by Juliet Lyons
My eyes widen in hope. “Meet you upstairs in ten minutes?”
He smiles and leans in, pressing his lips softly to mine. “I’ll be there, Mrs. Byrne.”
I resist the urge to give a fist pump of victory. Instead, I trail a finger across his stubbly jaw. “Happy two-hundredth birthday, Logan,” I whisper, kissing him again before making a half-baked attempt at a sexy retreat back inside. In reality, I probably look like a melon on two toothpicks.
I’ve barely made it to the kitchen when I feel a sharp twinge in my pelvic area. I lean against the sink, shooting pains radiating up my side. Logan, who must have seen me stop, comes rushing through the french doors.
“Silver? Are you okay?”
Before I can answer, there is an odd sensation, like a release of pressure, and then a puddle of water splashes onto the floor at my feet.
Talk about killing the moment.
For the first time in the entire history of our relationship, I say, “I don’t think we should have sex.”
Logan stares between me and the wet patch on the floor in horror. “Is that…?”
I nod. “My water broke. We’re about to become parents.”
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in the Undead Dating Service series
Romancing the Undead
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Juliet Lyons’s Undead Dating Service series
COMING FALL 2017
Mila
Turns out that when you date the undead, there is a whole host of conversational faux pas you must avoid. You can’t talk about death, for example, or use the phrase what’s at stake, and don’t get me started on the garlic breadsticks debacle. This probably explains why I’m on a date with a vampire and babbling about rats.
Not love rats—cheating ex-boyfriends whose names occasionally fall into first date conversation. No, the real kind that hang around sewers and restaurant kitchens. Long tails, pointy noses, beady eyes. I’m prattling on about rats.
“And I’ve heard,” I say, wagging a finger like I’m some kind of expert on rodent activity, “that they’re developing immunity to traditional poisons, which means they’ll probably take over the whole planet someday.” I lift my oversize wineglass to my lips before realizing it’s empty, a sticky crimson glaze clinging to the rim along with most of my lipstick.
I shake the glass, frowning. It appears I’ve been gulping large mouthfuls of red wine instead of drawing breath. Being drunk would explain how this conversation got to rise of the super rodent in the first place. I must be way more nervous than I thought.
Setting the glass back on the table, I meet the vampire’s eye. To his credit, if he’s disappointed by my lack of conversational finesse, he doesn’t show it. He’s been eyeing me all evening with bemused fascination, as if I’m a rare and exquisite jewel he’s discovered in a trash bag. There are worse ways to be looked at, let me tell you.
“So,” I say, sucking in a deep breath, “what was London like in the good ole days?” I have to virtually glue my arm to my side to keep from making a Doris Day–esque fist swing.
His dark eyes flash with amusement as he signals at a passing waiter to bring more wine. “Actually, there were a lot of rats.”
I chuckle, sitting up straight on the stool and swiping a stray lock of hair from my eyes. He made a joke. He’s normal. Everything is going to be fine.
“But you’re not British?” There is a definite accent to his soft voice—French or Italian maybe.
He ducks his head. “Originally, I’m from the north of Spain, the Basque region. I was born there in the eighteenth century.”
My heart skips a beat, which is ridiculous because it’s not like I don’t know what he is. I sweep a glance around the busy London bar, at all the sleek city workers in their well-cut suits, the occasional trendy type in ripped jeans dotted amongst them. Even if they knew a vampire was sitting just feet away, no one would care. No one does anymore.
After declining his dinner offer, I figured drinks was the safest option. Of course, the really safe option would have been daytime coffee at Starbucks, but if you’re going to date a vampire, why not go whole hog and do it under the cover of darkness?
“The world must have changed so much,” I muse, meeting his steady gaze. I’ve been fascinated by his eyes ever since I arrived. They’re dark—deep brown and ringed with violet—but they glow like burnished gold, like the early morning sun shines from their glittering depths. I watch as the pupils dilate like a cat’s before looking away. Although he’s handsome and looks exactly like his photo on V-Date, I’m not attracted to him in the slightest. Still, things are going a lot better than my last date—the one where my Australian boyfriend announced he was married with two kids. Compared to that, this is like an indoor Mardi Gras.
“The world has changed,” he says, eyes fixed on my face. “But people are the same as ever. Greedy, materialistic, selfish.” He pauses while the waiter sets down two more large glasses of wine. “Don’t you ever feel disappointed with all life has to offer, Mila?”
I frown, worrying at the hem of my too-short skirt. My best friend, Laura, and I have indulged in this conversation since we were teenagers. It’s a dark place to venture, and not one I care to visit when I’m supposed to be out having fun.
“Sometimes, but we’re here for such a short while, it’s pointless to dwell on it.”
His brows shoot skyward.
“At least, some of us are only here for a short while,” I mumble.
He leans back on the stool, toying with the cuffs of his crisp, white shirt. When I walked in earlier and saw him sitting here, my first thought was that he looked a little like a Spanish matador. With his olive complexion and ink-black hair, all that’s missing is one of those gold brocade suits. To some women, he’d be the ultimate pinup, so I’m not quite sure why I’m so uninterested. Maybe I secretly prefer blonds.
I allow my gaze to linger on the explosion of dark hair peeking out from the front of his shirt. A pair of giggling young women sitting a couple of tables over keep whispering and checking him out, and I try hard to see him through their eyes. I’m not ready to sacrifice my sex drive as well as my faith in men just yet.
Taking a small sip of wine, I ask, “Do you ever feel disappointed by life? Or is living forever one big, crazy adventure?”
“Oh, there are plenty of disappointments. But I find ways to keep myself amused.” The corner of his lip twitches. For the first time all evening, I feel a little like a mouse being batted between a cat’s paws.
“Are you a regular on V-Date?” I ask.
He smiles, and although real vampires don’t go around baring their fangs like they do in old movies, it’s easy to imagine how they might look—sharp and pointed, protruding over his pink lips like spiky white pearls.
“I’ve only been on a couple of dates besides this one,” he says. “What about you?”
“You’re my first.”
He arches a thick brow. “You’re curious, I take it? About what we’re like?”
I shrug. “I like trying new things, and I’ve recently come out of a relationship. So I thought, why not?”
He tips his head to one side, as if trying to figure me out. “Don’t you think you might be better off on Match.com?”
“Maybe someday,” I say, beginning to wish I was sitting with the giggling girls in the corner, or better still, at home with that party-size bag of Doritos I bought at Tesco’s earlier. I stifle a withering sigh. If life were a movie, he’d be the soul mate I always longed for. He’d say “I’ve waited three hundred years to feel this way, Mila,” not “Don’t you think you might be better off on Match.com?”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-six years on this earth it’s that life is nothing like the movies. Life is waking up and find
ing out that the man you’ve spent the past two years with is a compulsive liar with an ex-lingerie model for a wife.
If I’m honest, the ex-lingerie model bit stings the most.
He leans across the table, forcing me to make eye contact. “I hope I haven’t offended you, Mila.”
“Nope.”
Then something odd happens. When I try to look away, I can’t. Not because I’ve suddenly realized how hot he is, or because there’s some gigantic blemish on his face commanding my attention, but because I literally can’t. I’m locked in time, the bar’s chatter and music muted as I watch my own startled reflection in the depths of his bright, gold-brown eyes.
“You look flustered, Mila.” His voice comes from far away, as if I’m hearing it from the other end of a tunnel. “Maybe we should step outside. Get some air.”
The words should be enough to set alarm bells ringing, but to my horror I find myself nodding in agreement. It’s like the real me is locked up, hidden and helpless, in a tiny part of my brain. As if I’m a puppet and he’s the master.
I drop down from the stool, body and mind no longer connected, and reach to accept the smooth, olive hand he extends toward me. A gold signet ring on his middle finger catches the light from the spotlights in the ceiling. In the middle is an engraved coat of arms, a tiny dove at the tip of its crest.
“You’ll feel much better once we’re outside,” he says in slow, honeyed tones. “I’ll look after you. Don’t worry.”
I gaze up into his face as he leads me from the noisy bar and out onto the dark London street. What are you doing? I ask myself. Stay in the bar. But my robot feet follow his lead, my vocal cords frozen in my throat.
Outside, a misty drizzle is falling. Droplets cling to his black hair like cobwebs. The road is still busy: commuters dashing home, an endless string of buses and taxis moving slowly through the night. I shiver, goose bumps prickling my bare arms, remembering I left my jacket on the stool inside. I try to speak, but again, the words won’t come. As if the connections between my thoughts and actions are severed.
He glances over his shoulder as he pulls me around a corner onto a side street. The road here is empty, shadows hugging the edges of the pavement. There are no bars or shops, only back entrances used for deliveries. Several streetlamps cast a dull orange glow onto the shiny pavement. When we reach a gap between the buildings, his hold on my hand tightens into a viselike grip.
Just when I thought dating couldn’t get any worse.
Inside, I’m petrified, but like the rest of my thoughts, the fear is contained, my heartbeat as steady as the clip of my heels on the concrete.
He stops abruptly in front of me, pulling me into a narrow brick alley lined on one side with steel Dumpsters. A whiff of kitchen waste and urine hits my nostrils.
“I’m sorry it had to be my profile you clicked on, Mila,” he says.
My stomach twists with fear when I see his fangs are out, hanging over his lips in sharp, needlelike points, just like I imagined.
I watch mutely as he lets go of my hand, shoving me viciously against the wall.
“I have to say,” he continues, his voice rougher than the bricks and mortar cutting into the skin on my back, “I found you to be a lot more entertaining than the other girls. It’s a shame the world has to lose you.”
My eyes widen as he brings his face closer, his strange eyes burning like wildfire. The scent of his strong cologne—a dark, spicy musk—crawls into my brain, overpowering my senses. But despite this hold he has over me, this invasion, a strangled scream rips from my throat.
“I’ll make it quick,” he whispers, undeterred, fangs scraping my cheek, “and I’ll wait until after you’re dead to taste you.”
His hands move to my head, gripping me around the temples as I close my eyes, waiting for the death blow. But as his fingers tighten around my skull, a crashing noise shatters the silence, sounding like a heavy object falling onto the steel bins. Somewhere out on the street, a siren begins to wail.
His hands fall away, and all at once, the drugged sensation leaves me. My body is mine again. The coppery tang of fear floods my mouth as my knees buckle. Before I hit the filthy, litter-strewn ground, a strong pair of arms wrap around my middle, holding me up.
I scream, thinking for a second he’s returned. But when I look up into the face of my assailant, I see a pair of storm-washed blue eyes, coiffed blond hair, and a chiseled profile that could make a grown woman weep.
Perhaps I’ve died and gone to heaven.
“Please don’t be alarmed, Miss Hart. I’m Inspector Ferrer from the Metropolitan Police. You’re quite safe now.”
“Wh-where is he?” I stutter, darting frantic glances around the alley. “Where did he go?”
The man grimaces. “He fled as soon as I showed up.”
I stare up into his face, suddenly aware that my dress has somehow rucked up around my ass in all the drama. I must look like a hooker, and yet I feel like Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility when Willoughby finds her slumped on a hillside with a twisted ankle. Something about this man exudes the same gentlemanly concern.
“I couldn’t scream,” I say, feeling the need to explain. “I tried to, but I couldn’t.”
His eyes soften, and for a wild moment, I think he’s going to stroke my hair. “He put a glamour on you. Vampires can—we can do that.”
Oh, great. He’s a vampire too. My gut reaction is to push him away, but beneath the handful of cotton shirt I grabbed on my way down, I feel the hard outline of a fine set of abs—and as every single girl worth her salt knows, good abs do not just fall from the sky. Maybe there’s hope for my sex drive yet.
I’m still staring into his eyes when the alley fills with flashing lights. The sirens reach a fever pitch, forcing me to release his shirt and cover my ears.
The noise cuts out and two police officers resembling a pair of middle-aged Columbo impersonators in long beige overcoats burst into the alley. One is lanky with a thinning mop of mousy hair, and the other is short and balding, not dissimilar to the used car salesman who sold me my dilapidated VW Golf a few weeks back.
“Oh, thank God,” the shorter man says as soon as he claps eyes on me. “She’s alive.”
His colleague barges past, a shiny police badge held aloft. “I’m Superintendent Linton Burke. Are you injured?”
I shake my head, putting the weight back into my wobbly legs. “I don’t think so, psychological damage notwithstanding.”
To my bitter disappointment, Inspector Abs releases me. “I think we should take you to the hospital anyway, just to be on the safe side.”
“How did you all know where to find me? Did someone at the bar call the cops?” I watch as they all stare at one another, their mouths set in the same grim line.
Burke clears his throat. “Miss Hart, I think it might be wise if we discuss this further in a more private setting.”
Then it hits me. They aren’t regular policemen—they’re detectives.
I look between the three of them. “He said there were other girls…”
Inspector Abs nods. “There are. I mean, there were.”
A violent shiver rips through me, and Inspector Ferrer removes his suit jacket, draping it around my shoulders. If it wasn’t for a delicious waft of eau de hot man enveloping me, I mightn’t have noticed it at all. I pull the surprisingly warm blazer tight across my chest to cover my cleavage, tugging my skirt down self-consciously. “Are you saying my first vampire date was a serial killer?”
Their faces tell me everything I need to know.
I sway, the ground moving beneath me, as if the damp concrete has turned to water. A sound like waves rushing up a beach roars in my ears before everything turns black.
When I next open my eyes, I’m back in the hottie’s arms.
“You’re making a habit of this,” I mutte
r.
“It appears so,” he says quietly. “Put your weight on me. We need to get you to the car.”
“You know,” I say, leaning against his broad shoulder as we follow the two beige trench coats out of the alley, “I’m going to ask V-Date for a full refund after tonight.”
Hearing the tiniest snort of laughter, I crane my neck to see his face. “You can write me a note as evidence,” I continue. “Please give refund; date tried to kill her. I think I’ll treat myself to a spa day with the money.”
“I can call them myself, if you’d prefer,” he says dryly.
“That would be fabulous. Thank you.”
The two Columbos open the car doors, and I duck into the vehicle. A marked police car is in front of us, and several regular-looking cops stand nearby. “They’ll stick around,” the short detective says from the front seat. “Take evidence from the crime scene.”
“But I’m alive…aren’t I?”
Inspector Vampire, who has climbed into the backseat next to me, says, “Yes, but it’s still a crime scene. Kidnapping and assault are very serious.”
My thoughts wander back to the way I left the bar, completely under my date’s control. “Wait!” I erupt. “I left my new jacket in the pub.” But Superintendent Burke is already accelerating away from the curb.
“It’ll still be there in the morning, Miss Hart,” he says disinterestedly.
“It’s Karen Millen,” I say. “And I doubt it.”
“I can call them,” Inspector Ferrer says. “What was the name of the bar again?”
“The World’s End,” I say grimly, staring into his chiseled face. “Please, no smart comments.”
His eyes crinkle around the edges as he smiles, and I stare openmouthed. He’s so gorgeous, it burns my eyes to look at him—like watching a solar eclipse without protective glasses. He says the name of the pub into his phone and hits a button. After someone answers, he says, “There’s a Karen Millen jacket left on a barstool.”
“Table six,” I interject.