by Juliet Lyons
For one awful moment, he remains frozen to the spot, and I wonder if I’m about to be rejected for a second time this evening. But then his arms gently circle my waist, and he lowers his lips to mine.
My life changes forever.
If you must know, I’ve kissed my fair share of guys in the past, but there has never been anything quite like this. I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t New Year’s Eve, I’d still be hearing fireworks.
He starts off slow, lips gently parting mine, hands sliding over the contours of my body. I push my breasts against his chest as he begins gently flicking his tongue against mine, and I groan into his mouth.
His hands knot into my hair as the kiss picks up speed, and a lick of heat, as exotic and consuming as a blast of tropical air, roars through me, turning me liquid with desire. If he wasn’t holding me up, I’m fairly certain I would be no more than a puddle at his feet.
I mold into him, lost in the sensation of his lips on mine, hard and soft in all the right places, our tongues dancing back and forth in tender rhythm. Wanting to explore, I slide my hands beneath his T-shirt, caressing the taut muscles of his stomach, silky and warm under my fingers.
I now regret leading him to the wrong house. If we were outside my flat, I would waste no time in dragging him inside and having my wicked way with him on the sofa. As it stands, I can hardly admit I’ve lied.
But there is something else I’m willing to try—something that can be done right here on the street. As his mouth leaves my lips, trailing hot, feverish kisses along my jaw, I lean over, exposing my neck to his mouth.
He pauses, his lips warm on my throat. “Are you sure?” he whispers, voice low, crushed beneath a weight of desire.
“Yes,” I say, my voice raspy, running a hand into the waistband of his jeans. “Do it.”
There is a faint, exquisite pain as his teeth sink into my flesh, and as my body sags against his, my mind is filled with an unusual feeling of peace. I see a riot of colors—yellows and pinks, like a sunset—and slowly, they flood my senses, pulling me down into a whirlpool of bliss, until all sense of reality is lost.
When I’m finally pulled back into the present, I realize his mouth is no longer at my throat. He’s holding me against him, stroking my cheek with the back of his hand.
“Am I dead?” I ask dreamily. “I don’t feel the cold.”
“No,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “But I’m afraid I had to stop.”
I pull away a little. “Is kissing a vampire always like that?”
He smiles, a smug glint in his eye. “Without wanting to sound arrogant, it is with me. Or so I’ve been told.”
Smiling, I prod him with an index finger. “Check out the vampire stud.”
He chuckles softly and holds open the little gate at the front of the house, standing aside to let me pass. “I have to go now, Silver.”
I walk through and turn around, still dazed from the bite. “Wait,” I say, hating the edge of desperation to my voice. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
Hands in his pockets, shoulders set in arrogance, he grins. “Perhaps I’ll tell you some other time.”
As quickly as he arrived, he disappears into the night, a mini cyclone of skittering leaves the only evidence of his departure.
I sag against the garden wall, my lips still buzzing from his knee-trembling kiss.
How will I ever go back to human guys after this?
Chapter 2
Logan
By the time I reach the chipped black door on Broadwick Street, Soho, I’m almost an hour late for my meeting with London’s long-reigning vampire overlord, Ronin McDermott. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, desperately trying to clear my head. I fail miserably. In spite of the pungent odor of damp and garbage rising up from the London street, the girl’s intoxicating flavor lingers, sharp as citrus on my tongue, and her sweet scent—white wine and roses—assaults my nostrils to the point where I imagine she is still in my arms. My cock stiffens as I remember her hands under my T-shirt, her tongue lapping mine, the deep, guttural groan that escaped her throat as I sank my fangs into her creamy skin.
I shiver, opening my eyes. “Jesus, Logan,” I tell myself, adjusting the front of my tight black jeans. “Get it together, man.”
I dart a glance over each shoulder before stepping closer to the battered door and staring into a tiny camera hidden beside the drainpipe. There is a whirring noise as it swivels toward me, a red dot flashing.
With a sigh, I shove my hands into my pockets and wait. I look around at the empty street—the shop fronts with their metal barriers pulled down, the row of trash bins, garbage bags spilling out like vomit—and wish, for all it’s worth, I’d never left the snarky girl in the stolen coat.
Directly opposite is a popular coffee shop, and I wonder, not for the first time, how humans so often miss the obvious. Hundreds if not thousands pound this street every day, but I’d bet money no one notices the crimson splatter of dried blood half pooled beneath the door on the concrete where I stand. Not a single person ever ponders what goes on behind the neglected facade of 66 Broadwick Street.
A few more seconds pass until the door rattles like a snake, a deep clunk resonating through the wood as heavy-duty locks are hauled back. Finally, it opens, and the human doorman, a tall, thin-lipped gentleman with a shock of gray hair, is waiting to usher me inside.
“Evening, Mr. Byrne,” he says in a gruff voice. He’s dressed in typical nightclub security gear—black suit, white shirt, no tie. There is even a curly communication wire running from ear to collar.
“Evening, Jordan,” I say, stepping past him into the long, rabbit-warren-like corridor.
Pleasantries aside, neither of us speaks again. Occasionally, I wonder if Jordan is his first name or last, but by the time I reach the second door, I usually forget all about him. Tonight is no different.
The inner door opens, and at once, the unmistakable aroma of alcohol, smoke, and open veins hits like a tidal wave. I step into the room, looking down from the top of a narrow flight of stairs into the hazy half-light below. Here, in London’s most taboo nightspot, vampires and humans coexist in a disturbing tableau of blood and desire.
The New Year’s party appears to be in full swing. Right away, I catch sight of a half-naked blond woman spread-eagle across a narrow table. Her arms hang down limply as two vampires, their greedy faces smeared with blood, lap at each wrist. From where I stand, it’s hard to tell if her face is contorted with ecstasy or pain—possibly a little of both. I stare, transfixed for a second, before homing my senses in on her pulse.
Normal—for now, at least. Unfortunately, wading into situations like this is how I earn my living. I believe my official title at the club is enforcer, a tidy label for spending my evenings plucking humans from the jaws of death, fixing them up, and sending them on their merry way none the wiser. In the beginning, it felt good being able to save a life here and there, but these days it seems so pointless. Most of those I heal are back for more within the week.
Not that I’m one to judge. In my darker days, I also sought solace within the empty embraces of the twisted and depraved. I too was a parasite, sucking meaninglessly at the open arteries of human beings either too drunk or too desperate to care. Though it’s true enough we don’t need blood to survive, some crave its sweet taste just as dangerously as if they did. I guess you could say they are the vampire version of alcoholics, and just like alcoholism, such addiction ruins lives. Luckily for myself and the humans around me, my own bloodlust was short-lived.
Apart from this trio, everyone else seems to be behaving themselves. I continue down the steps, glancing around the dark-purple booths lining the walls, where people sit chatting, wispy spirals of smoke lacing the air.
There’s a jazz singer in tonight, an eye-catching, buxom redhead with her hair twisted up 1940s style. She is accompanied by a
thin black gentleman playing a saxophone. I catch her eye as I pass by the little circular stage and she winks at me. She’s human, though her sax player isn’t—no heartbeat. She holds my gaze and runs her hands up and down the microphone stand suggestively. On a normal night, I’d smile and wink back, but this evening, I look away. I’m unwilling to dilute the memory of that heated midnight exchange so quickly.
I head for the long, granite bar stretching the width of the club. Paulo, a Hispanic bartender with strangely yellow eyes, spots me and grabs a bottle of spirits to fix me a shot. He’s a vampire too, so it’s ready and waiting on the bar in an instant.
“Happy New Year, buddy,” I say, holding up the tiny glass and throwing the amber liquid down my throat. Although alcohol doesn’t work for us in quite the same way it does humans, it makes me feel better somehow. Maybe it’s the placebo effect.
“Is he still here?” I ask, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.
Paulo nods. “Back room.” He smirks, looking over my shoulder. “Someone else is here to see you too, by the looks of things.”
I groan. Without turning around, I know he means the club’s human hostess, Collette. A pair of sun-kissed arms wrap themselves around my chest like tentacles as a soft voice purrs in my ear, “Hey, Logan.”
Carefully, I extract myself from her unwelcome embrace, holding one of the manicured hands and turning around. I let go as gently as possible, leaning back against the bar. “Hey, Collette. How’ve you been?”
She pouts, looking up through thick, spidery lashes. “You haven’t been around much lately.”
I pause, trying to figure out how to answer without giving false hope. We slept together a couple of months ago and I get the impression she’s rather keen on a repeat performance.
Using the gap in conversation to good effect, she pulls herself to full height, pushing out her ample chest. I have to say, outfit-wise, she’s pulled out all the stops tonight. She wears a short, black tube dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, a thick coil of honey-colored hair half covering her face. The effect is a shade Jessica Rabbit.
“I’ve not been available,” I say, staring into my empty shot glass.
Collette is a nice girl and all, but even if she wasn’t as shallow as a puddle in the Sahara, there’s no way I’d be interested in a round two. Human women of a certain age are hardwired to find a mate, something I prefer to avoid at all costs.
She steps toward me, running a red-painted fingernail around the neckline of my T-shirt and toying with the tiny gold medallion at my neck. I lean away, elbows hitting the bar. “You got a new girl or something?” she asks, eyes flashing.
I gulp. Being a vampire does nothing to ease the terror of telling a woman she was just a one-night stand. “Yeah,” I say, watching her kohl-lined eyes widen. “I have.”
Collette’s hand drops from my T-shirt like a dead weight. Her face sours, lips pursed as if sucking lemons. “She won’t last.”
I brush an imaginary speck of dirt from my shoulder, avoiding her stony gaze. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Stepping away, she places one hand on a jutting hip bone. “No girl can handle a vampire man like I can.”
I resist the urge to smile. “Well, as you know, Collette, I’m no ordinary vampire.”
She turns, defeated, before walking back across the room with her hips swinging. A dozen pairs of eyes swivel to watch her.
When I turn back to Paulo, he is grinning from ear to ear, his unusual eyes the color of early morning sun. “Is that true?” he asks, polishing an empty glass with a dishrag. “Logan Byrne has finally found love?”
Shaking my head, I motion to my empty glass, putting it on the bar in front of him. “Nah, just needed an excuse.”
Paulo grabs a bottle and fills the glass to the top. “What’s the deal with you and women anyway?” he asks, sliding my drink across the shiny counter. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with the same girl twice. Did someone break your heart or something?”
“You have to give your heart to get it broken,” I say, swirling the amber liquid around the rim. “And I’m not in the business of loaning mine out.”
Before Paulo can respond, a short, balding man, almost as wide as he is tall, appears through a door next to the bar. “Mr. McDermott is ready for you, Mr. Byrne,” he says, eyes as flat and expressionless as glass. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’s some kind of glamour on him.
I take a deep breath before fixing my mouth into a nonchalant smile and following McDermott’s minion into a long, sterile-looking passageway, a door open at one end.
When we reach the threshold, the man stands aside, and I step ahead of him into the room, momentarily blinded by a thick wall of cigar smoke. I see the leggy brunette before I see Ronin—which isn’t surprising, considering she’s straddling his lap in one of the chairs by the fireplace, lips attached to his face.
His hand leaves her butt long enough to signal I should wait, so I stare around me, ignoring the suckling sounds by feigning interest in the luxurious leather-and-chrome interior of the room. Finally, with a slap on the backside, he dismisses the girl and she climbs off, tugging her short dress down her thighs.
“You’re late, Logan,” he says in his mellow Scottish accent, gazing after the young woman as she leaves the room.
I step closer, one thumb looped into a pocket of my jeans, trying to create the illusion of confidence. “My apologies. I got waylaid.”
McDermott motions to the leather seat opposite him. “Sit down,” he says, shoving a fat cigar between his lips. “Excuse the smoke. I always celebrate New Year’s with a Black Dragon or two.”
I nod, sliding into a tan leather seat. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”
He watches me intently as he pulls a silver lighter from his suit jacket, flipping the lid open and holding the tiny flame to the massive cigar.
Ronin McDermott isn’t just the city’s overlord; he is also an ancient, one of an elite group of vampires who are considered the oldest on earth. With his Celtic looks, I often think Ronin must have been an early Scots warrior—he wouldn’t look out of place storming over a hillside, spear in hand. His only weakness appears to be a playboy penchant for beautiful women. Still, as overlords go, there are worse out there. Way worse.
The cigar tip glows as he inhales, his cheeks hollowing out. “There are a couple of reasons I asked you to see me tonight,” he says, exhaling a long trail of smoke. “A favor I need and a warning.”
One thing I appreciate about Ronin McDermott is he rarely plays games. “Are the two connected?” I ask, leaning back in the chair.
Ronin shakes his head, tapping ash onto the red carpet. “No. The warning is separate. I’ll get to that. First the favor.” He holds my gaze a moment, a thin line appearing between his thick eyebrows. “Are you familiar with Internet dating, Logan?”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Internet dating?” Here I was thinking he was about to ask me to hide a body. “Not really. I mean, I’ve never had any trouble finding women willing to sleep with me.”
The overlord laughs, the sound rattling around the office like a roll of thunder. “Of course. Me neither, as you know. But I trust you’ve heard of the concept?”
I nod. “Sure I have. There’s a woman in my building who uses it, though she complains the men are either married or short.”
“Fascinating,” Ronin says, puffing vigorously on his cigar. “Did you also know there is now a site which specializes in matching up vampires with humans? V-Date, they call it.”
I frown. “That’s a new one on me.”
“It’s thriving, apparently. While our kind remain segregated in most areas of society, it seems romance is the exception.”
I cock a smile. “We are a sexy bunch.”
McDermott’s face remains impassive, as if he hasn’t heard me. His bl
ue eyes are as cold as morning frost. “Unfortunately, the whole venture isn’t quite as harmless as it may first appear.”
“Why is that?” So far, I have no idea what he’s driving at.
He flings the cigar into the fireplace and leans forward, forearms balanced on his knees. “Let me get straight to the point. We’re being spied on, Logan. Ever since that dumb actress did her big show-and-tell, we’ve been the focus of government agencies around the world. They know we exist and they want to know everything about us.”
Resisting the urge to sigh, I drum my fingers restlessly on the arm of the chair. Politics never gets any more interesting, no matter how many years pass. “What does that have to do with Internet dating?” I ask, biting my lip to stay focused. Now the threat of danger is over, my thoughts keep drifting back to the girl I left in Chelsea.
“I have a man working for me, an inspector at Scotland Yard and a vampire, though his colleagues don’t know that. They’re using this site, this V-Date, to recruit informants, to gather information—how we work, our hierarchy.” He pauses, looking faintly impressed. “It’s actually very clever. Imagine how much knowledge the human patrons of this club have gathered over the years. If they could tap into that knowledge…”
“Knowledge is power,” I murmur.
“Exactly,” he says, leaning back. “A power we need to retain, if we’re ever going to maintain the old ways.”
Personally, I’m not too concerned about the old ways. They’ve done little for me over the years. “So where do I come into all this?”
He smiles, revealing teeth as white as freshwater pearls. “I think I’ve been fair to you over the years, Logan, have I not? I broke your blood tie to Anastasia at the beginning of the last century, given you employment here at the club.”
Here it is, the moment I’ve been waiting for since I began working for him. Ronin McDermott was never going to be the type of man to let a debt go unpaid. I stare into the orange glow of the fire, drumming my fingers on the arms of the chair. “I’ll be forever indebted to you for breaking me from her, Ronin, you know that.”
