Vampires of Moscow (Blood Web Chronicles Book 1)

by Caedis Knight

  I give him a slow smile and what I hope looks like a coquettish nod of my head, then wrap my hands around the icy pole. With another swing I hoist myself up and flip my legs over my head, facing down so my nose is inches from the floor.

  “Nice,” he says.

  No smile. He pulls a dark bottle out of his pocket and takes a swig.

  Who the fuck has bottles tucked into their sweats?

  He wipes away a faint dribble of red from his full lips, and I count at least seven gold rings on his fingers. I wonder how far down his sweats the tattoos travel.

  “Name?”

  I’ve memorized my fake ID and my back story.

  “It’s Bren…Brandy. You can call me Brandy.”

  Well I can’t exactly use Brenda anymore. Brenda is not a stripper name.

  “You’re American,” he says. It’s not a question.

  “Yes, how did you know? From my accent?”

  “The shoes.”

  I’m still upside down, my vision getting blurry as I hold my stance. It’s hard enough throwing yourself around a pole, but it’s even harder when there’s no music and a Vampire is watching you like you’re a rotisserie chicken in a kebab shop window. What’s wrong with my shoes? I flip myself over and try to memorize every part of him – from his face and body to his clothes and tics.

  “I only accept best dancers at Black Rabbit and you…” he rubs the tip of his tongue against his left incisor. “You can’t dance.”

  No ping, he’s not playing. I’m fucked, but I don’t say anything. I’ve learned the hard way that the less you say the less bad things happen to you.

  Straightening up he steps closer to me. Then he leans forward, so his forearms are resting on the stage.

  “Where you from?” he asks in broken English.

  “New York.”

  “Why Moscow? You like cold?”

  He looks at my chest as he says that. My nipples are already hard from this freezing room, but his snow-white stare is making them go even harder. Lukka’s weird marble-white eyes travel to mine and lock in place like he knows what I’m thinking.

  “Sit,” he murmurs. “Let’s have conversation.”

  I sit on the mirrored floor, my legs splayed out behind me like a frog, then I crawl forward so we’re face to face. I may not be able to dance, but there are other things I can do to get guys like him on my side.

  “I’m running away,” I say under my breath, making him inch closer. “It’s so much easier to be who you really want when you’re far away from home.”

  It’s all part of my act, but then I realize with a jolt I also kind of mean it. I think of my mom who’s always nagging at me, and Jackson giving me this one last chance, and my sister who I miss like a severed limb, and I realize running away is exactly what I do at The Chronicle. I like the Blood Web, I like the anonymity and constant travel. Because I like to forget. And tonight, tonight I get to be a pole dancer in Moscow called Brandy, and Brandy doesn’t have a painful backstory. She just has a story to chase. And a white-eyed lead.

  My lead licks the corner of his mouth, sending a flutter of fear across my chest, past the lace at my stomach, and straight down to where the strap is cutting into me.

  “Who you want to be, Brandy?” he asks, running a finger across my forehead and brushing strands of neon pink hair out of my eyes. He’s so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. It smells of champagne and blood.

  “I just want to have fun,” I say. He strikes me as the kind of man who likes fun. And I’m right, because he’s giving me a lopsided smile which feels like ice cubes being dragged down my spine.

  I lean closer and then, faster than humanly possible, he takes my face in one hand, my chin grasped between his thumb and fingers, and gazes at me.

  Normally I would pull away, of course I would, but I have to see where this leads. I have to gain his trust. He traces his finger down my neck, his face coming closer to mine. His lips look soft and maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible if I…

  I yelp out in pain as I feel a light scratch across my neck and jerk away from the sting. His bone-white eyes snap to mine as he touches the scratch and pulls his finger away, bloodied. Slowly, like he’s daring me to stop him, he puts his finger to his mouth and sucks up the drop of my blood like he’s sampling fine whisky. Immediately he spits it out, screwing up his face in revulsion.

  “Hello, little Witch,” he coos.

  Fuck, he knows what I am! I’m so screwed.

  I scramble backward but Lukka grabs my ankles and pulls me towards him until my legs are dangling off the stage.

  He smiles, his fangs shining in the murky light of the room. Then he pulls off my wig and throws it aside.

  I do everything I can to keep my breath steady. Does it matter that he knows I’m a Witch? It’s not like he also knows I’m a reporter. Then again, he might really hate Witches.

  “Why are you at the Black Rabbit, Brandy?” His voice is stone on stone, his face still.

  I don’t answer. He shakes me. “Who sent you?”

  I improvise.

  “You, Lukka. I wanted to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  I aim right for his vanity. If that doesn’t work I’ll have to get the knife from my coat and aim for something else. He pulls a strap on my outfit and lets it snap back into place.

  “Flattering. And your skills?”

  “My what?”

  His face is inches from mine, his gold chains cold against my chest. I’m vaguely aware that he’s between my legs.

  “Don’t play dumb American. What Witch powers you have?” he whispers in my ear.

  “I’m a Verity Witch. I can tell when someone is lying.”

  He steps back and I stumble forward as if he’s just released me from his snare.

  “That is all?” he asks.

  Even though the room is freezing cold I feel my cheeks burn with the same humiliation I’ve had to endure all my life. Saskia, daughter of one of the world’s most powerful Witches, but all she can do is detect untruths. Pathetic.

  He seems to be losing interest in me by the second and I can’t let that happen.

  “I also speak a lot of languages, including Russian,” I add hesitantly.

  “We go meet my brother,” he says, picking up the bottle of what I’m now sure is some poor bastard’s blood, and holds it up in the air.

  “Na zdorovie,” he cries, wishing me good health before taking another swig. “Kostya might be interested in your services.”

  Konstantin? “As a dancer?” I stutter.

  Lukka tips his head to the ceiling and laughs, long and hard.

  “Alright! I get the point,” I snap.

  “Sorry, but you dance like shit, little Witch. Like old drunk babushka on moving bus.”

  He cackles. The look in his ghostly white eyes is positively crazy. Then just as quickly his face turns serious, contemplating me with a tilt of his head.

  “But Kostya will not like you like this. No. Kostya likes everything fine and perfect. Your wig is cheap.” He picks it up off the stage floor and throws it behind him. Then he snaps another one of my straps into place. “Your lingerie is cheap too,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “At least I don’t look like the Russian version of Vanilla Ice.”

  What? I’m supposed to sit here half-naked while he insults my dancing and clothing?

  He takes off one of his thick gold chains and loops it over my head, muttering “ice ice baby,” as he twists it round and round until it forms a noose around my neck. Then he pulls at it, gently yanking my head towards his, and kisses my cheek, staining it with the blood he was drinking.

  He leans back and looks at me for a long time.

  “There. Much better!” he beams madly. “Let’s go. I have better lingerie in my car.”

  Lukka heads for the door and reluctantly I follow.

  Better lingerie in the car?!

  Chapter Five

  Lukka leads me into the basement beneath t
he church. I haven’t seen the club yet, but the basement is modern and bright. A stark contrast to the dilapidated church exterior. There’s a large neon-lit parking lot full of expensive cars with tinted windows, and three holding cells in the corner that turn my legs to Jell-O. I tell myself the brothers probably keep them down here for the kinky folk or the drunken brawlers - but I have a feeling that’s not the case.

  Lukka unlocks his car, a Lamborghini so sleek and flat you wouldn’t think anyone could fit inside it. I don’t bother suppressing my snort.

  “I’ve never seen a car like this before,” I say, stifling a laugh. What is that expression about money not being able to buy you taste?

  “My cars are my pride and joy,” he replies in Russian. “I don’t let anyone near them.”

  I make a face, but he’s enjoying the subject matter so he keeps talking. In my line of work keeping people talking is key.

  “I have surveillance on them twenty-four-seven,” he explains. “High tech nanny cams for my precious babies. If anyone so much as breathes on my cars I get a phone alert and I kill them. Easy.”

  I don’t know if to laugh or shudder, so I tease him instead. “But a yellow Lambo, Lukka? Is that so you can blend in?”

  He grins and I can see his fangs.

  “Big and yellow,” he says. “Reminds me of the sun I never get to see.”

  The unexpected poetry of his words catches me off guard and I stop teasing him. It’s no secret that Vamps don’t get to see the sun. They don’t burst into flames or start to sparkle like in the movies, they just get really sun sick and die a long and painful death. For them the sun is like cancer, it gets inside their veins and slowly eats them up from the inside out. I guess Hollywood Paranormals decided that sun cancer wouldn’t look as pretty on the silver screen as teenagers dipped in glitter.

  I slide into the passenger seat, hyper-aware of my exposed flesh catching on the black leather. The rope-like lingerie cuts into my skin and I can already feel welts forming on the inside of my thighs. Dressed like this inside such a ridiculous car I look like I’m about to film a high-budget porno.

  The garage door opens and I’m suddenly pushed back into my seat by the violent speed of Lukka’s driving as he swerves out of the lot and flies out onto the icy road. Minutes later we’ve merged into the traffic. Lukka is swerving in and out of spots, cutting cars off and cackling at their honking as he races across the highway.

  “Isn’t someone going to stop you if you drive like this?”

  Lukka smiles. “I don’t have plates.”

  He takes a sharp right onto an exit ramp and speeds down it. I say a silent goodbye to everyone I’ve ever loved and dig my nails into the side door as if that would stop me from flying right through the front glass on impact.

  He catches the sight of my fingers, paling against the car door, and slows down a bit. Traffic lights reflect in his ghostly stare like Christmas lights.

  “Do you wear contacts?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “How come your eyes are like that? I’ve not seen eyes like that on a Vamp before.”

  “Once upon a time I asked a little Witch to curse me so that I would see the world less clearly.”

  My mouth drops open and I shut it quickly. “Why would you want to see the world less clearly.”

  He thinks for a moment then accelerates, making my heart drop into my lacy underwear.

  “Like you, little Witch, I’ve seen a lot of the truth. Too much.” He smiles, revealing pearly-white fangs laced with gold. “The lie is always sweeter.”

  I don’t know if he’s spouting poetry or pure bullshit, but I haven’t heard the ping of a lie. In fact, I haven’t heard a single ping since I met him, which must be some kind of record for any man - Paranormal or not.

  The car jerks to a stop.

  “We’re here,” he says.

  I look up and gasp. We’re outside an exquisite building, eight up-lit columns supporting an ornate triangular roof like something a Roman emperor would live in. This has to be the famous Bolshoi theatre.

  Lukka is out of the car like a flash. I swivel round and watch him pop his trunk and fetch something from it. Then he opens my door and dumps a corset on my lap, a leather skirt, and a fox fur coat.

  Are we going inside the theatre? I sigh. And this is his idea of appropriate attire?

  Practically having to dislocate my limbs I try my best to slip the clothes over my lingerie with dignity. Not an easy feat in the small front seat of a Lamborghini. If Lukka’s brother likes his girls classy, like he said he did, then Konstantin’s not going to be any more impressed by this outfit than my stripper number. Personally, I’d kill for some yoga trousers and a jumper right now.

  My spindly heels wobble as I follow Lukka into the theatre. The security guards nod at him as we pass indicating that they know him. We walk up red velvet-lined steps and I stare up at the golden frescos on the vaulted ceiling. Why are we here? I thought I was on my way to meet his bigshot older Vamp brother. Surely Lukka doesn’t think Konstantin meeting me is so important we need to interrupt his night out at the theatre.

  We walk down a long, gilded hall, away from what looks like the main entrance to the theatre, and stop by a door. There’s the dull tone of gentle piano music coming from the other side. Lukka knocks but doesn’t wait for an answer, pushing open the door quietly. We’re in a dance studio, and my ridiculous outfit is staring back at me from a multitude of floor to ceiling mirrors. I feel myself turning red.

  At the far end of the giant room, twelve dancers are at the barre practicing. Impossibly slim women with long necks and pointed toes and a few male dancers scattered among them. I had no idea dancers trained this late in the evening.

  Then I see him and my breath hitches.

  Konstantin is one of the male dancers – shirtless and wearing nothing but tight beige leggings and ballet shoes. Even from this distance, I can see the muscles rippling over his broad back.

  Lukka laces his hands around my waist and pulls me towards the far corner of the room where there’s a bench. Nobody stops for us. The dancers continue to stretch and take turns to dance one by one as we watch, the pianist striking each gentle note on a white piano the color of clean bones. But all I can do is stare at Konstantin.

  I’ll be dammed. A ballet dancing Vamp. Wait until I tell the guys at The Chronicle about this.

  It’s time for Konstantin’s solo and he breaks away from the group, jumping through the air as elegant and light as a sparrow. His muscles pulsate, contracting like corded knots across his stomach and chest as he twists into impossible positions.

  If someone had told me last week I’d be watching a Russian crime lord ballet dance I would have laughed. But there’s nothing funny about the way Konstantin moves. It’s extraordinary.

  Fingers extended, toes pointed, he takes a giant leap and with one twist goes from sparrow to prowling lion. The sheer force of his body, the power rippling beneath the surface of his skin, is intimidating. I feel Lukka’s milky gaze brush over me, judging my reaction. Does he want me to be scared? Impressed? Or uninterested?

  I should stop staring, I want to, but I can’t.

  Konstantin’s solo dies down and the spell is broken by the applause of the other dancers. He remains humble and gives a small bow, waiving their praise away. With a tinker of chatter the other dancers grab their towels and bags and make their way out of the studio. As they leave, they pay us little mind. I assume they’ve seen Lukka and his girls before - or maybe they know better than to look over at the white-eyed crazy younger brother.

  We are now the only ones left in the studio. Just me and Moscow’s most infamous Vampire brothers.

  Lukka rises to greet Konstantin as I follow awkwardly, the sound of my cheap stripper heels invading the silence of the studio as they click nastily against the polished wooden floor.

  Konstantin wipes his brow with a towel. “What are you doing here, brother?” he says to Lukka in Russian, pushing his w
et brown hair back. His tone is civil and dry.

  Konstantin’s cheekbones are sharp, his eyes chocolate brown like his hair. My eyes dart from him to Lukka. You would never think they were brothers - not in a million years.

  Lukka gestures at me. “I found a little Witch at our club. She was trying to dance.”

  Trying to dance? Rude!

  Konstantin turns to me for the first time then back to his brother. “And that’s worth interrupting my practice?” It’s clear he doesn’t expect an answer.

  Lukka’s fingers loop around his empty gun holster like it’s a comfort blanket.

  “She has truth-seeing abilities. I thought she could help us get to the bottom of the missing cargo with Varlam.”

  This earns me another look from the ballet dancer, more interested than the first. The way Konstantin holds himself, his stillness, the power of his presence renders me silent. I find myself with nothing to say.

  “I will tell you three truths and one lie,” Konstantin says to me. “You tell me which is which.”

  I nod.

  “I have drained a prima ballerina. I pray sometimes. I miss my mother. I think Lukka is a bad driver.”

  I gulp. “You don’t miss your mother.”

  Lukka bristles at the driving comment yet seems unsurprised by the rest.

  Konstantin looks impressed. “No,” he says. “I don’t miss that woman one bit.”

  I don’t reply and I try not to think about the drained ballerina, the image of blood on a fluffy tutu. The idea of Konstantin praying is equally disturbing. I’ve never heard of a Vamp praying, but then again, I’ve never heard of a ballet dancing Vampire. I wonder how many other surprises he’s hiding.

  “Lukka is right,” Konstantin says. “I may have a little job for you tonight.”

  Half an hour later we’re in a private room at Sakhalin, one of Moscow’s most elite restaurants. Sitting across from us is, from what I’ve gathered, a Georgian crook and his cronies. The waiter’s hands shake as he sets a plate of fancy crab before me. I don’t blame him for being scared. The Vamps and I look like a criminal sandwich; I’m sitting between the brothers, Konstantin to my left and Lukka to my right. Opposite us is the man who was introduced to me as Varlam. He’s covered in so many scars his face looks like a Picasso portrait. Varlam is flanked by men even less pretty which he hasn’t bothered introducing to us. They too look like death incarnate.