by Juliet Lyons
Burke is silent on the end of the line as Lee nods in agreement.
“My main concern is Mila’s safety,” I say, briefly catching her eye across the apartment. “She needs ironclad protection while I investigate. I can ask Cat, of course, and I think she would be happy to help in this instance, but we need more and I think I have the solution.”
“I’m listening,” Burke says from the phone.
“I’m going to ask Ronin.”
Lee screws up his face. “But if he is out for revenge, you’ll be offering him Mila on a plate.”
I meet Mila’s wide eyes as I answer him. Her hand trembles as she spoons sugar into the mugs, her heart rate accelerating. “Like I said, petty revenge or not, there isn’t a chance he’d allow the death of a young woman. But the real reason why I know, both that he’ll agree to it and that Mila will be safe, is because he’s half in love with Catherine Adair”—I fix my gaze on Mila’s pretty face—“and we all know the kind of effect that can have on a man.” She flashes me a smile and I glance back at Lee. “Either way it’s a risk. But this way, Mila is protected while I’m gone. That’s all that really matters. Agreed?”
Lee sighs and leans back into the sofa. “What do you think, Superintendent?”
“I think we should go with Vincent’s gut instinct. After all, he knows these creatures better than we do. I can post a backup squad on the street near the flat and extra hands on deck at Scotland Yard for Miss Hart.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer to leave her here?” Lee cuts in. “Get some officers downstairs. I could stay with her. Make sure Dracula plays nice.”
“No,” Burke says firmly. “I insist she’s brought in. Far safer for everyone.”
“Agreed,” I say, trying and failing once again not to make eye contact with Mila. I give her a tight smile as she lowers the mugs onto a tray, my stomach a knot of apprehension. In past situations like this, I’ve never felt nervous or uneasy. It’s always been a case of getting the job done. But this is personal on so many levels. I can’t even begin to imagine how it might feel to come face-to-face with a connection of Adrienne’s—whoever he may be.
A few hours later, everything is set up. Ronin agreed to help as soon as he learned Cat would be there, and Cat… Well, by the time she finds out the freelance vampire bodyguard she’s working with is none other than Ronin McDermott, it’ll be too late for her to back out. Even without knowing the truth, she took a lot of convincing. In the end, I took Mila’s advice, by referencing some movie named The Bodyguard.
Before we’re due to drop Mila at Scotland Yard, Lee takes me discreetly into the hallway. Propped up next to the front door is a familiar black canvas bag. I unzip it and stare down at a glittering array of weapons, wrapped in plastic and tucked neatly into elastic loops.
I swallow loudly as Lee slaps me on the shoulder. “Better get down to business, eh, Vince?”
I nod, removing a black-handled machete and unwrapping the cover. The silver blade glistens like liquid metal beneath the spotlights in the ceiling.
“Your personal favorite, if I remember rightly,” Lee says.
Turning it over, I frown. I meant what I said to Mila earlier about quitting the force. Something doesn’t feel right anymore. Not the taking of life—Moreau deserves everything he has coming to him—but inside, a part of me has changed.
I rewrap the weapon in its plastic and take a smaller knife from the bag as backup, though the machete will do its job fine if all goes to plan. One strike, pure and true, to the neck. Forget about stakes through the heart—decapitation is the only way to destroy a vampire. Unfortunately, Moreau will be all too aware of this.
Not wanting Mila to see, I leave them by the door and follow Lee back into the lounge. Mila is staring out the window at the darkening sky, her shoulders stiff with tension, arms folded across her chest. She turns when she hears us approach, making a weak attempt at a smile. Her hazel eyes hold the weight of the world in their tawny depths.
“Is it time to leave?” she asks.
“Almost.”
Her gaze slides over me. “Do you always wear a suit when you play assassin? Shouldn’t it be a black balaclava?”
I pluck at my charcoal jacket. “I’ve ditched the tie, haven’t I?”
She steps toward me and smooths the shiny material with her hands. “How are you even real?” she murmurs.
I hug her tightly, my face buried in her hair. Even though we both promised we wouldn’t say goodbye, our actions do it for us.
“Thank you for saving my life, Vincent.”
I hold her tight. “If it wasn’t for me, it would never have been in jeopardy.”
“But then we wouldn’t have met. None of this is your fault.”
Lee’s coughing interrupts us. “Time to go,” he says, lips set in a grim line.
Mila takes a deep breath and steps back. She’s changed clothes from earlier, wearing tight gray jeans and a loose blue sweater that hangs off one shoulder. “I’m ready.”
That makes one of us.
Taking her hand, I can only wonder if I will ever be ready again.
Lee drives his BMW to Scotland Yard as Mila and I sit in the back, hands clasped together so tightly our knuckles are white. When we arrive at the underground parking garage, I turn to Mila, her face lit yellow by the glow of artificial lights. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun and I reach across to tuck a wayward strand behind her ear.
“Not long now until it’s over,” I say, trying to smile but grimacing instead. My fingers linger on her shoulder, on the exposed triangle of skin. Forgetting about Lee Davies sitting up front, I lean in and kiss her there, inhaling her floral scent, willing my mind to remember the sensation of her skin beneath my lips—silky and alive. I’m tempted to grab her and run. Take her to France or somewhere else far away. Forget all about London and the force and David Moreau. But running never solves anything. I should know. I’ve been running for almost three hundred years.
Upstairs on the second floor, Cat is the first to arrive. She sits on a swivel chair alongside Burke, looking like she came straight from the gym. Her curly hair is piled on top of her head, hands thrust deep inside the pockets of a gray hoodie. She smiles as we walk in and I smother a frown. She won’t be smiling for much longer.
Burke gets to his feet, a fierce look of determination shining behind his gray eyes. “Ready, Inspector Ferrer?” he asks, chin in the air. In another life, he would have made an excellent army major.
I swallow heavily. “Ready.”
As Lee makes the introductions between Mila and Cat, Ronin arrives, flanked by two officers. Cat’s jaw hits the floor at the sight of the tall, broad-shouldered redhead, his piercing blue eyes going straight to her.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asks, glaring at him.
Ronin grins like the Cheshire Cat, glancing at the men on either side of him. “Don’t mind her,” he says. “We had a thing once and she’s still hung up about it.”
Cat spins around to face me, nostrils flaring. “I trusted you.”
I hold up my hands. “I had no choice.”
“Relax,” Ronin says, smirking. “I think I can control myself for a couple of hours, especially seeing as how you’re dressed like that.” He rakes a disinterested gaze over her. “What is it? Laundry day?”
Cat looks as if she’s about to burst a blood vessel, she’s so angry. “One hour,” she says, glaring at me. “Then I’m leaving whether you’re back or not.” Arms crossed, she drops back into the chair.
I give her a curt nod. “I’ll be back.” I clear my throat. “Mila? Can I have a word outside before I go?” The six pairs of eyeballs in the room swivel to stare at us.
“We should get going,” Burke says, checking his watch.
“It’ll take two minutes,” I tell him.
Feeling their gazes on us, I s
teer Mila by the elbow into the corridor. As Davies closes the door discreetly behind us, I hear him ask, “Anyone watch the game last night?”
As soon as the door clicks shut, Mila and I fly at each other like magnets.
“Please be careful,” she says, her voice cracking.
“I will,” I say into her hair. “I promise.”
I squeeze her so hard I must be hurting her, but she doesn’t flinch or pull away. She presses against me until I’m not sure where I end and she begins.
When we finally break apart, there’s a rock-sized lump in my throat and I notice Mila is trembling. I smooth hair from her face, my eyes prickling with tears, lifting her chin with my thumb and forefinger. “I’ll be back within the hour, and then we can go home and order pizza.”
She nods, her own eyes glassy and moist. “Good. I’m hungry.”
We smile and I bend over, holding my lips firmly to hers. “I will see you very soon.”
“Do you promise?” she asks in a tiny voice.
“Yes,” I whisper, holding her to me again. “I promise.”
I let go of her and step backward, trying to hold the memory of her in my mind’s eye—flushed cheeks, messy tendrils of blond hair tickling the nape of her neck, eyes shining like sunlight on copper. More than anything, I want to tell her I love her, that having her in my life these past weeks has brought me back to life. But words are powerful and timing is everything. It isn’t right to burden her with such a declaration when there’s a chance I’ll never see her again.
Also, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified she doesn’t feel the same.
With a strained smile, I open the door and follow her back inside the office.
Burke gives me a terse nod, slapping me on the shoulder. “Let’s go, Inspector. In, out, and home in time for supper.”
I salute him, nodding in turn to each of the others. After throwing Mila a last, loaded look, I follow him from the room.
All the way down in the elevator, I regret my silence. When we reach the parking garage, I almost turn back. But then Burke flings the car door open and barks, “Get on form, Inspector, get on form,” and I know if I return upstairs now, I’ll never leave her side again, will never kill Moreau.
It’s only at this moment I realize just how much I have to lose.
* * *
As we head north, the concrete jungle of the city begins to thin out—trees appear, gardens and parks are dotted around modest streets, their pavements lined with shuttered storefronts and brightly colored doors. The buildings turn from shades of gunmetal gray and glass to red brick with sash windows. Net curtains shield the bright glow of front rooms from the street.
When we stop at a set of traffic lights outside Wood Green tube station, Burke finally speaks. He’s been quiet the whole way over, not even giving me his usual sergeant major routine.
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, Vincent, but I get the impression you’ve grown rather attached to Miss Hart these past weeks.”
I clear my throat. “I’ve enjoyed her company, yes.”
I turn to stare out at the dark streets, hoping he’ll drop the subject.
“Whatever your feelings, Vincent, you must put them aside and stay focused on the task at hand. It’s like when I have an important golf match at the club, I never let Eve come to watch. She distracts me too much. Mostly because she keeps asking if I’m hungry and would I like a sandwich, but still, it helps to put a distance between yourself and those you, er, care about.”
I look across at Burke. In all our years working together, this is the closest we’ve ever gotten to a heart-to-heart. Not that I’ve been waiting for one.
“Out of curiosity,” I start, “what are the rules regarding fraternization with witnesses?”
“I have no idea,” he says, taking off the handbrake as the lights turn from red to green. He smiles, shaking his head. “You know I met Eve on the job. She was a nurse in the ER department at Middlesex Hospital. I’d taken in a drunk football fan who’d been glassed in a bar brawl. It was love at first sight.”
I stare at his weary, lined face, a smattering of silver hair at his temples. As my gaze wanders to the thick gold wedding ring on his left hand, I’m struck by a desperate stab of envy. Burke, who Davies and I often mock for his stern attitude and lack of humor, a man who has never strayed from the path of righteousness, has one of the greatest gifts known to man—a long life lived at the side of the woman he loves.
“You’re lucky,” I say, remembering the first time I ever saw Mila.
Burke’s gaze doesn’t waver from the road. “We make our own luck in this world, Vincent.”
* * *
Francis Street is set deep in the leafy suburbs of Alexandra Palace, swaths of terrace houses with Victorian mosaic front paths and imposing bay windows lining the road. Parked cars sit bumper to bumper on either side of the pavement, packed in like sardines. The whole street is an embodiment of middle-class urban living.
If only they knew a serial killer is living in their midst.
Burke and the rest of the team spent the hours since the text came in discreetly surveying the house. On the first floor, overlooking the front garden, is a rusting wrought-iron balcony, off which is a sash window, open six inches. This is the spot through which I’ll make my entrance. The house, like so many of its neighbors, has been divided into two separate flats—one up, one down. According to the floor plans Burke obtained from the internet, the window leads into a kitchen.
We drive slowly along the street without stopping the first time, giving me a chance to look at the window and suss out if he has company. I open my ears to the top level of the house, but there is no heartbeat, only the rumble of a television set coming from the rear of the property.
“Sounds to me like he’s home alone,” I tell Burke.
Burke gives a quick nod. “Excellent.”
On our second loop of the street, Burke stops the car ahead of the house. My hand is already clenched tight around the black handle of the machete, the spare knife tucked into my jacket pocket. We don’t have to worry about anyone seeing me enter the building because the darkness coupled with my speed means I’ll barely be visible against the shadows of the night.
I reach for the door handle.
“Ready?” Burke asks rather pointlessly.
I nod, relieved the moment has come. A welcome rush of adrenaline surges through my veins. For the first time all day, I’m confident. “Ready.”
I climb out of the car into the glow of a streetlamp, my eyes flicking upward to the star-spangled sky. It’s still too early in the year to see the constellation of Sagittarius, but the bright dots comfort me somehow, reminding me of my goal—get the job done and get back to Mila.
Burke climbs out of the driver’s seat. He will follow at a distance, and along with two other officers—who are parked farther up—kick the front door in. By that time, Moreau will hopefully be no more than a dusty sack of bones on the floor.
Tightening my grip on the machete, I give Burke a final terse nod before leaping onto the orange tile porch of the house two doors away from Moreau’s. I land neat as a cat, legs bent at the knees, before diving onto the rusted rails of number fifty-five’s upper story. Not landing feet first on the balcony itself turns out to be a good omen—the wood is rotten and splintered and would have undoubtedly caved under my weight. Without wasting any more time pondering the decorative state of the building, I slide the window open with my free hand and duck into the kitchen, machete held out ahead of me.
I stand on a tiny square of torn linoleum, next to a stove with scorch marks on the hob, waiting. A vampire would have heard the window opening, should be confronting me by now. But there is only the tinny sound of the TV from a room farther along the hallway and the slow drip of a leaky tap hitting the ceramic sink with a soft plink.
Somet
hing isn’t right. Despite the open window, the air in the kitchen is musty, unlived in. I open a cupboard. Empty, though mine were pretty bare before Mila arrived with her junk food habit, so that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
I step into the dark hallway. On my right are the stairs, a wooden bannister stretching ahead. To my left, farther along the wall, is a half-open door. I hurl myself into the room, fangs out, but it’s completely empty—not a stick of furniture.
Not bothering to turn on the lights, I enter the other rooms in turn, finding them all the same at the first one—empty, no furniture, a sour, airless musk swirling between the walls. Nearing the one with the television blaring, a cold dread begins to creep up my spine. I kick the door open so fiercely the whole thing comes loose from its hinges, falling flat onto the carpet. A cloud of dust, visible in the blue glow of the television, puffs out from the edges.
The TV is plugged in and propped up on a small plastic table, the bray of a noisy quiz show echoing off the walls. Downstairs, I hear the front door being rammed, the splintering of wood as Burke and the others pound into the flat. I scan the room, my hands trembling from pent-up adrenaline. I’m so pumped for action it takes a while for my head to clear, the implications of the empty flat beginning to sink in.
He knew we were coming.
In a fit of rage and aggression, I kick the television into the wall, the incessant babble dying instantly as the room plunges into darkness. I whirl around to face Burke, who despite his age and fondness for cream cakes is always the first to arrive on the scene. He holds his police badge out in front of him as if it were an AK-74.
He flips the light on, bathing the empty room in a stark white glow. “Inspector?”
“A trick,” I say, looking around at the blank walls as if Moreau might still materialize before us. “I don’t think he was ever here.”
Footfalls echo along the corridor as the rest of the team finishes their search.
