by Juliet Lyons
But I, and those like me, can never forget. Which is why when I reach the corner of Beechwood Street, I linger outside the door of a small beauty salon, placing a palm against the cool, red brick. I remember a small girl, bony and hollow-eyed, sitting cross-legged on the dirty threshold, a book balanced on her lap. Next to her is a bow-legged boy, downtrodden and grimy, but his eyes sparkle like stars in the night sky. When the receptionist inside notices me, I move on. Over the years, the shop has lived many lives—barbers, chemists, dentists—but while it’s still standing, I will always return, will always live close by. It’s an anchor to a familiar shore. By the time I reach my apartment block, I’m grounded.
That is, until I’m accosted by Mrs. Colangelo, the elderly Italian lady from number four.
“You’re early,” she says in accusatory tones, appearing from behind her door in a paisley robe. I can’t remember the last time I saw Mrs. Colangelo dressed. Or outside, for that matter.
I toss her a weak smile. “I decided to work from home.” Not that it’s any of your business, I almost add.
“Probably for the best,” she says, leaning against the doorpost. “There are many crazy people around at the moment. It’s not safe for a young, pretty girl like you to be out alone after dark.”
Like the rest of my neighbors, Mrs. Colangelo hasn’t a clue I’m a vampire. Although I could tell the whole of London now if I so desired, I still abide by my old self-inflicted rules, which involve moving every ten years so no one begins to question why I haven’t aged.
“They found a body on Canal Street at the weekend, you know?” Mrs. Colangelo, the eternal optimist, continues. “Badly decomposed, and that’s not the worst part.”
I begin to edge past her doorway, the delicious freedom of the next flight of stairs beckoning. “What’s the worst part, Mrs. Colangelo?”
“No head,” she says with a hint of triumph. And then, just so I’m completely up to speed, she continues, “Decapitated.” She crosses herself. “Poor soul.”
I frown. Decapitation is quite unusual among humans. Vampires, on the other hand…
“Dreadful,” I agree, shaking my head. “Well, I have to feed the cat, so I must dash.”
“We have a new man moving in next door to you. He came today to measure up.”
That catches my attention. The apartment next door has been empty since I moved in five years ago. I’ve gotten used to having the whole third floor to myself. “Oh, who is he?”
“A musician. Young man. Unmarried. No girlfriend.”
Once upon a time, I might have been excited hearing those last three sentences, one after the other. Those days are gone. Now the only part I linger on is musician. I sigh. Please, God, not a wretched saxophone player.
“Maybe we can have a bit of romance in our building, eh?” Mrs. Colangelo smiles, puckered lips parting to reveal a set of bright-white dentures.
I cock my head to the side. “I didn’t know you were keen on younger men, Mrs. Colangelo.” She begins shaking her head, but I don’t let her get a word in. “But if that’s your thing, go for it. You deserve to find happiness, and age is just a number, right?” Before she can utter a denial, I swivel around to the stairs. “Enjoy the rest of the day!”
She’s still babbling about the misunderstanding when I slam the front door shut behind me and swing my bag into an armchair, kicking off my Louboutins and dropping about six inches in height. Designer footwear is a constant weakness. Having spent my childhood barefoot in Victorian England, being at liberty to buy shoes whenever I like is dizzying.
Wentworth the cat, who narrowly missed being hit by a red-soled shoe, strolls over. He wraps himself around my legs and purrs like a tractor. Forgetting myself, I reach down to lift him up, making him squeal loudly and jump five feet into the air. Wentworth was a stray who hates to be picked up.
We’re a lot alike, Wentworth and I.
“What happened to you, Wentworth?” I ask, crossing the room to scratch his head. “Who hurt you in your old life?”
The outburst forgotten, he stares up at me with dilated, emerald eyes. Despite the erratic behavior and occasional bit of cat vomit, he’s easily the best flatmate I’ve ever had. For starters, he never makes me feel bad about the state of my love life—or lack thereof.
If someone had told me a quarter of a century ago I’d be running a vampire/human dating service, I would have ruptured my spleen laughing.
Then, about ten years ago, in the media scoop of all time, a famous Hollywood actress publicly announced she was a vampire. The day it hit the tabloids, I was down at my local 7-Eleven buying milk. There, emblazoned across the front page, screamed the headline Vampires Exist. At first, I thought it was some kind of joke. After all, the National Enquirer had been running the same story sporadically for years. But no, it wasn’t April Fools’ Day or even Halloween—this was the Daily Telegraph, and it didn’t end there.
In the weeks that followed, vampires across the globe began to out themselves. The hysteria didn’t last long, though. As soon as humans discovered we don’t survive on blood and sleep in dirt from our motherland, everyone calmed the heck down. We became like a half sibling finally invited to the family reunion. We even got the vote.
It was during the calm after the storm that I got the idea for V-Date. Places like Ronin’s club would always cater for the fetish end of the vampire dating market, but for those craving romance, there was zilch. Sex is all well and good, but it isn’t what folks drive themselves nuts looking for. Love is the prize.
So, I hired a web designer and rented an office, and the rest is history. For a somewhat costly monthly fee, humans and vampires can access a database of eligible partners. I was even planning to launch a mobile app, which may have to be scrapped if my clients continue to jump ship.
Anger rises inside me as I remember the rumors doing the rounds over at Ronin’s seedy nightclub. Ever since we spent that one night together all those years ago, he’s been at me. He can’t stand the idea of there being a woman in the universe immune to his slimy charms.
I open the kitchen cupboard and grab a latte mug, slamming it onto the counter. I didn’t even find him attractive before that night.
Okay, that’s a lie. It’s impossible not to find him attractive. With burning blue eyes and high cheekbones, he’s everyone’s type. But it ends there. He’s ugly on the inside. On the inside, he’s Voldemort.
Like most vampires, I don’t fully understand the origins of those who created us, but for me, Ronin is evidence enough that demons exist. Perhaps the worst part is that he’s masquerading behind this whole bad-boy-turned-good facade. I mean, speed dating. What is he playing at?
I flick the switch on the coffee maker and take out a latte capsule from the huge glass jar next to the sink. I’m considering what it might take to murder an ancient when I hear a soft knock at the door. If it’s Mrs. Colangelo again, I may be tempted to bare my fangs.
Abandoning the latte, I bound across the room and tear open the door, my best fuck off face charged and ready to go. But instead of the powdered visage of Mrs. Colangelo, I find myself staring at a T-shirt-clad chest. A man’s chest.
I lift my gaze in confusion, meeting soft gray eyes, intelligent and kind looking, half hidden behind a pair of wire-frame specs.
Who knew midday was hunk o’clock around these parts?
“Oh,” I say, pulling myself to full height—which, at five foot one and a half, isn’t much. “I thought you were Mrs. Colangelo.”
The hunk smiles. It’s off-center, and he has a tiny chip on one of his incisors, but other than that, it’s a pretty charming sight. “No, I’m Peter. I’m moving in next door. The postman put your mail in my box by mistake.”
It’s at this point I realize he’s clutching a small wad of envelopes in his tapered fingers. Musician’s fingers.
“Right,” I say. “Mrs. Cola
ngelo mentioned there’s a new guy.”
I sense her out in the downstairs hallway, earwigging. The whiff of lavender water is always a dead giveaway. “Hi, Mrs. Colangelo,” I call out. “I’m meeting the new neighbor. The one you think is cute!” I catch a tiny squeal of indignation, and a door slams.
Hunky Peter bursts out laughing, eyes crinkling behind his glasses.
“That was mean,” I admit. “But she’s very nosy.”
He continues to smile, giving me a once-over so discreet, a human woman might have missed it. Definitely not gay. “I sort of got that impression,” he murmurs.
“So, Mrs. Colangelo tells me you’re a musician. What sort of music will be keeping me awake at night?” To my chagrin, my voice oozes flirtation. A hot flush creeps up my neck.
“Jazz mainly. But don’t worry: I have a studio on Mare Street, so I shouldn’t be keeping you up.”
“That’s a shame,” I mutter.
We stand for a few seconds, not speaking. He has lovely hair—dark brown, worn in that messy chic way that’s all the rage these days.
“Anyway, I better give you these,” he says, handing me the letters. “Catherine, isn’t it?”
I narrow my eyes. “How did you know?”
“It’s on the letters.”
“Oh. Right.” For God’s sake. Dumb much?
He smiles. “Well, it was good to meet you, neighbor.”
“Right back at ya.”
He holds up a hand in farewell. “Bye.”
Mirroring his gesture, I hold up my own. “See you around.”
When I’ve shut the door behind me, I lean against it. Across the room on the sofa, Wentworth studies me through half-closed lids.
“He seems nice,” I say to the cat. “Friendly.”
Wentworth’s eyes widen, as if to say Who are you kidding?
“I was not flirting,” I point out. “Most people seem nice at first. It’s human nature to hide all the bad stuff.”
I cross back into the kitchen and flip through the mail. Most of it is junk, but a manila envelope with a red stamp catches my attention. It’s from Harvey & Co. Law. I tear it open, my stomach lurching as I begin to read.
Dear Sirs,
We are instructed by Mr. Aaron Leech in relation to an incident on September 8, whereby he was admitted to the hospital following an encounter with a vampire met through your dating website, V-Date.com.
Mr. Leech, who was visiting a nightclub at 66 Broadwick Street when the incident occurred, sustained injury to a vital artery and collapsed on the premises. He was taken to Middlesex University Hospital, where an emergency blood transfusion was performed.
As a result of your failure to vet the safety of the vampires using the site, we have advised our client that he is entitled to damages for your negligence. If you do not compensate our client for the sum of £100,000 by December 1, we are instructed to issue a claim in the High Court without recourse to you.
Yours faithfully,
Harvey & Co. Law
Once I finish reading, I go back to the beginning and read it over and over again, my head thumping with rage each time I get to the part about 66 Broadwick Street.
Clearly not content with poaching my clients with cheap tricks, Ronin is now hell-bent on ruining me completely. Without a doubt, it was he who suggested legal action, probably to divert attention from that creepy club of his.
I stand for a moment, clenching and unclenching my fists, contemplating a joyous scenario where the ancient explodes in a puff of black smoke and is never heard of again, before snatching my heels up from the floor and shoving my feet into them.
I crash out of the apartment, and this time, when I reach the stairs, I don’t turn back. This time, Ronin is going to feel the full force of my wrath.
Order Juliet Lyons’s next book
in the Bite Nights series
That Killer Smile
On sale February 2018
Acknowledgments
It goes without saying that a lot of hard work goes into writing a book. My part is merely the tip of the iceberg. I’d like to thank the wonderful team at Sourcebooks for all their support and hard work. In particular, Laura Costello, who, along with Cat Clyne, managed to whip Drop Dead Gorgeous into shape. A very special thank-you goes out to my amazing publicist, Stephany Daniel. Thank you for always being on the end of an email and for the tireless way in which you work your magic.
Thanks to my supportive family. Special mentions go to James, Mum, Richard, and Aunty Sue. Thank you also to my lovely friends Maeve, Maria, Mim, Ellen, Liz, Lucinda, and Claire. I am blessed to have such great people in my life.
And last but not least, my writing buddies: Leila Adams, RK Close, May Freighter, CJ Laurence, Sally Mason, Joanne Weaver, and Elicia Hyder. In the topsy-turvy world of the pen, it’s good to know you have my back.
About the Author
Juliet Lyons is a paranormal romance author from the UK. She holds a degree in Spanish and Latin American studies and works part-time in a local primary school, where she spends far too much time discussing Harry Potter. Since joining global storytelling site Wattpad in 2014, her work has received millions of hits online and gained a legion of fans from all over the world. When she is not writing or working, Juliet enjoys reading and spending time with her family. Visit her online at julietlyons.co.uk.
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