Ivan Sokolov stood on the London street outside the club, his hands jammed against his hips, and a frown marking his face. Cheap plyboard had been used to block up all the windows, and someone had already spray-painted graffiti across the wood. Barely a week had passed since the owner of the club, Deacon Thorn, had been arrested and put to death by The Directive for his part in people trafficking, and yet the place looked as though it had been shut for months.

On the road behind Ivan, numerous cars, including black cabs, drove by. On the other side of the street, a group of drunken youths staggered arm in arm, calling out loudly to each other, despite being close enough to be attached.

Guilt snaked through Ivan for not getting down here sooner. He’d tried calling Michaela—Deacon Thorne’s daughter—after her father’s arrest, but she hadn’t answered any of his calls, and there had been no sign of her at her flat. Perhaps he should have tried harder, but there had been too much to deal with, and the members of The Directive had only recently left.

Maybe Michaela didn’t want to be found, yet her face kept playing on his mind. What they’d shared hadn’t been anything like what his vampire offspring Nikolai and his Bloodmate Lauren had together, but they’d had some good times, and he hated to think how she was now left without a father, and her family’s business had gone under in part because of him. It wasn’t his fault her father had been involved in trafficking and The Directive had been forced to step in, but it hadn’t been her fault either.

Ivan didn’t like how they’d left things, and he wanted to make things right. She’d probably call him every name under the sun and punch him in the face, but if that went some way to helping her heal, then it would be worth it. The Directive had interviewed her after her father’s death and come to the conclusion she hadn’t been aware what Deacon had been into, and that was good enough for Ivan. He knew there was no chance of them still messing around together, and he didn’t want that either, but a sense of responsibility lay on his shoulders. Deacon Thorne had been her father, no matter what he’d done, and she was bound to be grieving. He hated feeling as though he’d just abandoned her.

Ivan sighed and glanced around, uncertain of how to progress. He wasn’t sure what he thought he’d find here at the club—Michaela herself, perhaps, or even a forwarding address. All he knew was he didn’t have anything else to go on, and that realisation made him wonder exactly how much he’d known about the half-wolf. He’d thought he’d cared about her enough to push Nikolai into doing business with her father, but now he’d seen how Nikolai was with his Bloodmate, everything he’d shared with Michaela seemed so superficial. Maybe that was what he was doing here. Maybe he was hoping to share something deeper, or reach into the more intimate recesses of emotion than just sex and blood. Not that there was anything wrong with sex and blood, but now he found he yearned for something more.

He spotted the alleyway which led to the back entrance of the club. He doubted he’d find anything, but something drew him. Using his vampire’s hearing, he tuned in to the area. Yes, he heard movement. Footsteps from inside, and a muffled heartbeat. Not vampire, then? Wolf? He inhaled deeply. Unlike his progeny, Nikolai, he didn’t share the other vampire’s revulsion of the scent of a werewolf. They did have a distinctive scent, however.

Michela was only half wolf, and she’d only ever smelled mostly human to him. He’d fed from her a number of times, and her blood had tasted mostly human, too, but with a faint hint of something muskier, which he assumed was her wolf side. It was an acquired taste, he realised. Had she offered herself up to someone like Nikolai, he’d probably have turned green with disgust.

Returning his thoughts to the present, he took the number of steps needed to bring himself opposite the entrance of the alleyway, and then called upon his vampire’s speed to dart inside and stop beside the rear doors with his back pressed to the red brick wall of the building.

He listened again, hard, trying to place the person. They were headed this way, through the corridors which had once led to the club for exotic dancers, and the werewolf’s den for trafficking those with special blood to ancient vampires prepared to pay a lot of money to own it. The person was human. Who were they, and what were they doing here?

Ivan froze, his breath held as he waited, not wanting to alert the person to his presence. He sensed they were human, but that didn’t mean they were solely human. They might be a witch, with some kind of spell that would alert them to the intrusion, or another kind of supernatural he hadn’t considered. Either way, his senses had gone on high alert.

Footsteps grew closer, the thumping beat of the person’s heart increasing. It had been a while since Ivan had last fed, and at the thought of a pulse thudding beneath skin and fresh blood flooding down his throat, his fangs extended. Ivan frowned and forced them back again. That wasn’t like him. He was over three hundred years old, and he had good control of his bloodlust now. It hadn’t been so easy at first, and he’d often taken more lives than he’d needed, but now he didn’t need to kill. He’d feed from those who were willing, or from blood banks, not from random strangers he hadn’t even seen yet.

The door beside him cracked open, and Ivan lunged into movement. Catching the new arrival by the front of his t-shirt, he yanked him through the open doorway and out into the alley. Before the man had even had the chance to yell in surprise, Ivan had used his vampire’s strength to lift him and shove him up against the wall. He held him high, so the man’s feet didn’t even touch the ground. Not that it mattered if they did. This human was no match for his strength. He wouldn’t be going anywhere until Ivan got what he wanted.

He could compel this human to tell him what he needed to know if he wanted, but he didn’t think there would be any need. From the fear in the young man’s eyes, he’d spill everything quickly enough.

“I’m looking for the daughter of the werewolf who used to run this club. Where is she?”

His eyes were wide, showing the whites, the pupils flicking back and forth as though he was searching for an escape. “Daughter?”

“Yes. Michaela. You know her. Everyone who worked here knew her.”

He nodded frantically. “Yes, yes. Michaela. I know her.”

“Where is she?”

“Not here. She went away. Wanted to get out of London.”

He gave the man a small shake. “Where”

“I don’t know. Somewhere down south. She said she wanted to go somewhere remote, where no one else could find her. The moors, I think she said.”

Ivan frowned, narrowing his eyes. “The moors?”

“Yes, yes. Dartmoor!”

Ivan didn’t know that part of England. The farthest south he’d been was Folkestone to get into France via the Channel Tunnel. Maybe it would do him good to get away from London as well. There wasn’t much here for him, not now Nikolai had found his Bloodmate, and Michaela was gone. He had his businesses in the city, but they’d manage without him for a few days. So much could be done online these days, and he was sure even Devon had WiFi.

“Do you know where she’s staying?”

“No, but she made the arrangements from Deacon’s office.”

Hmm. Perhaps there would be something there that would tell him where she’d gone. He believed the human when he’d said he didn’t know where she was staying. It wasn’t as though he’d been hard to get information out of.

Ivan loosened his hold on the man’s shirt, and he dropped to the ground and scrabbled away.

“Don’t worry about locking up,” Ivan said as he moved towards the still-open doorway. “I’ll see it gets done.” He paused and then added, “Oh, and if you happen to see or speak to Michaela, make sure you don’t mention that I was here.”

He didn’t give a shit one way or the other if the club was locked up or not, but he didn’t want Michaela to know he was stepping on her territory. Perhaps the club would make a good place for squatters—after all, there were enough homeless on London’s streets. The place certainly wouldn’t be opening as a new club any time soon. The Directive had frozen all of Deacon’s assets, including this place. If it had been acquired by ill-gotten gains, the club and everything inside it would be dissolved.

Ivan knew his way through the club’s back corridors. Slipping inside, he navigated them quickly, making his way to what had once been the werewolf Deacon’s office. Electricity was still being run to the place. Ivan’s eyesight was excellent in the dark, but once at the office, he flicked the switch and flooded the space with light. There was no point in working harder than needed.

He moved behind Deacon’s desk, his gaze scouring the wooden surface. He wasn’t sure what he thought he’d find—a printed invoice, perhaps, or a scribbled note with the name of a hotel on it. But most of the contents of the desk, like everything else in the club, had been cleared out.

Ivan let out a growl of frustration. Maybe she didn’t want to be found. That was most likely correct, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He wanted to tell her that he had never intended for things to end up as they had. Maybe it wouldn’t help, but he was a selfish creature, ruled by his own desires, and he thought it might stop him turning over the events in his head.

It didn’t look as though he was going to find anything of use here, however.

He was about to leave the office when the phone on the desk caught his eye. The computer had been removed by The Directive, most likely wanting to see if anything on it would help them learn if the trafficking had spread further than just Deacon. So there was a chance she’d used the phone to book where she was going. It was a long shot, but he picked up the handset and hit the redial button. With his hearing, he didn’t need to place the handset to his ear to hear what was being said.

“Good evening, you’re through to the Hare and Hounds Hotel.”

Ivan didn’t respond. Instead, he gently placed the handset back down and allowed a hint of a smile to curl one side of his lips.

He knew where she’d gone.