Vampires of Moscow (Blood Web Chronicles Book 1)

by Caedis Knight

  Regina is a stout woman in her eighties, with a scowl that could rival any immigration officers. Her grey hair is backcombed and hair sprayed so hard it looks like a helmet, and she’s wearing a cable knit cardigan tightly buttoned over a thick woolen dress.

  “No party, no men, no business,” she says, showing me around the tiny carpet-covered apartment.

  I’m pretty sure she just told me I can’t hook out of her flat. That or I can’t run a business here. I imagine running a start-up from this shithole and giggle at the thought.

  She shoots me a “no giggle” look.

  I glance around the shabby accommodation. Christ, even the walls are covered in carpet. I guess it helps with insulation but it’s like I've rented an abandoned carpet section of an Ikea. In the corner, there’s a small kitchen with an encapsulated balcony. I glance out, the sheltered balcony is covered in jars of pickles and tomatoes. A few Soviet-looking Christmas decorations dot the apartment - a wooden cut out of a blue Santa, a glass astronaut bauble, a bowl of dusty tinsel. It’s shabby, but considering I didn’t even bother decorating my own apartment this Christmas it’s kind of nice.

  “When move out, clean up, make fridge empty too,” she barks in broken English, before waddling away from me towards the stack of sheets by the single bed. “I clean everything before you come.”

  Ping. Liar, liar, babushka scarf on fire.

  I nod along. “Is there a restaurant nearby? Or maybe a shop?” I ask.

  The Aeroflot meal wasn’t enough to keep me full. I can feel my stomach rumbling with displeasure.

  “No,” she says simply. Then she gives me the keys, puts on a coat that at least six animals had to die for, and leaves.

  I unpack my suitcase and decide to venture out.

  The cold truly is biting. It’s like an invisible force, licking its way up my body in search of any exposed flesh. I feel the frost in the spaces between my gloves and coat, the cold whipping across my chin, and stinging my eyeballs like a balaclava made of ice.

  The pelmeni meat dumplings I find at a chain restaurant down the road don’t taste too bad, and I chase them down with a shot of cranberry nastoyka- homemade vodka. It stings worse than the cold, but I need liquid courage for what I’m about to do next.

  After a quick Google maps search, I find the darkest courtyard in between the compound-like buildings of Strogino. I light a menthol. I’m not a smoker but I’ve learned on assignment that a lit cigarette disarms people and makes you more approachable. I take a seat on a rickety bench, pretending to sway drunkenly side to side. My head is swimming a bit from tonight’s choice of beverage, but I don’t feel as bad as I make myself look.

  It’s not long before someone finds me. The first guy is a drunken slob who tries to hit on me, but I flash him the knife tucked in my boot and he walks off spewing a stack of Russian profanities. The second man is a construction worker who asks me if I’m OK.

  The third man to find me is tall with a sickly pallor. And he’s exactly who I’ve been waiting for.

  I pull out another cigarette and he lights it for me. From the outside, he might look like a regular guy trying to pick up a girl on a park bench, but I know what to look for. The glint in his eye is too sharp, his movements too fluid, his lips too pale.

  “You speak English?” I coo, pouting seductively. “I’m lost. My hotel is somewhere around here.” I giggle like an idiot for emphasis.

  “What is the name of your hotel, beautiful girl?”

  Vom, vom, vom.

  “It’s called hotel Stolichniy,” I lie.

  He smiles. “I know it!”

  Ping.

  “Come,” he offers his arm. “I will take you there.”

  Ping.

  I sway again for emphasis, then take his arm, pretending to stumble drunkenly as he leads me to a nearby underpass. He doesn’t even wait until we are fully submerged in the shadows before whipping me around and slamming me into a brick wall.

  Ouch…and rude!

  His fangs flash white in the moonlight before they sink into me.

  I’ve always wondered what this would feel like and why humans fantasize about being fang food. The stranger begins to drink fully and greedily and I flinch at the sweet sting. I wonder if he can taste the cranberry nastoyka in my blood.

  Less than a minute has passed and I’m wondering whether my clever idea was actually a really fucking stupid one. Nothing is happening except the fact I’m beginning to feel really faint. Then, with a grunt, the creep pulls away heaving and spewing. I smile and straighten up as the Vampire spits the last of my blood onto the pavement, then starts coughing violently. He falls to his knees, clutching his stomach, looking up at me in shock and revulsion.

  Maybe I’m not so stupid after all.

  I take my sweet time regaining my senses before looming over him.

  “Witch blood,” I smile. “Otherwise known as Vampire poison.”

  My blood gurgles at his throat as I push him down with my heel, his cheek grazing the sidewalk.

  “It’s lethal to your kind, especially since this greedy little piggy drank about a gallon of it.”

  The Vamp writhes and clutches his stomach, managing a few Russian curses.

  I dig my heel deeper into his sinewy chest, fetching a small vial from my back pocket and holding it out to the Vamp. Jackson isn’t the only one who thinks ahead.

  As the daughter of a top-ranking Witch I’ve learned a few things in my time. The main lesson being ‘don’t talk to strangers’, and if you do - always be prepared. In this case I brought with me a potion that only the MA knows exists.

  I shake the glass tube in his face. “Without this antidote, my blood will kill you.”

  He reaches for it but he’s weak. My shoe dirties his white shirt as I press harder against his chest. “I need information. I’m looking for a Paranormal strip club called the Black Rabbit. You’re going to tell me where it is.”

  He mutters more profanities while reaching out for the vial.

  “Now!” I growl.

  “You fucking bitch. I’ve never heard of this club,” he grunts.

  Ping.

  Silly little liar.

  “Fine. Enjoy dying.” I take a few steps before he calls out to me.

  “In Dedovsk,” he coughs. “There’s an abandoned church. It’s there!”

  I wait for the ping. It doesn’t come. Bingo!

  I set the vial down in the snow twenty feet away and glare at him.

  “Crawl to it.”

  Then I turn and run. I don’t know how long it will take him to get to the antidote, but I’m not about to wait and find out.

  After five minutes of running around the grey jungle of high-rise blocks and abandoned squares I hide in the shadows and order another Uber.

  “Dedovsk?” the driver says, staring at the address that just popped up on his phone.

  “There’s an abandoned church there.”

  He gives me a look like I’m high. Then shrugs and starts the engine.

  Money is money.

  The church looms against the charcoal black sky and I stare at it through the car window. Even though I was being facetious when I told the immigration officer that I was here to see the Easter egg-style church tops, they really are a magnificent sight. This one is shining iridescent gold, like a bunch of Christmas baubles sparkling in the night.

  I get out of the cab and the driver shakes his head at me as I stand there, gaping at the old building like a tourist that really does want to see it all.

  “Stupid girl,” he mutters before taking off.

  From this angle the church certainly looks empty and abandoned, just like the Vampire said, but there’s so much more lurking in the dark corners. I can practically smell the Paranormal activity in the bitter winter air. As quietly as I can, I make my way through the bushes and snow to the back of the church, peering at the locked doors and high fences. Then I spot what I’m looking for. A stairway leads down to an underground hall and at
the bottom is a doorway blocked by a large man. A bouncer. I instantly recognize him as Mr. Adidas from Jackson’s intel folder. I must be in the right place.

  I walk down the steps towards the bouncer. With muscle mass this unreal he has to be a Shifter. Perhaps a bear. And I’m ninety-nine per cent certain that this bear bouncer is guarding the entrance to the Black Rabbit.

  As I step up to him his hand shoots out in front of me like a massive log, making the thick gold chains at his wrists clink together.

  “No,” he says in a voice colder than the night air.

  “I’m just trying to have some fun,” I reply innocently in English.

  “No,” he says again.

  What is it with Russian people and the word no?

  There are voices behind me. Two businessmen walk right past me and enter the club.

  “Hey! How come they can go in?” I whine.

  The bouncer ignores my question, and it suddenly dawns on me. He’s waiting for a bribe!

  I reach into my purse and pull out the equivalent of a hundred bucks in rubles, pushing the money into his hand. That should be enough to treat himself to the latest Adidas tracksuit.

  He takes it then laughs at me. Actually laughs.

  I laugh along and try to walk around him but his hand remains an iron bar blocking my entrance, the promise of violence in his eyes. Black eyes, just like that of a bear.

  I take a step back.

  “Only clients and dancers,” he says in broken English.

  “I’m a client,” I say.

  “No female clients.”

  “Well that’s not very gender forward.”

  His gaze shifts and he looks angrier now. I don’t think I’ll be winning him over with my jokes. Or my looks.

  A faint growl escapes his throat. “Go, or I hurt you.”

  He’s not lying, plus I’m smart enough to walk away. Vamps and Shifters might find our blood poisonous to consume, but that doesn’t mean this Shifter can’t bear-claw me to ribbons just for fun. I’m not willing to risk it. Tomorrow is another day.

  I look back at the church.

  If I’m getting into that club, I’m going to have to do it undercover. And something tells me I’ll be much more convincing as a stripper than a businessman.

  Chapter Four

  Finding sleazy lingerie in Strogino is proving to be harder than expected. I don’t know much about strippers, but I do know I can’t fake being a pole dancer wearing my ratty pink underwear from Target. Neither will I get passed the bouncer looking like I did yesterday.

  I have a great ability to detect lies, but I also have a sixth sense when it comes to finding sleaze. By late afternoon I give up looking for a lingerie shop and eventually track down a sex shop instead, where I find a cute pink wig, a burner phone with Russian SIM (amazing what you can find in sex shops out here) and an outfit that looks more like a complicated puzzle of black straps than underwear. I struggle into it, do my hair and make-up as dark as I can, and strap on a pair of skyscraper glass-looking heels.

  It’s showtime!

  “You can’t come in,” the bouncer grunts in Russian, three lines appearing across his thick cratered nose as he screws it up in disgust at my wig. Either that or he doesn’t like my perfume. Maybe I should have scented my neck with manuka honey instead.

  If he recognizes me from the night before he doesn’t let on.

  “I’m a dancer,” I reply in English, knowing full-well he understands me.

  “For audition?”

  Auditions?

  “Yes,” I say, giving him my biggest smile and a wink for good measure. He sneers again – although this time he lifts up his arm and lets me through. Yes! I finally get to check out the club and do some digging.

  “No,” he barks at my back. Ah, Russia’s favorite word again. He points to a door at the side of the club marked ‘STAFF ENTRANCE’ in Russian. “That way.”

  Fuck! I didn’t actually intend to audition. I was hoping I could slip past him into the main club, walk around for a bit, blend in with the other dancers, and ask a few questions.

  The door to the staff quarters is heavy and creaks loudly as I peer inside. It’s a long dark hallway lined with doors. Each door has a number on it, and through their glass windows I can see girls moving against poles. No, not moving.

  Dancing. Gliding. Flipping like stripper gazelles.

  This is where retired Russian gymnasts go to die, once they are over sixteen and too old for the Olympics but can still make money bending their beautiful bodies into impossible shapes. Also, the outfits they are wearing are more Agent Provocateur and less back alley sex shop. I adjust my cheap wig and swallow down the panic rising in my chest, watching them through the windows. Shit! Whatever these women are doing I can’t move my body that way. I have to get out of here and into the club.

  I look for an exit but grind to a halt as a woman appears out of nowhere.

  “You.” She’s so beautiful I’d have assumed she’s one of the dancers, except her elegant fingers are wrapped around an iPad. She hands me a form written in Russian. “Go to room nine and start dancing. We will be watching through the window. If you get picked you fill this in.”

  I nod, doing my best impression of looking like I’m not completely terrified. Not only am I going to have to dance, but I’m getting judged too. Great.

  The room is at the end of the corridor and I’m guessing it’s where the private dances happen. I think they call them champagne rooms, but maybe in Russia they’re vodka rooms.

  I take a deep breath and take off my coat.

  You’re on your own, I tell myself as I pull the straps of my ridiculous outfit into place. I didn’t expect to actually have to dance in it. The thick strap has been riding up my lady garden the whole way here.

  Just remember the dance classes you took, I tell myself. It’s like riding a bike. Channel your inner Jennifer Lopez.

  Mikayla bought me pole dancing lessons for my eighteenth birthday five years ago. It was all the rage back then, all about working on your balance and core muscles – although it’s a lot easier pulling yourself up a metal pole wearing sweatpants than a leotard made of tight fabric strips cutting into every inch of your body.

  I step up onto the tiny stage, wobbling on my stupid shoes. There are mirrors above each pole, but I try not to look at myself. I’m not as skinny as the other girls, and my breasts are real so they actually bounce, but if I can somehow balance on these heels and look sexy without falling on my ass, I might just get away with it.

  The pole is freezing. The whole room is. I blow into my hands and rub them together, but it doesn’t help. Despite the cold, my hands are wet with sweat. So sexy. I attempt a simple run up pirouette and slip.

  I try again, this time swinging around and twisting, managing to flip upside down. Not bad. I still have it. I shimmy around the pole and do a dip and slow rise while trying not to think too hard.

  Channel Jennifer Lopez, Saskia! Channel Jennifer Lawrence, Jennifer Garner, Jennifer Love Hewitt. Hell, any Jennifer will do, just stop looking like a damn caterpillar trying to hump a twig.

  I do another pirouette because it is the least embarrassing thing I've done so far.

  “One more time!” a voice bellows from the corner of the room.

  With a gasp, I lose my grip and drop to the floor. My pink wig has slipped, obscuring my view. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the room. Whoever it is spoke in English, but with a strong guttural accent. How did he know I speak English? I adjust my wig, scramble to my feet, and repeat the pirouette. The man steps out of the shadows, sits down on the red plush sofa surrounding the mini stage, and lets out a low laugh.

  I know that face. Lukka. The younger of the two Volkov brothers.

  Well, that was easy. I thought I’d have to look for him but now he’s right here, right in front of me. Be careful what you wish for, because sometimes the Witch gods throw it straight into your lap. Or in this case, your lap dance.

  Back o
n my feet, I lean against the pole, hands above my head, trying to act nonchalant. Although in my brain I’m still screaming CHANNEL A JENNIFER.

  “Keep going,” he urges.

  I move my hips slowly from side to side, buying some time so I can take a proper look at him. I’m not ready. I thought I had at least a few more days to snoop about before I had to confront the bosses.

  Up close, Lukka’s different from what I imagined. When I looked at photos of him on the Blood Web I thought he was a clown, the clueless younger brother of Konstantin, who is clearly the real brains behind the organization. But Lukka is no clown, he’s more like The Joker. Foolish, but somehow frightening in his foolishness.

  A terrifying joke.

  I watch him as he watches me. The man is never still, his lips twitching into a half-smile then falling again into a murderous expression, revealing a glint of metal on his teeth. His painted fingertips keep moving like they’re looking for something to grab hold of. He’s wearing a hockey shirt and sweats, with an empty gun holster strapped over his shoulders like a backpack.

  What the fuck?

  His fingers are laced with tattoos that look like a child’s doodles and his arms are lined with them right up to his neck. There’s even a tattoo on the side of his left eye and at his temples.

  His hair is shaved all the way around the sides leaving a spiky blonde mop at the top and he’s wearing sunglasses - even though it’s close to midnight and we’re inside.

  Suddenly he stops smiling and his whole-body stills.

  “Keep dancing,” he commands.

  He pulls down his glasses to stare at me and I gasp. His eyes are white, as in all white, except for two tiny pinpricks in the center like splashes of blood on a hotel bed sheet.

  My mouth is dry, making it difficult to swallow, but I can’t look scared. Nothing turns a Vamp on more than fear. If I can’t get into the club by sneaking around then I need this job. I need to make Lukka my new boss if I’m going to get to the bottom of this investigation and out of this fucking country before winter ends.