Dating the Undead

by Juliet Lyons

Pushing open the front door to the faded hall of my building, the enormity of what I’ve done—or didn’t do—begins to sink in. I was supposed to glamour Silver, leave her disgusted by the idea of vampires, but in that last moment on the street, staring into her beautiful eyes, I couldn’t do it.

  Disobeying your blood-bonded ancient, in vampire terms, is as good as signing your own death warrant. There will be repercussions. Though Ronin has been good to me, always seemed to like me, if he finds out, there isn’t a hope in hell of him letting the betrayal slide.

  I push my key into my chipped apartment door and step inside the tiny, threadbare space I call home. Unlike other vampires, who have accumulated vast riches over the years, I’ve never valued material possessions. The flat is small, with peeling wallpaper and carpets that have seen better days. I could afford a swanky penthouse suite overlooking Hyde Park, but I prefer it here. A long time ago, back when I was human and the building was an apothecary, I worked as a chemist’s apprentice in the shop downstairs. Though that part of my life was far from happy, I find it’s comforting being close to my last living address.

  I shrug out of my jacket and toss it carelessly across the room, flopping down onto the long, leather couch I bought specially for watching TV and seducing women.

  Now there’s only one woman I want to seduce on the sofa, and she’s supposed to be strictly off limits.

  I slap my hands over my face and release a low growl of frustration. “I want her,” I say to the empty room, and I really do. Not just because I ache to be buried deep inside her—though admittedly, I get hard just thinking about it. No, for once, it goes beyond that. I want to protect her, look after her. I don’t want her messed with or harmed in any way. The world needs Silver—just as she is. Without a glamour.

  “I’m a fool,” I mutter.

  And it’s exactly like that poet once said: Love makes fools of us all.

  Chapter 6

  Silver

  At work the next day, I’m still in a foul temper over arrogant ass Logan Byrne and his sofa-dropping ways.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” my colleague Ciara asks as I slam a tray of vintage rings into a display case, rattling the glass like a loose door in a thunderstorm.

  “Nothing,” I say, removing the white cotton gloves we have to wear and tossing them aside. “Everything’s just peachy.”

  Work, a busy Covent Garden jewelers, is not somewhere I like being at the best of times. But today, I could really do without it. I want to go home, shut the blinds, and lie on the sofa until all Irish-vampire-related thoughts are extinguished from my mind.

  “How was your vampire last night?” Ciara asks.

  Of course, she is referring to Nathaniel, but that doesn’t stop my insides from churning at the thought of teasing green eyes, delicious dimples, and strong arms wrapped tight around my waist.

  “Good-looking,” I say wearily, glancing around to make sure there isn’t a customer in earshot. Luckily, apart from a well-groomed Asian lady admiring an emerald bracelet with our bitch of a boss, Nina, the store is deserted. “But, you know, boring.”

  Ciara’s sculpted brows shoot skyward. Ciara is engaged to her college boyfriend, and to her, boredom is the bricks and mortar of a stable relationship. She once revealed they went six months without sex. How is that even legal?

  “Well, you know, Silver, like I’ve told you before, men aren’t exciting. You’re better off marrying your best friend, like I am.”

  “No thanks,” I say, thinking of Ollie. “I’d rather not marry a guy I’ve seen pee in the park sandbox, if it’s all the same with you.”

  She holds out a manicured hand, admiring the exquisite half-carat diamond engagement ring on her finger. Sometimes, I think the ring is the love of her life rather than the man who gave it to her. I’ve seen them together, and she certainly doesn’t look at him with the same dreamy, lust-fueled gaze.

  As if on cue, the gemstone catches the light in the glass cabinets and twinkles. Ciara lets out a wispy sigh. “There’s no future in dating a vampire, Silver.”

  “I know,” I snip. “That’s part of the appeal.”

  “Why don’t I set you up with Patrick’s friend Neil? He just got promoted at work.”

  I wince. “Isn’t Neil the one who likes to be spanked during sex?”

  “No, that’s David. Neil is the one with two front teeth missing. He wears a plate though.”

  I’m about to politely decline her matchmaking offer when the door opens and two gentlemen—one tall, one short—wearing matching beige overcoats stroll in. Ciara’s eyes meet mine and we communicate, like all retail staff when customers are around, via telepathy and hand signals.

  Not our usual type, her round eyes and pursed lips say.

  I shrug and make a heart shape with my fingers, meaning Men shopping for their wives.

  Sharp-faced Nina looks up from her client, throwing us an accusatory glare, and Ciara cuts quickly across the plush, gray carpet, plastering on a happy smile. “Can I help you?” she asks in her work voice.

  “We were hoping to speak with a Miss Silver Harris,” the tall one says.

  Hearing my name mentioned, I straighten, squaring my shoulders. “I’m Silver Harris.”

  Their eyes settle on me like owls catching sight of a field mouse in a hedge.

  The tall one pulls out a police badge. “I’m Superintendent Linton Burke, and this is Sergeant Lee Davies. We work for the Metropolitan Police, and we’re hoping we could chat with you somewhere private.”

  “Am I under arrest?” I ask, racking my brain to think of anything illegal I’ve done lately. Cold fear stabs my chest like an icicle—God, the Chanel coat from the party. Maybe it once belonged to Princess Diana or something.

  “No,” the short one says, infusing me with light-headed relief. “You’re not in trouble of any kind, Miss Harris.”

  Nina, who has been watching the situation unfold with scarcely concealed anger, stalks over. “Silver, take these gentlemen through to the back and offer them some tea,” she says through clenched teeth. In other words, Get the cops off the shop floor and stop scaring my customer away.

  I smooth my black work skirt down over my thighs and lead them from the luxurious, spot-lit room to the less glamorous kitchen at the back of the shop. The room is stark white and smells permanently of burned toast. A pile of dirty mugs is stacked up on the drainer—I couldn’t make drinks if I wanted to.

  They pull out mismatched chairs from around the circular table and plonk themselves down. The short one looks at me hopefully, as if he is expecting me to fulfill Nina’s offer of tea.

  “No mugs,” I point out.

  He nods with tight-lipped regret. Still, neither of them speak. “Are either of you going to tell me exactly what all this is about?” I ask frostily.

  The pair exchange glances as the tall one, Linton Burke, reaches into his overcoat and produces several folded sheets of paper. He sets them on the table, black print up. “Before we can explain ourselves, Miss Harris,” he says in a flat voice, “we must insist you sign the Official Secrets Act.”

  Sergeant Lee Davies, who looks like he could have been a used car salesman in a former life, rummages in his pocket and pulls out a pen, holding it out toward me.

  I snort incredulously, ignoring his chubby, outstretched hand. “Secrets Act? Is this some sort of joke?”

  “I can assure you, miss,” Davies says, “it’s merely a precaution; nothing to concern yourself with.”

  “You can dream on. I’m not signing anything until you tell me why you’re here.” I push my chin defiantly into the air.

  The pair exchange clouded looks. “Oh dear,” says Burke. “It seems we’ve been led on a wild-goose chase, Sergeant Davies.”

  There is a patronizing air about Burke that sets my teeth on edge. I can tell just by looking at him that
he’s one of those people who always has to be right.

  “I never sign anything without my lawyer,” I say, eyes flashing.

  Burke twitches a condescending smirk. “Very well, Miss Harris. We are sorry to have wasted your time.”

  They rise from the table in unison.

  “Wait,” I snap. “What is this about?”

  Davies picks up the papers and holds them out. “Trust us, it’s something that might be of interest to you.” His tone is warmer than his colleague’s. I find I don’t mind him half as much.

  I snatch the papers, and they sit back down. Licking the tip of my finger, I separate the pages slowly, purposely taking my time. I’m too irked to take in much of what’s printed there, but I make a hmm noise anyway for good effect.

  “That all seems to be in order,” I say in a snotty voice, shuffling them back together and holding out a hand for the pen.

  I sign using a fake signature. We’ll see how well that holds up in a court of law.

  Burke takes the papers, tucking them back into the inside pocket of his overcoat. “Excellent,” he says, glancing over at Davies. “I’ll start, shall I? Miss Harris, as you are more than aware, it has recently come to light that a certain…subspecies of our kind exist.”

  The irony of the expression come to light amuses me. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “You’re referring to vampires?”

  “I am indeed. These creatures, though they claim not to pose a threat to humans, are nonetheless proving to be somewhat problematic in the greater scheme of things.”

  “How so?” I challenge. “I mean, if they don’t need blood, surely there’s no danger?”

  “The blood aspect, although indubitably a welcome relief, is not really the driving issue for the powers that be, I’m afraid.”

  “No?” I ask, sinking into one of the chairs opposite.

  “No.” Burke sighs and leans across the table, steepling his fingers. “The main concern is their immortality. If they are, as many of them claim to be, centuries old, then they are suddenly of great interest to us.”

  I frown. “You mean with history? Because they would have lived in eras we’ve only read about in books?”

  “Yes, that’s true. They would be of great use to a historian. However, I was referring to their potential value to the Metropolitan Police itself.”

  “Go on,” I urge.

  “Historical crimes. We are reexamining unsolved murders, Miss Harris. If these beings are centuries old, it stands to reason they could be held accountable for crimes committed decades ago. Similarly, their strength and speed put a new spin on dozens of unsolved mysteries.”

  “The Ripper, for example,” Davies cuts in. “The princes in the tower. The Mary Celeste.”

  Burke holds up a hand to silence him. “Let’s not romanticize this any more than necessary for our young friend, Davies. Those cases are not why we’re here today.”

  “Why are you here?” I ask, eyes narrowed.

  Burke looks over at Davies and drops him a nod to speak.

  “This leaves the police in a bit of a tight spot, Miss Harris,” Davies says. “While, of course, all criminals must be brought to justice, it is easier said than done when dealing with supernatural forces. In short, we have no idea what we’re up against. Vampires are a tight-knit community and will not respond favorably to a chat over a brew at Scotland Yard.” He pauses, leaning back in his seat. “That’s where you come in.”

  My jaw drops in astonishment. “Me?”

  “V-Date,” Burke says, eyes flashing. “This dating site people are using, that you’re using, provides us with an interesting opportunity.”

  I lean back in the chair, worrying at the cuff of my white work shirt. I have a creeping suspicion I know where this conversation is headed. “Go on.”

  “Dating seems to be one of the few places vampires let their guard down, where they allow themselves to mix freely with humans. It’s an oversight we’d like to capitalize on.” He pauses, throwing Davies a quick glance. “We’re hoping you might agree to help us.”

  I point a finger across the table accusingly. “Wait a second. How do you even know I’m a member of V-Date? Isn’t that a violation of my privacy rights?”

  Davies smiles, looking smug. “Not for the police, it isn’t.”

  This is exactly why I’ve always been against playing by the rules—double standards. “Are you asking me to be your undercover spy?” I ask, looking between them. The idea is so ridiculous I only half mean it. I’m relieved when Davies squirms in his seat and Burke breaks out in a mocking smile.

  “No, Miss Harris. We’re not asking you to become an undercover spy. We’re not MI5. No. More of an informant.”

  I almost choke on my own missed breath. “An informant?” I splutter. “Informant of what?”

  Davies leans forward, eyes fixed on my face. “It would be nothing complicated, Miss Harris. At this stage, we’re just gathering information. There may even be things you already know that are of use—how they operate, whether or not there is a social pecking order, that sort of thing. We’d meet periodically—in secret, of course—for you to deliver your findings.”

  “You make it sound like writing up restaurant reviews,” I say with a snort of derision. “Why on earth would I want to put myself to all that trouble?”

  Superintendent Burke sits back, examining me with a lazy expression. “Of all the potential candidates, we rather believed you might be the best suited.”

  “Your mother—” Davies cuts in.

  My head snaps around to him, every muscle in my body tensing. “What about my mother? Don’t tell me you finally worked out what happened to her?”

  The colleagues exchange glances similar to Ciara and I when dealing with emotional customers returning unwanted engagement rings—worried eyes, clenched jaws.

  “We cannot divulge details of specific cases, I’m afraid,” Burke says, his tone softer. “But if you help us, you’ll be doing her memory a great service.”

  A wave of nausea sweeps over me. I grip the faded beechwood table like it’s a life raft on a choppy sea. “Are you saying vampires had something to do with her”—I pause, the word death sticking in my throat—“disappearance?”

  Davies’s eyes are rounder than two copper pennies as he scans my face. “Nothing is certain. If and when it is, her next of kin will be informed.”

  “Does my father know about this?” I ask, sharp pain radiating outward from my chest.

  “Like Davies said, Miss Harris, nothing is certain. At the moment, there’s nothing to tell. Your mother’s case remains closed for the time being.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a business card. “Here is our contact number. If you do decide to help us, you would use a new account on V-Date, one with a pseudonym. Merely a precaution, you understand?”

  I take the card, surprised to see it reads Andy’s Gutters and Window-Cleaning Services. “Wow, slick,” I mutter. “How long did it take Her Majesty’s Secret Service to come up with that?”

  Davies bites his lip, clearly trying to repress a smile, while Burke ignores the comment completely. “On the back is the account name and password we’d like you to use. We’ll monitor your dates through the site, so we’ll always know where you are and who you’re with. This will in no way compromise your safety.”

  “If I give you information, will the police reopen my mother’s case?” My heart thuds against my rib cage as my gaze drills into his lined face.

  “If you give us information, yes, there is a chance it could happen, but we can’t make any promises. Also, I should point out that we cannot influence your questioning in any way. Vampires are sharp—if we furnish you with any kind of script, they’ll see right through it. We only ask you to probe deeper and report back to us. Who knows where it may lead?”

  I twirl the business card like a
miniature baton between my fingertips. I’d spent years wondering what happened to my mother. It’s only the last few years I’ve made peace with the fact I’d probably never know.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, the words slipping from my mouth before I even realize they’ve entered my head.

  They nod. Davies even smiles. “Nice to have you on board, Miss Harris.”

  * * *

  Logan

  For the first time ever, I’m actually rehearsing a conversation with a woman.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” I mutter under my breath for about the hundredth time today. “It wasn’t gentlemanly to drop you like that. Would you like to go out sometime?”

  I ball my fists in frustration. As far as apologies go, it sounds perfectly adequate, but the chances of her keeping quiet while I say it are zero. Maybe I should sneak up, cover her mouth with my hand, and whisper it in her ear before she can turn on the sass. I’d probably get another slap in the face, but at least she’d have to hear me out.

  “Ahem.” A sharp cough cuts into the evening air like a knife.

  I leap up from the basement steps, finding myself face-to-face with the woman herself. Fuck.

  Words escape me as I greedily drink in her daytime look. She is shorter without heels, her hair pinned back in some sort of French-twisty thing, with a few auburn waves breaking loose around the front. I ache to brush them from her face, tuck them behind her ears. Jesus. I’ve got it bad. I open my mouth to deliver the apology, but she beats me to it, just like I knew she would.

  “What do you want?” she asks, slicing me in half with a dirty look. “Are you stalking me or something?”

  I smile. I can’t help it—even though it seems to make her mad. “You say stalking, Silver, but I like to think of it as romantic persistence.”

  Her beautiful gray eyes narrow as she barges past me down the steps, bag clamped to her side. She pulls out a key and shoves it in the lock with a white-knuckled grip.

  “You dropped me on the sofa,” she says over her shoulder before opening the door and slamming it behind her.