not Ronin’s voice, but then, when did he ever answer his own door?

  “Hi, it’s Cat Adair. I’m hoping to see Ronin.” My voice sounds as fragile as I feel inside.

  A long pause ensues. “Come in.”

  A buzz rattles through the frame, and I push the door open, fully aware that every visit to this place seems to end in trauma. By the time I reach the end of the corridor, nausea twists in my stomach like a snake.

  I step through the inner door, my eyes darting around the sparsely lit room, searching for Ronin. The female vampire who was there the day George Whinny got arrested leans back against the bar, smoking a cigarette from a long, elegant holder.

  The man who answered the door is nowhere to be seen.

  “He’s not here,” the woman says, drawing on her cigarette and regarding me through heavily made-up violet eyes. She’s dressed in an expensive silk jumpsuit with suede high heels. I can’t help but spot she has excellent taste in shoes.

  I cross the room toward her on wobbling legs. “When will he be back?”

  Ignoring the question, she gestures to me with a wave of her cigarette. “You�
�re still a vampire.”

  I swallow heavily. “Yes. I intend to stay that way for the time being.”

  She sticks out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Esme, vampire queen of New York City.”

  With a jolt, it hits me that this is the ancient who showed up recently. I take her smooth, outstretched fingers in mine. “Catherine Adair.”

  Smiling, she says, “Yes, I know who you are.” She sighs. “So, here’s the thing, Catherine Adair. Ronin is no longer overlord of London.”

  I drop her hand like it’s deadweight. “What? Because of the murders?”

  She shakes her head. “No, it’s purely amicable. Ronin gave me London. I run both cities now. Lucky old me.”

  My jaw drops. “Ronin would never do that.”

  Esme scoffs. “We thought he would never give up women too, but there you have it. Love makes fools of us all.”

  “He’s gone?” I ask. My eyes flit around the club, as if I expect him to jump out from under one of the tables.

  “Gone,” she repeats. “To Scotland.”

  “Scotland?”

  “Scotland,” she affirms. “Back to the place he was born. Some remote mountain village. Sounds godforsaken, if you ask me. I mean, why live anywhere but a city?”

  I don’t bother to answer, stricken as I am with regret. “When did he leave?”

  “A couple of weeks after you rejected him. He’s only called once since.” She pauses, sliding her gaze over me. “He left an address if you’re interested.”

  I stand frozen, frantically trying to reconcile the image I have of Ronin—the suits, the confidence, the maddening arrogance—with a far-flung Scottish hamlet in the mountains. “Do you think it’s some sort of nervous breakdown?” I ask incredulously.

  Esme smirks. “That’s what we suspected too, but I think he genuinely wanted a change.” She glances at the door to the side of the bar. “Harper? Come here and bring that address Ronin gave us.”

  Harper trots out like a loyal dog, scrap of paper in hand. “I wondered if you might show up,” he says, smiling.

  I snatch the paper, my eyes picking out the name Glentrool. I remember the painting above Ronin’s bed at the house in Chelsea. While I’ve been letting go of my past, he’s been rushing back to embrace his.

  “Thank you,” I say to them both. I’m about to leave when I remember Karolina. “By the way, Karolina Dobrescu will be returning the blood.”

  They nod in unison. Without another word, I cut quickly back across the room.

  By the time I reach the top of the stairs, I’ve broken into a run.

  Chapter 24

  Ronin

  I spend my first few weeks back in Glentrool at a tiny bed-and-breakfast in the village.

  “I know you,” the landlady says over breakfast the first morning. “You’re one of the Kennedy clan.”

  I smile, wishing there were a remote chance it could be true. “No,” I say, my accent already stronger since returning to Scotland. “I’m a McDermott.”

  She tuts, frowning. “I could have sworn I saw you at the rugby match last week.”

  “My family are long dead,” I say, wishing she would go back to her poached eggs. I don’t want to be reminded why there isn’t the remotest possibility my ancestors are alive today. How would Mrs. Kearney react to the truth—that there’s probably an ancient mass grave around here that I alone am responsible for?

  Besides, I didn’t come back to feel guilty, to atone for my sins by doing charitable works in the village. The monster I became after my mother died is as buried as the womanizing overlord in London. I came home to discover where my life will take me next—well, that and to forget about Catherine Adair.

  Though so far, the latter is definitely not working.

  During the day, I trek the rugged terrain of the Galloway forest. I don’t move fast. I savor every crag, trampling through heather and gorse, wading across rock-strewn burns. The landscape hasn’t changed much over the years, and the higher I go into the mountains, the brighter the sun. At the summit, standing beneath the dazzling blue sky, it’s hard to believe any time has passed at all.

  It’s while I’m trekking one day that I stumble across the cottage—a tiny, whitewashed dwelling, several miles from Loch Trool. It reminds me of the wooden shack I once lived in, back when the craving for blood became too much to bear.

  At breakfast the following day, I ask Mrs. Kearney about it.

  “That’s Sam O’Toole’s wee cottage. He keeps it for holiday rentals but doesn’t get much business out of it. An odd place for a dwelling. No electricity and only a pump out back for water, though that’s not the reason people don’t stay there much.”

  “What is?” I ask.

  Mrs. Kearney studies me through pale-blue eyes. There’s something about her demeanor that reminds me of Melda at the club—as if she can see right into the depths of my soul and doesn’t approve of what’s hiding there. “They say it’s haunted.” She saunters to the next table to pour another guest their tea but continues the conversation, glancing over her shoulder to make sure I’m still listening. “According to local legend—none of which I’m overly familiar with, being from Dundee—a demon used to live up that way.

  “A demon,” I repeat, amused. The cottage is around where I used to live. “What happened to him?”

  “They say he killed an entire village because a local girl refused to lie with him. That he still roams the hillside, searching for his virgin bride.”

  I grin, my first genuine smile since I arrived. It’s always nice to hear my reputation precedes me, even if the bit about the woman is hokum. “If he was a demon, wouldn’t he have taken the girl by force?”

  Mrs. Kearney turns around, still holding her teapot, a towel draped across her arm. “Perhaps he was a gentleman,” she says, her cheeks glowing pink.

  For a moment, I wonder if she really can read minds.

  “This Sam O’Toole,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “Do you think he’ll rent the place out to me?”

  The portly woman frowns. “What would a young man like yourself want with living up there?”

  I shrug. “I could use the peace, and the fishing is good around those parts.”

  “Aye, well, you certainly seem to be finding your way around well enough for someone who’s new to the area. I can ring him after breakfast if you like?”

  “You’re a charitable woman, Mrs. Kearney,” I say, flashing her another smile.

  “Aye, but don’t go asking for your deposit back when you realize there’s no hot water.”

  “I won’t,” I assure her.

  Later that day, I meet Mr. O’Toole up in the mountains. He is as surprised as Mrs. Kearney when I express the desire to rent it.

  “I’ll need your word there’ll be no funny business,” he says, gazing at me suspiciously.

  I resist the urge to scoff. People watch far too much television these days. “No funny business,” I assure him. “Just fishing and bird-watching.”

  The man nods. “Good. You’re welcome to the place. I’ll have the wife give it a spring clean before you move in.”

  “There’s no need,” I say, scanning the rough stone walls, the tiny fireplace set into a cobbled hearth. From the outside, the place looks run down. But inside it’s clean and cozy with polished wood floors and drapes at the windows. The front door leads directly into the living area, a modern, L-shaped sofa hugging the walls. There is no television and no wall sockets of any kind. Two further doors lead off the lounge, the first opening onto a tiny kitchen and the second into the bedroom. In an obvious attempt to lure honeymooners, the bedroom is furnished in pastel shades of pink and gray. A trendy wrought-iron bedstead sits at the center.

  “Might be a bit feminine for you,” Mr. O’Toole says.

  “I thi
nk I can handle it.”

  He hands me a set of keys. “I live at number twenty-two in Glentrool. Drop in the deposit and rent whenever you’re ready. Do you want a lift back to the village?”

  “No, I think I’ll stay here. Get acquainted with the place.”

  “Very good.” At the door, the man hangs back, his eyes lit with amusement. “Not that you strike me as the superstitious kind, but don’t go listening to what folk say about this place being haunted. There’s a greater chance of meeting a wee leprechaun around these parts than a demon.”

  I return his smile, tickled by the irony.

  Maybe I should tell him the demon is back in town.

  * * *

  Cat

  After leaving the club with Ronin’s new address, I fight the urge to go straight to Scotland, forcing myself back into a taxi to my apartment in Fulham. At home, I go into overdrive, stuffing clothes and toiletries into an overnight bag and frantically trying to get hold of Sandy to ask if she’ll have Wentworth.

  “I’m going to Scotland,” I say when she finally answers the phone. “Can I drop Wentworth on the way to the airport?”

  “Why are you going to Scotland?”

  “It’s a long story—I’m going to see Ronin.”

  “What? But we hate Ronin! We’re driving him out of our system through the power of nonthought.”

  The bottle of shampoo I’m holding slips from my grasp. “Okay, stop with the first-person plural. It’s creepy. Can you take Wentworth or not?”

  “I would, but it’s just that India is still traumatized from his last visit. No offense but your cat is an asshole.”

  I smile. Perhaps that’s why he and Ronin get on so well. “There’s no one else I can ask at this short notice. Please?”

  Sandy sighs. “Okay, but just a couple of days. I don’t want you holing up with this guy and dumping Wentworth on me for good.”

  “I won’t. Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

  My heart leaps like a salmon in a stream. This is happening. I’m going after Ronin McDermott.