by Juliet Lyons
I hit the green button and hold it to my ear. “Hello?”
A voice bellows through the line. “Miss Harris?”
“Yes.”
“Superintendent Linton Burke.”
On reflex, I wrench the phone from my ear and hit the red button, staring like a startled rabbit into Logan’s green eyes. “It was Linton Burke. He must have heard something about last night at the restaurant.”
Logan frowns. “Or maybe they’re checking in for information.”
I shove the phone into the pocket of my biker jacket, my hand trembling. “I’ll call them tomorrow from Kent. I was actually hoping to quit via voice mail—or text message.”
“That’s the way, Silver,” Logan says. “Face your fears head on.”
Staring at our bags by the door, I’m at once struck by the all-consuming urge to flee.
I turn to Logan. “I just need to say good-bye to Vera, and then I’m ready.”
Logan nods. “Let’s go.”
Outside, it’s stopped raining. The street is dark beneath a sky of slate gray, the houses and cars a mass of lumpy shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm begins to wail. Other than this and the faint sound of traffic from the main road, all seems eerily quiet.
“I think there’s going to be a storm,” I say as a whiff of the Thames hits my nostrils, salty and metallic.
He props our suitcases against the wrought-iron railings. “I think you may be right.”
“It won’t affect your speed, will it?” I ask, bending over to double knot the laces on my sneakers.
“Silver, we’ll take a taxi,” he says, shaking his head. “I won’t be able to carry you and our bags all the way to Kent.”
After branding him a wimp and giving his shoulder a playful shove, I dash up the steps to Vera’s and pound on the door knocker. No answer. I bend over the railings at either side of the stairs to try to peer in the parlor window, but the blinds are shut. Was it this week she said she was going on a cruise with her sister? I’ve just taken out my mobile to call her when it starts ringing again, the same unknown number as before flashing up.
Logan is standing at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me, his dark hair tousled in the breeze. “Why not answer it? Get it over with.”
Sighing in resignation, I hit the green button. “Hello, it’s Silver,” I say in a weak voice. “I think we must’ve been cut off before.”
“Miss Harris?” Burke’s voice is so loud I pull the phone away an inch.
“Yes?”
“Where are you?”
I frown, my gaze locked onto Logan’s. “I’m at home. Listen, I have to tell you something. I—”
“Get in a taxi immediately and come straight to Scotland Yard.”
“What? No, I can’t. I’m on my way out.”
Logan’s face drops. He bounds up the steps in a single leap. “What is it?”
“Miss Harris, we have reason to believe you may be in danger and must insist you report to the nearest police station. I’m dispatching a car.”
My stomach twists violently. Logan grips my shoulders. “What sort of danger?” I ask, scarcely breathing.
But I don’t hear his answer. My attention is focused on Logan, who has suddenly gone as stiff as a statue, his face as white as marble.
“What is it?” I demand, my hand and the phone in it dropping limply to my side, the faint babble of Burke’s urgent demands lost on the chilly wind.
His mouth opens, a muscle in his jaw throbbing like a hammer as his grip on me tightens.
At that moment, I realize we are not alone. From the corner of my eye, I notice someone standing on the street, eyes drilling into us like lasers.
Then a voice cuts through the night—a soft, feminine voice with a jagged undertone, like razor blades slicing through silk. “Hello, Logan. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
My eyes flick past Logan to the figure in the shadows at the bottom of Vera’s steps and a chill hurtles up my spine. A woman, tall and slender, and with the type of fine-boned, willowy frame seen on fashion runways. She is wearing a powder-blue trench coat over an ivory satin blouse and black leather trousers, an expensive-looking pair of boots zipped high over her knees. Like the voice, her face is beautiful but sharp, high, angular cheekbones pointed like knives, and large, almond-shaped eyes that glow an odd shade of reddish-brown. With her pearly, flawless skin and thick mane of jet hair, she looks like a life-size porcelain doll—at least, one of those evil ones in movies possessed by a bad spirit.
Even before Logan says her name, I know who she is. Anastasia. I stare at Logan, willing him to do something, yet at the same time dreading what might come next.
At last, he blinks, loosening his almost painful hold on my arms and turning around. My phone clatters to the concrete steps at our feet.
“Anastasia.” His voice is little more than a growl, loathing robbing his Irish brogue of its usual warmth. “What do you want?”
She smiles, flawless, white teeth flashing between scarlet lips. “You know what I want, sweet Logan. But first I’d like to meet your girlfriend. There’s no one home, by the way,” she adds, nodding toward Vera’s house. “The only heartbeat I hear is hers.”
As if answering to its name, my heart thuds louder beneath my rib cage. I lean into Logan’s back as he stands wall-like between us, one hand reaching behind and gripping my hip.
“I refuse to play your games, Anastasia,” Logan hisses.
But she doesn’t appear to have heard him. She steps closer, peering at me through the darkness, her head tilted to one side in confusion. “Wait, have we met before?” she asks, wagging a manicured, bony finger toward me. “You look familiar. I never forget a face.”
I suck in a breath, remembering Ronin when I showed up at Logan’s apartment, his startled cry of my mother’s name.
She remembers.
A spark of anger flares deep inside me. All these years, searching for the right person to blame for my mother not being around, and now here she is, right on my doorstep. As always, anger trumps fear.
“You fucking bitch,” I spit, feeling Logan tense.
Anastasia raises her eyebrows and laughs, a sound as melodic and cruel as a funeral march. “Victoria Harris. The little whore who turned Ronin’s head all those years ago.” She pauses, a frown denting the smooth, ivory skin of her forehead. “But that can’t be. I remember killing her, watching the life ebb from her veins. So you’re who?” Her eyes narrow. “Daughter,” she says with a faint hint of surprise, as if she’s reached into my head and plucked the word right out of it. “But how wonderfully poetic, isn’t it, Logan? Gosh, I do love it when life throws us these curveballs. Makes me feel like a gal of five hundred years again.”
Her face is a gloating mask of hatred, and in a fit of rage, I try to fling myself down the steps at her, but Logan pins me in place, clamping me to his back with a strong arm.
She laughs again. “Oh goody. I do enjoy a bit of spirit. It was always going to take something out of the ordinary to turn Logan’s head after all his years of piousness. I congratulate you for that. It’s such a shame one of you has to pay for what happened to poor, dear Gerhard.”
As quickly as the rage reared up within me, it dies, cold fear stepping up to claim its place.
“Enough,” Logan growls. “I’m the one who killed him. I’m the one who will pay the price.”
Anastasia flashes me a sugar-sweet smile. “You gotta love a hero, don’t you? Not bad in bed either, if I remember rightly.”
Logan tenses, his muscles stiffening like steel beneath his clothes. From the corner of his mouth, he whispers, “Hang on.”
I barely have a chance to register the words before he flings us both high into the air. I shriek wildly, my stomach falling from under me like a stone dropping into the sea. We land
in the middle of the gardens opposite the house, Logan cushioning the impact as we roll to a stop in the damp grass.
Logan brings his face level with mine, his green eyes wild. “Silver, listen. I’m going to distract her and you have to run, fast. Go straight to the police.”
“No,” I hiss, grasping the collar of his jacket in a white-knuckled grip. “I won’t leave you. I—”
The sentence dies in my throat as I look past his shoulder. We are not alone. Anastasia looms over us, fangs exposed, ready to strike. Her ivory skin has turned to the color of pale ash, her eyes flashing like red embers, hair fanned out around her head like Medusa.
Without wasting a millisecond, Logan dives at her. “Silver, run!” he yells before he and Anastasia become nothing more than a brawling blur of speed.
I slide backward in the grass, hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Trying to think clearly is like wading through quicksand. I can only gape in horror as the fighting continues, snarls and grunts of pain filling the air. When my back hits the trunk of a tree, I push myself up on shaky legs, but before I move another inch, a high-pitched squeal cuts through the air and a blue flash is speeding toward me across the dark garden.
A force rams into me, hard, and an arm, unyielding as iron, hooks around my neck. Something sharp prods my throat. I gasp violently, a sickly sweet odor of lilies climbing into my nostrils, as I’m dragged across the grass. It’s only when we stop in the middle of the garden that I realize the object at my neck is a knife. Unable to look at the ground, I frantically scan the treetops instead. I try to call for Logan, but the knife chokes me, trapping the name in my throat.
Anastasia eases her grip and I take a gulp of air, my head sagging forward. From the new angle, I spot a dark heap lying in the grass. My heart stops beating when I recognize the familiar black jeans, a denim jacket now splattered with blood.
“Logan!” I screech, lunging forward. But her arm holds me like a vise.
His shape stirs as Anastasia cackles like a madwoman. “Don’t worry about your lover. He’s going to watch you die before I finish him off—exactly how Ronin watched your mother.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I say, instantly regretting it as she tightens her grip, robbing me of breath.
“Get up, Logan,” she croons, kicking dirt at him. “Get up and say good-bye to your sweetheart.”
As he appears in my line of vision, I seize the arm across my throat, struggling to free myself from her iron grip. Anastasia snatches my hand, twisting it painfully behind my back. There is a sharp snap in my elbow and a hot, nauseating wave of pain radiates through me. Logan’s battered face transforms from despair to a mask of anger as his gaze locks on my captor, his handsome features marred by hatred.
Anastasia turns the knife so the tip points directly at my throat. I feel a trickle of liquid leak into the collar of my blouse, my mouth filling with the coppery taste of fear.
“For Gerhard,” she cries. But she is distracted by a movement in the trees—a flash of bright-white light at the edge of the garden. Logan leaps into action, tackling her from the side and freeing me from her grasp. The knife drops to the damp earth at my feet, and I sink to the ground after it, snatching it up with trembling hands.
My eyes seek out the shape that distracted Anastasia. Another vampire? It streaks across the grass faster than a shooting star, and I bring my knees up to my chest, bracing myself and swinging the knife blindly around in front of me.
Just when I think it will crash into me, it stops, and I find myself staring into a pair of storm-washed blue eyes. The gray turns out to be a sharply tailored suit, the flash of light the blade of a long-handled machete. It is a man, a vampire, with coifed blond hair, and a jawline reserved only for the pages of Men’s Health.
He crouches, a strong hand gripping my shoulder. “I’m Inspector Ferrer, Miss Harris. Are you injured?” For some reason, I think of a period drama, a gentleman on a horse asking after the health of a swooning heroine. I must be getting delirious.
I shake my head, trying to ignore the pain in my elbow. “Logan,” I croak, hearing the snarls behind me growing in intensity. The man nods, his mouth set in a grim line, and before I know what’s happening, he scoops me up and speeds with me to the edge of the garden, depositing me near the shrubbery.
“My colleagues will be here soon,” he says. Then, as quickly as he arrived, he is gone, whirling across the garden like a cyclone toward the brawling duo, the machete suspended above his head. I see it swing wide, moonlight glinting off the blade, and scream.
But then the ground rises up, and when a black fog threatens to engulf me, I let it, diving almost gratefully into oblivion.
Chapter 23
Logan
Anastasia is winning. Yet as I fight, dodging razor-sharp fangs, ducking to avoid her taloned fingers, I see Silver in my mind’s eye—her heart-shaped face and creamy skin, the mark of scorn jutting into her brow. For the first time in almost two hundred years, I have a future worth fighting for, a chance to take control of my life. I will not let this demon, this thing, rob me a second time. I will find a way to destroy her, to walk in the light again, as Mary Beth said all those years ago, or I will die trying.
I’m so absorbed in the battle I do not notice the stealthy advance of another vampire.
There is a swish, like a whip cutting through the air, and I feel something wet spray into my face, the fetid odor of poisoned blood filling my nostrils. The blows raining into my body stop, and I blink in shock, staring at the gory scene before me. Anastasia’s head is severed from her neck, her vile face contorted to pure demon—bulging red eyes, her teeth like yellowed stalactites hanging from the roof of a cave. Behind her, wielding a silvery sickle, is a familiar face. Ronin’s club flashes into my mind. A face as haunted by guilt as mine.
Vincent.
Our eyes lock in understanding. Whatever role he played in Ronin’s plans is as over as mine is.
“Silver,” I gasp, spinning around on the spot, frantically looking around the garden.
“She’s fine,” Vincent says, using his free hand to push blood-spattered blond hair from his eyes. “I left her by the trees.”
We both stare as Anastasia’s lolling head begins to slowly right itself. “Strike her again!” I yell at Vincent. “Take it off completely!”
He lifts the machete and cuts the head from her body, where it drops into the grass with a sickening thud. The body follows a second later, a deafening silence filling the air.
Vincent and I stare down at the inert body for a few seconds, and then I fly toward the trees where Silver is slumped in an unconscious heap. Gingerly, I lift her limp body into my arms, brushing soft, auburn hair from her face. I bend over, pressing my lips to hers.
“I love you,” I whisper, tears dripping off my nose and splashing onto her face like raindrops. “Remember, I love you. No matter what happens, I always will.”
“Logan!” Vincent shouts. “Get back over here now!”
I lay Silver back down, taking one final lingering look at her beautiful face before flying back to Vincent’s side.
Anastasia’s head has reattached itself, pink, puckered skin knitting back together. Her features are unrecognizable, skin gray and cracked, red, glowing eyes bulging from their sockets. Her once-immaculate blue coat is soaked with blood.
“Strike her again,” I command, but Vincent shakes his head, shoulders slumped in defeat.
“There’s no way of killing an ancient,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
I take one last look over my shoulder at Silver before crossing to Vincent and grabbing him violently. “Get Silver out of here,” I hiss. “By vampire law, she can only take one life to avenge Gerhard. If she kills me, it’s over.” My voice is steady, though inside I’m as a broken as a smashed plate.
“You love the girl,” he says, eyes flickering to the place where
Silver is collapsed.
“Yes. Which is why you must hurry! Keep her safe, Vincent.”
He gives me a curt nod and hands me his weapon. “I’ll do all I can.”
I watch as he speeds across the garden like a shadow, hauling Silver into his arms and leaping over the iron railings before disappearing into the night like a phantom.
The sky is dark but for a smudge of moon glowing behind gray clouds. In the distance, I hear sirens wailing. I wonder if it’s the police coming to back up Vincent. I turn to face Anastasia—my nemesis. Her ravaged features are slowly beginning to heal, fangs extending over her lips, ready to kill.
I watch the reversal in disgust—the creature who forced me into this unnatural state, never able to move on or age or live a life with the woman I love, who wanted nothing more than to turn me into a killer. When the last of the wound on her neck seals, her eyes close briefly, and when she reopens them, they are back to their usual odd shade of red brown, the same eyes from the prison hulk all those years ago. She is back on her feet in the blink of an eye.
“Where’s your friend?” she asks, her bony hands clenching into fists.
“What friend?”
Her eyes flit to the machete in my hands. “Are you going to try again with that, Logan? Since the first attempt was such a huge success.”
I toss the silver arc across the garden, where it buries itself in the bark of a tree. I suddenly want this over as soon as possible. Silver will be safe by now.
“It’s over, Anastasia. I surrender. Destroy me and let’s settle the score once and for all.”
Her eerie laugh rattles through the night air. “Wow,” she says, shaking her head. “How unswervingly noble.” She takes a step closer. “A bit like the second movie in the Twilight franchise. But I’m afraid I’m still rather taken by the idea of you watching your girlfriend die.”
A growl erupts from deep in my throat, and I lunge at her, my hands closing around her thin neck, nails sinking into bloodied flesh as I twist with every ounce of strength, trying to snap her in two. We tumble to the muddy, wet grass, rolling over and over in our struggle. Ordinarily, a vampire is no match for an ancient, but with hot sparks of rage coursing through my veins, I somehow manage to pin her beneath me, my hands clamped around her throat so tightly I feel the bones beneath her skin.
