“If she’s a new dancer then Lukka has finally lost his mind,” she says. They both laugh.
Rude. But I keep my mouth shut. No one in this room knows I understand anything but Russian. The best thing about being a Verity Witch is getting to eavesdrop as people spill their guts thinking I don’t understand them.
The rest of the dancers step out the room in a cloud of perfume, leaving me with the two bitchy girls and a trestle table full of food. What the fuck? Why is there a buffet in a stripper’s dressing room?
I walk over and check out the selection. Squares of flaky Napoleon cakes, sugar-iced gingerbread loaves, a mountain of mandarins, and stuffed Pirozhki of every kind. That I wasn’t expecting. I presumed the Volkov brothers would not want their prized dancers pigging out on carbs.
One of the dancers gets up and grabs a piece of gingerbread loaf and eats one. Then another one, then a third one.
“Have some,” she says her mouth full. “Pryaniki. They are amazing, all the food here is. The only reason I ever stop eating is because I have to go on stage.” She gives an elegant laugh and it makes the rock-hard abs in her stomach pulsate.
“I don’t think I have your metabolism.” I smile.
“Oh, that’s the best part! Konstantin has everything specially made low calorie. I’ve lost weight since I started working here!”
“That might have something to do with the pole acrobatics,” I gesture to the door.
“Have some,” she says again. “It’s Christmas!”
She winks at me, while her friend glares. It feels weird to be told it’s Christmas in January but who am I to resist local cultures? I pop a square of medovik cake in my mouth. It’s creamy and tastes like nuts and wild honey.
With one last swipe of blusher the pair scuttle past back into the club leaving me alone with my mystery bag of clothes. Does Konstantin care enough about his dancers to have a chef make them low-cal Christmas treats? Is it because he’s a dancer himself? I sigh. Konstantin is about as easy to understand as Lukka’s riddles.
I sit at the dressing table and peer in the bag. Let’s see what monstrosity I’m expected to wear tonight. The dress Konstantin has chosen for me is tight, black and very short with a plunging neckline and virtually no back. Understated, elegant and sexy enough to fit in with every other girl in this place. I should have known he’d have better taste than his brother. There are matching shoes too.
A tag is attached to the dress with a message written in a swirling script.
To Saskia. Behave.
Saskia? My stomach twists when I see my real name. I drop the dress. How the fuck does he know who I am?
I pick the dress back up and peel off my jeans, fear spreading over every inch of my body. My real name has never been discovered on assignment before. Should I tell Jackson? No, not before I find out how Konstantin got a hold of my identity.
I startle, doing up my dress quickly as the door to the changing room creaks open and a girl walks in. Another dancer, the one I was watching earlier with the elfin features and crazy cheekbones. I stay quiet as she walks straight past me to the lockers at the back of the room, punches in a number and pulls out a phone. She’s talking into it before it hits her ear.
“It’s me, Ansel,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. It takes me about three seconds to work out what language she’s speaking. Kazakh. Ansel means ‘Honey’ in Kazakh. Cute. She sits with her back to me, but I can see in one of the mirrors that she’s smiling, her eyes fixed on a thin ring she’s twisting round her finger.
“I go on in five minutes,” she says. “I miss you, Maxim. When can we meet again?”
There’s a pause, then her smooth brow creases.
“Fuck my brother! Arman doesn’t own me. So, it’s OK for me to work in a place like this but it’s not OK for me to date his best friend?”
I pretend to do my make-up so she doesn’t realize I’m listening. Although I’m not sure she’s even seen me.
“Can you get away at dawn?” she asks the guy on the phone. “I finish work at six. We could have breakfast together. I know a place.”
There are footsteps in the hallway. I move away from the door just as it slams open.
“There you are, my little Witch!”
Lukka gives me a demonic grin. Tonight, his six front teeth are capped with a golden grill shaped like fangs. The dancer has hung up and is sitting straight in the chair like a rabbit caught in headlights. Lukka turns his smile to her and she jumps up, fumbling with her phone and stuffing it back in her locker.
“I’ll get back to work,” she says to Lukka in Russian, popping a grape in her mouth from the trestle table and scampering past him.
Oh, great. The girl’s telephone conversation sounded interesting, but she’s already been scared away by one of the brothers’ Grimm.
“I better do some work too,” I say to Lukka.
He shuts the door with his foot and stands in front of it.
“Welcome, Saskia,” he says. “Or is it Brandy? Or Brenda? Maybe I will make up my own little name for you. How about Sabrina the little Witch?”
“It’s called Sabrina the Teenage Witch,” I answer in Russian. “How about I call you DrakLukka the limp-dicked Vampire?”
I intended to be nice and get into his good graces, but I’m clearly failing miserably. I don’t know where my attitude problem comes from, blame it on my childhood. Lukka smiles, nearing my face. He doesn’t rise to my taunt.
“So, how do you like our little empire?” he says. “I bet you didn’t think you’d find Vampires inside a church.” Although his eyes are ghostly white they light up at the mention of the club.
“Yeah, it’s a nice place,” I reply. “But isn’t converting a church into a strip club a little...blasphemous?”
“God has forgotten all about us.” He waves his hand at the elaborate moldings decorating the changing room ceiling too. “Konstantin stopped believing in God the day we were turned. My brother says us Vampires are the real gods now. The Black Rabbit is where people like us come to worship the things that really matter to them.”
“Sex and money?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Power.”
“Konstantin didn’t properly explain what I have to do tonight,” I say. “Is there anyone I should specifically speak to?”
“You walk around and greet customers, you listen to them and you say nothing. That’s it. The easiest money you will ever make. You hear anything suspicious you come to us.”
I nod, although as soon as I find out anything about the killings I’m going to my editor Jackson.
“No more lies from you and no more surprises, Saskia.” His eyes wander down to the pendant nestled in my cleavage. “Ponyatno?”
Lukka stares at me for a long time before stepping to one side and letting me pass. As I brush against him I note the sizable outline inside his designer sweats and realize the limp dick quip was probably inaccurate.
There are a lot of stairs leading back up to the nightclub, and I blink to adjust my eyes to the dark red glow of the main area. The converted church is a lot fuller now, dancers everywhere spinning like queens using nothing but their crossed ankles, all the while making eyes at the crowd of eager clients. Swiftly the girl I saw on the phone earlier lands on her knees and pulls one side of her bikini bottoms down, letting the men in suits stuff bills inside.
Standing by a large velvet curtain I scan the rest of the room. The club is beginning to fill with suited men, their pockets heavy with rubles. Looks like there will be plenty here to keep me busy. Time to do some digging.
A shadow shifts in my peripheral, probably a trick of the light. I take a step forward when suddenly something cold and iron-like clamps around my throat.
A scream dies on my tongue as I’m yanked backwards, deep into the velvet darkness.
Chapter Eight
My feet are no longer touching the floor as I’m slammed against a nearby wall, the heels of my shoes scraping uselessly against
the paintwork. The hands at my neck are impossibly strong. Inhumanly so. There’s not much light behind the curtain but I can still make out my attacker’s eyes, bloodshot and angry.
“You think you can poison me and I won’t find you?” says the Strogino Vamp from last night. The one I let bite me so he’d tell me where to find this club. I can tell he’s still suffering from the intoxication caused by my blood.
Fuck! I should have known he’d look for me. I basically gave him an address.
His cold hands loosen at my throat as if waiting for a reply.
I cough. “You don’t look so good. May I suggest a spa getaway?”
He growls. With one hand, so fast it’s a blur, he lets go of my throat and pins both of my wrists above my head. I cry out from the pain, thrashing against him, but my screams are drowned out by the thumping bass.
So much for Tonight A DJ Saved My Life.
I scream again but it’s pointless, his grip is too tight and the music too loud. My heart is thudding in time to the shitty techno beats. Kicking out, I push against him but he’s too strong.
His high-pitched laugh slithers near my ear. “You should never have given me the Witch blood antidote,” he says. “Vampires don’t forgive or forget. We just fuck and feed.”
“God, that’s a lot of alliteration. Have you ever thought of self-publishing your poetry?”
Keep him talking. Buy yourself some time.
It’s not as if he can bite me again, he wouldn’t take that risk, so he can’t kill me. Then in answer, he pulls something silver from his coat pocket and runs it cold and sharp along the side of my dress. Oh yeah, there’s more than one way for a Vamp to murder someone.
“I brought you a present,” he coos.
His rancid breath permeates the space between us as his body presses hard against mine.
There’s a dull sting as he traces the knife across my stomach. My body is shaking. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t scream. There is nothing I can do to stop him gutting me like a piece of fresh game.
“But first I will have some fun with you,” he says, his grip on my wrists smarting. I blink at the glare of his pale face, his lips dry and coated in flaking black blood. He’s already fed tonight, but I can tell he’s still sick. This must be him at his weakest, which is a scary thought.
“I’m going to enjoy cutting you into small pieces while you’re still alive,” he says. I try for another scream. Nothing. His hand is back at my neck and he squeezes it. I can’t breathe at all; the edges of my vision go blurry. Darkness ebbs in, spreading like black paint before me. One second the Vamp’s angry vengeful eyes are boring into mine, the next he’s pulled away and flung aside.
Konstantin materializes behind him. With a resounding crack, he snaps my assailant’s neck as if it were nothing more than a twig of dry birch. The Strogino Vamp slumps forward at my feet.
Konstantin observes him, his face passive and unmoving.
“I will get someone to dispose of the body properly.”
I nod shakily. Vamps don’t die from a snapped neck, I know that much. They have to be dismembered or burned. I look at my hands and try to quell their manic shake.
Konstantin notices. Suddenly, he scoops me up and all I feel is a gust of wind in my hair as we rush lightning speed through the club until I find myself in his office, slumped in a chair.
I still haven’t taken a breath. My hands are trembling and the stench of my Vampire attacker lingers in my nostrils.
“Here.” Konstantin pours me a shot of vodka. “For your nerves.”
I chug it, my throat aching where the Vampire’s fingers had grasped so tightly. He pours me two more and slides them over.
“Again,” he says gently. “Drink until you forget.”
Chapter Nine
Despite the evening’s initial excitement, the rest of the night has been slow. My heavily made-up eyes itch with the need to sleep. I thought gathering intel in a busy club would be interesting, but it’s been endless boring hours. My legs ache and I’ve learned nothing - plus my throat is sore and bruised from that Vamp’s grip.
Lukka told me to wander around all night and listen, try and pick up any information that may come in useful for them, but the truth is every guy here is either talking business or planning which girl they want to take back to their private room. No one has mentioned the Volkov brothers yet or anything that might give me a clue as to who is killing their workers. The club is so large, on so many levels, the back of my ankles are already stinging with blisters.
I pick up a few empty glasses, anything to make the time pass quicker, and head to the bar.
“You new?” the barman asks in Russian as I hand him the empties.
He’s a monkey Shifter and he’s mid-shift, using his dexterous langur tail to pour bottles at triple speed. The rest of him is wiry, fidgety, marred with tufts of dark messy hair that stick up all over his head and knuckles. I understand having a Shifter bear at the door, that bouncer is a brute, but what’s a monkey Shifter doing in Russia? They normally prefer warmer climates.
I sit down on one of the high leather stools and rest my head on my hands.
“Yeah, I’m the new…” Konstantin didn’t give me a proper job title when he offered me this job. “…guest liaison manager?”
Monkey Boy makes a face but doesn’t ask questions. I don’t imagine anyone that works here asks questions. Except me.
He holds a vodka bottle out. “Want a drink?”
I nod and he pours me a splash in an icy shot glass. It’s clear with tiny flecks of gold floating in it. I knock it back in one and shiver as my stomach turns into a pool of lava.
“What time does the club close?” I ask.
“When the last client leaves. Around six, normally.”
I grab his hairy wrist and turn it so I can see his watch. There’s less than an hour left. The dancers are leaving one by one, picking up bills from around their poles, and stuffing them into their bras. A few have disappeared towards the private rooms, a man trailing behind them, but most are heading back to the changing rooms. In no time at all it’s just me, Monkey Boy, and a group of loud Vamps in the corner.
They must have just come in earlier when I was upstairs. Typical Vamps. Only men capable of ripping you apart in one swift move would act so fucking loud and obnoxious. At least no one has flashed their fangs yet, thank god. I’ve had enough of that for one night.
“Who are they?” I ask the barman.
“Regulars.”
He’s polishing a glass as he talks to me, which is a bullshit tactic I know bar staff uses to make customers feel less uncomfortable when they’re standing there with nothing to do. I wish he’d put the glass down, it’s clean enough now. But he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man that likes to keep still.
“I know they’re Vampires,” I say. “But what kind are they? ‘Stare at you longingly through your bedroom window’ Vamps, or ‘30 Days of Night suck Josh Hartnett dry’ Vamps?”
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t understand either of my movie references. Not my fault I’m a Netflix subscription with legs.
“They’re business associates of the Volkov brothers,” he says. The ‘rich’ kind. The ‘mean’ kind. The ‘don’t make eye contact with them’ kind.”
I nod at the vodka bottle and he pours me another shot. This is quickly turning into the kind of job that can’t be done sober.
The Vamps are chanting something, and I look at the barman questioningly.
“It’s feeding time,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Once the dancers have finished for the night, the customers are allowed to eat.”
I watch as the club door opens and the huge Shifter bouncer walks in, followed by four girls I recognize from the dance floor wearing identical tight white dresses.
“But they’re Shifters,” I say. “I thought Vamps preferred human blood.”
The barman looks uncomfortable. “Shifters wouldn’t normally let Vamps near th
em. We can stand up for ourselves.” He screws up his face. I don’t blame him for being disgusted by this arrangement. “But Shifter blood is a delicacy, and Konstantin guarantees the cleanest blood in town.”
The cleanest blood in town? What kind of purist bullshit is that?
I recoil. Everything in my body stiffens as I watch the girls approach the Vamps, led like lambs to the slaughter.
“Chill,” the barman says. “They’re doing it of their own free will. They get paid a lot extra on top of their normal rates.”
I forgot monkeys are good at picking up on emotion.
“How does Konstantin keep the blood clean?” I ask. “And what does it matter to the Vamps if blood is clean anyway? What? Do they need Organic Fairtrade blood?”
“The boss keeps these girls on strict diets, drug tests them regularly, and makes sure they are generally healthy.”
I wouldn’t call honey cakes and pirozhkis part of a strict balanced diet.
“The Vamps like it because of the taste” he continues. “It guarantees they don’t accidentally come across junkie or Witch blood.”
I swallow nervously.
“You know I can smell you, right?” he says.
Damn, it’s like being cursed to wear skunk spray for the rest of your life.
I shrug. “Yeah, I know.”
The Vamps grow louder, hungrier. A fear from earlier curdles in the pit of my stomach at the sight of their fangs. There’s a moment of silence between the monkey and me as we watch the beautiful women smiling invitingly at the braying Vamps, like they’re about to hold up numbers and walk around a boxing ring.
“Why are they all in white? Are they all virgins?”
Monkey Boy laughs through his nose, but there’s no humor in the sound.
“Konstantin calls them his Blood Bunnies. White fabric helps heighten the experience for his clientele.”
So, Konstantin is some kind of fucked-up Vampire sommelier?
“Do the Vamps drain them?” I ask, thinking back to my story for The Chronicle.
Vampires of Moscow (Blood Web Chronicles Book 1) Page 6
