by Juliet Lyons
Silver frowns. “I thought people were hanged for murder back then.”
“Oh, they were, and under normal circumstances, I would’ve undoubtedly been one of them, but you see, the prosecution had no real evidence I’d murdered the fellow. They believed I was guilty, of course—I was Irish and a gypsy, an easy scapegoat—but the courts demanded proof, and of that, they had very little. In the end, they offered me a deal. If I would confess to manslaughter, they’d waive the death sentence and transport me instead.”
“You were a gypsy?” she asks, eyes narrowed.
I laugh, edging my hand a fraction closer. “Yes. Is that an issue with you? Vampires, fine. Gypsies, no thanks.”
She smiles. “No, it’s just interesting. How did you even come to be in London?”
I sigh. “Ironically, I wanted a better life. Back in Ireland, I came from a big family of Romani gypsies. We never stayed anywhere for long. I got tired of it. I wanted to lay down roots and study.”
Her brow arches. “Study what? The stalking and seduction of women?”
“No,” I say, meeting her teasing gray eyes. “I wanted to learn homeopathic medicine. My mother and my grandmother were healers—some would say witches. They knew a lot about herbal remedies. They taught me everything they knew.” I pause, toying with the small gold medallion on the chain around my neck. “I inherited the gift of healing from them. It only gets passed down to one child per generation. I was the one.”
She holds up her index finger. “Wait a second. Is that why I didn’t bleed when you bit me? Why you healed the marks Nathaniel left?”
“Yep.”
“So all other vampires leave bite marks?” she asks, wide-eyed.
I nod, amused by her horrified expression. “Yes. You’ll have to stick with me if you want the good stuff. I’m like vintage champagne among a stack of cheap wine.”
She looks up at the stars, shaking her head. “Like you needed a reason to be any more arrogant. Did you heal wounds when you were human?”
“No, I could only help with pain. After all, I wasn’t the messiah. Cuts were just cuts—until I became a vampire. I’m not exactly sure of the science behind it, but when you turn, your natural gifts are heightened. If you were a fast runner when you were a human, you’d be an even faster vampire. If you had a head for numbers, you’d have the same gift a hundredfold.”
“Like superpowers?”
“In a way, I suppose.” I pause, lost in a memory of the past—my mother’s face as she waved me off at Dublin, green eyes dark with affection, and the only time I saw her after that, when she was on her knees screaming, her eyes dark only with fear.
“Who did they think you murdered?” Silver asks.
A smile plays at the edge of my lips at the word think, and I slide my hand across the wood so the lengths of our little fingers touch. Heat ignites at the point of contact, zipping up my arm like lightning. I wonder if she feels it too. “A man named Henry Peppard,” I say. “I moved to London in 1841, hoping to find a homeopath willing to train me. I was so naive. No one wanted anything to do with an Irish Romani lad like me. Eventually, I got work in a backstreet apothecary in Marylebone. I think I only managed to get that job because the owner, Mr. Rumbold, was a drunk. His wife had died of typhoid fever a few months before, and he was a total mess. It wasn’t long before I was practically running the place. I’d get up around five to open up, and about midday, he’d come down, dispense a few medicines, and be back on the sauce by two in the afternoon. That’s how the mix-up happened.”
“The mix-up?” Silver asks, her hand still nestled against mine.
I brush my finger slowly across hers. “The mix-up involved a regular customer and his arsenic. Mr. Rumbold dispensed his medicine drunk, gave him too high a dose, and he died. Guess who took the blame?”
She gasps. “Not the drunk owner?”
“No, not the drunk owner. The Irish gypsy boy. I could’ve understood if he’d merely blamed me for the accident. But he fabricated a great story about how I’d argued with Mr. Peppard the day before over money and threatened him. So I was arrested for murder.”
“Inconceivable bastard,” Silver hisses. “I hope you went straight over there after you turned and drained him dry.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t kill him. She killed him, but I never asked her to.” I briefly close my eyes, trying to blot out the unwelcome image of Mr. Rumbold right before he died—black eyes filled with loathing, rivulets of blood snaking from his neck, and Anastasia’s mocking laughter, rattling like loose bones around the chamber walls.
Silver curls her little finger around mine, bringing me back into the present. “Is she the one who turned you?”
Opening my eyes, I glance down at our hands, pinky fingers intertwined like tiny bodies. Even though I’d thought it was a mistake to come here, there is suddenly nowhere else I’d rather be. “Yes, it was a woman—if you can call her that.” I pause, Ronin’s face flashing into my mind like a neon sign of warning, but I go on anyway, the words clamoring inside of me for release. “She was an ancient. There’s a group of old vampires who are thought to have roamed the earth since the beginning of time. They’re different from the rest of us—some say more like demons. They can turn humans, are stronger and faster. We are all spawned from that one elite group.”
Silver shivers. “What was she doing here?”
I break her gaze, glancing toward the end of the ship, where squat, roofed quarters peek out over the deck. It was in one of those tiny cabins I drew my last human breath.
“She was recruiting,” I say, worrying at my bottom lip. “Looking for certain types of people to turn into vampires so they might do her bidding. She was going by a fake name back then, Dolores Gericke, a Dutch aristocrat interested in the reform and rehabilitation of prisoners. She had the idea that murderers would make excellent servants, that their ruthless personalities would be ideally suited to her needs.”
“Logan,” Silver says softly, her voice stripped of its usual sarcasm. “You said turning vampire enhances gifts and talents. Does that mean it works the other way? Can it exaggerate bad traits too?”
“Yes, sometimes. That was her warped logic anyway. She wanted to create a deadly coven of vampires, ones without conscience.”
We lapse into silence, listening to the distant sounds of the city, the slosh of water hitting the sides of the boat, the wail of faraway sirens. Not for the first time, I wonder what would’ve happened if Anastasia never came to visit that day. Would I have died anyway? Licked by the flames of cholera already raging through my veins like wildfire? Or would I have lived? Made a new life for myself in the colonies?
“She thought you were a murderer,” Silver says suddenly.
“Yes,” I say, rubbing my finger against hers. “The day she came, I was chained to my bed. A wave of cholera had swept through the cabin, and I couldn’t dredge that day. The guards believed I was in the early stages of the disease—cold skin, weak pulse, cramps all over my body. She was walking around, giving fake blessings to dying prisoners, like she was the frigging pope or someone, when she stumbled across me in my cell.”
“Was she beautiful?” Silver asks.
I narrow my eyes, recalling a silky mane of hair black as obsidian, eyes the color of dried blood. It wasn’t a face I liked to remember. “I suppose, but like a statue—inhuman. I wasn’t fooled from the beginning. There was a blackness hanging over her, a vacuum, as if she had no soul. Looking into her eyes was like staring into a deep, bottomless pit, one that had never seen the light of day.”
“Did she attack you there and then?” There is a whisper of anger in her voice.
“Pretty much. She told the guard to leave us, so she could pray with me. As soon as we were alone, she lifted the blanket, running hands over me like a prize calf on market day. At that point, I thought she was probably a wh
ore and a nutcase. I told her to feck off and leave me in peace. That’s when it happened. She reached for the chains on my wrists and yanked them open. The metal broke instantly, disintegrating into dust. I knew I was done for in the worst possible way.”
Silver gulps. I hear a sharp intake of breath, and then she covers my hand with hers. I jerk a little at the touch, staring down at the small hand on mine. It feels warm, like a ray of midday sunshine. Our eyes meet, and I lift my fingers, threading them with hers. Slowly, we lean toward each other. I brush her lips lightly with mine.
“Was it terrifying?” she asks, gray eyes soft.
I brush my thumb in circles over her creamy skin. “I didn’t really know what was happening. I thought she was having her wicked way with me. She put her head between my thighs and covered my mouth with her hand. Her strength kept me from making the slightest movement. Then she bit the inside of my leg—I suppose she didn’t want the guards to see marks—and while she was down there sucking, a strange, green-tinged smoke began to rise from my body.”
“What was it?” she asks, brows knitted together.
“Her venom, flooding my system. It was at that point my heart stopped beating, but other than the shock of that, there wasn’t much pain. On the contrary, I quickly began to feel better than I had in weeks. My skin turned from gray to cream, my cuts and sores evaporated—my body looked like it had before I was thrown in jail. When she finally lifted her head, I felt invincible. I didn’t understand yet exactly what I’d become.” I sigh, cradling her hand in my lap. It feels strange to be happy while talking about the very thing that once made me so miserable. “I found out later, of course, when I joined the rest of them.”
“How long was it before she found out you never killed anyone?”
“She found out the night she gifted me with Mr. Rumbold. Before that, the other new recruits and I were kept together in a cellar beneath her house on Cherry Garden Street. The first few months of a vampire’s life are surprisingly fragile—daylight, crucifixes, silver can be lethal. Slowly, you become stronger, and those things can no longer harm you. I was the last of us to make the transition to fully-fledged vampire, and so, for a time, I was all alone. That was when she brought Mr. Rumbold to me. He was drunk, as usual. I think she must have looked into my past—maybe she realized I was different from the others. He was a test of sorts, to see if I was capable of killing. But like I said, she killed him herself in the end. I thought maybe she might release me after that—but she didn’t. Not right away. It was two years before that happened. Of course, I should have run away sooner, but I didn’t know where else to go. I’m not proud of that part of my life or what came after.”
“Did you ever see your family again?” she says, her voice cracking.
On reflex, my hand goes to the pendant around my neck. I stare out at the bright lights of Canary Wharf. “After I left London, I went back to Ireland and tracked them down. They’d heard I’d died, so you can imagine what happened there. Utter mayhem. Romani people weren’t as ignorant as some people in those days—they knew exactly what I’d become. My grandmother, a powerful woman, managed to work a spell that rendered me unconscious. When I woke up, they had fled. My mother left her miniature and this necklace, tucked into my shirt pocket. I never saw or heard from them ever again.”
Silver’s breathing becomes labored, a glistening tear gliding down her cheek. “Don’t look at me,” she mutters, swiping at her damp face. “It’s just—I know what it’s like to lose family.”
“Your mother?” I guess, dropping her hand and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against my chest.
She nods into my T-shirt. “She disappeared when I was nine. They think she was murdered.”
Ronin’s words pop into my head all of a sudden: personal motives. Was her mother the motive? If so, how?
“Her name was Victoria Harris,” Silver says, bitterness creeping into her tone.
I reach over, wiping at her salty tears with my thumb. “I’m so sorry, Silver.”
She sniffs. “I’m sorry too, about your family deserting you.”
We sit in the darkness, feet dangling beneath us, listening to the sounds of the city. In the distance, Big Ben chimes, though I have no idea what time it is.
“Well,” Silver says, exhaling sharply, “you certainly know how to show a girl a good time, Logan Byrne.”
I chuckle as she begins counting on her fingers.
“Drags me away from my best friend’s gig, takes me to a floating prison, and kills my libido by telling me the saddest story known to vampire-kind. Thank you, Logan. It’s been a marvelous evening.”
Smiling, I reach behind her and push her arms into my jacket sleeves, buttoning up the denim across her chest. “Next time will be better, I promise.”
She arches a brow, the haughtiness back in her face. “Who said anything about a next time?”
Taking her hands, I pull her up, stepping forward at the last moment so that her body slams into mine. “There will be a next time,” I whisper, trailing a hand over her back to her pert derriere. Her breath is warm on my neck as I hold her close, the scent of tears lingering on her skin. The ache to undress her throbs painfully in my fingertips, but I hold back, stepping away. “I’m taking you home. Will you be okay with piggyback again?”
“Is this a ploy to save on cab fare?” she asks accusingly.
“No, it’s faster.”
I gather her up and leap down from the ship in a smooth arc, landing on the concrete of the riverbank. “Ready?” I ask, setting her on her feet and crouching beside her.
She jumps on and I grip her under the knees, her arms going around my chest. “I’m ready,” she says in my ear.
We take flight again, back to Chelsea and her house, where tonight I will leave her.
Sitting up in that crow’s nest, I realized this thing with her was not going away—that for the first time in my life, I want more than a one-night stand.
By the time we land in the garden opposite her flat, I feel lighter—hopeful. Ronin will never discover I haven’t carried out his orders if Silver is off the dating scene through other means—those means being me.
“What are you smirking about?” Silver says as we cross the street toward Etta’s three-story Chelsea town house.
I thrust my hands deep inside the pockets of my jeans. Silver is still wearing my jacket, the sleeves covering her hands. Leaning forward, I place a chaste kiss on her rosy cheek. “I’m thinking about my plans to woo you,” I say, grinning.
She takes my elbow. “You can think about those indoors. Come on.”
I stand firm, watching as her brows knit.
“Aren’t you coming in?” she asks incredulously.
“When are you free? For a date?”
Her jaw drops, a look of disgust etched into her pretty face. It’s as if I’ve asked for a threesome with Etta Marlow. “We just had a date of sorts. We don’t need another one.”
I take a step backward. “Silver, I want to do this properly. Take you out. What about tomorrow night?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m in retail. I work all weekend.”
“Monday night, then?”
“This is a joke, isn’t it?” she demands. “You can’t just go from molesting a girl in her kitchen to dating. It’s just not done.” She points to her front door. “Get inside.”
I laugh aloud. “Monday night. I’ll pick you up at six. I’ll pay for a cab.” I back farther up the street.
She looks livid. “Get back here, vampire. I felt you up; now you feel me up. That’s how it works in the twenty-first century. This isn’t Jane Austen. I’m not bloody Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Six o’clock, Monday,” I say. “Wear that work uniform of yours if you’re stuck for outfit ideas.” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively. If looks could kill, I would be dead on
the pavement. “You’re getting that line again,” I call, pointing to the space above my eyebrow. “The mark of scorn.”
Mouthing a profanity, she flips a middle finger, spinning on her heel toward her flat. And for the second night in a row, the slam of her front door echoes like thunder around the empty street.
I smile all the way home.
Chapter 9
Silver
Sunday night, post-work, finds me wedged into a corner booth at Nero’s Italian Grill opposite the most boring man in all of creation.
Marek from the Czech Republic.
I reach for yet another breadstick, as my date, oblivious to all but the white noise spewing from his mouth, continues to regale me with tales of famous historical figures he’s stumbled upon throughout the decades.
“That’s when I knew who she was,” he says, finishing the unheard sentence and nodding like one of those bobblehead dogs people sometimes have in their cars. He pauses to look across at the other diners, making sure they are listening too. They’re not.
Glancing up, I force myself to meet his dead-fish eyes. “Who?”
“Jackie O.”
“Oh.” I stifle a lazy half laugh at my unintentional pun, fighting the urge to slump forward across the table, chin in hand.
After Logan’s refusal to stay over on Friday night, I decided to log on to V-Date and follow through with my plan to turn informant. Marek looked a likely candidate—less handsome than the others and willing to meet at short notice. Of course, I am already in possession of several juicy pieces of vampire information, but no matter how badly Logan winds me up with his ridiculous here one minute, gone the next routine, there is no way I would sell him out. I need separate information. From vampires like this one.
“Tell me,” I say with forced perkiness, stirring my vodka and soda with its black straw, “are all those vampire myths completely phony?”
He leans forward, the corners of his thin lips twisting into a smile. “You mean do I sleep in a coffin, and will holy water kill me?”
