by Juliet Lyons
I take a quick breath and attempt a smile. “I’m fine, thank you. Everything is fine.”
Peter’s gaze lands on my tear-streaked face. “Are you sure? You don’t seem okay.”
To my absolute horror, a stray tear breaks loose, tickling my cheek as it slides off my face. “Well,” I say, my voice breaking, “I’ve been better.”
Peter steps inside the apartment. “Listen, I was going to take a drive to Southend. Clear my head. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll buy you fish and chips,” he adds quickly as I begin shaking my head.
“Thanks for the offer,” I say, soothed by the gentleness of his tone. “But I’m in no mood for company right now.”
He reaches out, his hand warm and comforting as he places it tenderly on my shoulder. “I insist. Whatever went on in here—and trust me when I say I’m not expecting you to tell me about it—moping around isn’t going to help. Not one bit.”
I sigh. He makes a good point. “Okay. But I’d like to get changed first, if that’s all right.”
“Sure,” he says, his face lighting up. “I’ll wait here. Reacquaint myself with your cat.” He crosses to the sofa where he attempts to stroke Wentworth, who hisses, slashing at Peter with a paw before diving onto the other end of the sofa.
I shake my head, thinking of how comfortable he’d made himself in Ronin’s arms that evening Ronin broke into the apartment. “I don’t know what’s got into that cat lately.”
In my room, I head into the bathroom and dump my clothes into the linen basket, wanting to erase every trace of Ronin’s scent from my body. I pull an old pair of Levi’s and a faded I heart NYC sweatshirt from my closet and fling them on before heading back out into the lounge.
“I’m ready,” I say, grabbing my biker jacket from the arm of the sofa.
Peter runs nervous hands through his hair, avoiding my eye. “Super. I’m parked on the street outside.”
I frown as he strides from the apartment ahead of me, thrown by his sudden shift in attitude. I mean, it’s not like this is our first outing together or anything. Why the sudden nerves?
Mrs. Colangelo’s door opens and closes as we troop downstairs, and I briefly wonder why she isn’t popping out to give her two cents’ worth about the crashing noises.
I’ve never seen Peter’s car before, much less been inside it, but somehow I’m not surprised to discover it’s a worn-out, purple Beetle. I peer inside and spot an eight ball adorning the gearstick.
“It’s not much,” Peter says with a grimace as he wrenches open the passenger door, “but it’s home.”
I ease myself into the seat, grateful to be immortal. With rust around the door and the lingering stench of engine oil, it’s like climbing inside a death trap. I begin to wonder if there’s a polite way to say I’ve changed my mind.
Alas, it’s too late. Peter climbs in beside me, blowing into his hands and rubbing them together to banish the cold. “Ready?” he asks, still not meeting my eye as he adjusts the rearview mirror.
“As I’ll ever be.”
He puts the car in Reverse, the gears grinding noisily. “Good.”
* * *
Ronin
The last place I want to be after leaving Catherine’s apartment is back at the club. I long to go somewhere far away, somewhere I won’t have to face Harper’s prying eyes and Esme’s bitter sarcasm.
Rather than speed back to Soho the demon way, I walk. I trail through the city streets, feeling as lost as when I was human and I first moved up into the mountains. Although London has been my home for the past century and a half, I feel out of place—a stranger. The hustle and bustle of life around me, as vibrant and busy as it always is, weighs heavy around my shoulders. For the first time in many months, the dark dog is back, snapping at my heels and making everything seem pointless.
Which it is, without her.
My heart clenches every time I think about what I’ve done—asking Harper to find Karolina Dobrescu.
Though I’d always known that turning vampire magnifies special talents from the human life, it wasn’t until I met a healer in the late nineteenth century that I discovered the magnitude of such gifts. Logan, a vampire of Romani origins who possessed modest healing skills as a human, could physically heal cuts and broken bones as a vampire. Even though I knew this, took him on and used him at the club, I never really stopped to ponder the possibility there could be others like him.
Then a few years ago, a self-proclaimed witch named Karolina Dobrescu claimed to have found a spell to rid the body of an ancient’s venom, returning them to human form. She’d been working on it ever since Anastasia’s surprise destruction brought her subjects back to life.
This was how Vincent Ferrer became human again. As part of the spell, he required a vial of my blood. I offered it up immediately, intrigued even though I didn’t believe it would work. But it did. Vincent regained his humanity and is now father to a baby son.
Which means it could work for Catherine. She could finally live the life she deserves—with children too, if she wants them. Though the thought of her bearing another man’s child makes me sick with grief, I owe her a chance at a normal life. Damn it, life owes her a chance at a normal life.
A little over an hour later, I make it to Broadwick Street. I take the back entrance into the club, dodging around empty boxes and bins, wanting to avoid the bar in case Annie is still hanging out there.
The tiny staff room I stride though is empty and, to my surprise, so is my office. The laptop Esme was using sits abandoned in the leather armchair. Perhaps she and Harper went somewhere private to get better acquainted.
I circle the desk and slump into my swivel chair, swinging from side to side, hands clasped in my lap. I’ve spent hours in this room, sitting at this desk, so why is it no longer a comfort? Why does it feel more like a prison than a sanctuary? I lean down to release the desk drawer, wondering if I have any booze left. Esme, who has been drinking us out of house and home since her arrival last week, appears to have developed a high regard for my vintage scotch.
I’m rummaging around in the drawer when my phone starts to ring. A pathetic spark of hope ignites in my chest, dying instantly when I pull it out of my pocket and see Vincent’s name flashing on the screen.
I hit the green button. “Vincent.”
“Ronin. I’m calling with an update on the CEO of that company you’re interested in.”
Though there is a serious edge to his voice, he sounds carefree—happy. With his new family, he probably is. Bastard.
“Aye. What do you have?”
A rustle of papers crackles down the line. “A pretty much unblemished record since he came out of prison. Though he certainly has fingers in a lot of pies.”
“How so?” I ask, slamming the drawer closed.
“Well, it isn’t just finance he’s involved with. He owns the freeholds of several large buildings too. Purchased them from a London property developer back in 2010.”
I sigh. This isn’t the type of information I had in mind when I asked Vincent for help. I open the top drawer, relieved to find my scotch at last. “Go on,” I say in a disinterested tone, picking up the bottle and setting it down on the desk.
“The buildings are Cumberland House in Dagenham, Alexandra Place in Streatham, and Montague Place, Hackney.”
The blood in my veins freezes to ice as he reads the last name. “What did you say?” I demand.
He starts to read them again. “No,” I cut in, “the last one. What was the last one?”
“Montague Place, Hackney.”
Catherine’s address.
“Ronin?” Vincent asks.
“It has to be a coincidence,” I say, scarcely breathing. “I have to go.”
With trembling hands, I cut Vincent off and dial Catherine’s number. “Pick up, Catherine,” I mutter as the tone ri
ngs in my ear. “For once in your stubborn life, pick up.”
Voicemail kicks in on the sixth ring, her smooth, professional voice inviting me to leave a message.
“Catherine,” I say, voice wobbling, “I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but I’ve just found out that the man we want in connection with the vampire deaths owns the building you’re living in. Get out as soon as you get this. It might be nothing, but please trust me. I’m going to hang up now and come straight over. I’ll smash the window in if I have to.” I pause before adding, “I meant what I said earlier. This isn’t a trick.”
Breathing ragged, I hang up. “Esme!” I yell. “Harper! Get in here!”
I stare expectantly at the door for a second or two, wondering why they’re not bursting through it, and then I leap from the chair and tear out of the room into the bar.
I find them both sitting at a round table, Harper’s broad shoulders rigid with tension, Esme’s fangs protruding over her lips. They are not alone.
A stubby, balding man is with them, his sharp, beady eyes lighting up as I sweep into the room.
At the top of the stairs is a vampire I don’t recognize. Though I barely stop to study his appearance, my eyes are drawn to the curve of the machete he wields. It glints silver as it catches the strip lights in the ceiling.
“This must be the man himself,” the man at the table says, as if I’ve won first prize in a raffle.
Dazed, I stare between Esme and Harper, wondering what the hell could be going on that they haven’t murdered these two dipshits already.
Harper grimaces before saying in a tight voice, “Ronin. This is George Whinny.”
The man stands up, his chair scraping noisily on the wooden floor. He extends a chubby hand and I ignore it, glaring at Esme and Harper instead.
“We can’t kill them,” Esme says, glancing up at the vampire on the stairs. “Well, I could, but your friend Harper here won’t let me.”
My head pounds, my chest is painfully tight. “Why?” I demand.
Esme’s cool violet eyes meet mine. What she says next steals the last breath of oxygen from my body. “They have the woman you’re in love with.”
* * *
Cat
Peter is strangely silent as we drive out of London. I put it down to the hellish afternoon traffic jamming every lane, exhaust fumes lacing the air like fog. The sky is exactly like I feel on the inside—gray and dismal, a fine, misty rain smattering the windshield.
At first, I’m grateful for the silence. I’m mentally locked into the Ronin showdown, running everything he said and did through my mind. But everything is blurred, and I realize if I keep thinking about it, I might as well have just stayed at the apartment. Desperate for a distraction, I fiddle with the car stereo, but the only sound I get for my troubles is an earful of white noise.
“The antenna snapped off the other week going through the car wash,” Peter says. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay.” I twist in my seat to face him, deciding that, as far as distractions go, he’s as good as any. “Tell me about your music?”
He shrugs. “There’s not much to say. I’m just a poor musician who’s never been lucky enough to be picked up by a record label.”
“Have you never had to get a day job?”
He scoffs. “No. Luckily, I have a trust fund.”
“Ah. Not quite so poor, then.” I frown, staring at his handsome profile across the car. His glasses are missing today, and without them, he doesn’t look quite so boy next door. With his tightly clenched jaw, he looks angry.
“Where are your parents from?” I ask.
A long pause ensues. “Surrey,” he says eventually.
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. His eyes are fixed on the road. I think back to the night of our date and the day after, when he took me for breakfast and kissed me in the park. I’ve told him almost everything about me, but what do I really know about him?
“Hey,” I say, attempting to be perky. “Tell me about this girlfriend you recently broke up with. The one you lived with.”
He shakes his head. “She went off with someone else. A banker. I don’t really like talking about it.”
I twist back around in my seat, peering through the rain-smeared windows to check our progress. A massive part of me is tempted to pop open the door and roll out into the ditch, but then I remember Peter lives next door and I stay put. Besides, he’s probably just an extra-careful driver and wants to concentrate. I glance across at his hands on the wheel. Yep, ten and two.
I’m just starting to relax and zone out when my phone rings. I jerk in the seat, patting my jacket pockets frantically until I manage to locate it. Ronin’s number flashes up on the screen and I snarl, fangs prickling my gums as I let it go to voicemail. Funny, I never had Ronin pegged for a caller.
Peter, who veered a tiny bit off course when the phone started ringing, stares at me wide-eyed. “Who was that?” he asks.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I say, “No one important.”
I feel his gaze drilling into me as I continue staring out of the window. A few seconds later, it rings again, this time with a message.
“Voicemail,” I explain, my finger hovering over the red button. At the last second, I tap Listen. If I don’t hear it now, I’ll only play it later when I’m back at home. Then what’s to stop me from playing it a hundred times over while sobbing into a cushion? Nothing.
My heart clenches when I hear Ronin’s deep voice thunder down the line, “Catherine!” His tone is frantic, stripped of its usual arrogance.
Suddenly Peter reaches across and snatches the phone from my grasp, tossing it behind us.
“Why did you do that?” I demand.
When he answers, his voice isn’t unlike Ronin’s in the voice message—desperate and anxious. “I just think you should let go, that’s all. Like I said the other day, you can do so much better.”
I notice his hands grip the steering wheel in a deathlike vise, his knee trembling on the clutch.
My patience runs out. “What the hell is up with you? You’ve been acting odd ever since we left the apartment.”
“I want us to have a nice time, that’s all. Look, there’s the exit for Southend. We’re almost there.”
Shaking my head, I peer over my shoulder into the back seat, trying to see where the phone went. “As soon as we stop, I’m catching the first train back to London.”
“Please, Cat,” he says. “Please don’t do that. How will I explain it if you leave now?”
I place my fingers tentatively on the door handle, utterly convinced I’m in a car with an unstable person. “If I want to leave, I can. Besides, who would you have to explain it to?”
Peter shoots me a desperate glare. “The thing is, I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
A spasm of unease pulses through me. “Go on.”
He gulps, darting a glance into the rearview mirror. “Can we please just wait until we get to Southend before I tell you?”
I reach across and take his arm, my nails digging into the scratchy wool of his sweater. “Peter,” I say sweetly, letting my fangs drop from my gums. “If you don’t tell me what the fuck is going on right now, the only way you’ll arrive at your precious Southend will be in a body bag.”
He flinches, beads of sweat forming on his brow. “I can’t let you go yet, Cat, because the thing is…”
I tighten my grip on his arm. “Yes?”
He turns to me, his face ashen with fear. For the first time in this increasingly bizarre conversation, I wonder if I really am in danger.
His next words leave me cold. “You’re my hostage.”
Chapter 21
Ronin
I freeze for a split second, and then I’m on the man, fangs bared, lifting him from the seat
by his throat. My anger is so vivid that I see him through red eyes, his face darkening as I squeeze the breath from his body.
Around me, I hear scuffling, the swish of a sharp object cutting through the air, shortly followed by a yelp. When I eventually tear my gaze from George Whinny’s red face, I notice Esme has her arm held tightly across the throat of the vampire from the top of the stairs. Harper plucks the machete from his hands with ease.
“Like taking candy from a baby,” he retorts.
With the vampire taken care of, I lower George to the floor, keeping a firm grip of his shirt collar.
“Where’s Catherine?” I demand.
He starts to wheeze, pointing at his throat. I spin around to face the others. “You’re going to talk,” I say to the vampire.
“We already explained it to your friends,” he says. Now that Esme has him in her clutches, fear is visible in the depths of his bright-amber eyes. “The ones who have your girlfriend are expecting George to call at five o’clock. If he doesn’t, they’re going to decapitate her.”
I swallow, a ripple of fear creeping up my spine. “Why?”
The vampire gestures to the man. “George needs a favor from you.”
Esme, Harper, and I glare at him. “Let me sit down,” he splutters.
I release his collar, and he collapses into the chair, rubbing his throat as Esme tightens her grip around the vampire’s neck.
“I need you to turn me,” George Whinny says, his breathing ragged.
I stare between him and the others in confusion. “I think that’s a bit of an overreaction. Aside from some bruising and a sore throat, you’ll live…for a few minutes longer, anyway.”
He shakes his head. “We’re here because I want to become a vampire.”
Esme bursts into laughter. “That’s cute, hon. But we usually prefer candidates with a bit more hair.”
Harper smirks. “We’re a lot like Abercrombie & Fitch in that respect.”