Allure of the Vampire King: A paranormal romance (Blood Fire Saga Book 1)

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Allure of the Vampire King: A paranormal romance (Blood Fire Saga Book 1) Page 7

by Bella Klaus


  As I turned left into South Audley street, which had the narrowest sidewalk I’d seen in the whole of Great Britain, I wondered if Valentine had any faerie blood.

  Faeries were also unfeasibly beautiful creatures renowned for their ability to seduce. Like vampires, they needed supernatural beings of low magical power to reproduce, but that didn’t mean they respected us or humans.

  While supernatural vampires treated human blood as a delicacy, the delicacy of choice for faeries was human misery. Anyone unfortunate enough to strike a bargain with a faerie often found that it backfired, so they not only didn’t get what they’d bargained for but ended up in a form of eternal slavery.

  As I turned into South Grosvenor Street, a long, black vehicle filled the periphery of my vision. I quickened my pace, even though it was impossible to out-walk, outrun, or out-anything a limousine.

  Behind it, someone honked their horn, followed by the driver’s shout to stop curb crawling, followed by the whirr of an electric window.

  My breath quickened. Valentine was going to say something. He could have stepped out and walked at my side. It was an overcast day, and sunlight didn’t bother him as much as it did other vampires, but he peered out through the limousine’s window, saying nothing as he watched me trudge through the backstreets of Mayfair.

  I shook my head. Strip away the handsome exterior, extensive wealth, and cultured conversation, and he was just another entitled asshole who used his silver tongue to get what he wanted out of a girl before casting her aside.

  It was four by the time I reached the tree-lined garden of Grosvenor Square, and I was sick of the limousine, the angry drivers behind it, and Valentine’s silent presence.

  Guessing that he already knew where I lived, I pulled out my key and stopped outside my building, opened its front door, and stepped into the warm hallway. As soon as it clicked shut behind me, I rested my back against its wood and exhaled a long breath.

  I survived. I survived the return of Valentine without once feeling a pang of love or longing or lust. I stared into those violet eyes, seeing nothing but a supernatural beauty honed by magic to ensnare its prey.

  Warm triumph filled my chest, and I bounded across the black-and-white-tiled hallway, taking the marble stairs two at a time.

  This was it. The beginning of the rest of my life. A life I was free to live as a human. My thighs ached from the seven-story climb. When I reached the attic, my breath came in rapid pants, feeling like I’d had a great workout. In a way, I had. I’d worked Valentine out of my system.

  I unlocked my apartment door, and a bolt of warm fur streaked out into the hallway with a mraaw!

  “Macavity?” I twisted around, watching the leopard skin cat bolt down the hallway and down the stairs. “What’s wrong with you?”

  When I checked my phone, it was a voicemail from Beatrice, saying she was bored at work and asking if we could meet earlier. I texted back, telling her I couldn’t wait, and she texted back to say she would meet me at Souk.

  Souk was a bar that served Moroccan food and the most delicious cocktails. Most people went to check out the Middle Eastern decor and stayed to smoke the hookahs, elaborate tobacco pipes that allowed you to smoke a range of exotic blends through long tubes.

  The bar attracted a young, artistic crowd—the complete opposite to Christian—and I couldn’t wait. After changing into a pair of dark jeans and a tank top, I sauntered into the bathroom and stared into the mirror.

  The girl looking back seemed to glow. I drew close to the reflection, examining my features. Gone were the faint circles under my eyes and the dull grey in my blue irises. Instead, my eyes shone with the fire of determination. Determination to start my life anew and commit Valentine to a distant memory. Even my skin glowed with challenge.

  Stepping back from the mirror, I grinned and applied a coat of mascara and lip gloss. This was how I used to look when basking in the light of Valentine’s love. Now that he was out of my system, I could bask in the light of my own happiness.

  Valentine’s limo wasn’t anywhere on Grosvenor Square, even though I felt the distant presence of a brooding vampire.

  I walked down Duke Street and continued down Oxford Street, which was heaving with shoppers. Outside Selfridges, I caught the 390 bus, which took me down to John Lewis—also on Oxford Street—and walked the back roads of Soho until I reached Souk.

  London was a mass of contradictions, crowded landmarks and highways crammed with tourists and shoppers and workers, then as soon as you ducked into the backstreets, it was the epitome of peace.

  Souk’s exterior consisted of a burgundy sign and awning that shaded its tinted-glass front. Six-foot-tall menus stood before the window, and behind them, glowing red lights hung down from the ceiling like they were floating in midair. It was four-thirty, which meant happy hour had already started.

  I stepped into its warm interior, letting the mingled scents of tobacco smoke and herbs engulf my senses. The strains of exotic string music played over the speakers with a techno beat, soft enough to allow the patrons to hear themselves talk.

  I glanced around red walls decorated with gilded paintings of smoking celebrities, including one of the Mona Lisa smirking around a pipe. Along the edges of the bar, they’d arranged low cushioned seats around circular tables topped with carved leather.

  At this time of the afternoon, the place was only half-full, with mostly students nursing half-priced drinks. A quartet of girls sat at the closest booth around a glass hookah, watching their friend suck tobacco out of a long pipe. Pale liquid bubbled at the base of the pipe as she blew out white streams of smoke from her lips.

  It wasn’t something I had ever wanted to sample. At least not outside the supervision of Istabelle, who made a tobacco-free blend that could help a person achieve altered states. All I’d seen when I inhaled her herbs were flames, which I thought reflected hell.

  Beatrice rose from a bank of seats behind the circular bar and waved.

  I raised my hand, headed toward the bar, and ordered an extra-large jug of marrakechia. It was Souk’s version of a sangria but made with red wine, pomegranate seeds, cardamom, Grand Marnier and triple sec.

  Unlike most places where it was a red wine watered down with lemonade and chunks of fruit, Souk’s sangria was more like spiced wine.

  After paying for the drinks, I brought the jug and two glasses over to my friend’s seat. Instead of the usual suit, she wore a double-breasted, tailored dress that skimmed her curves, making her look like she was dressed for a hot date.

  Beatrice’s mahogany hair flowed over her shoulders in loose waves, and her deep-red burgundy lipstick was striking against her dark skin. Despite the glamor, I still saw the pain in her red-rimmed eyes.

  Her pretty face broke out in a grin, and she bounced on her cushion. “I stopped by the shop this lunchtime with a hot chocolate. Do you know what I heard?”

  I set down the jug and glass on the table and lowered myself into the seat. “Sorry I wasn’t around.”

  She batted my arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew devastatingly handsome supermodel types who bundled girls into limos?”

  My eyes narrowed. “Istabelle told you that?”

  “No, Jonathan.” She rolled her eyes. “Would you believe he was sitting in the book corner, waiting for you to arrive? As soon as I stepped in, he barraged me with questions about your mystery man.”

  I pressed my lips together, suppressing a frisson of annoyance. What was it with this guy? Istabelle would have offered to take over my sound bath session, the same way I stood in for her when she was running late.

  Picking up the jug, I poured her a generous portion, slowing the stream so only a few pieces of fruit and cloves and cardamom plopped out into the glass.

  “Sorry for the interrogation,” I said with a groan. “Would you like me to order you something to eat at the bar?”

  She waved away the apology and picked up her drink. “Absolutely not. You’re going to tell me ab
out this man and why you’ve kept him a secret. Does he have a friend? A distraction like him might help me get over that two-faced wanker.”

  I huffed a laugh and poured myself a glass of sangria. Christian was a mere annoyance compared to the years-long mind games of Valentine Sargon.

  “Who was he?” she asked. “The ex you never talk about?”

  My gaze met hers, and I caught the expression. It was the kind of hunger for vicarious excitement I used to feel for her juicy details. I wouldn’t push if she wasn’t ready to talk about Christian.

  “It was him,” I murmured. “That first year we met, I was too much of an emotional mess to tell you what happened between us.”

  She brought the glass to her lips and hummed. “That’s why I didn’t press, and when you seemed better, I didn’t want to bring up the subject and drag you down.”

  I turned to my friend and met her warm brown eyes. They didn’t sparkle as they usually did, and I hoped the pain of Christian’s betrayal wouldn’t linger. “If it wasn’t for you and Istabelle, I’m not sure I could have emerged from how that relationship ended.”

  Beatrice leaned toward me, her lips parted with a question.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I scrambled for a way to skirt around the most salient points, such as our true age difference, and the fact that he was royalty and a vampire.

  “He was older…” I lowered my gaze to the table. “My boss, I suppose.”

  Beatrice whistled. “Sexy?”

  “To an eighteen-year-old with no experience of life.” I raised a shoulder. “He really made an effort to dazzle me, which wasn’t difficult, considering I’d never had any luxuries.”

  My throat dried. Maybe I wasn’t so over Valentine as I’d thought. He’d swept me into a whirlwind of sweet words, fun dates, fancy dinners, and passionate kisses, culminating in a marriage proposal.

  “He gave me an engagement ring, and I gave him my virginity.” I gulped. “Shortly after, he denied that we’d ever even had a relationship.”

  “Bastard.” She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled a long breath. “What is it with men and their conquests?”

  “Maybe they miss the days of hunting woolly mammoths and instead hunt women?” I asked.

  Her eyes opened, and she flashed me a broad smile. “You could be right about that. Perhaps the way to get rid of that Jonathan stalker is to say yes.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Somehow, I think my hunter theory only works on the alpha types.”

  We both took long sips of our marrakechia. The spices hit me first, followed by a whiff of fresh pomegranate. Beneath the heady flavors was a fruity merlot—on the opposite spectrum to the dense, savory Châteauneuf-du-Pape I drank with Valentine.

  Beatrice waggled her brows. “So… what did he want?”

  I shook my head. “Who knows? The man was so cryptic, it almost sounded like another game.”

  “Will you play along?” she asked from behind her glass.

  I reared back and stared at my friend as she swirled her drink. “Whatever for?”

  Beatrice raised a shoulder. “Fancy dinners, nights out on the town, dirty weekends, and a few generous gifts?”

  “Trust me. Now that I’m free of his influence, the last thing I want is to become ensnared.”

  She twisted around in her seat, staring at me through shining eyes. “That’s what I love most about you. Your strength.”

  I snorted. “This time next month, you’ll have dismissed Christian to a wankstain in history. That’s what it means to be strong.”

  Beatrice’s shoulders sagged, and the smile in her eyes dimmed. She set down her glass, picked up the menu, and sighed.

  Guilt tightened my chest, and I drew in a sharp breath. I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, not knowing if I had been dismissive toward the depth of her feelings for Christian.

  Over the three years I’d known her, she’d had relationships that lasted from days to weeks, most of them ending with dismissals and a few ending with tears.

  Beatrice was the most resilient person I’d ever met. Each time a relationship ended, she had dusted herself off and declared herself ready for the next adventure, so why would things be so different with Christian?

  I licked my lips. “Sorry if that sounded flippant—”

  “It didn’t,” she said. “I’m more upset about letting myself get duped.”

  “Life can be so crap.” I leaned into her side and blew out a long breath. “It’s hard to tell yourself that things are going too quickly when there’s an excited man who keeps calling.”

  Beatrice nodded. “From now on, I’ll play hard to get.”

  “And miss out on the fun?” I asked.

  The corner of her mouth curled into a smile. “Alright. I’ll play not so easy to get.”

  “It’s a pity we have to play these games at all.” I peered over her shoulder at the menu. “What do you want to eat?”

  “Ugh,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “When you weren’t in the crystal shop, I left to go back to work, but Jonathan followed.”

  My brows rose. “What?”

  “I know,” she said with a groan. “I even ducked into Starbucks to escape his incessant whining and ordered a huge panini, hoping he wouldn’t wait around for the baristas to grill it.”

  My brows drew together. Something in her pained expression told me her plan to avoid him had backfired.

  “Do you know he plonked himself opposite me, sipping from a thermos flask and demanding to know your intentions toward the mystery man?”

  “Bloody hell,” I muttered.

  “At one point, I nearly choked on my panini.”

  I pursed my lips. Up until Valentine showed up at the shop, Jonathan had only been a minor annoyance. The next time I saw him, it would be to cut ties and ask him not to keep bothering me for dates.

  We ordered our favorites starters—stuffed olives, kofta kebabs made of minced lamb infused with a delicious array of herbs, maakouda, a spicy potato pancake that came with a yoghurt dip, and caramelized onion hummus with slices of toasted pitta bread. The waitress brought a sweet mint tea, served in a glass.

  By the end of happy hour, most of the students had left, replaced by a mixed crowd of office workers and casually-dressed people looking like they would move on to one of Soho’s many nightclubs. Beatrice bought herself a hookah blend of passion and hops, which emitted a yellowish smoke that mingled with the other scents drifting around the bar.

  Loud chatter filled the space and the DJ increased the volume, playing an Arabic song overlaid with the voice of a man rapping in French. As Beatrice’s eyelids drooped, we moved on to nous-nous coffee, a half-milk, half espresso-blend stronger than any latte.

  I was about to ask for the check when a waitress placed a bucket of champagne on our table. It was a 2008 Dom Pérignon. In a place like this, it probably cost five hundred pounds.

  “Excuse me?” I met the woman’s dark eyes. “We didn’t order champagne.”

  The waitress pointed toward the bar. “It’s from the gentleman over there.”

  My pulse quickened to the beat of the drums playing over the speaker. Alcohol had dulled my senses, and I couldn’t feel an approaching vampire. Had Valentine followed me here?

  I peered over the waitress’s shoulder for signs of the dark-haired menace. Instead, a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair standing close turned to us and tipped an imaginary hat.

  Disappointment pulled my heart into my stomach. Maybe it was because I hadn’t allowed myself the chance to tell Valentine how I really felt. It certainly wasn’t out of wanting to see the vampire king.

  I snatched my gaze away from Mr. Tall, Dark, and Peppery to meet Beatrice’s narrowed eyes.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” she said over the volume of the Moroccan rap.

  The waitress bent toward us. “Mr. Masood is a regular here. He buys drinks for girls all the time and never expects anything in return. He always tips me wel
l for delivering a bottle.”

  I exchanged a glance with Beatrice. This scenario sounded as fishy as the tuna tartare I’d had for lunch. Guys who sent over champagne usually wanted to saunter over to ask how we were enjoying the drinks, making girls feel obliged to offer them their company in exchange for their generosity. This one showed no sign that he wanted to join us.

  Taking a deep breath, I concentrated on the bottle. It was fine, but power radiated from the champagne flutes the waitress set on the table.

  “How much does he usually tip?” I asked.

  Her brows drew together. “A tenner. Why?”

  I slipped a hand in my pocket and opened my purse, but the waitress shook her head, seeming to understand what I was trying to do.

  “Did any of the girls who accepted his drinks ever return to the bar?” I asked.

  Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

  “Just be careful with that guy,” I muttered. “Could you bring the payment machine, please? We’re leaving.”

  She offered me a slow nod, and hurried in the direction of the bar.

  Beatrice leaned into me and frowned. “What was that all about?”

  “Time to go home. There’s a hunter on the prowl.” I pulled out my smartphone, fired up the Uber app and called for a car.

  Someone five minutes away accepted my request, and I slipped my phone in my pocket and waited for it to buzz with the driver’s arrival. When the waitress returned with the card scanner, I paid her and rose off the low seat, making sure to accidentally knock the glasses on the floor. They didn’t smash as I’d hoped but rolled under the table.

  As we walked through the busy bar, the man’s gaze followed us through the crowd. It was time to make an anonymous report to the Supernatural Council’s enforcers, or tell Valentine that there was a supernatural in Soho, preying on girls.

  Chapter Seven

  As we stepped out of the bar and bundled into the Uber, hints of unstable crackling energy lashed at my back. It was the sort of rage I’d only experienced from a were creature or a shifter.

 

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