by Juliet Lyons
I gesture toward the bar. “Just get the drinks before I regret inviting you.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” he says, backing away.
I swirl my index finger in circles, mouthing at him to turn around.
I’m enjoying the view, he mouths tilting his head and smirking. You turn around.
This man could be the death of me. I flip him the bird and turn back to the stage, pretending to listen to the music for a couple of minutes until he arrives back with our drinks.
“I got you a double,” he says, holding out a glass tumbler brimming with ice. “I figured it might make things easier later on if I loosen your inhibitions now.”
“Asshole,” I say, taking the drink and stifling a smile. I motion to the dark-brown liquid in his glass. “Do vampires actually need liquids?”
He takes a swig, licking his soft, pink lips. “No. We don’t need anything to survive. But it’s enjoyable—to eat and drink. Alcohol doesn’t affect us the same way it does humans though, just in case you’re planning to ply me with booze and drag me off to bed.”
I smirk. “I don’t think I’d need alcohol for that. I’d say it was there for the taking.”
His green eyes latch on to mine, tension crackling between us like static, and for the first time since the night we met, I allow myself the luxury of a full-on stare. I trail a gaze over his body, svelte yet masculine, a sharp outline of muscle straining beneath his T-shirt. Not for the first time, I ache to be naked in his arms. I shiver, turning back to Ollie’s singing in an attempt to break the spell. Suddenly, it feels as though it’s just the two of us in the whole bar. Even the thumping music is muted by his presence, people around us paling into the shadows like ghosts.
When I turn around, Logan’s heavy-lidded eyes are still fixed on my face. This time, I don’t look away.
“So, what’s the deal with you and the redhead on stage?” he asks suddenly.
“You mean Ollie, my friend?”
He nods. “Are you just friends?”
I frown. Usually, I’d answer cryptically. I’m not above games when it comes to dating, but something about his furrowed brow, the tight set of his jaw, tells me he’s serious.
“Just friends,” I say. “Since we were nine years old and I rescued him from the school bully.”
Logan chuckles. “I can picture it now—Silver the nine-year-old firecracker. I bet you’ve always had that tiny mark of scorn just above your left eyebrow.”
“It did take two lunchtime supervisors to pull me off,” I say proudly. “What mark?”
He points to a spot above his brow. “Here. It pops up whenever something pisses you off, which in my company, seems to be all the time.”
“You’re not pissing me off now,” I say, sipping my drink. “You didn’t New Year’s Eve either. Mind you, that was before you started stalking me.”
Smiling, he puts his glass down on the table beside us. “It’s only stalking if you don’t want to jump the bones of the man following you.”
“Have you always been a cocky bastard?” I ask. “Or is it just for my benefit?”
The dimples flash. “Not always.”
“What were you like as a kid? I mean, presuming you can remember.”
He frowns. “I was the tortured type—dark, brooding, sensitive.”
“Christ. What happened?”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “Somewhere around the turn of the twentieth century, I got over it.”
“How did you become a vampire?” I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t. The smile drops from his face, sadness passing across his features like a gray cloud blocking the sun.
Just as he opens his mouth to answer, a smattering of applause breaks out around us, signaling the song has ended. All at once, despite the chatter and noise of the bar, the room feels too quiet. His green eyes flash luminously as he takes the empty glass from my hand and puts it carefully on the table beside his.
With the slow grace of a dancer, he extends an arm toward me, saying in a low, gritty voice, “Let’s get out of here.”
Mesmerized, I take his arm, and he pulls me through crowds of drinkers, out onto the street.
Outside, he fiddles with my jacket, drawing it across my chest and fastening the zipper to keep out the cold. The road is still busy, cars rolling by, headlights strung out like yellow fairy lights. Dozens of workers are heading home, a frantic itch in their hurried strides. He grabs my hands, pulling me into the dark entrance of a closed shop. My breathing is shallow as he leans closer, his clean, soapy scent a balm to the pungent odor of exhaust fumes. My hands move to his chest, tracing the lines of muscle over his flimsy, gray T-shirt.
“Silver,” he whispers.
The sound of my name in his mouth wields a strange, illicit power over my body. I feel soft and hard all at once, like molten steel. “Yes?” I say, the word tight in my throat.
We hang, suspended in time. In the oddest way, looking into his eyes is like staring into a mirror. I see desire but with a cloud of darkness stretched out behind it, a shadow in the midday sun. And then the thread holding us apart snaps, and his lips land on mine, my mouth already opening to let him in.
Our tongues collide, softly this time, stroking in a familiar rhythm, as if we’ve kissed not just twice, but hundreds of times before. His hands move to my face, cupping my jaw, thumbs rubbing circles on my cheekbones. A wild thought pops into my head: This is how it must feel to kiss someone you love. It’s as if time has ceased to exist, and all the city sounds—distant sirens, car horns, the heavy drone of double-decker buses as they hurtle along—blur into the background.
I have no idea how long we stay kissing in the shop doorway. It could be seconds or hours, but eventually we break apart, his green eyes dark with indecipherable emotion.
“You’re not bad at kissing, I suppose,” I murmur, watching his eyes as they crinkle around the edges.
“High praise, Silver,” he whispers back. “For the record, you’re not so bad yourself.”
We’re still smiling and staring when a loud voice cuts in, “Get a room, for Christ’s sake.”
We look around to see a street sweeper in a high-visibility jacket, standing with his broom, peering into the doorway. “It’s bad enough having to deal with the druggies,” he says, shaking his head, “without adding love’s young dream into the mix.”
Logan laughs, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the shop. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat in his direction.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” The man is still grumbling to himself as we laugh, darting into a side street.
“Do you suffer from motion sickness?” Logan asks, arms around my waist, forehead leaning against mine.
I trail hands under his jacket, up over his broad shoulders. “No, why?”
“You asked how I became a vampire. I want to show you.”
I frown, leaning away. “That sounds ominous.”
“Not literally. I want to take you to the place where it happened.” He turns around and crouches. “Hop aboard.”
“You’re kidding me. Piggyback?”
He straightens up. “You’ll be ending this evening with your legs wrapped around me one way or another.”
My jaw drops, and I swipe him with the back of my hand. “In case you’re not familiar with the consent campaign, Logan, a kiss isn’t a promise of sex.”
“What about a hand job in the kitchen?”
“Bend over and stop talking,” I say, trying hard to look offended.
He turns his back again. “Be gentle with me, nurse,” he teases. “Be sure to use the glove this time.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, putting my hands on his shoulders. “You’re such an ass, Logan Byrne.”
“An ass you can’t wait to see naked,” he mutters.
As I jump ont
o his back, he grabs my legs under the knees, and even though piggyback has to be the most unsexy joining of two bodies known to mankind, I still feel the burn of his touch through our clothes.
“Ready?” he asks, peering over his shoulder.
I gulp, tightening my arms around his chest and burying my face in his warm neck. Suddenly, I’m not so sure. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Hang on tight.”
I try to say okay, but the word is lost in the wind as we take flight, my stomach dropping like a stone into the sea. We move upward, air rushing in my ears, just like on the roller coasters I used to love as a kid. I open my eyes a fraction—after realizing they’re glued shut—to see the city lights merged together in colorful, unbroken streaks. Slowly, the fear of being dropped melts away, and I twist my head, watching London unfold beneath us, dark and glittering, like granite.
Logan isn’t flying like I thought but leaping, hurtling across the spaces between tall buildings as if they were no more than stepping-stones on a stream. I laugh out loud as we plunge downward, and for the first time in my life, I feel completely free, awed by the grace and agility of these creatures who defy every stodgy law of human nature.
Slowly, the air thins out, the taste of salt sharp on my tongue. The hurricane in my ears settles to a gentle breeze.
We’re next to the Thames, frothy waves sloshing against the bank. In the darkness, the water glistens like metal, the hulk of skyscrapers reflected perfectly in the gray water.
Logan loosens his grip and crouches again. “Are you all right back there?”
“I’m more than all right,” I say in a dry voice, wiping my watery eyes.
I climb off his back and he turns, holding me steady against a wave of dizziness.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “we have now reached our destination. Please return your seats to their upright positions and take any personal belongings with you from the aircraft.”
I poke him in the ribs. “Shut it, loser.”
He chuckles, gripping me gently by the shoulders. “It takes a while to get used to.”
Once the giddiness has passed, I lift my head, noticing huge container ships close by, cranes jutting high into the skyline. “Are we at Docklands?”
Finally, he releases me. “We are indeed. The last place I ever lived as a human on earth.”
I stare at the vessels and boats. “You mean they turned you in London? I thought it would have been Ireland.”
He smiles his devastating smile, draping an arm around my shoulders. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”
We walk together along a ramp to a wide, concrete path by the side of the river. A fine mist is visible, hanging above the water like smoke, the cloying whiff of algae becoming ever more pungent. We duck beneath a metal barrier with the sign AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Here, there are several large ships docked, all part of a tourist attraction operating out of the museum nearby.
Two of the ships are naval vessels, gray and pointed at the hulls, like gigantic torpedoes, but the last one is older and wooden. It has proper sails, like a pirate ship, but is of a greater height. There are several decks, stacked one on top of the other, recognizable by the small, square windows of their cabins. At first, I can’t see a name, but then as we draw closer, I make out the words HMS Success painted on the stern in swirly, old-fashioned writing.
Logan has been silent these past few moments. He stops and turns to me, holding out a hand toward the ship. “This was my last home.”
I stare up at the impressive hulk. “You were a pirate?”
He laughs. “No. It’s not a pirate ship, Silver—it’s a prison.”
Chapter 8
Logan
Silver’s shoulders droop. “Oh,” she says, staring out at the stern of the ship. “I’d prefer it if you were a pirate.”
I smile, longing to reach out and take her hand, but I daren’t. Most women would have freaked out by now. I don’t want to push my luck.
She folds her arms across her chest, looking at me without the slightest hint of fear in her steel-gray eyes. “So that brings up the inevitable question—what did you do? Wait, let me guess. Your family was starving to death in the potato famine, so you stole money to send home?”
“Not quite,” I say with a smirk. “Though you got the decade right. It was the time of the great famine, but I wasn’t imprisoned for theft.” I pause, aware my next words may mean the end of whatever it is going on between us. “I was imprisoned for murder.”
Her face remains impassive. With a sigh, she kicks a stone into the water, where it lands with a shallow plop. “Of course you were. After all, I’m Silver Harris, bad-boy magnet extraordinaire.”
Okay, she’s not running or screaming. This is going well. “But I was innocent.”
She continues to jab at loose stones beneath her feet, wavy hair falling across her face like a curtain in a confessional. “Isn’t that what they all say?” she asks without meeting my gaze.
I shrug. “Maybe. In my case it’s true.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” she asks with her familiar snark. “Please don’t say I’ve somehow ended up in the friend zone.”
I close the distance between us before she even knows I’ve moved, folding an arm around her waist and pulling her roughly up against me, so that every part of our bodies—from our knees to the tips of our noses—are touching. I stiffen at the feeling of her warm breasts pressed into my chest. She smells like smudged lipstick and clean linen. “You’ll never enter my friend zone, Miss Harris,” I mutter, twirling a hand into her soft, auburn hair. “But you asked how I became a vampire, and this is it.” I loosen my arms, staring up at the prison hulk. “Shall we take a closer look?”
She exhales slowly, as if she was holding her breath the whole time I held her. “Okay.”
Tightening my grip again, I clamp her to my side and leap with a single bound onto the upper deck of HMS Success. As soon as we land, I regret bringing her here. No matter how many years have passed, how polished the ship looks, the misery I suffered rears up within me like some dark, forgotten beast. I let Silver go, gazing around the vast deck as if I’m staring death itself in the face.
“You know,” Silver pipes up, gaping at a thick curtain of rigging hanging from a mast, “when I was a kid, I was obsessed with pirates. I always wanted to climb the rigging.”
The sound of her voice dissolves some of my inner darkness. I glance over. She is smiling, without the slanted brow for once, and the effect is very alluring. She looks young and fresh, like a naughty pixie—her eyes match the twinkling stars.
I flash a smile, struck by a sudden, deep compulsion to make her happy, to see her smile like that every day. “Why don’t you? Now you have the chance.”
She looks between me and the rigging and back again before tossing her bag across the deck at my feet. “I’m doing it,” she says, eyes lit up.
I watch her put a foot into a square several inches off the deck and heave herself onto the ropes. About halfway up the rigging is a crow’s nest. She looks up at it as she begins to climb. “You better catch me if I fall, Byrne,” she yells.
“I will, me hearty,” I shout back, my previous unease melting away like snow in the morning sun.
Her hand stills on the rope for a second, and she calls out, “Arrr!”
Chuckling, I cross the deck to stand beneath her. “Your ass looks great in those jeans, by the way,” I call out.
“Shut up. I’m concentrating, pervert.”
I shake my head, still laughing. When I glance up again, I notice she’s no longer moving. The rigging is swinging back and forth, and she’s frozen to the ropes, like a fly in ice. “Are you okay up there?”
There is silence for a few seconds before she answers in a wobbly voice, “No.”
I’m by her side in a split second, casually hangi
ng from the rope by one hand.
“Stop showing off,” she says, scowling. “It’s a lot harder than it looks.”
Laughing, I scoop her up around the thighs and leap into the crow’s nest, letting her drop through my arms onto the uneven, wooden floor.
In silence, we stare out across Canary Wharf and into the distance, the river weaving through brightly lit skyscrapers like a ribbon of spun gold, toward the older part of the city—Big Ben, Tower Bridge, and the ghostly white dome of Saint Paul’s.
London is forever changing—governments, buildings, people—but the dark spirit of the Thames remains constant. It feels the same as it did all those years ago when I arrived, fresh off the boat from Ireland.
Fearing Silver is cold, I take off my denim jacket and drape it around her shoulders, lifting her hair out from the back of the collar. She shivers when my hand brushes her neck, and our eyes lock. “So, tell me how it happened,” she says. Her voice is as steady as the tide lapping against the hull.
I break her gaze and suck in an empty breath, looking up into the star-spangled, navy-blue sky. I’ve always related to the stars. Like me, they are dead things that still shine. I sit on the floor of the crow’s nest, letting my legs dangle between the wooden rails, patting the space beside me. Silver follows suit, and I fight the urge to place a hand on her thigh. I put my hands either side of my hips instead, nurturing the vague hope she might make the first move this time.
“I don’t know where to start,” I say, looking into her pretty face.
She puts a hand on the wood, close to mine but not touching. “How long were you in prison for?”
I sigh. It’s been years since I spoke of it. “About a year. I was sentenced to transportation to the colonies. But, of course, that never happened. Not in the end.”
Silver glances around the ship. “Is it the same as you remember?”
“No.” I scoff, remembering grime and grease clinging to every surface, the stench of human excrement that wound its way into your pores like a tapeworm. “It’s fine and polished now, but back then, it was a filth pit. Our days as prisoners were spent dredging the Thames. If we didn’t work, we didn’t get food or water. At night, we were chained to our bunks.”
