by DB Nielsen
Another long sigh. Cole’s fair head raised from where it was bent over quill and paper. His eyes looked mournful. “Trying to compose a poem for Styx.”
A dark blond eyebrow lifted quizzically as Cooper asked, “Why are you composing a poem for a demon?”
“He’s my boss, bro,” Cole tried to explain.
This time, Cooper knew not to laugh, thinking his brother was joking. He started to realize that in the immortal world, just about anything was possible. Eternal life was long—that’s probably why it was called eternal—and you had to fill in the time somehow.
Though the club was packed with gorgeous vampires, he’d found that the older they were, the less enjoyment they gained from their immortal lives. Somehow, he’d lucked out. Aislinn and her friends were about as close and fun loving as vampires could get.
But looking around the club, he noticed that vampires didn’t often smile or laugh much. Unless they were seeking thrills or hunting. Or laughing at someone else’s expense. He had seen a lot of cynical and jaded vampires lounging around the manor house, engrossed in Machiavellian political intrigues. They suffered from ennui and were looking to fill their days and years and centuries.
But the ones at Nocturne weren’t so bad. Most were young like him and just starting to get the hang of their immortality. Like the couple in the corner who were almost feasting on each other. He watched in fascination.
Vampire lovemaking looked excessively violent and passionate and—well, very messy. There seemed to be a lot of biting going on.
Cole was right. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting from eternal life at all.
Cole continued, oblivious to his brother’s distraction. “I’m doing an apprenticeship at his club. He pays me to write poetry for his exclusive clientele who appreciate the lyrical and spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. It’s a visionary experience for them.”
“Right, yes, I can see that,” Cooper said, not knowing how else to respond. He winced at his own condescending yet bewildered tone, which he hoped Cole wouldn’t pick up on. He raked a hand through his mop of blond hair and briefly wondered if this was why Caleb had gone bald. “So, what have you got?”
“Erm… well… not much.” Cole looked bashful.
Cooper swiped the bloodstained paper from the sticky counter in one quick movement and, before his brother could protest, read out, “‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close fanged-friend of the maturing moon—’” He paused, looking up at the young poet. “Um, Cole, isn’t this Keats?”
“Well, not all of it. I did change ‘close bosom-friend’ to ‘close fanged-friend’ and ‘sun’ to ‘moon’. Makes it more relevant to vampires, don’t you think?” Cole asked hopefully.
“But vampires aren’t friends of anything much,” said Cooper pedantically. “Not sure they even look up at the moon on a hunt. And when did you last see ‘mellow fruitfulness’? Haven’t you been dead for like two hundred years?”
“It’s called reborn, not dead! And you have no soul!” Cole wailed as fat tears plopped onto the paper, smudging the ink. “Dorian would understand.”
“Dorian doesn’t have a soul,” Aislinn said, rolling her eyes as she handed her firstborn a tea towel across the counter to mop up his tears. “He has a black hole that acts as a moral vacuum cleaner. Dorian’s a psychopath who tears the wings off fairies for sport. There’s a ‘wanted’ poster in Esper with his name on it.”
“Is there?” Her progeny looked at her curiously.
She gave a little moue of distaste which failed to mar the beauty of her face. “Yeah, he went there during Spring Break forty years ago with his cult following for team bonding or whatever they call their sport nowadays. The fae don’t take too kindly to that sort of thing. Well, unless they’re doing it themselves in the Unseelie Court, which is just so hypocritical. So no, none of them are permitted to return. Especially Dorian.”
At that moment, a half-drunk Malum bumped into Cole from behind, apologizing as he waved Lark, the bartender, over and rather loudly ordered a couple of shots. His words were slurred and his eyes bloodshot. Cole, who was picking himself up from where he had sprawled on the floor, looked around just as Lark placed the blood shots on the counter next to his inkwell.
“Wait, that’s—”
The Malum picked up the inkwell and downed the black contents in one gulp, making a sour face. “What is this? Diabetic vegan blood?”
“It’s black ink,” Cole replied, snatching back his empty inkwell in outraged horror.
The Malum shrugged. “It isn’t terrible. Here, have a drink on me.” Leaving a blood shot on the counter, he stumbled his way back to his friends.
Cooper, who had been watching the exchange, looked across at the brimming glass. “Mind if I—”
“Go ahead,” Cole muttered morosely, clutching the tea towel Aislinn had given him tighter. He began to rock back and forth on his barstool as if he was having an apoplectic attack. “What am I going to do now?”
“Here.” Aislinn passed him the tablet from behind the counter which she’d used earlier for taking inventory. “Use this.”
Cole’s brows rose into his hairline. The rest of his face seemed frozen. “Noooooo, it’s a travesty! I’m an artist. I need my tools to create. A tablet? How am I supposed to compose poems on this—this mechanized monster?”
“Cole, we’ve talked about this before,” Aislinn warned, dark eyes flashing momentarily before returning to a serene blue. “You are not dying. This is not the Industrial Revolution. Get over it.”
“Look, it’s just like your smartphone,” Cooper said gently, relieving Aislinn of the electronic device. “It’s easy to use. See? And you can save everything you write automatically to the Cloud. I’ll show you.”
“It saves it in Heaven?” Cole had visions of angels reading his poetry.
Cooper grimaced. “Erm, not quite.” Sometimes, he found immortals so old.
“Well, how hard can it be, I guess?” asked Cole. “I mastered Facebook, but I’m still not certain—” He broke off abruptly as he realized that no one was paying any attention to him.
Belatedly, he realized a murmur was going through the crowd. All heads turned toward the entrance of the club. Cole followed their gazes.
Aislinn was already wading through the throng, who eagerly cleared out of her way. Her hands were loose by her sides, but she felt the reassuring weight of her skean as it rested on her hip. She briefly wondered whether their bouncers were still alive. Caleb wouldn’t take kindly to the new arrivals if they weren’t, so perhaps it was lucky he was in the storeroom assisting Nikolaus with their delivery.
Besides, she had a feeling the vampires were here for her.
They were standing in a semicircle around their leader whose back was to her. They were all armed. They were also all wearing similar uniforms, Russian military-styled trench coats.
Aislinn had already counted heads and inwardly cursed. There was enough of them to cause trouble here in her club, something she preferred to avoid. The whisper of “Underground Russian vampire mafia” ran the length of the dance floor, and she almost groaned aloud at the thought of the rumors that would fly around London tonight.
No doubt Caleb would hear of their visitors soon, and his reception would be frosty. She hoped to deal with any trouble first.
“Good evening, and welcome to Nocturne,” Aislinn said, modulating her voice so that it oozed a honeyed sweetness. “May I ask if you’re working tonight or here to enjoy yourselves?”
The man standing with his back to her turned.
It wasn’t a man. The dark Mark of Cain on Aislinn’s forehead flared in calculated rage.
Her hair was cropped short in the style of a military crewcut, and her jaw was blunt and square. Anyone might have been confused about her gender since she was heavyset but tall and androgynous looking. Like all vampires, she was extremely attractive. Her look would have appealed to all sexes, allowing for an open expression of her sex
uality as she wasn’t limited for conquests of both the sexual and martial sort, since there weren’t too many of her partners still alive.
Feral werebitch.
Maybe Aislinn wasn’t being very PC, labeling a vampire a shapeshifter, but as she was almost one thousand years old, she didn’t give a damn. She’d been through so many epochs that there was always some immortal taking offense over presumed slights.
There were tattoos and piercings that defined the other Malum’s allegiance to the underground Russian vampire mafia boss. And although Aislinn had only met her briefly once in the last century, she recognized her anyway.
“Zhenya.”
“Hello, Aislinn.”
The other goons fanned out behind their leader, awaiting instructions. Aislinn was aware of their synchronized movements and the sudden silence in the club.
“It’s been a while.” Aislinn placed her hand on her hip, dropping to the hilt of her skean, in a stance that was likely to be interpreted as it was meant to be—aggressive. “Why are you here?”
“What? You’re not pleased to see me?” Zhenya laughed throatily, her Russian accent pronounced as she spoke. The laughter was sharply edged, like the weapons she was carrying.
“Not particularly.” Aislinn’s hand shifted on her skean, but she didn’t unsheathe it. Yet.
Her smile grew wider still. “Well, that’s too bad. You see, we’ve got a problem.”
“Yes, we bloody well do!” Caleb appeared from the storeroom, storming through the club like a bat out of hell. “Vlad’s tits! What the fuck are you doing here? I’d thought I’d seen the last of you in Afghanistan.”
Aislinn was prepared to intervene, glancing across at Caleb to see how he was taking her unexpected arrival. His hands were in fists, knuckles whitened.
“So,” Zhenya said, her voice almost gloating. “It’s true. You’re a bartender.”
Aislinn’s hostility was thinly veiled. “Be careful, Zhenya. Caleb doesn’t like mongrels in his club. See the sign above the bar? ‘No pets allowed’. I think that means you.”
There was a brief flash of obsidian before Zhenya shrugged and turned to look around the crowded nightclub, feigning boredom. “Whatever. You haven’t changed much.”
“Neither have you.” Caleb spat the words. It wasn’t a compliment.
No one said anything for a long moment. There was a tension in the room like an elastic band stretched to its breaking point. It only needed sufficient reason to snap.
Then Zhenya cocked her head. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to confirm the rumors. You turned a human hunter. That takes some balls.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked from Cooper to Aislinn’s pale face. Had she done more than look, that would have been sufficient reason enough for Aislinn.
“Is that a problem?” Aislinn’s hand tightened fractionally around the hilt of her skean.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Time will tell.” The square-faced Malum gave an ugly smile.
Caleb cast a venomous glare at the vampire mafioso, not bothering to hide his intense dislike for her. “You didn’t come here just to gawk at Aislinn’s offspring. I’m not one for more games. Why the fuck did you come, Zhenya?”
Her smile widened, becoming sharp and pointy as her fangs broke through her gums. Snapping her fingers, one of her goons stepped forward and, reaching into the inside of his trench coat, pulled out a crushed envelope. “Let’s just say I’m running an errand.”
Aislinn took the envelope and stared at it. It was so light, it was almost insubstantial. She thought of what she knew of the Russian vampire mafia boss. Not much for words then, she gathered.
“You’ve got a nice place here. What do you say, Caleb? One for the road?” Zhenya glanced at Caleb, whose hands were still balled into fists. “Guess not. Maybe next time.”
Caleb growled. It could not be mistaken for an open invitation to drop round any time.
“Apologies for any misunderstanding. This should compensate your bouncers.” One of her goons threw a small leather bag at Caleb. He caught it reflexively in midair. There was the distinct sound of many clinking Aurum Julius coins, enough to buy each bouncer a yacht.
“Don’t worry,” Zhenya said sardonically as she caressed her blades. “They’re sleeping beauties. Just a touch of hemlock. It won’t kill them.”
“It better not,” Caleb replied curtly.
“Well, then, my job’s done here. Let’s go, boys.” Zhenya snickered as they whirled in synchronicity, trench coats fanning out behind them, and headed back toward the entrance.
At that same moment, Mia teetered through the door in six-inch stilettos. Flicking her dyed platinum-blonde hair over her shoulders, unaware of the drama occurring inside, she complained, “OMV! I almost tripped over them! Like, who takes a nap on the steps?”
Straightening up, her eyes rounded in shock as she took in the sight of the group of burly Russian Malum henchmen barreling down at her, and she quickly stepped out of the way.
Just as they trudged past the entrance in a blur, she squeaked excitedly, “OMV! I can’t even. I knew it. I knew this would happen. They’re here for retribution since you took out their boss with a paperclip. Oh no! I’ve got serious FOMO! What did I miss? Was there a fight?”
Aislinn looked at her fangirl impatiently. “Mia, I think we seriously need to talk.”
Chapter 11
As soon as the underground Russian vampire mob left, the crowd was released from their strange, trancelike fixation and, almost immediately, the pounding music started up again. But now the club was buzzing with a new excitement, and an almost tangible energy filled the air, fueled by the latest gossip.
“Makes you wish you had the recipe for Styx’s blood cocktails,” Caleb murmured, thinking of the drinks laced with Lethean water and Lotus powder to control his patrons as they encouraged apathy and forgetfulness. Though he was thinking mainly of the crowded club of witnesses, the veteran fighter felt that he could certainly do with forgetting right now.
“You knew her.” It was a statement, not a question. Cooper looked up at Caleb’s tense face and fell silent.
Caleb nodded with a grunt. He wasn’t drunk enough or numb enough to speak of it yet. “I think I can use a drink. Coming, kid?”
Cooper looked over to where Aislinn was preoccupied with Mia in the quietest corner of the club. He knew she didn’t like excessive drinking, and with Caleb in the mood he was in, he could make bets it was going to be unavoidable.
Well, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, he reasoned.
He followed the older, burly Malum to the bar. Cole was still seated there, bent over the tablet, trying to compose his poem. Though first, he needed to work out how to use the apps on the tablet.
Caleb grabbed a bottle from behind the bar which was tied with a bright red bow. There were miniature love hearts dangling from the satin ribbon. He ruthlessly tore off the decorations and threw them to the side of the till.
Opening the bottle, the heady, rich metallic aroma wafted into the air. The bouquet opened up to a dry, sweet scent with hints of iron.
“Nothing like a vintage pre-teen,” said Caleb, pouring the ruby-red liquid into two large stemless glasses and handing one to Cooper.
Sipping slowly, Cooper’s hazel eyes dilated momentarily to obsidian. “Holy shit balls!” he exclaimed. This was beyond the realm of ordinary. He’d never tasted anything like it in his life.
“Vlad’s nuts, that’s a fucking good drop!” Caleb agreed, knocking back his glass without much savoring.
“This is amazing,” the younger Malum said, taking another appreciative sip. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s a gift to Aislinn from Nikolaus. Couldn’t you tell?”
Oh Vlad! Aislinn’s gonna go postal!
Cooper began spluttering, his face flushing an unsightly red, which was unusual and hard to do for a vampire. When he finally got himself under control, he cleared his throat. “Erm, shouldn’t we wait for Aislinn? Maybe
she would have liked to—”
Caleb shot him a look that made him wish he’d zipped his lips, then cuffed the side of his head. “I have appropriated my half of the bottle as co-owner of the Nocturne.”
He dared Cooper to challenge him. But Cooper wasn’t reborn yesterday. He had some survival skills and remained tactfully silent.
Caleb downed another drink. “Zhenya was one of my best warriors. She was focused, merciless, and without morals. You don’t know much of our history yet, but our Russian cousins, the Upyr, were the reason the Atum Council brought about certain laws. The Upyr were bloodthirsty and vicious. Their nightly ritual consisted of first drinking the blood of children and then moving on to the parents. Feeding frenzies are never a pretty thing, and the aftermath is often worse. Be grateful that we are civilized now.”
Cooper had never given it much thought before, but he could see that legions of vampires would easily annihilate humanity, their food source. He supposed it was like the issues facing humanity with climate change and global warming.
Caleb shrugged, staring into his empty glass before refilling it. “They had no qualms about turning children into immortals who became a plague upon humans and had to be controlled. It was genocide on a massive scale. Both humans and vampires.” He tossed back another glass. “Around that time, Zhenya was sent to the London Coven to further her training by Aislinn’s older brother, Grigori. This was during the reign of Catherine the Great. I was doubtful at first that she would cut it amongst my elite warriors. But she surprised me. She was an apt pupil. A sponge. She soaked up everything I had to teach her. And then one night, she vanished. Just like that.” Caleb snapped his fingers.
“What happened to her?”
The beefy Malum grimaced. “No idea. Our paths crossed throughout the centuries. Each time, I could see a greater change in her. She was restless. Unhappy. Eventually, she went back to Russia and was trained by the Cheka. NKVD. KGB. The best of the best, to be the best. An agent for their elite ghost units. Master spy, assassin, martial artist, sniper, femme fatale. But where she came from and who turned her? Well, your guess is as good as mine.”