Konstantin downs an oyster then fixes his attention on Varlam.
“So, our shipment went missing?” he asks, his tone amicable.
“Yes. It’s gone,” Varlam replies.
He’s telling the truth. I’ve been instructed to squeeze Konstantin’s thigh when I sense a lie. Not a plan I’m super comfortable with, but I don’t exactly have a choice.
Konstantin keeps his eyes level. “What do you think happened to it?”
“Stolen.” Varlam sits back nonchalantly and lights a cigarette. I look around. Are they allowed to smoke in here?
One of Varlam’s cronies is looking at me as if he’s wondering if I’m also on the menu. I feel so exposed in this fucking outfit. If I ever get back to the safety of my soviet Airbnb I’m going to burn everything I’m wearing.
Konstantin takes a swig of champagne, his movements as elegant now as they were in the dance studio earlier.
“Do you know who stole the shipment, Varlam?”
“Of course not!” the man scoffs, looking offended.
I feel the lie on my skin and squeeze Konstantin’s thigh lightly.
His lip curls. “Varlam,” he says, his voice a gentle purr. “Did you play an active role in my shipment being stolen?”
Varlam shoots up from his seat indignantly. “How dare you! I won’t sit here listening to this filth, Konstantin! You insult my honor! I take brotherhood very seriously. You know that.”
Konstantin’s voice is low. “Answer the question.”
The scarred man huffs. “Of course not!”
I squeeze Konstantin’s thigh, harder this time, and his hand shoots beneath the table and clasps mine, pulling me closer.
Varlam’s voice is rising in front of us with further indignancy, but every word he says is just lie upon lie.
I squeeze Konstantin’s hand in mine and he nods at his brother. Only a small nod, one you’d hardly notice if you weren’t looking for it. Yet in an inhumanly fast blur Lukka grabs the fish knife beside his plate and jumps up.
Konstantin leans over to me, his lips brushing my ear. I feel the heat of his breath against my cheek.
“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he whispers.
I obey.
My hair whips in my face at a sudden movement beside me. A slashing sound, followed by two more. A grunt, a gurgling sound, and a thump. Something wet and warm sprays across my chest.
I clench my eyes tighter, my breath coming in sharp pulls. Vomit is rising in my throat at the smell of blood and I swallow down the bile. I’m doing everything I can not to move a muscle as I feel Lukka settling back by my side.
My eyes flutter open but I don’t look up. I will never look up.
I attempt to steady my breathing and wait for my heart to stop racing. In, out. In, out. A stream of blood trickles slowly across my white plate, like a river of scarlet sauce that’s been drizzled over my crab.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Konstantin’s melodious voice pulls me from my trance. “We’ll order you another one.”
Chapter Six
“You want me back at the club tomorrow night?”
I’m standing outside my soviet apartment complex with Lukka, the sky behind him turning an inky shade of lilac. It won’t be long until the sun is up, so technically it’s tonight I’m working.
Lukka doesn’t seem concerned with the imminent sunrise.
“Ten o’clock, tonight and every night after that,” Konstantin drawls, leaning out his brother’s car window. A light sneer passes like a shadow over his chiseled face as he looks my building up and down. The flicker of displeasure is gone as quickly as it came.
“Every night?” I stare at him. If he thinks he owns me now, he can shove that entitlement right up his tutu.
“You work for us now,” he says. “Isn’t that why you auditioned? Because you wanted a job?”
“You want me to dance?”
My inner thighs are still smarting from the straps of that ridiculous outfit I’ve been wearing. Both brothers burst out laughing at my suggestion and I bite my bottom lip to stop myself saying anything else I’ll regret.
I look down. There’s blood on my hands and I'm itching to wash it away. In fact, I want to wash the entire night away. Varlam’s gaping mouth, startled in death, flashes before my eyes and I shudder.
I’m vaguely aware of Lukka watching me. He leans back against his sun-bright car, his golden jacket clashing garishly against the paintwork. Not that I can think of any outfit that would look good next to his music video prop car.
Konstantin’s phone rings and he takes the call as Lukka’s white eyes narrow on me. “How are you feeling, little Witch?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
“You can tell when people lie, but you’re not so good at lying yourself.”
He gives me a look that makes my stomach ache with a mix of sadness and fear. His hands are still lined with dark brown streaks of gangster blood drying in the folds of his palms.
I had Lukka pinned as a clown, a fool, a rich spoiled brat who likes blood and bling. Yet tonight I watched him kill three men with a blunt fish knife, then continue to eat his crabs gleefully, cracking their panzers wide open and howling at his own jokes while the fresh blood stained the tablecloth and dripped down to his elbows.
Lukka Volkov is no fool. He’s dangerous. Very dangerous. With his poetic lines and whitewashed eyes, it could be easy to forget that.
“Varlam wasn't a good man,” Lukka says. “He won’t be missed by anyone.”
Is he justifying his murder to me? I swear his tone has gone quieter, as if he doesn’t want Konstantin to overhear. I shrug, feigning disinterest.
I haven’t commented on their murdered business associates. I stayed silent the entire time, picking at my dinner and trying not to vomit up my crab. If that was a test, I think I passed. Varlam’s death is not my story. Besides, it’s not a secret to anyone that Vamps are murderous, especially crime lord Vamps. My job is to find out why a good chunk of their employees are disappearing, and a select few are showing up drained and dead.
Surely if the brothers were hungry for a human snack they would do it elsewhere, not on their home turf? Konstantin strikes me as the ‘don’t eat where you shit’ type.
As if in answer to my thoughts Konstantin finishes his call and looks at me. His gaze is penetrating and I shift uncomfortably. He doesn’t have a speck of blood on his crisp white shirt.
“Wear something nice tonight,” he says. “If you have it.”
God, my mother would love him. I’m starting to think Konstantin Volkov is a real pain in the ass.
“If I’m not dancing, then what will I be doing?” I ask.
“You will walk around,” Lukka says, the night light glinting off the gold on his teeth.
“Walk around?”
Konstantin sighs from the front seat. “Recently we have had problems in the company - missing cargo, theft, other far nastier troubles,” he says.
Like employees dropping dead? I don’t voice my question, better to keep my cards close to my chest for now. If Konstantin also wants to get to the bottom of the deaths and disappearances in his company then I will get to the truth even faster.
“As far as my staff are concerned you will be the new hostess at the Black Rabbit,” he adds.
“And in reality?”
“In reality you spark conversations, listen, find lies and report back to us. It’s easy work, Saskia.”
“We pay you, we feed you, you keep your mouth closed and ears open,” Lukka adds.
Charming.
“And my legs?” I snap. “Would you prefer I keep them open or closed?”
I’m referring to their bullshit proprietary behavior, but the dig is wasted on them. Konstantin looks at his phone and Lukka winks at me.
“What you do with your legs is of little concern to me, darling,” Konstantin says. “As long as you keep them far from my podiums. Black Rabbit clientele has very high standards.”
; I glare at him wishing I could shove my blood down his throat and watch him struggle like I did with the other Vamp.
“You want the job or not?” he asks calmly.
I swallow and nod. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
What choice do I have? I need the story and this is the best way to get it.
Lukka pulls something out of his pocket and steps towards me. It takes everything I have not to flinch.
“For you,” he says. Something shiny swings between his bloody fingers. A gold necklace with a small charm hanging off it.
He steps behind me and I shiver as he places the chain around my neck, his cold hands brushing against my collarbone. I can smell the blood from here, his iron heady scent mixing with the smell of...watermelon bubble-gum? Seriously?
“Never take it off. These necklaces keep all our girls safe,” he whispers into my ear. Bewitched jewelry? So, the Volkovs also employ Witches for hire? I make a note of that.
I can see what the charm is now - a tiny black rabbit with a diamond for a tail. The club’s logo.
“Now, little Witch, you are an official black rabbit,” Lukka says, his voice low and his breath tickling my ear. “But don’t run, little bunny. The bear will always find you in the woods.”
Does he always speak in riddles or does he just enjoy being confusing?
I hold my breath. My back feels cold as he returns to the car and gets in the driver’s seat. Maybe I should say something. Something smart or funny or brave. Instead I just stand there as Konstantin gives me a nod and winds up the blackened car window without saying goodbye. His brother makes up for it by blaring his horn three times as he screeches out of the courtyard, narrowly avoiding a neon-clad street cleaner.
Sleeping during the day has never been easy for me, and after last night my dreams were soaked with blood and crab carcasses. I’ve only managed to snatch a few hours of rest and I’m in no mood to deal with fucking psychopathic Vamps tonight. I just want to get to the bottom of these murders and go back to New York so I no longer have to sleep on a mattress made entirely of broken springs and unidentifiable stains.
“Only clients or dancers,” the bouncer growls as I stomp up to the club entrance.
I hold up the rabbit pendant hanging on a thin chain around my neck. It works faster than any magical charm as the bouncer removes his arm out of my way without looking at me and I step into the old church entrance and into something resembling a foyer. Bubbles like cheap champagne start to pop in the pit of my stomach. Finally! My chance to check out the infamous Black Rabbit club.
OK, this wasn’t what I was expecting.
Actually, I’m not sure what I was expecting from a church converted into a strip club by two Vampires - but nothing could have prepared me for the unholy glittering space that unfolds before me.
That’s the thing about the Paranormal world- the outside never reflects the wickedness within.
Chapter Seven
Many cities like to make the loud claim that they don’t sleep, but when Moscow says it, it’s telling the truth. After interrupting a midnight dance rehearsal and dining at three in the morning I'm no longer surprised to find the club merely in its prep phase at 10 pm. Bartenders bustle around and beautiful dancers stretch out their limbs on the podiums; practicing their moves in preparation for the big night ahead. Regretfully, I rip my gaze away from a stunning woman clad in less fabric than you would require for a doily and take in the room.
Actually, it’s less of a room and more of a grand church vestibule leading into an ornate hall.
The original architecture of the building is still there - dipping arches, dilapidated columns, and marble flooring, but the interior has been transformed into an over-the-top shrine to all things sin. Where pews once were, there are now clusters of red quilted-velvet booths forming half-moons around small private stages. Each stage is crowned with tall silver poles, jutting out incongruously against the church’s flaking crown moldings and blank-eyed statues. Golden icons, speckled with age, hang on the walls. All of them desecrated with black bunny ears and painted blindfolds where their eyes should be.
I turn a full circle, squinting in the dimness. The stained-glass windows have been boarded up on the outside, but inside they are backlit in vibrant shades of pinks and reds and dark purple. The only other light is from giant mismatching crystal chandeliers hanging over our heads. The church is laid out over three floors, two of them balconied - I guess where the choir once sang. The main level has a bar running along it glowing an electric blue. I can see the shadows of staff setting up for the night.
Although some of the paintwork on the walls is faded and peeling, the ceiling remains gilded in gold with frescoes of golden-haloed saints staring down at the naked dancers.
I watch a girl dance in the corner. I hadn’t even noticed the music playing until now. She’s slight with small hips and elfin features. Her cheekbones could cut glass and her hair is black and straight, hanging down to her waist. There aren’t many clients in the club yet, but Mr. Adidas the bouncer is watching her intently. I don’t blame him. She’s pretty and delicate, but at the same time quick and strong. As I watch her something flickers just above her hairline, something long and furry. Ears? I blink and they’re gone.
Up on one of the smaller balconies is a DJ spinning tunes. She notices me and nods over in time to the music.
My eyes wander to another dancer, a flaming redhead. Her outfit is made up of strips of purple and green lace, her large breasts completely on display. Her stare is locked on a point in the distance as she holds onto the pole behind her head and slowly slides down it, her legs parting as she reaches the bottom then snapping together again quickly. She jumps up and launches herself at the pole. Then, mid graceful flight, she flickers briefly into a shift, and her back arches and blooms with green and purple feathers. Like an iridescent rainbow, her bright plumes become an armor spreading across her skin. A second later she spins around the pole and the feathers disappear.
A parrot Shifter in Moscow? I’ve heard about them south of the equator but never thought I’d find one here. Parrot Shifters are rare and a desired spectacle in the Paranormal world. Popular with Para millionaires they’re employed either as colorful arm candy or for entertainment at luxurious parties. I’ve never seen one in real life.
I can’t tear my eyes away from her and the way she shimmers, her feathers adorning her head like a Mardi-Gras crown. She catches my gaze and I look away, cheeks burning.
Konstantin wasn’t lying when he said his club had high standards.
Is everyone here non-human? The bouncer is definitely a Shifter, probably a bear, but surely the dancers aren’t all Paras? What about the DJ?
“Brandy?”
I jump at the sound of my fake name. Standing behind me, holding a glossy boutique bag in one hand and an iPad in the other, is the woman from yesterday. The one who had directed me to the private rooms for my pathetic excuse of an audition. Her dress is tight and white, and her lips dripping red. She doesn’t smile.
“Konstantin said you must wear this,” she drawls, handing me the bag. I recognize the designer logo on the side and it feels heavy like there’s shoes inside too. I look down at my own outfit, boots, jeans, and a t-shirt. I’ll admit I dressed as simple as I possibly could to get Konstantin back for his clothes comment. But it looks like he was already prepared for that.
“Where do I change?” I ask.
The woman sighs and marches ahead, so I follow.
I presumed this grand church entrance was it, the main club, but I was wrong. She pushes through double doors at the back of the main hall and we’re in a narrow corridor lined with red strip lights and a carpet so thick I’m practically bouncing as I walk. There are doors on either side like a hotel, each one numbered in gold.
“Private bedrooms,” the woman says before I have a chance to ask.
Right. The dancers here do more than just dance.
We head down a set of winding stone stairs
, the decor changing from red velvet to black satin as we reach the bottom. There are no windows down here but there’s an onyx marble bar, more poles, and another stage. A guy in a suit is drinking a tumbler of whisky at the bar while a blonde woman in a dress so short her ass cheeks are hanging out laughs at something he says. Early arrivals? Friends of Konstantin? I make a mental note of checking them out later.
More hallways, more rooms, more stairs heading down. Does this place ever fucking end? There’s no way I would have been able to find the changing room on my own.
We pass the viewing rooms where I first met Lukka and made a fool of myself, that corridor must have two entrances as I’d accessed it from the street, and at the end of the long hallway is a door marked ‘private’.
“In there,” the woman says, then she’s gone. And by gone I don’t mean she walks away, I mean she totally disappears. I suppress a shiver. I thought the Volkov brothers were enough of a handful, but I was right - they aren’t the only Paranormals filling up this chapel of sin.
I gingerly push open the door and it slams behind with a bang, finding myself in a bright changing room. Nine women in various stages of undress are staring back at me.
“Hi,” I say in Russian.
Six of them ignore me and the other three look me up and down like I’m a client who’s taken a wrong turn. To be fair, I’m wearing more fabric than all their outfits put together.
Two of the women, presumably dancers, are sitting before a Hollywood-style mirror studded with lights. One’s tanned, her thick dark hair covering a pair of breasts that are the size and shape of melons. She turns to the younger girl next to her wearing a black mesh outfit and mutters in Croatian.
Vampires of Moscow (Blood Web Chronicles Book 1) Page 5