Lost Angeles

by Mantchev, Lisa

  He catches me glancing at the shuttered windows, and his expression shifts from regretful to resigned. “Jax was right, much as it pains me to admit it. This wasn’t supposed to be a cage, either. I’ll come outside with you, so you can get some color on those day-glo legs of yours.”

  “We both know it’s not exactly safe out there yet. Plus, you’re a vampire, and it’s like… noon.” I swallow a laugh. “What are you gonna do? Blow your rape whistle if I get accosted? Throw yourself into the sunlight in the hope that your ashes will blind my attacker?”

  The glare he shoots me is classic. “You know, I think you very much overestimate your own sense of humor.”

  I plant a kiss on his scowling lips and slide out of the bed. “I’m starving. I need to go make myself something to eat.” My bare feet touch down on a colorfully-woven rug that covers a wood floor that’s as old as this island. The house is Lilliputian, but it suits me. Xaine would have bought the biggest mansion on the block, but my subtle reminder of our incognito status landed us here instead, off a quaint side street, in a small space that I’ve filled with a myriad of personal belongings purchased off the internet. “Go back to sleep. I swear I’ll be right here when you wake up. Be careful when you roll over. Remember Vegas.”

  Remember Vegas.

  The words give me pause for the barest second, pinging around in my head with all the good, bad, and ugly of that particular memory. I briefly wonder how things are going in Los Angeles, but as far as disappearing acts go, ours was the Houdini of goodbyes. The world mourned us; we are lost to them. It was surreal to watch it unfold on television, all the candlelight vigils and crying fans. It was a huge event, mostly dedicated to Xaine. I was a blip on their fame radar, but he was their national treasure. Xaine loved it, but I suppose he’s always had more than a little bit of the Huck Finn in him. He was impossible after the funeral, and it took weeks before he quit talking about how extravagant it was.

  But after that, he just let it go. Let it all go.

  Except me. Except us.

  “Get naked when you’re done,” he says, raising his voice enough to catch my attention as I wander toward the bathroom. “We’ll have dessert in bed.”

  By the time I wiggle into a loose skirt and peasant blouse, Xaine’s already dropped off again, the kitten tucked up beneath his chin. I stop for a second to drink in the sight of them before going downstairs. On the main level, I bypass the kitchen and head instead for the front door. There’s a pair of slip-on sandals next to it, waiting for me. They aren’t broken-in yet, because I’ve yet to step foot out of our love nest since the night I bought them. I wouldn’t leave now, either, except I have money burning a hole in my pocket.

  Or rather, I have one very specific gold coin on my conscience.

  Dear L.,

  Salutations from the other side of the world. I’m sending you a little cash; make a wish and huck it into the deepest ocean you can find, would you? Seriously. No, seriously! Stop fighting me on this and do it. Trust me, it’s not as valuable as you think.

  Sincerely (and seriously),

  J.

  P. S. Keep X’s grubby mitts off it.

  Rereading it brings a heavy ache to my chest. Jackson Trace might be shit at the guardian angel gig, but he’s a good person underneath all the random flailing. The letter showed up mysteriously a few weeks after our arrival on Madeira. No postmark, no return address, nothing at all to show that it circulated around the world via USPS, FedEx, UPS or anything else. Like magic, it was simply here, and when I opened the white vellum envelope, I caught the tiniest whiff of Jax’s cologne.

  Eau de One Hundred and Douche.

  I’m not sure why he didn’t keep the coin, save it for someone else, but plenty about the plane trip from Burbank to NYC told me that he was hanging up his halo and wings, if not his floral-print wingtips. Maybe the coin is another tie to the old days, one he’s happy to cut. Or, at least, happy to let me chuck into the five thousand meters of ocean surrounding Funchal.

  Either way, he had to know I would do it, and this is honestly the first time since we arrived that Xaine has let me out of his sight. An odd feeling of guilt settles in my midsection when I unlock the bolts and slip outside, not only because he’ll have a heart attack if he wakes up and realizes I’m not there. It’s because—

  I’ve missed this

  I wasn’t meant to live in darkness. The welcome heat of the midday sunlight slides over my upturned face, my almost-bare shoulders. Not that I haven’t spent time on the various balconies, but it’s different to wander down the narrow, twisted alleys with my sandals slapping against ancient bricks. Xaine’s been teasing me for weeks that I’ve gone full-blown boho hippie chic in a way that would have looked contrived in LA. Here, it just looks right. Better than that, the ruffled-and-sheer blouses paired with long peasant skirts, large straw hats, and even larger sunglasses help me slide into a space somewhere between local and tourist in a way that draws no attention whatsoever until I end up at the pier. Renting a boat requires a lot of pointing and gesturing, but soon enough, Marco is motoring me out into impossibly blue water. The reflection is dazzling, blinding even, but I don’t close my eyes. This feels important. I have to bear witness.

  At some point, I pull the well-creased envelope from the pocket of my skirt. I can feel the Scale through the paper, the ridge of the coin having left its impression. When the boat stops, I open the envelope and let the gold disk fall into the palm of my hand. Its shining, blank surface winks up at me. I stare at it for a moment, feeling a heavy sort of melancholy settle into my chest.

  I love Xaine, love our life. I’m thankful for every day, but I can’t help the restless feeling, the idea that I should be…

  Doing more.

  As I hold the coin, a picture manifests on the flat surface. I stare at it, waiting and wishing and experiencing a hundred other things that I can’t really nail down to a particular emotion. This thing, this tiny piece of Jax memorabilia, is the last remaining link to the old life. The life before. A sigh escapes me as I curl my fingers around it, squeezing it so tight that it hurts. When I close my eyes to make a wish, I swear it grows a few degrees warmer in my hand.

  I will live, I will love, I will fight. I just need the strength to do it.

  I draw back my arm and fling the Scale as far as I am able into the glittering blue water. It turns over and over again, the flat sides catching the light the way Reille Reece’s bracelet did that night at Scion. It seems like a million years ago, but it also seems appropriate.

  Another way we’ve come full circle.

  After that, there’s not really anything left to do but go back. When I step off the boat, I cast longing glances at the stores along the main street, wishing I could stop in for fruit and cheese and smelly little fish for the kitten but knowing I can’t take anything back to the house without setting off Xaine’s every internal alarm. I do allow myself one indulgence: a pit stop at the gelataria to order something in my faltering Portuguese. The shop owner smiles and corrects my accent with a lot of good-natured handwaving. We laugh, I blush, and I leave with the taste of chocolate coating my tongue.

  Without meaning to, I pause at the tourist kiosk at the end of the street. There’s a rack of postcards that draws my attention: pictures of the beach, historic buildings, churches. Plucking one out, I look at the glossy surface and then flip it over to study the place where you’re supposed to write.

  Write home.

  Except I can’t write them. Can’t drop a note to the folks or to Jess or even to Jax.

  Dear Butt-chin,

  I did as you asked and threw your priceless holy relic into the sea.

  Sincerely (and seriously),

  L.

  P.S. You’re stupid.

  I can’t help smiling at the thought, but I know it’s a postcard that will never be written. It’s too dangerous to compromise our position as dead-men-walking for the sake of the Last Word.

  Going to put the card ba
ck on the rack, a dozen regrets dimming the day for me a bit, my hand bumps into another reaching from the other side. My fingertips graze the dark red leather of butter-soft driving gloves, like someone left an Italian sports car idling at the curb. I follow that hand up, skimming over pristine shirtsleeves and the cuffs of a dark jacket. Without knowing why, a deep unease crawls up my spine.

  “My apologies,” the stranger says, smooth as anything.

  The hairs on my arms are already standing on end. I could blame the gelato, but it’s melting, welling up in the paper cup and dribbling over my fingers. He comes into view in slow motion: movie-star handsome face, dark fall of hair…

  Not Tiberius.

  And my midsection stabilizes enough to drop out from under me a second time when I realize I recognize this guy, too. He’s like that actor whose name you don’t remember, the one you saw in that sort of interesting movie, but you don’t recall the title to that either. He smiles benignly, but there’s no warmth in it.

  Chewing on the inside of my lip, I study him without saying anything, without moving my hand toward the gun holstered on my thigh. His gaze flickers to my leg, like he knows what I’m thinking. Then his attention shifts back to my face and the smile widens like he’s amused by the very idea.

  Amused by me.

  “You can’t begin to understand how pleased I am to find you alive,” he says, then offers up a sympathetic nod and explains, “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

  I give my head a shake, tilting my chin toward the ground so the thick curtain of my hair hides my features from sight. The sunglasses I’m wearing are huge enough to hide half my face. He doesn’t know, he just thinks he does, and I keep telling myself that as I offer up a thickly accented, “You must be mistaken.”

  I turn and start walking, trying like hell to keep from breaking into a run. My mouth has gone dry, and I pause only long enough to drop the sodden gelato cup into a nearby trash can. I lick the chocolate from my fingers, snaking my tongue down the side of my hand to catch one roving drop—

  “I don’t make mistakes, Lourdes.” When his quiet voice speaks my name, I trip, my toe catching on an upraised brick. A second later, I’m surrounded by warm arms, soft fabric. When I look up, it’s into brown irises that are so dark they’re nearly black, blending into the pupils until everything is one seemingly-solid color.

  My hand slips into the pocket of the skirt, to the place where I cut out a hole big enough to pass my hand through. I can feel the holster tight around my thigh, and I reach for it, skimming past airy fabric and holding my breath until my fingertips slide over metal. “You’re mistaken. We don’t know each other.”

  “Well, then.” The low monotone so close to my ear is polite, his expression is glassy-calm. Then he captures my hand, the one reaching for the gun, his red-gloved fingers closing down on mine. “Please, allow me to introduce myself.”

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, our thanks go to our beta and proofreaders: Noël Furniss, Victoria D. Morris, Chloe Palka, Penny Ramirez, Stephen Segal, and Jennifer Ford. Thank you for the eagle-eyed assists on multiple drafts. Your attention to detail and intermittent squees of glee were greatly motivating.

  And to the boys: Jared, Henry, Gabriel, Chris, Luke, and Adam. When Hollywood comes knockin’, please take the parts as they were assigned.

  From Amanda:

  Lisa told me I should scribble something here about my writerly journey… then she highlighted it in red so I wouldn’t forget to actually do it. Well, the journey has been long and hard (pun intended, everywhere), but we managed to put together this book, and two others, and plotty outlines for many books to come. All of that is way more than I could have imagined it would be when we started this whole thing—completely by accident—two years ago.

  But enough of that shit. On to the thanks!

  To my mother. For being so supportive, too supportive. Seriously, one kissy emote per text message is really enough. For getting excited about Lost Angeles and telling all her friends, and their friends, and their families, and everyone she knows, and strangers on the street, and that guy three doors down, and those people on the internet. I suppose that’s the adult equivalent of hanging my artwork on the wall. Which, she also still does. Thanks mom. I love you.

  To the Roberts side of the family: sorry about all the sex and swears. If it’s any consolation at all, there’s a lot less sex than there was… although, there’s probably a lot more swears. I hope you read it anyway, but it’s okay if you don’t make it through.

  The next book is way worse (read: better.)

  To all my friends from FFXI, for greatly increasing my capacity to create the aforementioned swears. Without the hours I spent bullshitting with you all on Ventrilo, I never would have learned how to not be a bitch. Or how to be a bitch. Or learned the difference between being a bitch… and being a bitch.

  And finally, thanks to Lisa for creating Xaine and for prancing him in front of me like the undomesticated animal he is. She knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. He was the first, but not the last, and certainly not the least. Also, I couldn’t have written these acknowledgements without her. No, really, she printed out a damn template and everything.

  Bitches love templates.

  See you in book two!

  From Lisa:

  I find myself in possession of a big pile of thanks, not unlike a giant stack of apple pies. So you get a thanks, and you get a thanks, and you over there as well.

  To the readers. I hope all of you are well over the age of eighteen and that no one mistook this for a YA novel. Or a picture book. Harder to imagine mistaking this as a picture book, but weirder things have happened.

  (Coming up next: inappropriate immortals picture book.)

  To my family. For having smoothies and Mickey Nuggets for dinner more times than I’d like to admit. For listening to me blather through the complexities of three novels taking place over one timeline. For asking all the right questions at the wrong moment and the wrong questions at the right moment. And for the ten-year-old, because she’s more fascinated with the Scipio vampires than any of the characters in my YA novels.

  To the loyal supporters: the faces that turn up at the signings, book launches, and conventions; the online enthusiasts, Patreon patrons, and Dress Circle members Cat Healy and Rose Elizabeth Pedersen. Your kindness, generosity, and love of reading never ceases to amaze and delight me.

  And last but certainly not least, to Amanda. For writing five hundred thousand words with me before it became a novel project. For writing characters that both fascinate and give zero fucks. For powering through a brutalizing real-life work schedule and still having the strength to sit down at the computer. For wanting to hug me that one time. And for making it still fun, even two years later.

  Excerpt from

  LOOSE CANON

  (Lost Angeles, Book 2)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Trick

  The way to make money is to buy when blood is running in the streets.

  Sound advice from one of the richest men to have ever lived. I’m not sure he meant it quite so literally as this day and age has taken it, but the truth is, there is blood in the streets, and it’s not all created equal. There’s blue blood, and those are the rivers that spin the wheels of politics and businesses, of kingdoms and corporations, of Fortune 500 companies. They’re the shakers, the moneymakers, the mountain movers, the men of good standing. They’re the kings and princes, prime ministers and presidents, the men that other men want to be. They build their kingdoms on the backs of the red-blooded, using the muscle and sweat of people common enough to be their oxen. And there are a lot of oxen.

  The real trick is weeding through all the blue and the red to find the gold at the end of the bloody fucking rainbow, and trust me when I say that I…

  …am the real Trick here.

  And I learned a long time ago that nothing is thicker than blood, especially if
you’re a vampire. I guess that’s why I ended up at Scion tonight. For all that I have zero use for the resident rock star, his nightclub is the only place in LA where I can reach every tier of my target demographic.

  AKA, vampires.

  Rich ones, poor ones, new ones, old ones, ambitious ones, lazy ones, partiers, networkers, they’re all here. So while I could roll up to any nightclub in LA and unload a wallet full of dead presidents, Scion is place to be for blanketing. All the blue blood is here.

  The gold blood, too.

  As if on cue, the soft scent of Hermès 24 Faubourg hits my nostrils. Smells like the worst parts of Paris at high noon, and only one person I know wears it.

  Speak of the devil.

  Reille Reece is headed my way at a clip, her epic bitch heels tapping out a stern warning that I hear, even if I don’t plan on heeding it. She’s probably nervous that I’ll start something she can’t finish; it’s happened before, which is probably why she keeps tight tabs on me whenever I come ’round.

  “Boy, there sure are a lot of slutty women here tonight.” I say, flashing teeth as I turn around, bringing her into my sights. “Oh, Reille, didn’t even see you there.” Then, because I’m a big fan of calling them as I see them, I add, “What I meant to say was… there sure are a lot of slutty women and blatant, gold-digging cum-dumpsters who can’t seem keep their legs closed here tonight. I did wonder why it smelled like fish all of a sudden.”

  “Sure that’s not nostalgia?” she counters. “I mean, between London’s gutters and brothels, it might just be a visitation from the Ghost of Whores Past.”

  “I told you not to talk about my mother that way,” I say, grinning. “And besides, I’m pretty sure it’s the stench of Whores Present.”

  Reille crosses her arms over her chest, waiting for me to make room for her in the hallway, but instead of moving over, I get right in her way. She doesn’t shift over either, so we’re heading for each other in an old-fashioned game of chicken. When our shoulders meet, I make sure it’s hard enough that she bounces off my bicep, heading for a nasty tumble as those heels teeter. She draws in a sharp breath, hands flashing out for anything to stop her fall. I let her flail for a few tenths of a second, but at the last moment, I reach out and snag her up, drawing her against me.