by Juliet Lyons
With a heavy heart, I push the car into gear and make a neat U-turn on the deserted street, heading home to an empty flat.
Chapter 3
Mila
“He was a serial killer?” Laura asks in disbelief, crashing her coffee mug onto the table and sloshing dark-brown liquid everywhere. “Are you taking the piss?”
It’s the day after my would-be murder, and I’m sitting in my best friend’s kitchen in Richmond. Needless to say, I didn’t get an awful lot of shut-eye last night. Being targeted by London’s most wanted can really mess with a sleeping pattern.
I shake my head. “I wish I were.”
“And he tried to murder you in an alley?”
“Yep.”
After I’ve told her the full story, she sits back in her seat, staring at me across the table with a curious mixture of awe and horror. “Only you, Mila,” she says finally. “Only you.”
“I know,” I say, pulling a cookie from the tin. “If they’re not cheating, they’re trying to kill me. It’s gone beyond a joke.”
“So what happens now?” Laura asks, eyes wide. “He won’t come after you, will he? He doesn’t know where you live?”
I shake my head, reaching across the table to pat her hand. “Don’t worry. He didn’t even have my telephone number. We arranged it all through V-Date. There’s no way he can trace me.”
Laura nods, some of the tension leaking out of her shoulders. “And the guy who rescued you was a vampire too?”
“Yeah.” I pause, remembering his strong arms around my waist. “He was totally hot.”
Laura’s dour face brightens. “Really? What was his name? Did you see a wedding ring?”
This is one of the things I love most about Laura. She sits through a dramatic account of my near-death experience on a date and still believes there’s a chance I might get a boyfriend out of it.
“Inspector Ferrer,” I say, biting off a chunk of chocolate biscuit. “I can’t say I was really in the frame of mind to be looking out for a wedding ring though. He just sort of fell from the sky.”
“When you say hot, how hot?”
“Superhot. You know that guy on the billboard as you drive along the M40? The one frolicking in the surf? That hot.”
Laura’s jaw drops. “Jesus.”
We don’t speak for a few seconds, silent in our worship of the billboard hottie.
“He was nice too—he loaned me his jacket. Too bad I’ll never see him again.”
Laura frowns. “Why won’t you see him again? Don’t they want to question you some more?”
I glance down at my wristwatch, vaguely aware I was supposed to be there half an hour ago. Sometime during my sleepless night, I decided wild horses wouldn’t be enough to drag me back to Scotland Yard today.
“I’ve already told them everything,” I say, taking a sip of tea. “I just want to put the whole sorry mess behind me.”
“But what if they catch him?” Laura says, her blue eyes wide. “You would have to do one of those lineup things like they have on CSI. Then afterward, Inspector Hot Guy would ask you for coffee. He’d say something like”—she adopts a deeper voice—“‘In a way, I should thank that psycho for bringing you into my life.’”
Despite my weariness, I chuckle. “Didn’t we make a pact to quit pretending life is like the movies?”
“Yeah, we did,” she says, a pink glow appearing on her cheeks. “Until I met Tom.”
I narrow my eyes, pretending to scowl. “Yeah, thanks again for leaving me alone on Bitter Island.”
Up until a few years ago, Laura had been in the exact same situation as me—building an impressive collection of douchebag ex-boyfriends and wondering if there was such a thing as happy ever after. Then the stars aligned. She met her now-husband, Tom, and experienced one of those miraculous moments when both timing and attraction come together in perfect harmony—the holy grail of dating.
Of course, I wasn’t the least bit jealous.
Well, okay, maybe a tiny bit.
“I reckon something good will happen for you soon. Your days on Bitter Island are numbered,” she says, gazing dreamily out the window at her gardenias. She opens her mouth to add something, but then thinks better of it, pursing her lips shut instead.
I wave an accusing finger in her face. “Were you about to say what I think you were about to say?”
She shakes her head vigorously before breaking into a devious smile. “It’ll happen when you least expect it.”
I snatch up a dish towel dangling from the back of a chair and fling it at her. If there’s one thing that drives me mental, it’s hearing that phrase.
“But actually,” Laura says, picking up the cloth and refolding it, “maybe it’s true this time. I bet you weren’t expecting to meet the gorgeous inspector in that alleyway.”
“No, Laura, at that point, I was more focused on the hands about to break my neck than meeting the love of my life.”
“Exactly. So this could be it.”
“With a vampire?” I ask incredulously. “Even if he swept in that door right now with a diamond engagement ring, it’s completely pointless. There’s no future in dating a man forever trapped in youth. I mean, it’s tough enough trying to keep a regular man faithful for a lifetime. Think what life would be like with some model sort who remains eternally young. Look at Demi Moore.”
She frowns. “So why were you using that site in the first place if you didn’t want to seriously meet someone?”
I shrug, running a finger around the edge of my mug. “Because it interested me, that’s all. I wanted to meet one. After Scott and that whole oh, by the way, I’m still married to someone and we have two kids together fiasco, I felt like dipping a toe in foreign waters. See what the other species are like. Now my curiosity is sated—the end.”
Laura throws me a smug grin and raises a dark brow. “We’ll see about that.”
We both lapse into silence as I cast an admiring gaze around Laura’s recently remodeled black-and-chrome kitchen. Lucky for her Tom is not only a sweet husband who remembers anniversaries, but he’s also a dab hand with a power drill. “Are those tiles Laura Ashley?” I ask, pointing at the dove-gray-and-white mosaic pattern behind the sink.
When she doesn’t answer, I glance back to see the color drained from her face. There’s a knot in her forehead and she’s twisting a strand of brown hair anxiously around her index finger. “Mila, they will catch this guy, won’t they?”
I reach across the table to pat her arm. “I’m sure they will. I mean, look how fast they showed up last night. It’s only a matter of time.”
She twists her hands nervously. “Maybe you should stay here until they do. Tom won’t mind. You’re not going to work tonight, are you?”
I’ve already called in sick to my day job, temping at a large corporate firm as a receptionist. But my evening job, teaching English to a bunch of newly arrived immigrants at London Metropolitan University, is harder to wriggle out of—mainly because I enjoy it.
“I’m going,” I say. “Some of them travel all the way from Essex. I don’t like to let them down.”
“Mila, you were almost murdered. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
I flash a smile. “Well, they barely speak English, so I doubt it.”
“Oh, ha-ha.”
“Besides, it’ll be good to take my mind off stuff.”
“Well, if you get home later and feel like you need me, drive straight over. I’ll make up the spare bed just in case.”
I nod, draining the last of my tea. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
* * *
I leave Laura’s around six in the evening and drive straight across town to the university. It’s still light outside, a weak sun filtering through a mist of streaky-gray clouds. Though it’s supposed to be spring in London, there’s an i
cy breeze in the air that chills to the bone. Hard to believe that just a few short months ago, I was living in Australia, waking up each morning to a sun so dazzling, I practically lived in a pair of Ray-Bans. Those days already feel like a million years ago.
Climbing out of my car on Holloway Road, I’m hit by a blast of cold air. I wish I’d thought to bring a jacket. I’m still wearing the same clothes I flung on this morning—slouchy jeans, a frayed gray sweater, and a pair of Converse sneakers. My hair is pulled back off my face in a messy bun. Still, the best thing about London is that you can dress however you like and no one bats an eyelid. Hell, I could saunter along Holloway Road in a Mickey Mouse costume and no one would give a toss. It’s one of the things I’ve missed most about living here.
Perhaps this blasé attitude is why so many vampires have migrated to London since their exposure. I still remember seeing the headline all those years ago: Vampires Exist!! I was about seventeen at the time and in high school when a super-famous Hollywood actress, no doubt exhausted by having to shoot down plastic surgery rumors, announced via her publicist she was, in fact, a vampire. For years, she and others like her had been casually milling around among us, minding their own business—not drinking our blood. It transpired that most vampire myths are utterly ludicrous—they don’t need blood to survive, the sun doesn’t kill them, and they absolutely do not sleep in a coffin filled with dirt from their motherland. Like most things in our world, people soon lost interest. A week later, we were back to Justin Bieber hating on his fans and the size of Kim Kardashian’s butt.
My point is, in London, a city where grown men can and do waltz down King’s Road in eight-inch glitter platforms, many vampires found their spiritual home. I guess that’s why V-Date has proved such a huge success. Last I heard, there are similar dating sites branching out across the globe. This time next year, we could all be dating ghosts or something.
By the time I make it to my classroom, a cluttered, dusty little room in the basement of the languages block that smells of moldy books, my students are already waiting.
Most of them break into smiles by way of greeting. There are a few hellos. No one asks why I’m wearing jeans and not carrying any books.
Karolina, a stunningly beautiful Romanian woman with huge ebony eyes and an artfully curled mane of obsidian hair, is the first to break the silence.
“How was the date, Mila?” she asks.
In case it isn’t already obvious, I share too much. Apparently in Tuesday’s lesson, when we were all practicing our polite English conversations, I must have let it slip out about my date.
Karolina is waiting for my answer, head tilted to one side. This evening she’s dressed in tight white jeans and over-the-knee patent boots, a huge pair of gold hoop earrings dangling from her earlobes. She looks like an exotic princess. The pair of brothers from Ghana, who never speak unless forced to, stare at her, mouths open, like she’s queen of the Nile. I’m fairly sure she’s the only reason they’re still coming.
I make a face.
“Oh,” Karolina says. “Bad.”
I nod, snatching up the eraser from the desk to wipe away some leftover French verbs from the whiteboard. A guy at the back—Axel, a Norwegian Hells Angel—smashes a fist into one of his fingerless leather gloves. “If he gives you trouble, tell me. I sort it.” He sounds a lot like Arnie in The Terminator.
“That’s okay, Axel,” I say, taking out the class list from my handbag. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
After I’ve ticked off their names, I get them to start in the usual way, by turning to the person beside them and asking about their day. After that person’s had their turn, they turn to whoever’s next to them and so on, until everyone’s had a go. After that, we get down to the nitty-gritty of today’s agenda, which is simple past tense.
What I love most about this job is how quickly the time goes. Before I know it, it’s nine o’clock and class is finished.
Usually, I’m last out the door, as I have all my books and things to pack away. Tonight, with only a handbag, I leave with the rest of them. Karolina falls into step beside me as we spill into the corridor, talking about Marco, her wealthy Italian boyfriend who she mostly refers to as “asshole.”
“Asshole call me up and say he no take me to Milan because uncle die and he must fly to Guatemala. I say, ‘Fuck you, asshole. I go anyway. Fernando take me.’” She pauses to suck an angry breath through her perfectly white teeth. I’m gazing at them, wondering if she gets them professionally whitened or uses a special toothpaste, when she freezes mid-rant. Her massive black eyes lock on the space a few inches past my head, dark eyelashes fluttering wildly like a pair of moth’s wings.
I whip around to see what she’s staring at and almost suffer heart failure when I find myself gazing directly into a pair of flame-blue eyes. There, standing in the hallway, immaculately dressed in a gray, tailored suit and looking like he’s fallen straight from the pages of a men’s clothing catalog, is Inspector Abs.
Before I can get a grip, my heart begins to thud like a hammer in my chest; my palms slicken with moisture. I tell myself it’s because I’m remembering the horrors of my murderous date, but who am I kidding?
I must have been suffering from shock last night because I don’t recall him being this beautiful. Hot, yes, but the man standing in front of me is nothing short of a vision. I half expect a crack to open in the ceiling and a white beam of light to shine down on him. That’s not to say he’s a pretty boy or anything. Far from it. His features are rugged—a square jaw peppered with stubble, thick brows, and dirty-blond hair so perfectly swept off his forehead that I wonder how it looks after sex—all mussed, pearls of moisture clinging to the silky strands.
I’m so utterly locked into my sex-hair daydream that several seconds pass before I realize my jaw is hanging open and my eyes are bugging out. I must look exactly like the Ghanaian brothers in class when Karolina walks into the room. Karolina herself stares between us in confusion before muttering something in Romanian and slipping away along the corridor with the others.
“Miss Hart,” he says finally. His brow furrows, two vertical lines denting the space between his eyes. I’m suddenly all too aware of my shabby clothes. A couple of times last night I got the impression he was checking me out, but now he’s staring at me like I’ve sprouted another head. Probably wondering how he got it so wrong.
Though I feel like slipping through a crack in the corridor floor, I pull myself to full height and meet his burning gaze. “Am I under arrest, Inspector?” To my horror, the words sound provocative, as if I’m speaking to some bachelorette party policeman and not the real deal. Then again, maybe it’s impossible not to say anything provocative to a man his level of sexy.
“No,” he says. “But we were concerned when you didn’t turn up at Scotland Yard today, and I need to return this to you.”
At this point, I notice my Ralph Lauren blazer is draped across his arm.
“Oh,” I say, reaching to take it from him. “Thanks.”
My hand brushes his, and I flinch as a tingle shoots up my arm, a ripple of warmth radiating through my body.
His frown deepens. “It’s no trouble. We had to speak to the bar staff anyway, so…” He trails off into silence, raking beautifully tapered fingers through his hair.
I nod, wasting no time slipping the blazer on. “How did you know where I work?”
“Huh? Oh, we ran a search on your National Insurance number. I went to your apartment first, thinking you might be there. When you weren’t, I figured you would be at work.”
The idea of him at my apartment affords me an adolescent thrill. “Oh, well, it’s a shame I wasn’t there—I still have your jacket. I was going to return it by courier in the morning.”
“You mean you have no intention of helping us further with our inquiries?”
I shrug. “I’ve told you everyth
ing I can. If you catch him, I’ll testify, but other than that, what more can I do?”
His blue eyes burn into mine as his gentle tone drops an octave. I get the feeling he’s using his serious policeman voice on me. “With all due respect, I don’t think you understand how serious this is. A serial killer is at large, and not just any serial killer, Miss Hart—a vampire. I’m not sure how much you know about our kind, but we are stronger than the average human in every way imaginable. You are at a much greater risk than you would be if he were human.”
I scowl, folding my arms across my chest. “Yes,” I say tartly. “I am aware of your strength.” My eyes, with a life of their own, flicker to his chest, to the visible lines of muscle swelling beneath his white pinstripe shirt. The memory of how they felt beneath my fingertips sends heat soaring into my cheeks.
“I’m not an idiot,” I say, tapping a foot on the tiled floor. “But I’ve given you my statement already, and if it’s all right by you, I’d like to put this sorry mess behind me.”
He stares at me, mouth agape. “I didn’t mean to suggest you were an idiot, Miss Hart. I don’t think you’re an idiot—I mean we don’t think that. Myself and my colleagues. I only wanted to point out that I’m concerned for your safety. That is to say, we are concerned for your safety. Very concerned.”
It’s my turn to goggle at him. There’s something about his little speech that reminds me of my rat babbling from last night. “I appreciate your concern, Inspector, but until there’s a development, I’d like to carry on as normal, you know? If that’s not against the law.”
“No, it’s not against the law,” he says, gazing at me with an unreadable expression. “Will you at least allow me to walk you to your car? I take it you have one? If not, I can drive you home.”
I snatch a look at my watch. There are no windows in the basement, but it’s bound to be dark outside by now—not that I need an excuse to go with him, of course. “Okay. I’m parked around the corner on a side street.”
He motions for me to walk ahead, and I wonder how old he really is. There’s an antiquity to his mannerisms, a courtliness that suggests Old World breeding. Once I start walking, he falls into step beside me, an awkward silence pressing down on us. For the life of me, I can’t think of a single thing to say.