by Juliet Lyons
The phone instantly vibrates, skittering across the countertop as if on legs. Type the full address in. It’s probably on the deep web.
I enter www.V-Date.com into the address bar and get instantly transferred to a professional-looking website. I’m not precisely sure what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t normalcy. The site looks like any other dating site—a slick image of an attractive couple plastered across the background. Peering closer at the models, I decide the man does look a little pale. Or maybe it’s the woman who’s a vampire. It’s sort of hard to tell—neither are displaying any fangs.
The motto of the site sits neatly beneath the spiky V-Date logo—Dating with a difference. “They got that right,” I mutter, clicking a button to choose who I am and what I’m looking for. I click I am a woman searching for a male vampire and hit Go, waiting while a circle swirls blue dots at the top of the page.
“Damn!” I say as it brings up a payment box. Jess was right about the extortionate charges. Who knew supernatural dating would be such a money-spinner?
I lean back on the stool, drumming my fingers on my knees. Did I really want to do this? I think of Joshua and all the other idiots I’ve met since moving to London. That one clinch with the vampire had been more satisfying than all those paltry offerings glued together. What’s more, human guys and I were proving to be something of a bad fit. Men were either utter douche bags like Joshua, or the settling-down types who try to hold hands in the street. Not my thing. I’m not the relationship kind, nor do I ever plan to be.
I leap off the stool and rummage in the kitchen drawer where I keep my emergencies-only credit card. Feeling a slight flutter in the pit of my stomach, I tap in all the numbers and click Join. I’m relieved to notice, unlike other dating sites, there is no need to complete an exhausting list of likes and hobbies—handy, seeing as my only hobbies are going to parties and shopping.
Once my picture is uploaded—black-and-gold sleeveless dress at work’s Christmas party last year—I’m released like an excited puppy into a forum of men’s photos. My eyes widen. Jess was right. A sea of male beauty swims before me. My eyes dart from one chiseled jawline to the next. It’s like being handed a copy of GQ magazine and asked to pick a model to take home for the evening. I grin maniacally and click on a picture of a dark-haired vampire named Christian. He’s a poet, apparently. No thank you. Poets are notorious hand-holders.
Next, I click on a blue-eyed hottie with perfect light-brown hair swept sideways off his forehead. All it says is Businessman. Now this is more like it. Labeling yourself an entrepreneur or businessperson is an unspoken promise of a swanky, all-expenses-paid date. He’ll probably own a Porsche. I click on the pink lipstick mark in the corner of his page, which will apparently zap him a link to my details, before returning to the profiles.
I’d gotten so excited by all the square jaws, I almost forgot to check for Mr. Irish himself. I lean closer to the screen, scanning every face for green eyes and deadly dimples. Nothing. I suck in a disappointed breath. Of course he doesn’t need Internet dating. All he has to do is hang around the streets looking sexy.
A pinging noise breaks into my thoughts, and when my eyes flicker back to the screen, I see a message waiting from the hot businessman I sent the lips request to.
Hey, it reads. Thanks for liking my profile. If you’re London-based, how about meeting up for a drink?
I take a photo of the message and send it to Jess. This is going to be fun.
Chapter 4
Logan
Several weeks later, Ronin calls me in for a daytime meeting. Not having mentioned the subject of Internet dating since New Year’s Day, I’d assumed he changed his mind about using me in his shady scheme. Clearly not.
The streets are busy, bustling with lunch-hour shoppers and tourists, taxis and red buses clogging the roads. A light drizzle falls, the sky grayer than the pigeons pecking around the pavement for scraps. A thousand pinched faces blur past, some clutching cardboard cups, others with brightly patterned umbrellas held low over their faces. As usual, no one notices the black, faceless entrance of 66 Broadwick Street.
I lean against the wall until there is a gap in the flow of pedestrians, then look up into the camera.
A crackle from an unseen intercom rips through the air and a familiar Scottish voice erupts. “It’s open.”
I push the door open and step inside, the buzz and bustle of the street fading as it slams shut behind me.
Down the narrow hall I walk, alone this time, the dim light from the street showing stains and blemishes on the cream-colored walls—dirt, piss, a pinkish mark that betrays old blood. I push open the second door and look down into the empty room. Without the smoke and chatter of nighttime, the room is stripped of its glamour. The black walls are shiny, as if coated in a thin layer of sweat, and the air reeks of stale beer. Beneath it, ever pungent, lingers the unmistakable scent of dried blood.
Ronin is alone, sitting in a purple-upholstered booth next to the bar. He’s wearing a white shirt under a rich-blue cashmere sweater, his hair russet beneath the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting. I glance around, expecting to see one of his faithful minions lurking at one of the tables, but it appears we are alone.
He drops me a nod as I slide into the booth opposite him and shake off my denim jacket. It’s then I notice a square of white, folded paper on the table between us.
Sliding it across the table, his lips twitch upward into a half smile, half grimace. “Your first assignment,” he says.
I reach across to retrieve it, but his index finger lands, swift as an arrow, pinning it to the lacquered wood.
“They were clever with this one,” he says, worrying the edge of the paper with his thumb. “But luckily she hasn’t been approached yet. That should make your job nice and easy. A simple glamour will do the trick.” His usually glacial-blue eyes burn fiercely into mine. “She has no romantic interest in vampires. Never has, never will. Understood?”
I nod. “Why were they clever to choose her?” I ask when he finally removes his finger from the paper.
“Personal motives,” he mutters, averting his gaze. For a split second, a shadow of guilt flits across the rugged lines of his face. “Of course, there is every chance she would have refused them anyway, but we can’t take the risk.”
“Won’t they just keep recruiting more and more?” I ask, picking up the white, folded page.
“Then we’ll glamour more and more,” Ronin says. “But so far, they’re keeping the operation small, being selective with who they choose. Which works in our favor.”
I slip the paper into my pocket. “Any word from Anastasia?”
Ronin shakes his head. “Nothing. But I’ll keep you in the loop.”
Taking that as my cue to leave, I slide back out of the booth. “When do you want this done?”
“Tonight,” he says. “She’s meeting a date in the West End. The details are all there. Shouldn’t be hard to figure out who she is, but any trouble, you have her address too.”
“Gotcha.” I turn to leave, but he halts me, one finger raised.
“A simple glamour, Logan, remember? For her own sake.” A worry line dents the space between his brows. In all the years I’ve known Ronin McDermott, he has never shown the slightest regard for human life. Even the beautiful women he surrounds himself with are treated no better than attractive pets.
Flashing him a grin, I say, “Don’t worry. You said yourself the other night—you can trust me.”
He sits deathly still for a few seconds, languishing in a frozen daze, and then slowly, his eyes darken. “I hope so, Logan. Because I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if I can’t.”
Giving him a final nod, my stomach clenching with a sudden twist of fear, I make my way back up the steps and into the dimly lit passage.
I should wait until I’m back at my apartment to read the
details Ronin gave me, but for some reason, out on the overcast street, rain spattering my face, I pull out the paper and unfold it. Maybe it’s that I’m searching for a reason behind Ronin’s brief look of empathy, or perhaps I knew all along the name I would find staring out from the top of the page.
Silver Harris, 43b Jubilee Place, Chelsea.
* * *
Silver
I’m bored. I’m here on a date with possibly the hottest guy I’ve ever seen—both on and off TV—and I’d rather be at home watching Friends reruns in my pajamas.
Stifling a yawn, I glance around the dimly lit, Hawaiian-themed bar. Things are slow for a Thursday night in West London. A group of smartly dressed women sit on rattan sofas by the window, discarded briefcases and trench coats scattered around them in an explosion of tan leather and beige. A couple of men prop up the bar, staring at their phones and sipping from ceramic glasses shaped like tropical fruit. Then there’s me and Nathaniel the vampire—conversation all dried up.
“You look bored, Silver,” he observes politely.
My eyes snap back to the man opposite. It’s definitely not a good thing when you forget your date exists.
He is every bit as handsome as his picture—coiffed light-brown hair, shining, aquamarine eyes. His sharply tailored suit lends him a mature vibe—though he can’t have been any older than his late twenties when he turned. Physically, he is exactly my type—anyone’s type, really—but there is a lack of energy about him, a sadness I find disconcerting.
Truth is, I thought all vampires would be like Mr. Irish from the other night, sexy and cocky—and did I mention sexy? But so far, all my vampire dates have ended in disappointment. And this one looks to be going the same way.
Eyebrows raised, he leans back in the chair, toying with the stem of his wineglass. “Be honest. I don’t mind.”
“I am bored,” I begin carefully. “I mean, you’re very good-looking, and you’ve been really nice so far, but…”
He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you before.”
“I hear that a lot,” I say, stirring my drink with its ridiculously oversized cocktail umbrella. “But how so? Please don’t tell me I’m the first human you’ve met whose mind you can’t read.”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “Vampires can’t read minds, Silver. We read body language. If you’ve lived for as long as we have, you’d be fairly good at it too.” He runs a long, tapered finger around the edge of his glass. “Most humans are driven by the same life forces—money, sex, love. Once you work out what drives a person, the rest falls into place.” He pauses, brow knitting, head tilted to one side. “I don’t get what drives you though. Sadness perhaps?”
I toy with my straw, eyes fixed on his. “Have you dated many humans?”
“Yes, quite a few over the centuries. But unfortunately, there comes a time when they want what I can’t give—marriage, children. That’s why I use V-Date. The women on there are usually only interested in the short term—which suits me. How about you? What made you want to date vampires?”
“They’re hotter than regular men,” I say, not missing a beat.
Which is true enough, although not a single date has ended with anything other than a chaste kiss on the cheek. The first, a Russian vampire named Gleb, was so vain, he spent the whole evening checking his hair in the cutlery, and the second didn’t look a day over sixteen.
“That’s incredibly honest of you to admit,” Nathaniel says, clearly amused.
I lean back in the chair. “What’s the point in lying?”
We size each other up across the table. Beneath his starched, open-neck shirt, a sharp outline of muscle ripples his chest. Though I’m still not feeling overwhelmed by chemistry, I imagine how his full lips might feel against my throat. Maybe I should give it a chance.
“Nathaniel,” I say, pushing my drink to one side and leaning across the distressed wood table. “Would you like to bite me?”
His jaw slackens, azure eyes pulsating. In less than a millisecond, he is out of the seat and tearing the coat from the back of my chair. Ever the gentleman, he holds it aloft while I push my arms inside. Then he grabs my hand, leading me across the bar so quickly, I have to jog in my heels to keep up.
Outside, amid the stench of exhaust fumes, he pulls me through a double line of idling traffic toward a sleek, black Lamborghini parked on the opposite side of the street.
There is a click as he pulls a shiny key fob from his trouser pocket. “This is me,” he says, wrenching open the passenger door.
I duck down, folding into a luxurious, cream leather seat, and almost immediately he’s beside me, leaning across to fix my seat belt. He smells of expensive aftershave and fresh linen.
“Where are we going?” I ask, peering through the windshield at the cars lining the street.
As he steers the Lamborghini into the melee of traffic, yellow headlights accentuate the exquisitely carved lines of his profile. He really is superhot. To think, just a few moments ago, I actually contemplated ditching him.
“My apartment is near Farringdon,” he says, eyes glued to the road ahead.
“I can’t stay. I have work tomorrow.”
Wrenching the steering wheel to the left, he swerves the car into a dark side street and skids to a halt. His blue eyes shimmer luminously in the low light of the car. “What about here, then?”
“Here works for me,” I say, a slight tremor to my voice.
I thought we might kiss for a while first, but his gaze is fixed on my throat as he leans over and brushes tendrils of wavy hair aside. Cupping the back of my neck, he rubs a thumb in circles across my skin. “It’s been a long time,” he whispers huskily, as if to himself.
I stare, fascinated, as his mouth drops open. Where earlier his canine teeth appeared completely normal, they now protrude over his lips in sharp points.
Part of me recoils in horror, tells me to run. I am briefly considering listening to that voice when he lunges for me, closing the gap between us and burying his head between my shoulder and jaw.
There is pain, more so than with my first vampire, and unable to stop, I cry out, “Oww!”
He doesn’t falter. The fangs sink deeper, the sound of his sucking filling my ears. Then I’m falling, down and down into oblivion, sweet waves of bliss washing over me. This time, instead of colors, I see fields of waving yellow corn. A woman appears. She wears an old-fashioned long skirt and smock, a corset pulling her in at the waist. She is smiling and speaking Italian. I have never seen her before, but gazing at her face, I feel peaceful and loved.
When I come around, I’m still in the car seat. Nathaniel is watching me, a smile tugging the corners of his lips.
“What’s the time?” I ask, feeling foggy.
He gently brushes my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Still early. Don’t worry. I’ll drive you home.”
I sit up straight and put my hand to my neck. A smear of red stains my fingers. I frown, wondering why there’s a cut this time, but before I can ask, Nathaniel leans across and takes my hand. He closes his mouth over my fingers, licking the blood from them, and moaning in ecstasy.
“I want to see you again,” he murmurs, eyelids heavy with lust.
“Well, of course you do,” I say. “You’re bound to, after that.”
He nods, eager as a puppy.
Suddenly, I want to get as far away from him as possible. “The thing is, Nathaniel, I don’t do second dates.”
“Huh?”
“I’m still young, and I wouldn’t want to get attached—as lovely as it’s been meeting you and all.”
He looks utterly crestfallen. “Didn’t you enjoy it?” he asks. “I mean, you were making all kinds of noises. It sounded like you enjoyed it.”
Oh great. He’s clingy.
I decide to use the ruse I reserve for men of this nature. “I’m not sure my psychiatrist would approve, Nathaniel. Not after what happened last time.”
He looks blank for a few seconds, mouth hanging slightly open, before bursting into laughter. “Silver, I get it. I’ll drive you home. You can save your stories for the next poor soul who asks for a second chance.” Shaking his head, he turns the key in the ignition, the car purring to life.
Much like New Year’s Eve, I have this vampire drop me at a different house. This is London, former home of the Ripper, and you can’t be too careful. Although now, of course, I have a five-minute walk back to my apartment through the dark.
Sort of defeats the purpose, really.
The night is chilly and clear, speckled by a blanket of stars. I pull my wool coat around me, holding it tightly at the neck to keep the cold out. Farther ahead, a middle-aged man walking two golden retrievers crosses the road, but apart from him, the street is empty, the only sound the clickety-clack of my gold, peep-toe heels as they hit the pavement.
I’m a couple of blocks from home when I realize I’m being followed. There are no footsteps behind me or cars crawling suspiciously along the curbside, but I sense it in that same way you look up to find a stranger staring. An icy prickle creeps up my spine and into my veins.
I keep my pace steady, not wanting whoever it is to know I’m aware of them. To my left, on the other side of the road, is a long row of white stucco townhouses, and to my right, a large, private park, shielded from the public by green wrought-iron fencing. My flat is on the other side of the garden—if I were to cross it, I would be home in less than half the time. Eyes flickering from one side of the street to the other, I weigh up my options. On one hand, it makes no sense to wander into a dark, empty space when I might easily be followed in, but on the other, the element of surprise would work in my favor.
A bench is fast approaching. I could use it to hoist myself over the iron spikes and into the garden. I’m starting to wonder how I’ll get back out again when I hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps quicken at my heels. Frenzy grips me, and I spring onto the bench. Using one of the green spikes, I vault over the railings into the undergrowth.
