by Juliet Lyons
Burke nods. “Very well. Miss Hart, as Inspector Ferrer has already explained, we are insisting you remain under police protection. Ordinarily, this would involve little more than a squad car outside your home or wherever you choose to stay, but dealing with vampires is trickier.” He takes a breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. “In short, to offer you adequate protection, we are assigning a vampire to look after you.”
“Who?” I ask, staring between them.
Vincent clears his throat. “Me.”
Davies’s eyes flick up at Vincent, wide with surprise. “But—”
“It’s easier all around if you stay here with me, Miss Hart.” Although Vincent is addressing me, his eyes remain fixed on Davies’s face.
My cheeks burn as a mixture of emotions stampede through me all at once—relief, confusion, fear. “But won’t I annoy you?”
He shifts his gaze from Davies to me. His eyes are soft, his voice throaty. “No. Why would you think that?”
We remain, eyes locked, until Burke coughs loudly. “Well, that’s sorted, then. Miss Hart will stay here for the time being.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, breaking away from Vincent’s limpid eyes. “What about work? My family? I have a cousin’s engagement party in a few weeks’ time.”
“You must carry on as you normally would. Daytimes are less risky. Sunlight has a negative impact on a vampire’s speed and other reflexes. Vincent can escort you to work each morning and be there to pick you up afterward.” He throws a glance to the pastel-blue sky outside the windows. “Lucky for us the evenings are light this time of year.”
“What about seeing friends? Can I tell them what’s going on?”
“Close friends and family are fine. But try not to announce it over the staff intranet,” Davies says, smirking.
I cut him a scowl. “Of course not.”
Burke leans forward, the leather sofa squeaking. “I don’t want to dramatize things any more than necessary, but the fewer people you tell, the safer you will be. Whom you confide in is ultimately a matter of your own judgment, but I would tread carefully if I were you. People are horrendous gossips.”
“Folks love nothing more than other folks’ problems,” Davies continues. “Makes them feel better about their own lives.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll probably only tell Mum and my best friend.”
I hadn’t really thought about Mum until now. How will she react when she discovers her only daughter is the target of a serial killer? Maybe it would be kinder to lie and say there is a gas leak at my apartment and I can’t go home. I could say I’m staying with Laura until it’s fixed. Besides, if she finds out I’ve been dating vampires, she’ll think I’ve lost the plot. It was bad enough telling her about Scott being married. Mum is from a generation that doesn’t do personal drama. If there’s even a hint of it, it’s brusquely swept under the carpet and never spoken of again. At least, that’s how she dealt with Dad leaving when we were kids.
A thick silence settles over us as I contemplate how I’ll cope sharing a flat with London’s answer to Chris Hemsworth. All that looking and not touching surely can’t be good for a woman in an already fragile state. What if I turn into a randy sex pest and have to be forcibly removed and Vincent ends up in the witness protection program himself?
“Next week,” Vincent says, breaking into my thoughts, “I have some important business to attend to in Soho.”
Sergeant Lee Davies winces. Even Burke looks mildly disturbed, rubbing his chin and frowning. It’s obvious they know exactly what business Vincent will be attending to.
“Is that wise?” Davies says.
Vincent toys with a shirt cuff. “I believe the person in question is our best shot if we want a quick answer to Jeremiah Lopez’s real identity.”
“I see your point,” Superintendent Burke says darkly. “But it’s still a bit of a risk. Wasn’t there some sort of threat against you on his part?”
My eyes flit between their faces. Now they have my attention. Why would Vincent be threatened?
“There was,” Vincent affirms casually. “But that was several years back. Besides, I doubt he’d risk harming a police officer. It wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed. My point is, someone will need to watch Miss Hart while I’m gone. I can hardly take her with me.”
“Why not?” I ask. “From the sound of it, you may need someone to call for an ambulance if this mysterious meeting goes wrong.”
Vincent quirks a brow. “Where I’m going is no place for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” I repeat incredulously. “I know I’m no Buffy the vampire slayer, but I’m hardly Olive Oyl.”
He frowns.
“Oh for God’s sake, it’s a cartoon.”
“Right.” He smiles down at me, turning my insides to mush. “More TV shows. But anyway, I didn’t mean weak. I meant wholesome—a wholesome woman like you.”
“Wholesome? Like a loaf of bread?”
“That’s whole wheat. ‘Wholesome’ means—”
“All right, bloody hell,” Davies cuts in. “Miss Hart can be dropped at Scotland Yard during the visit. She’ll be as safe as houses with us.” He shakes his head, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. “Are we all done here? I’ve got a round of golf to get to.”
Burke fixes him with a disapproving stare. “We all have places we need to be, Davies. Eve and I are supposed to be at a wedding in Ipswich by two.”
Vincent snatches a look at his Rolex. “In that case, you should probably get going.”
They stand up. Although they ooze professionalism with their starchy suits and formal speech, there’s an easy familiarity between the three of them. It’s clear they like each other immensely.
Before they leave, Lee Davies says in clipped tones, “Vincent, I’d like a word outside before I go.”
“It’s okay. You can stay here.” I jab a thumb in the direction of the bedrooms. “I’m going to go and unpack and call my mum.”
We exchange farewells, and full of relief, I make my escape. While Vincent is out of earshot, I take advantage by calling Laura.
“Jell-O,” she says, panting.
“Jell-O.” My eyes widen. “Please tell me I haven’t interrupted you and Tom doing the nasty?”
She laughs. “It’s fine; I’m out jogging.”
What is it with jogging these days? It’s an epidemic. Folk aren’t happy unless they’re training for a charity run.
“Phew. And for future reference, never answer the phone if any of that other business is happening.”
I take a deep breath before telling her about the break-in and having to stay here with Vincent. She is deathly silent. I hear ragged breathing down the line.
“Laura, are you crying?”
It takes a good ten minutes to talk her out of booking me on a flight back to Australia and a further fifteen to convince her not to show up in Farringdon. After I hang up, I decide I’ll call Mum tomorrow. I’ve had my fill of emotional meltdowns for one day.
Tossing the phone onto the duvet, I pad out into the living room, immediately doing a double take when I find Vincent crouching by the coffee table, surrounded by cardboard and bits of polystyrene, fiddling around with wires at the back of a large flat screen TV.
When he glances up to find me watching in bewilderment, he smiles shyly. His tie is off, abandoned over the back of the sofa, and his shirtsleeves are rolled past his elbows, revealing inches of smooth, golden skin.
Clutching a cord in one hand, he says, “I figured it was about time I reconciled myself with popular culture. Plus, I don’t want you to get bored.” We both stare awkwardly at the lump of plastic for a few moments. “It said online it has Freeview,” he continues. “I wasn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not, so I subscribed with an online provider too.”
Just wh
en I think a man can’t get any sexier, he buys me Netflix.
I edge closer, heart racing, cheeks burning hotter than Mount Etna in a heat wave. For the life of me, I can’t remember anyone doing anything so nice.
But rather than drop to my knees with gratitude, I blurt out, “Will we get Game of Thrones?”
He frowns, snatching a leaflet from the coffee table and flipping through it, muttering “Game of Thrones” under his breath. “It doesn’t list it here. Is that a show?”
I don’t process the question. I’m too busy gazing at him like he’s Superman and the Messiah all rolled into one. In that moment, I decide that if he’s gay, I’m joining a convent, because then I’ll know for sure the world is conspiring against womankind.
“How did it get here?” I ask.
His cheeks glow pink. “I ordered it this morning. Turns out if you pay extra, they deliver it the same day.”
“The world is good like that.” Blushing fiercely, I meet his soft blue eyes. “Thank you.”
He nods, gazing down at the television. “It’s nothing. Like I said, it’s high time I ventured into the modern world. Davies is always quoting some movie called Die Hard.”
I nearly groan. “We’ll start with E.T. I don’t think Die Hard will be your bag, and by that, I mean it’s not my bag.”
He chuckles. “Ah, no romance, is that it?”
“No,” I say, grinning. “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I crave romance. There’s no romance in E.T. Merely the love between a boy and his alien.”
“Aliens,” Vincent says, shaking his head. “What will they think up next?”
“Says the vampire,” I point out.
His smile widens, more dazzling than any sunset. “Touché, Miss Hart.”
“Didn’t we agree you were going to call me Mila?”
He rakes slender fingers through his blond hair, a frown replacing his smile. “We did. But maybe, considering the new circumstances, we should keep things formal.”
“So, we’ll sit and watch E.T. together, and then afterward, you’ll turn to me and say”—I adopt a deep, husky voice—“‘Would you like to watch Die Hard next, Miss Hart?’”
He narrows his eyes playfully. “I don’t speak like that.”
“Yes, you do.”
He smiles, shaking his head. “Fine, Mila it is.”
“Meee-lah,” I imitate in a baritone voice.
The dent that appeared between his brows when he mentioned keeping things formal disappears completely. “I don’t speak like that,” he repeats.
I smirk, flicking through the shiny instruction booklet. “Hey, if you have a drill, we could hang it on the wall.”
“I do have a drill.”
My eyes flit to the front of his trousers. Yeah, I bet he does.
“Which position do you think would provide optimum viewing?” He picks the TV up as if it weighs no more than the leaflet I’m holding and balances it against the wall with one hand.
I gulp, wishing it were me he had pressed up against the wall instead of a forty-inch plasma. “That’s no good,” I say, eyes glued to his pecs. “We’ll get the glare from the sun through the windows. I think on the table with its back to the window.”
He drags the table backward and plonks the TV on top of it. “There?”
I chew at my lip. “More to the left.”
He scoots it over several inches. “How’s that, your ladyship?”
“Perfect.”
Later, after we’ve set up the TV and are sitting watching the opening credits to E.T., I ponder why being here with him feels so natural. He sits with his legs apart, elbows resting on the cushions at his back, blond hair—minus the gel—flopping over his forehead. Peering at him from the corner of my eye, I realize this is a man who could rip out my heart and feed it to the wolves, and even though my life is in danger, it’s this thought alone that sends an arrow of cold fear shooting through my heart.
Chapter 8
Vincent
Standing outside the black door on Broadwick Street, Soho, it’s impossible not to remember my last visit to Ronin McDermott’s notorious vampire nightclub. Back then, I didn’t particularly care what happened to me. I was exhausted from all the “dark vampire crap,” as Cat describes it, worn ragged by a struggle to reconcile the demands of London’s vampire overlord with those of my job. In many respects, I was ready to die. Perhaps that’s why Ronin didn’t kill me. Maybe he saw it was a far greater punishment to keep me living in misery than enjoying the sweet release of death. Tonight, all of that feels like a million years ago.
I’m afraid.
I sigh, inhaling a lungful of stale city air. It’s a little after nine o’clock and daylight is leaking out of the sky. An inky blue darkness presses down between the buildings, casting long shadows onto dirty pavement. People bustle past—workers and tourists. A girl wearing gym clothes smiles. I smile back, but only because she reminds me a tiny bit of Mila and how she’s wearing her hair today—golden strands that started the day coiled and pinned on top of her head but have since worked loose, messy tendrils falling around her neckline. Over the past few days, I’ve noticed tidy hair is an impossible task for Mila. Somehow it always ends up in her face. I wasn’t aware I found this look so sexy until I met her.
I shiver, not from the draft cutting through gaps in the tall buildings, but because Mila is the reason I’m afraid to meet with Ronin tonight. Who will protect her if I’m gone?
The club’s facade has undergone a facelift since I last saw it. The door, which used to be battered and flaky, paint peeling off around the edges, is now buffed and preened to a deep, shiny black. A gold plaque reading 66 Broadwick Street is screwed into the brick. It appears the club is no longer the big secret it once was. I’m lifting a fist to hammer on the door when I spot a fancy chrome intercom button just below the gold sign.
I hold my thumb to it before shoving my hands into my pockets, my stomach a tight knot of nerves. A dial tone erupts from the speakers and static crackles before a female voice says, “Sixty-six Broadwick.”
Leaning a wrist against the jagged brick wall, I stoop to speak into the microphone. “This is Vincent Ferrer. I’m here to see Ronin McDermott.”
There is a long pause on the other end. “There’s nothing in the diary.”
“I don’t have an appointment. I’d be grateful if you could let him know I’m here.”
The intercom goes dead. I stand up straight and wait. A few minutes pass, enough time to witness a drunk man pee into a trash bin on the other side of the street and hear a taxi driver hurl abuse at a pedestrian for crossing the road in front of his cab. London at its finest.
“It’s open,” the same crackly female voice says as the door swings forward beneath my palm.
A few years ago, a burly doorman could be found lurking on the other side of the entrance, but tonight the corridor is empty. This part too has had a makeover since I was last here. The walls are now papered in deep gray. Crystal light fixtures are dotted along their length, illuminating my path. The once-stagnant whiff of beer and sweat is replaced by the musky, perfumed scent of lilies. But beneath the fresh paint and shiny furnishings, the faint metallic odor of blood persists. As I near the end of the narrow corridor, it grows stronger. I’m struck by the realization that I haven’t been so exposed in years. Like an ex-smoker, I’m comforted and repulsed all at once, my lungs itching both to repel and absorb the sharp iron tang. I’m sorely tempted to ditch the whole venture. But I can’t. For Mila’s sake.
So far, the photo we sent out to the news channels has brought us zero genuine leads. The press vultures pick over their meat carefully, and for some reason, this story seems to receive only a small amount of coverage. I wonder if there’s a vampire high up in the media world who doesn’t care for cases that give off the wrong impression of our kind. That, or the kil
ler is protected.
When I reach the end of the corridor, I pause for a few seconds, my fingers splayed against the black inner door. From the other side, I can hear strains of a piano and a low hum of chatter. The club never used to get going until midnight, so it’s unlikely I’ll be entering a den of vice at this hour, but I need to gather myself before meeting with Ronin. As an ancient, he’s as sharp as an arrow, and although mind reading is a myth, he can read body language like humans read lunch menus. I try to put myself back into my frame of mind of several years ago—depressed, lonely, exhausted. I’m surprised by how difficult a task this proves to be. Mila coming into my life is like a window opening onto a dark, abandoned room—sunshine and fresh air filtering into long-forgotten corners, illuminating everything.
I open the door and step through onto a small square of landing at the top of a flight of winding stairs. The decor of the club, once purple, is now the same shade of gray as the hallway, the velvet booths replaced by black leather sofas. The UV strip lighting in the ceiling is gone, traded for plush chandeliers that bathe the room in a soft golden glow. I scan the shadows for any sign of Ronin. A man dressed in evening clothes sits at the piano, playing an instrumental version of “Autumn in New York,” while a few people—vampires, as far as I can tell—sit around chatting among themselves. It’s a far cry from how it will be in a few hours, when a pulsating techno beat will rattle the furniture and pound the eardrums. When the blood begins to spill.
As soon as I reach the bottom of the stairs, a petite, dark-haired woman with a pixie crop and a tight silver dress steps out from behind a podium with a clipboard.
“Mr. McDermott will be out in a few minutes. If you would like to follow me.” There is a hint of contempt in her voice, and I wonder what Ronin said to make her act so snooty. Ronin rules his employees with an iron rod, and for her to behave impolitely means he must have indicated his dislike. Perhaps she caught him sharpening his machete in the office.
Miss Snooty gestures to a round walnut table surrounded by hard-backed chairs. Evidently I’m not to be offered any comfort during my visit. I thank her before pulling out a seat and sinking into it, wondering how long he’ll keep me waiting.
