Dating the Undead

by Juliet Lyons

  “Logan,” Ronin calls. The calmness in his mellow Scottish accent melts the fear in my chest. He doesn’t sound like a vampire about to commit murder. “Come and join me. Luca and Vincent were just leaving.”

  The pair—dark-skinned Luca, dressed casually in jeans and deep-blue cashmere sweater, and Vincent, in a sharply tailored charcoal suit—rise from their seats.

  “It’s been years, Logan,” Vincent says, offering a hand. He always did have impeccable manners. French aristocracy, if I remember rightly.

  I grasp his long, smooth fingers in mine, returning his smile. “It has,” I agree. “I didn’t even know you were in London.”

  Vincent’s blue eyes flash, flicking to Ronin and back again. He runs a hand through his golden hair, breaking my gaze. “I’ve been back a while now.”

  “I’ll be in touch, Vincent,” Ronin says, cutting him off. “Luca, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  Vincent drops a nod to Ronin, the dull light of the room accentuating dark circles beneath his eyes, before following Luca up the narrow flight of stairs. I watch them leave, my eyes on Vincent’s tightly set broad shoulders. I would put money down he’s the inspector working for Ronin. The thinly veiled look of worry is a perfect match for my own.

  Once the door closes behind them, Ronin waves a hand toward a seat. “Please. Sit.”

  I slide in the opposite side, shoulders back, spreading my thighs. I can’t afford to give off any nervous vibes. As it turns out, I needn’t have worried about creating the right impression. Ronin is distracted by a whip-thin, flame-haired vampire stepping out from the door by the long, granite bar. It’s actually pretty difficult not to be distracted, considering she is hardly wearing any clothes save for a low-cut bustier and matching black satin thong. Jesus, doesn’t this guy have other hobbies?

  “Mr. McDermott,” she purrs, in an Eastern European accent. “What about our meeting?”

  Ronin twitches a smile. “I’ll be there in a minute, Valentina.”

  Valentina slinks like a cat to a booth in the corner.

  “Ronin,” I pipe up, unable to help myself, “did you ever consider taking up golf?”

  The overlord explodes into laughter, the hard lines of his Celtic features softening. I see a glimpse of how he must’ve looked as a young man—a real young man, not just trapped in the body of one—handsome and strong, with blue eyes the color of a warm summer sky.

  “Logan,” he says, shaking his head, “if I ever do, I want you to join me.”

  I return his smile, refusing the offer of a drink as he gestures to an empty glass on the table.

  “Down to business,” he says, the warmth snuffed out like a candle in a draft. “Did it all go to plan the other night?”

  I nod, making sure not to break eye contact. “Yes, it did.”

  “Excellent. I have another girl for you.”

  My heart sinks. “Oh?”

  “I did warn you there will be several, Logan.”

  I blink. “Yes. You did.”

  He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a square of folded paper, flicking it across the lacquered table toward me. “I don’t know too much about this girl,” he says as I catch it in one hand. “It’s tomorrow night though. The details are all there—a simple glamour just like the last one. I don’t have a home address, so you’ll have to be creative. The restaurant name is on the paper.”

  I slip the details into my jeans pocket. “No worries.”

  “Has Anastasia caught up with you yet?” he asks suddenly, gaze drilling into me.

  “Yes. She showed up unannounced a few days ago, acted her usual charming self.” I pause, picking at the table edge with my thumb. “She said I’d be fair game to her if I ever lost your protection.”

  Ronin chuckles, shaking his head. “Anastasia will be hit the hardest by the changes we face. She loses power by the day. It’s the only good thing to come out of our exposure.”

  “How so?” I ask, frowning.

  “The past has a way of catching up, Logan. There’s only so far we can run. I wouldn’t worry too much about Anastasia if I were you. Soon, she’ll have bigger fish to fry than losing you all those years ago. Besides, why would you lose my protection?”

  I pretend not to hear the question. “Didn’t you say the old ways must be maintained?”

  He grins. “Where Anastasia is concerned, they can crumble around her ears like a stick house in an earthquake for all I care.”

  Not for the first time, I ponder the root of Ronin’s fierce loathing of Anastasia. Although few ancients can claim to be friends, there is often respect between them—a bit like a dysfunctional family. Still, his words provide me with a tiny sliver of hope. With Anastasia gone, I can be with Silver. I’d still have to avoid Ronin’s detection, but there are ways around that.

  “I haven’t seen Vincent for a while,” I say in an effort to change the subject.

  Ronin’s blue eyes narrow. “Vincent owed me a favor. As you know, I always call them in.”

  The chill is his gaze instantly crushes the flicker of hope in my heart. He leans back against the crushed velvet purple seat. “Valentina. I’m ready for you now.”

  * * *

  Later at home, I’m still deliberating over Ronin’s words when there’s a knock at the door. I freeze, my hand stilling over the coffee press, my thoughts going to Silver. Has she come to bawl me out? Slap me across the face again? God, I hope so. I yearn to see her so badly that in the time it takes me to cross from the kitchen to the hall, all the reasons I’m supposed to be keeping my distance have paled into insignificance.

  I fling the door open to find a woman in a long beige coat standing outside. Only it’s not Silver; it’s Collette from the club. Disappointment hits like a punch to the throat.

  “Collette,” I say weakly. “What are you doing here?”

  Instead of speaking, she reaches up to where her blond hair is piled on top of her head, releasing it from its clasp. She shakes it loose, golden strands spilling over her shoulders like sunshine. I could be dead from the waist down for all the effect it has on me.

  “Ronin sent me,” she says, running her tongue over bright-red lips. “But I think even if he hadn’t, I would have come anyway.”

  “Oh?” I say, deliberately ignoring the second part of the sentence. “What does he want now?”

  Without speaking, she begins working at the knot on her belt. She twists a button open, shaking the coat from her bare shoulders. Although there is a beautiful woman undressing in front of me, all I can think is that the coat is very much like the one Silver stole from the party that night. All I see is Silver’s pointy face in the darkness when she asked if I would murder her.

  Collette smirks as the material pools around her ankles. “The question probably should be what do I want now?”

  I step back inside the flat, poised to slam the door.

  “Wait,” she says with a sigh, picking her coat up from the floor and shaking it out. “Ronin said to tell you he expects you to make up the hours you missed this week.”

  Damn. I thought I got away with it. “Okay.”

  Wrapping her coat around her naked body, she sighs again before retreating down the hall.

  I close the door and lean against it, listening to the soft thump of her footsteps as she trudges down the stairs.

  In the face of my complete indifference, I finally say out loud the words that have been crushing me for weeks.

  “I’m in love with Silver.”

  * * *

  Silver

  On some level, I think I’ve always known that really, really liking someone would push me to the brink of madness. Maybe my previous lack of emotion was nature’s way of protecting humanity from the insane, stalkery beast I’ve become.

  I stare down at my mobile phone, Google Maps open, and check
the street name against the one in front of the half-stucco house I’m staring at: Boston Place.

  Using an ancestry website, I managed to nail the location of the old apothecary Logan said he worked for and now lived at. I’m like a scheming hybrid of Miss Marple and Alex Forrest from Fatal Attraction.

  I sigh, my breath puffing like smoke into the chilly night air as I gaze up the narrow street. One side is flanked by a high, redbrick wall separating the road from the railway tracks of Marylebone Station; the other, lined by flat-fronted houses with Georgian windows. Though the moon is as flat and glassy as a mirror, its silvery light can’t quite reach between the houses; the edges of the mottled path are blurry with shadows.

  As I walk, I realize I’ve entered the street from the wrong end—the numbers here start at ninety. At the opposite end, jutting into the skyline, is the dark silhouette of a taller brick building. My stomach twists. I’m certain that must be it. All the other houses look too small to be flats.

  Breathing shallow, I begin to wonder what I’ll say when I see him. Of course, physical violence is not out of the question. I had been doing well until now, focusing on my vampire date tomorrow night and trying not to call his switched-off phone more than twice a day. Then I remembered the talk of him living at his old address. Before I knew it, I was fiendishly searching online, and now here I am, as emotionally needy and deranged as the next person.

  Eyes locked on the dark shape of the building, my pace quickens. I glance down at my phone—the apothecary used to be at number twenty-two. The squat house next to the four story building is number twenty. This has to be it. I stop, standing in the yellow glow from a streetlamp and staring at the chipped, wooden door. I’d been dreading a buzzer system. I mean, if he can’t answer his phone, what are the chances of him picking up that? But on closer inspection, I notice the lock is broken.

  “Flaky,” I mutter. A flaky door for a flaky guy.

  It swings open easily beneath my sweaty palm and I step inside, an automatic light flashing to life above my head. I look around the hallway, searching for any clues as to who lives in which flat. One wall is covered by rows of red metal postboxes, each with a number printed on the front. A number but no name. I exhale sharply, glancing around me at the faded, floral wallpaper. Someone has left a muddy bike propped up next to the wooden staircase. It’s the only sign of life whatsoever. I debate whether to start knocking on doors.

  Just then, footsteps from above begin to echo down the stairs. I freeze, my heart thudding hammer-like in my chest.

  At the top of the stairs, a pair of black high heels appear and I watch, mesmerized, as a blond woman wearing a beige overcoat comes into view. She barely flicks me a glance as she struts past.

  I decide it’s now or never. “Excuse me?”

  She stops, whirling around to face me. “Yes?” she asks coolly.

  Now I’m seeing her straight on, I notice her face is caked in heavy makeup. It’s difficult to tell if she’s actually pretty or not.

  “I’m looking for Logan Byrne,” I say, my voice shaky.

  The woman does a double take as she slides her gaze over me, penciled-in brows knitting together.

  “What do you want him for?” she asks, gazing at me through clumpy, black lashes.

  For the life of me, I can’t think of a good reason. I really should have thought this through. I open my mouth, and before I can stop myself, I say, “I’m his person.”

  A wry smile twitches the corners of her red-painted lips. “His person?” she asks, clearly amused.

  I draw myself to full height. “Yes. Do you know which flat is his?”

  She emits a short, hollow laugh. “Top flat. I just left.”

  My jaw slackens, a cold hand seizing my heart. “What?” Her features blur before me, dots dancing across my vision.

  “I said, I just left.” Her tone is suddenly cruel, like a wet slap in the face. “I was once his person too, before he tired of me. That’s what he does, you know. Sleeps with you and then tosses you aside. Don’t waste your time on him.”

  My mouth opens and closes like a fish caught in a net. I shake my head frantically from side to side.

  “Sorry to be the one to break it to you,” she says, and with a final sweeping glance, she turns on her spiky heels and disappears onto the street.

  I don’t breathe. After a few seconds, I follow her from the building and sag against the wall outside. In the distance, the clip of her heels rings out like gunshots against the concrete.

  Before I can stop myself, hot tears cascade in rivulets down my face, dripping off my chin. My breath chokes in my throat, chest heaving as if I’ve just run a race.

  “Asshole,” I mutter. “That fucking asshole.”

  In all my deliberations these past few days, I never for one minute believed this would be the reason he disappeared, that all those nights, all those tender moments of laughter and happiness we shared, were fake—that he was never anything more than a player.

  Scraping myself from the wall, I stare at the door. I could go up there, shout at him, show him how badly he’s hurt me, or I could lope off with my last shred of dignity intact.

  I swipe salty moisture from my cheeks. No wonder I’ve always avoided these situations. They really do only bring pain—trauma and tears on dark street corners—just as I always suspected they would. I turn away from the building, echoing the blond woman’s steps back up the street, my heart crushed to pulp, raw and bleeding.

  A memory surfaces at the back of my mind, of a long time ago when I was around twelve. Dad had yelled at me for staying out after dark and I’d screamed he was as bad a parent as Mum. I can still see Dad’s face as it creased with lines of confusion, his mouth agape with incredulity. It was back during the time I liked to pretend she had run away with a millionaire. But she’s dead, he said and the simple truth of the words floored me in the same way I’m floored now. That’s all love is—leaving yourself open to a truth you’re better off not knowing.

  The old Silver was right all along.

  Chapter 16

  Silver

  A luminous yellow moon hangs low in the sky as I emerge from the Overground station at Chiswick.

  Usually, a full moon gives me tingles—the good kind—but tonight I can’t seem to shake the feeling that somehow it’s a bad omen.

  Gerhard, the vampire I’m meeting, said he will pick me up, that I’m to look for a silver Porsche Boxster. The only cars I see, however, are moving—dozens of them, all edging through almost stationary traffic like slow-marching ants.

  I pull out a tiny, star-shaped mirror from my purse to check my eye makeup. After spending most of last night bawling, I had my work cut out trying to cover up the puffy lids and red-rimmed eyes. Still, I’m not here to impress the guy. Just ask about Stephen Clegg and leave.

  I sigh, sliding the mirror back into my bag and smoothing my navy satin pencil skirt over my thighs. It’s not my usual look, and neither is the cream-colored, strappy top I’ve matched it with. The only part that’s me is the pointy boots I’ve added to balance out all the boobiness. If Logan were here, he’d have an aneurysm. I close my eyes against a wave of sadness, trying to blot out the image of his sea-green eyes and dimples. I’m quick to remind myself of yesterday’s anguish, the words of the blond girl in the trench coat: That’s what he does, you know. Sleeps with you and then tosses you aside.

  “Bastard,” I mutter.

  Last night, in between crying and swearing, I called and left a message for Burke and Davies, and earlier today, Davies materialized outside the corner shop while I was buying milk. He’d been particularly interested in the information about the female ancient and the fake name Logan said she went by, Dolores Gericke. I didn’t mention what Dad had said about Mum being involved with a vampire. I figure that can wait until after tonight, when hopefully I’ll have more to tell.

 
; The loud blast of a horn crashes into my thoughts, and I look up to see a silver Porsche pulling up on the double yellow lines at the side of the road. An arm emerges, a flash of gold cuff links on a pin-striped shirtsleeve, as the passenger door is pushed open.

  I hurry over and sink into the low vehicle, slamming the door shut behind me and turning in the seat to greet Gerhard.

  Right off, I don’t like him. His face is harder than it looked in his pictures on V-Date—older. He must’ve been in his mid to late thirties when he turned. The photos portrayed a much younger, softer character. This man is large-boned, with a wide, fleshy face and mousy, thick hair that looks like it needs cutting. That and the way he touches my knee as I sit down instantly set alarm bells ringing. It isn’t a fatherly There you are sort of pat, but a primal You’re an object squeeze. If the traffic hadn’t suddenly lurched forward, I would have got right back out.

  “So, Gerhard, where are you taking me?” I ask, trying to push aside the negative thoughts. After all, I have a whole evening to get through.

  He flicks me a bored gaze. “La Trompette,” he says without much enthusiasm. There is a nasal twang to his accent—South African mixed with something else. “I hope you like French food.”

  “French is fine with me.” Every time the Porsche brakes, I fight the urge to swing open the door and make a dash for it through the melee of cars.