Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Juliet Lyons

* * *

  When I’ve taken my fill of the brunette and she’s come around, I zip my fly and whirl her around to face me. Her eyes are lazy and confused, her once-perfect makeup a mask of smudged mascara.

  “Look at me,” I command, ducking to look directly into her eyes.

  As her tired pupils try to focus, I seize her mind, waves of pulsing electrical energy passing between us like a current.

  “You will leave the club and never come back. Tomorrow, you will call whoever sent you and tell them there is nothing to report. That you never saw Ronin McDermott and the club is the same as any other in London.”

  I hold her gaze as I lean over to push a button on the phone. My doorman, Charlie, appears in an instant.

  “See the young lady gets home safely, Charlie,” I say, seizing the brunette’s arm and shoving her toward him. “Oh, and get her picture before she leaves. She’s barred.”

  I notice Charlie looking at the bite marks, brows drawn. “Is she…?”

  “No, I didn’t turn her. The last thing London needs is more vampires. Now, get her out of here, would you?”

  The brunette wobbles as she leans against my doorman, but she doesn’t protest. Tomorrow, she’ll wake up with a hangover and remember nothing. Chances are she’ll blame it on a spiked drink. Most of them do.

  After the door clicks softly behind them, I sigh, sinking down onto the edge of the desk. How many more of these informants will I have to root out? Now that vampires are common knowledge, it’s only a matter of time before we’re hung out to dry in the sunshine they once thought killed us.

  Remembering the curly haired journalist out at the bar, I flip my wrist and glance down at the face of my Rolex. It’s five minutes to midnight. I wonder if Cinderella has decided to stick around.

  I slip out into the pounding noise of the club. Little has changed. Harper is sitting back in our booth with the blond straddled in his lap, sucking the face off her. Or is she sucking the face off him? It’s hard to tell from this angle. I stare hard at them, forcing him to break their clinch for a second to meet my penetrating stare. I point two fingers at my eyes, indicating the need to glamour her after their fun. Who sent these girls anyway? Last I heard, the Metropolitan Police had shelved their special investigations into historic vampire crime to focus on the ones happening now. A wise move, considering how many human psychopaths live in this city. Vampires should be the least of their concerns.

  The journalist from earlier is easy to locate. She’s positioned near the exit, propped up against a gray pillar. The glass in her hand—not the shallow martini she nursed earlier—is empty. Either she’s thirsty or nervous as hell. As if sensing she’s being watched, her cat eyes meet mine across the room. She jerks violently when, a second later, the ringing of a bell reverberates off the walls. The noise is like a high school bell, but its meaning is much darker. A loud cheer goes up from the crowd before mayhem ensues.

  Until now, it’s been impossible to tell which of the revelers are vampires and which are human. Now, the difference is as obvious and jarring as a fist to the face. A dozen pairs of fangs extend, glittering white beneath the strobe lighting, as if a school of sharks have swum into the gloomy depths of the dance floor. But unlike some low-budget horror movie, no rising crescendo of earsplitting screams carve up the beat of the music. The humans succumb to their partners with little more than a satisfied sigh. Throats are offered, veins are taken, and before long, an iron tang of blood permeates the air. All the while, the music continues to pound.

  My gaze beats a path between the carnage on the dance floor and the horrified expression of the journalist. Her eyes are fixed on a couple in one of the booths near the exit. A smartly dressed man in his twenties sits legs apart, head tipped backward onto the seat while a female vampire sucks at his main artery like a leech in a miniskirt. Inlets of crimson run down his pale neck, disappearing into the pastel-blue collar of his shirt.

  One of my men approaches the couple and taps the woman on the shoulder. Dazed, she pulls away, as if waking up from a deep, consuming sleep, and allows my man room to hold two fingers to her boyfriend’s neck. I flick my gaze back to the journalist as my worker speaks into his radio. Without anyone noticing, Charlie appears, and they carry the man’s body through a concealed door at the side. The female vampire shadows them, her hands glued to the sides of her head in horror at what she’s done. She disappears into the dark passageway beyond.

  The curly haired woman’s eyes are wider than the pool of blood left behind on the leather seat. She is frozen with fear, her skin taut and waxy under the flickering lights. She begins to move swiftly toward the narrow flight of stairs. Right before she passes out, I catch her, heaving her onto my shoulder and carrying her through the dark corridor to the exit.

  Outside, amid the roar and screech of traffic pouring along the late-night street, I set her on her feet and flag down a taxi.

  “Is he dead?” she asks as a black cab screeches to a halt beside us. Her once-steady voice shakes, like a toddler after a nightmare.

  “I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “It happens occasionally, I’m afraid.”

  “That place is so fucked up,” she mutters.

  The cabbie’s window slides down, and a bald head peers out suspiciously at the pair of us. “No puking in my cab,” the driver says in blunt cockney tones, eyeing the female as she sways unsteadily in her heels.

  I cut him an impatient glare. “She won’t. Keep your hair on.”

  I yank open the door, but before she can climb in, I grab her elbow through her thin jacket. Her eyes flutter upward to mine.

  “The club is nothing out of the ordinary,” I say as a current stirs between us. “There was no bell or biting. It was just a club. Plain and simple. You didn’t speak with anyone the whole time you were there.”

  She nods before slowly ducking into the vehicle, and I slam the door after her, watching as the car disappears into a throng of headlights. For those few seconds, standing at the side of the road, I envy her the luxury of forgetting. Of having the weight of decision taken out of her hands. I shudder, though not because of the chill in the crisp London air. I’m restless, an awful sensation of being trapped in my own skin settling around my shoulders. It happens often of late—the notion that I could pack up and go anywhere in the world and never shake it. A dark dog snapping at my heels.

  Thrusting my hands into my pockets, I turn and head back into the club. Downstairs, Harper is practically inside the blond in our booth—her long legs are wrapped around his hips, ankles crossed at the bottom of his spine. His mouth is buried in her throat, a curtain of her blond hair concealing his rampant thirst from the other patrons. I shake my head with a bemused smile. He had better remember to glamour her afterward.

  In my office, I buzz for Charlie. He takes a little longer to arrive than usual, but when he steps through the door, I see why. A streak of blood stains his starched white shirt, a deep-red ribbon dropped in snow.

  “The man. Is he…?”

  “Alive. His girlfriend’s taken him to A&E.”

  I arch a brow.

  “She won’t mention the club, don’t worry. Stiven and I made sure of it.”

  I open the bottom drawer of the desk to take out a crystal decanter of scotch. “Drink?”

  Charlie nods, a faraway gaze in his toffee-colored eyes as I line up two matching tumblers and remove the stopper.

  “How long do you think we can go on like this, Charlie?” I ask as amber liquid splashes onto the bottom of the crystal.

  Charlie frowns, breaking from his reverie. “Like what?”

  “This.” I swirl a finger around the room. “The nightly bloodlust, the accidental deaths, outsiders coming in to gape and spy.”

  Charlie shrugs. “It’s the way things have always been done,” he says simply, reaching for his drink. “We put the bell in for those who might
want to leave before it gets messy.”

  I swirl scotch around the glass like wine at a tasting. “Aye, but times have changed. There are even vampire dating websites nowadays.” What’s left of my cold, dead heart flickers like a faulty bulb in my chest. “Perhaps it’s time to change the way we do things.”

  Charlie snorts derisively. “What, try speed dating?”

  Speed dating. An idea begins to unfurl in my mind. A wicked idea. One that would definitely make a certain lady very angry.

  And, as everyone knows, hatred is far preferable to indifference.

  “Charlie, you could be on to something.”

  The image of the journalist pops into my mind, her face wan with horror. That place is so fucked up.

  Time for a change.

  For first time in a long while, the dark dog at my heels falls silent.

  * * *

  Cat

  Wednesday morning, and I’m already on my third cancellation of the day. The deserter: Miss Belinda Pearce of St. Albans. With the four from yesterday and the three on Monday, that makes ten this week alone. Ten clients jumping ship. And it’s not even eleven o’clock.

  Although I could tell from her tone what she was going to say, I inject a measure of surprise into my voice. “Oh, Belinda, really? I’m so sorry to hear that. Why the change of heart?”

  I minimize the internet window on my Mac and click into the accounts screen, pulling up her bank details from among the p’s.

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “It’s just… I, er… Well, this is actually a little awkward.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m trying something new.”

  “New?”

  Could this be the moment I’ve been dreading since I started the site five years ago? Humans are finally bored of us—vampire dating is no longer hip. Or maybe she’s realized that all the good men are taken, married to females named Fiona or Faye—women who provide healthy children, women who juggle playdates and a career and still manage to look half-decent at the end of an exhausting day.

  I picture Belinda twisting her hands nervously, worrying at her red-painted lips. Despite never meeting in person, I’ve gotten to know her well over the past few months. She’s one of those zesty, bubbly types who likes to give anyone who will listen every sordid detail of her love life. She often calls to debrief me on her dates.

  “Speed dating,” she says at last.

  Where’s she been hiding? “Oh, good for you.”

  “With vampires.”

  My smile freezes. What the actual fuck?

  “Vampires?” I splutter.

  “Yes. It’s a new thing. They hold special nights at this club in Soho.”

  My chest tightens to cold, hard stone. “Soho?”

  “Yes. Broadwick Street, to be exact.”

  Of course it is. I grip the computer mouse so tight, I almost break the damn thing to pieces. “Tell me more,” I say in a low voice.

  Belinda titters nervously. “Well, it’s just a bit of fun, really. The guy hands you a number, and the ladies stay sitting—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “I know how speed dating works. I mean, tell me about the club. The owner.”

  Belinda suddenly seems to have difficulty breathing, she’s so excited. “The owner. Funny you mention him. Most of the women go for that reason alone. He’s this hot Scottish hunk with red hair and the bluest, most amazing eyes.”

  I wince as an unwanted image pops into my head. Those eyes are practically burned into my brain.

  “But that’s not the only reason,” Belinda continues.

  “Really?” I ask, sarcasm creeping into my voice. “What else is he offering? A Thai massage for every hundredth customer?”

  She lets out an uneasy chuckle. “No. The thing is, I heard a rumor at the speed dating. About the safety of V-Date.”

  “A rumor?”

  “That a couple of years ago, women were murdered by a vampire using the site.”

  My heart drops like a stone into the pit of my stomach. If only it were just a rumor.

  “Oh.”

  “I’m sure it’s rubbish, of course, but I thought you should know.”

  “Yes,” I say grimly. “Thank you, Belinda. I’ll cancel your account today.”

  Without another word, I slip the phone back into the cradle, hands trembling.

  “Piece of shit,” I tell the empty office, and then louder for good measure, not caring if the hypnotherapist renting the space upstairs complains I’m messing with her inner chi again. “Piece of shit bastard.”

  Ronin McDermott.

  Ancient demon. Manipulative piece of trash. And the last man you shagged, a nasty little voice in my head reminds me.

  On impulse, I leap from the swivel chair and grab my coat from the back of the door. I make it all the way to the top of the spiral staircase before it hits me—I’m playing straight into his hands. Me careering off to Soho is exactly the reaction he’s after.

  I retreat into the office, flinging my coat onto the heart-shaped sofa and raking fingers through my thick, black curls. Needing to do something to let off steam, I sink back into my chair and pull up an internet window, jabbing the name of the club into Google. A map pops up, along with contact details. Bingo. I lift the telephone and dial the number, clicking a pen like it’s a flick knife held to Ronin’s throat.

  After a few rings, a female voice answers, silky smooth and elegant. I shove down a ridiculous pang of jealousy. “I need to speak to Ronin,” I snap.

  “May I ask who’s calling?” Miss Moneypenny purrs.

  “Cat Adair.”

  Without another word, she places me on hold, the theme to Downton Abbey tinkering down the line. Since when did Ronin associate with middle-of-the-road, Sunday-night drama?

  The music plays for so long I almost hang up. But then a familiar, loathsome sound vibrates in my ear, a voice as mellow and gravelly as a whiskey on the rocks.

  “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Ms. Catherine?”

  My fangs slip out, nearly shredding my lower lip.

  “First of all—speed dating,” I hiss.

  He lets out a low chuckle. “Fancy giving it a go? I can put you on the guest list, if you like. Or are you still enjoying the single life? Lonely nights in front of CSI. Did you ever finish that blanket you were knitting for the Cat’s Protection?”

  “Screw you.”

  “We tried that once, remember? What am I saying—of course you do. As I recall, you hadn’t made love in so long that my cleaning lady dusted cobwebs from the sheets afterward.”

  White-hot rage clouds my vision, but I keep my voice steady. I will not rise to his ugly bait. “Actually, I don’t remember. I think I must have nodded off halfway through.”

  He gives a snort of derision. “You’re confusing me with someone else, mo chridhe. No woman sleeps on my watch.”

  Unbidden, a shiver zigzags up my spine. “I didn’t call to discuss your sexual hang-ups, Ronin,” I snap, ignoring the tingle. “Though I’m sure there are plenty to keep us talking long into the night. I’m calling because I’ve heard the nasty rumors you’re spreading about my business.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to remind you,” he says smugly, “but if by rumors you mean a serial killer using your site to find victims, then I’m afraid they’re mostly true.”

  “Three years back they were true,” I hiss. “If you were at all concerned about my clients’ safety, why wait so long to say anything?”

  A deep clunk echoes down the line.

  “Did you just put me on speakerphone?” I demand.

  “No. I put the phone on the desk. There’s no need for speakerphone with that foghorn voice of yours. I could probably hear you from my apartment on the other side of the river. Possibly even in Norwich.” He pa
uses. “If there are rumors circulating about your dating service, Catherine, they haven’t come from me.”

  “Yeah right,” I mutter, before erupting, “Speed dating!”

  I can practically hear him smirk. “Genius, isn’t it?”

  “No. It’s not genius. It’s stealing. Stealing my idea and shoving it facedown in your rat-infested, back-alley club.”

  “Back-alley club? We’re only a few doors down from Liberty’s. Hardly slumming it. Or maybe you’re thinking of how it was in the nineties. The eighteen nineties. Admit it. That’s the last time you actually visited a bar, wasn’t it?”

  “Not so long ago,” I continue, ignoring the comment, especially because he has a point. “You were doing everything in your power to stop humans and vampires fraternizing. Now you’re running social mixers. What is this? The ancient demon version of a midlife crisis?”

  “I’ve decided to move with the times.”

  “Why? One too many bodies to hide? Of course, it must be hard without Logan around to mop up for you anymore.”

  He sucks in a breath of what I assume, at first, is anger. But then he exhales slowly.

  “Are you smoking?”

  “It’s the only thing getting me through this tedious conversation.”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  I slam the phone down so hard, my pen pot topples onto the carpet. I pride myself on rarely losing my cool. But Ronin McDermott never fails to bring out the worst in me.

  After I’ve picked up the pens, deleted Belinda’s details, and ceased shaking with rage, I divert calls to my cell phone and leave the office. There isn’t a hope of getting anything constructive done today. Not with the mood I’m in.

  Outside, the day is bright, watery sunlight filtering through puffy gray clouds. I pick my way around sandwich boards lining the cobbled streets of trendy East London, past the coffee bars and craft shops. I remember them, like I always do, as the slum houses from a hundred years ago—families of ten to a room, children barefoot and starving, excrement and dead animals clogging the gutters. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my two hundred years of living, it’s that human memories are ridiculously short-lived. Places change and start over in an endless cycle of birth and death, and what went before is always forgotten.