by Juliet Lyons
Peter makes a face. “Attempted murder? I’m the one who saved her life. If anyone’s the victim in all this, it’s me. She hit me in the face with a foot pump!”
I suppress a smile. “A foot pump, eh? I’m surprised she didn’t nag you into submission.”
Catherine’s eyes soften for a split second. “That particular weapon is only effective against certain individuals.”
“As I can attest,” I say, my gaze refusing to budge from her haughty face.
“Jesus,” Esme says, turning to Harper. “You were right. He does have it bad.”
Catherine’s cheeks burn a violent shade of crimson. Whether it’s from aggravation or embarrassment, I can’t tell. “Whatever,” she mutters.
Burke snaps a pair of cuffs onto George Whinny’s wrists. “Mr. Whinny, you do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Understood?”
The man grunts by way of response, watching as Lee Davies cuffs his son. “I might have guessed you wouldn’t be man enough to go through with it,” George says. “Always writing those pathetic love songs in your bedroom. No wonder that girlfriend of yours ran off with someone else.”
Peter goes to lunge at his father, his face flushed scarlet with rage, but Davies manages to hang on to him. “Pathetic?” Peter spits. “It’s called common decency. No wonder Mum left you for her chiropractor.”
Linton Burke holds Whinny Senior back, forcing him up the stairs at the back of the club. “Not to worry, we have reinforcements parked outside. Have a good evening, all.”
“We’ll have to catch up soon, Miss Adair,” Davies says, shoving the struggling Peter up the stairs after his father. “Maybe in the New Year?”
Catherine smiles. “Sounds good. Drop me an email. Thanks again for the help.”
“Pleasure,” Davies says through gritted teeth, pushing Peter forward.
Once the humans have disappeared, we all stand for a few moments in silence. Harper stares at Esme, who gazes between Catherine and I with a bewildered expression. My eyes remain fixed on Catherine, while she stares solemnly at the floor.
She is the first to break the spell. “I’m going to take off too.”
“No,” I blurt out, stepping forward. I sense everyone’s gaze drilling into me. “I mean, what about your other neighbor?”
Catherine arches a brow. “Mrs. Colangelo? What is she going to do, strangle me with her rosary beads?”
“Don’t go,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. “Stay. Talk.”
Her beautiful eyes finally meet mine, resolve glittering in the tawny depths. “There’s nothing to talk about. Now or ever.”
Harper takes Esme by the arm, attempting to steer her away from the conversation. “Shall we get a drink?”
“Shh,” she retorts, brushing him off with a flick of her hand. “I haven’t been this riveted since I watched The English Patient.”
Catherine shakes her head. “I have to go.”
As she turns to leave, Harper says, “There’s nothing between him and Annie, you know? It really was just a ruse.” His gaze flicks to me. “Sorry, but we’re not stupid. Besides, she confided in Melda.”
Catherine pauses for a second, some of the tension leaking out of her tightly set shoulders, before she speeds from the room. My heart and dreams go with her, as crushed as George Whinny’s impossible desire for immortality.
Esme lets out a lingering sigh. “Are you going after her or just going to stare at the door for the rest of eternity?”
“What’s the point?” I say, staring up at the door she fled through. “That woman has a crown of thorns around her heart.”
“So? If anyone can tear them down, it’s you.”
“Did you really know the Annie thing was a ruse?” I ask Harper.
He nods. “Come on, Ronin. You haven’t been acting like yourself for months. Then there’s the fact that every woman you went after had at least one of her traits—curly hair, brown eyes, pale skin. What I don’t get is why you felt the need to hide it.”
“I wasn’t just hiding it from you lot. I hid it from myself too. But it’s not just Catherine Adair. At least, I don’t think it is. It’s this place. I’m over it.”
Esme frowns. “The club?”
“The club, London, being an overlord. All of it.”
Esme tilts her head to one side in confusion. “Is this a midlife crisis?”
“Perhaps.”
“Why not have a holiday?” Harper suggests. “People rave about the Galapagos Islands.”
I shake my head, allowing my eyes to wander around the empty club—the leather seats, polished dark-wood tables, the illuminated bar at the opposite end of the room. The scent of cleaning fluids and alcohol is more familiar than that of my own home. Right now, however, it’s the last place I want to be.
“What else is there for our kind but conquer and rule?” Esme asks.
My brow knits. I feel like a boy again, sitting on top of a mountain as his whole world crumbled around him. “I’m not sure. But I think I need to find out.” I meet Esme’s violet eyes. “Were you serious about taking over London when we talked over the phone about the murders?”
Esme pauses. “Not at that point. What are you saying, Ronin?”
“How would you feel if I gave you the territory? Let you run it the same way you run New York?”
She recoils in amazement. “You’d give me London?”
“Well, not give exactly. I’d check in from time to time, make sure you’re not turning whichever male model happens to come along and take your fancy.”
She turns to Harper. “I don’t do that. Would you trust me with your city?” she asks me.
I shrug. “That’s the whole point. It doesn’t feel like my city anymore, and I want to belong somewhere again.”
Esme sighs. “If I say yes, you’re not going to go backpacking across Europe, are you?”
I smile. “Would it be any of your business if I did?”
She grins. “No.”
We’re silent for a few seconds, and Esme stares around the club as if she’s really seeing it for the first time.
“I’d have to divide my time between here and New York, of course,” she murmurs. “Though I do have an excellent team over there.”
“As I do here,” I say.
“Okay. It’s a deal.” Her gaze lingers on Harper. “I do think I’ll like it here.”
My stomach twists with a sudden lurch of fear. It’s been a long time since I’ve faced an uncertain future. I swallow the thought and stick out a hand. Esme takes it smoothly in hers.
“There was I thinking I’d have to fight you for it,” she says, smirking.
I squeeze her fingers tightly in mine. “I’m sure you would have made a worthy opponent.”
* * *
Later that night, when I’ve finished clearing my desk drawers and showing Esme how various things work, Harper finds me.
“I’ve tracked down Karolina Dobrescu,” he says, hands shoved deep into his suit pockets.
The floor suddenly feels as though it’s dropping away beneath me. “Oh. That was fast.”
Harper grins. “I cheated. When I called Vincent Ferrer to let him know the case was solved, like you asked me to, I mentioned her to him. He’s a private investigator, after all…” He trails off meaningfully.
I give him a tight nod. “Good thinking, Batman. How did he manage it so quickly?”
“His wife, Mila, is still in touch with her. Well, she was up until a year ago. He used old phone records to locate her.”
“Where is she?” I ask, my voice wavering. The reality of Cat becoming a human again is too much to bear.
“Back home in Romania. That’s the on
ly problem. An old lover of hers is dying. She’s spending every hour at his bedside. She won’t leave until he passes.”
Wanting to numb the pain, I cross the room to my desk and pour myself a scotch. “I see. Did Vincent ask her about the spell? Would she be willing to do it again?”
My chest tightens as Harper nods. “Yes. She also said she’ll accept no payment for her services.”
“Glinda the Good,” I say dryly. “How long does he have, this old flame of hers?”
“Weeks, months—no one is completely sure. Vincent mentioned that you might be going away yourself, and she suggested that you leave a vial of blood here for her to pick up once she’s back in the UK.”
“Did you tell her who it’s for?”
“Yes. Karolina also made it clear that the only way she would carry out the spell is if Catherine is one hundred percent certain it’s what she wants.”
“She’ll be sure,” I say dejectedly. “I can guarantee it.”
“Then it’s sorted,” Harper says with forced brightness.
I stare into the bottom of my glass, at the amber liquid shimmering like burnished gold, and I know in my heart that I’m doing the right thing. The honorable thing.
So why does it feel like I’m losing my life too?
Chapter 23
Cat
The moment I arrive back at Montague Place, I realize I can’t stay. The whole building feels tainted, as if someone’s been rooting around in my underwear drawer, and I know in my heart of hearts that it will never be home again.
I begin packing immediately, dragging my gigantic suitcase from beneath the bed and emptying my drawers. I’m busy throwing in bras when my gaze snags on a shiny scrap of material—the camisole Ronin bought me the day after we made love at his house in Chelsea. I pick it up, threading the silky material through my fingertips. There was a moment back at the club, when Harper said Ronin wasn’t lying about the girl, where I wondered if I might stay and hear him out. But then I realized it didn’t matter. Where Ronin is concerned, there will always be a girl, a woman, doubt. I toss the camisole across the room, where it lands softly in the wastepaper basket.
Wentworth, who wandered in when the packing frenzy started, gazes at me from the bed, his green eyes anxious.
“Don’t worry,” I say, slumping down beside him. “Wherever I go, you’re coming with me.” Purring like a tractor, he curls himself into my lap. Over a hundred years on earth, and the only person I can depend on is a cat.
I stroke the soft fur on top of his head. “You were right about the neighbor, Wentworth,” I say. “I’m still not sure about the demon though. Maybe he did put a glamour on you.”
As soon as the image of Ronin’s piercing blue eyes pops into my head, I jump quickly to my feet, Wentworth springing from my lap. There’ll be weeks and months to come where I’ll be tempted to think of everything that happened with Ronin—good and bad. If I stand any chance of hanging on to my sanity, I must kick the thought out of my head before it sinks its claws into me.
I turn back to the dresser to grab more clothes. Life would be so much easier if I didn’t have to think at all.
* * *
For the next few days I stay at Sandy’s in Clapham Junction, sleeping in her spare room and trying to keep Wentworth from attacking her tiny pug dog, India. I do not let myself think about Ronin McDermott.
By midweek, I’ve contacted an estate agent about selling the flat, and on Friday, I reluctantly make my return to collect more belongings and meet him for the valuation.
Although barely a week has passed since I left for Southend with Peter, the building feels foreign, unfamiliar. Even the sight of Mrs. Colangelo standing outside her door in a robe is surreal. I hang back when I see her, debating whether to make a dash for it. But then I’m hit by a surge of anger, and just like a few weeks ago, she suddenly seems like the ideal outlet for all my pent-up rage.
“Mrs. Colangelo,” I say icily.
She rakes dark eyes over me. “So you’ve come back at last. Things have been very quiet around here without you.”
I clench my jaw. “I bet they have. Blissful, no doubt.”
The elderly woman nods. “The man, Peter. He is also missing. The police came. They searched his apartment.”
“Oh,” I say, my faux-sweet voice dripping with sarcasm, “why don’t I fill you in on what happened? If you remember, not so long ago, you made a complaint to the man who owns the building about a vampire living upstairs. Am I right?”
I note with satisfaction when Mrs. Colangelo’s hand flies to her withered neck, her eyes widening. “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Though physical violence isn’t on my agenda, I can’t help but step closer, my body buzzing with adrenaline. “I rather think you do, Mrs. Colangelo. Unfortunately for me, the man who owns this building is something of a shady character with links to a criminal ring. When you wrote him the letter about a vampire living in his building, he was secretly thrilled. You see, he wants to become a vampire himself, forego aging and mortality and live a ruthless life doing whatever the hell he likes without anyone being able to stop him.
“So, seizing the opportunity to have a dig around the vampire world, he moved his son into the apartment next door—Peter. Peter was ordered to seduce his vampire neighbor to uncover all kinds of juicy information. However, like I told you the other day, Peter didn’t really do it for me. But it didn’t matter, because the man who did do it for me was the one they were after. To get to him, Peter and another vampire decided to kidnap me and hold me hostage. This failed, of course, and he was arrested alongside his father, who—I think I forgot to mention—has also been going around murdering innocent vampires. So, there you go. All this time you’ve been saying your rosary because I’ve been living upstairs when really the very building you live in is tainted with corruption, probably paid for with laundered money—or worse, drugs.”
On hearing that final word, Mrs. Colangelo promptly bursts into tears. I experience a stab of guilt for having gotten so carried away.
“I’m sorry,” she sobs, mascara starting to smudge beneath her eyes. “I’m just so lonely since Stan died, and my sons are always so busy. I get too involved in other people’s lives, and you have always been so kind to me. I’m so sorry.”
I freeze for a minute, staring in horror at the shriveled, mascara-stained mess that is Mrs. Colangelo, before draping an arm around her fragile shoulders.
“I don’t deserve your kindness,” she bawls, black eyeliner streaking into the lines of her face. “No one has shown me any since Stan died.”
“There, there,” I say, patting her shoulder. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
Mrs. Colangelo continues to weep. She’s still crying when the estate agent appears at the top of the stairs. “Miss Adair?” he asks with a frown, jerking his head at the old lady in my arms. “Is this a bad time?”
Mrs. Colangelo pulls away, eyeing the smartly suited young man. “Who is this?”
“The estate agent,” I say. “I’m selling the flat.”
With a strangled sob, she bursts into fresh tears. “I’ll miss you so much!”
I sigh, giving her shoulder another pat. Nosy, vampire-phobic neighbors are a lot like men—they never know what they’ve got until it’s gone.
* * *
A couple of weeks later, I move out of Sandy’s place in Clapham Junction into a rented apartment in the leafy suburbs of Fulham. It’s the first time I’ve lived in South London—the only time I’ve lived anywhere in London that isn’t near Hackney—and the change is jarring.
There seems to be more space, more greenery. Even the houses seem to have more air around them. But slowly I come to realize the change is exactly what I need. There is no past in Fulham, only the present.
My old flat sells within a fortnight
. Rather than go back and face the possibility of seeing Peter—who, according to Lee Davies, is out on bail—I send a moving firm to pack up the remainder of my things. Lee Davies also mentions that George Whinny has been officially charged with the vampire murders. For a split second, I’m tempted to contact Ronin and tell him. Then I bring the metal shutters down—a trick I’m becoming increasingly adept at—and block him and the rest of his madness out of my mind.
Nights are a different story. He’s present the moment I doze off, haunting me in high definition, his blue eyes searing holes in the backs of my retinas. I mostly stay awake, wandering around the new, much larger apartment, putting up shelves and organizing my things. After a few weeks, I probably have the neatest home in the whole of greater London.
Around the two-month mark, I realize I can no longer put off going into work. This whole time I’ve been working from home, running V-Date from my kitchen table instead of my tiny office. Ironically, the news of the vampire killings appears to have reversed the damage done by rumors regarding lack of safety checks. People have even felt sorry for us. New clients are on the rise—humans as curious as ever, vampires newly motivated to live for the moment. The heavy workload couldn’t have come at a better time.
I take the train into East London, picking my way through the familiar streets toward my office on Roseberry Place. The sky is blue this afternoon, a bright winter sun breathing life into every gray corner. I take my usual route along Beechwood Street, my stomach feeling strangely hollow. When I reach the beauty salon, I pause and stare down at the cobblestone step.
Nothing happens.
I place a hand on the brick, remembering the day I sat here over a century ago, reading from an open book in my lap, and wait for the melancholy to take hold. But Jonjo’s blue eyes are gone, and no wave of emotion rocks me. I stand frozen for what feels like an eternity, the girl in the shop staring out at me in bewilderment, until finally, I step away.
Ronin’s words flood back, about how I’ve worshipped Jonjo for years because he died too soon to ever hurt me. Suddenly it’s as if there is no greater truth. I crouch down, not caring about what the girl inside might think. For the last time, I trail my fingers across the rough, cold stones.