The vampire bared his fangs, and I knew we’d both be dead by the end of the night if I didn’t get him out of here. I leapt over the bar with the speed of a hurricane wind, hurtling toward him. I slammed my fist into his skull—once, twice, three times. He staggered back, then collapsed. He’d fallen so easily I almost didn’t feel a sense of victory, but I grinned down at him anyway. The colored lights of the bar stained his porcelain skin red.

I had to get him out of here.

I tried to project a calm I didn’t feel. “Like I said,” I purred, “a guy like you would be more comfortable in a hipster joint with arcade games and herbal cocktails. You can talk about synthwave or whatever there. Move along. Now.” I may have screamed the last word. A sense of urgency was taking over.

It was at that point, I realized that everyone in the bar had stopped talking and were all staring at me over their pints. A pop song crackled through the speakers, and the neon sign in the window flickered on and off. Otherwise, silence shrouded us.

Easy, Arianna. Easy. I stood over the fallen vampire, holding up my hands. “Nothing to see here, folks! Just an ordinary Friday night kerfuffle.”

I loosed a long sigh. Two thin hawthorn stakes jutted from my messy bun, ready for the vampire’s heart, but I restrained myself. My boss would flip his shit if he saw me beating up customers—again. And I definitely wasn’t supposed to kill people—even if they were undead—in front of a crowd. Rufus frowned upon things like that in his establishment.

You can take the girl out of the gladiator arena….

It was just unfortunate that the vampire had made the serious error of trying to bite me.

As soon as this guy had stumbled into our bar, I’d known he was trouble. In fact, I’d immediately assessed three important things about him.

One, his luxurious Viking beard had told me he was a hipster—not to mention his neon clothing, reminiscent of children’s wear in the early 1980s. Whenever guys dressed like him decided to slum it in the Spread Eagle, it usually went down badly with the regulars.

Two, his staggering gait and furrowed brow had told me that he was a mean, sloppy drunk. Given the exceptional alcohol tolerance levels of vampires, he must have drunk his weight in craft beers tonight.

Three, and worst of all, he was a supernatural.

I cocked my head at him as he lay on the floor. He might even be old enough that the medieval Norseman beard was actually authentic. Supernaturals like him—like me—were outlawed these days. We had to fly under the radar if we wanted to live. Too bad this one was too stupid to keep a low profile. Four years of executions and assassinations, and this fucker had just brazenly walked into our bar, flashing his fangs around.

As the patrons turned back to their pint glasses, pretending to ignore us, I frowned at the hipster-vampire. Dazed, he still lay on the beer-stained floor, but he’d managed to push himself up onto his elbows. The undead bastards didn’t stay down for long. His pale eyes were trained on me, possibly recognizing my own magic.

Ciara, my oldest friend, crept over to us, her brown eyes wide. Her hand was clamped over her grin. I could tell she was stopping just short of clapping her hands. “Oh my goodness, Arianna. You punched him. Do you see his fangs?” She had a sweet but unfortunate tendency to idolize supernaturals, like we were some kind of celebrities. After all, there weren’t many of us around these days. “A real, live vampire,” she whispered, pointing at him.

“I can hear you,” the vamp slurred, now rising to his feet. He staggered closer. “Little girl.”

“I need to get him out of here,” I muttered. And I had to do it without using any of my magic. You never knew who was watching, ready to turn you in.

Now, my new Viking friend’s gaze was locked on Ciara. Red flashed in his eyes. He was after blood tonight, and she was clearly an easier target than me. It didn’t help that she was wearing a T-shirt featuring a male model with fangs poking from pouty lips. She gods-damned loved vampires.

“I know your game, little girl.” The vampire licked his fangs, swaying on his feet. “You read your little books about teenagers falling in love with thousand-year-old vamps. Our skin is supposed to sparkle like a unicorn’s arse, right? And you all get a happy ending. Wrong. Those books are crap. Come with me, and I’ll teach you about reading real literature. Hemingway, Kerouac, Bukowski—”

His monologue was cut off by the sight of the thin stake I’d pulled out of my hair. I twirled it between my fingers, and the vampire seemed hypnotized by the movement.

I smiled at him. “Now that you’re quiet, let’s get one thing straight. I will not have you slandering romance books in my bar.” Technically, it wasn’t my bar, but that was beside the point. This arsehole thought he was going to feed on Ciara. And moreover, I would not tolerate anyone banging on about Bukowski. “I’d like to just get back to the shots of Johnny Walker I was drinking before you came in, and I don’t want to have to keep punching you. I’d prefer not to get your blood on my new miniskirt. So run along. I’m pretty sure an ironic meth-trailer-themed bar just opened up a few blocks away.” I leaned closer, arching an eyebrow. “It seems more your scene.”

Despite the arse-kicking I’d just given him and the stake in my hand, he seemed unfazed.

He stumbled toward Ciara. “I think I’d be more comfortable if your friend came with me.”

I gave him a hard shove, and he staggered back.

The door swung open, and a second vamp came in—this one in a visor, a handlebar mustache, and a pink bow tie. Had someone told them we had a sale on ukuleles or something?

I had to get them out of here. The last thing I wanted was for the Spread Eagle to attract the spell-slayers’ attention for harboring supernaturals.

I flashed the two vamps a dark smile. “No supernaturals allowed in here. No supernaturals allowed anywhere. Those are the rules. You’ve got ten seconds to leave this bar,” I said sweetly, while calculating all the ways I could kill them. “Or I might start getting angry. And you don’t want that to happen.”

Viking Vamp snorted, then his irises flared with red. The air seemed to thin around us. “And what the fuck are you, pretty thing? You’re not human.”

My blood chilled. I couldn’t let anyone overhear him saying that.

He snatched a whisky bottle—my whisky bottle—from the bar, his movements lightning fast. Then, he jabbed a finger in my face. “You’re not supposed to be here, either. I think I just might tell the spell-slayers on you. Tick tock. Your time is running out, pretty lady. But give me a look at those gorgeous tits of yours and I might keep your secret.”

Rage surged. And then, as I registered the word “spell-slayers,” dread slithered up my spine.

Okay. I was done being nice. Now he had to die.

There was only one thing in London scarier than me, and that was the spell-slayers. The fae assassins haunted London’s streets in dark cloaks, blending into the night sky like smoke. They terrorized humans and magical creatures alike, ruling the city with the points of their blades, silently slaughtering in the shadows. No one was supposed to look them in the eye, or speak to them, or breathe in their direction. But we all owed them a tithe from our paychecks. Protection money, they called it. They were no better than a magical mafia. In short, they were the worst. I hated them and feared them in equal measure.

I narrowed my eyes at the vamps. “You want me to believe you’re brave enough to attract the attention of the spell-slayers? And risk your own necks? Bollocks. You’re supposed to be locked up in a magical realm with all the other supernaturals, not roaming London’s streets. I’m now four seconds away from dragging you outside and staking you.”

Truth was, I’d stake them whether or not they left willingly. I couldn’t risk them turning me in.

I didn’t really have time for too many mental calculations, because the next thing I knew, Viking Vamp was lunging for Ciara again, fangs bared.

Fast—maybe faster than I should have—I pivoted around him, pointing my stake at his neck. I wasn’t supposed to move too quickly; humans were slow and sluggish. But the sight of him attacking Ciara sent my blood racing, and instinct kicked in.

I pressed the stake against his jugular. Then, I stood on my tiptoes, whispering into his ear. “I know a stake to the neck won’t kill you. But I will make it hurt when I jam it into your throat and wiggle it round. Then I’ll kill you.”

Something sharp jabbed into my back, stopping me in my tracks. A quick glance over my shoulder told me that his friend, Visor Vamp, was holding a knife to my back.

“Drop the stake, darling!” said Visor Vamp.

Baleros’s third law of power: Always let your enemy underestimate you.

I dropped the stake. I held up my hands as if I were surrendering, adding in a bit of trembling for good measure.

Then, when I felt the point of the knife retreat a little, I pivoted, slamming my elbow into his nose. I brought up my knee into his crotch—three brutal cracks to the groin. Vamps might not be alive, but they were still sensitive in the usual places. As he bent forward, I twisted his arm, forcing him to the ground. I snatched the knife from his hand at the same time. Then, I pointed it at his neck.

My lips curled in a mocking smile. “You still want to play?”

Now, at last, the vamps had the good sense to look scared. Apart from a warbling pop song, the room had gone silent again.

Viking Vamp held up his hands. “We’ll leave.”

I pulled the blade away from the other’s neck. As he straightened, he leaned in close, breathing in my ear. “The spell-slayers will be coming for you.”

At that, an icy tendril of dread coiled through my chest.

I watched as the two vamps skulked out of the bar.

I jammed my hand into the pocket of my miniskirt, and I pulled out a lollipop. Cherry, with gum in the center. Nothing like crystalized sugar to calm the nerves. I popped it in my mouth, staring at the door.

Ciara grinned. “Well geez Louise, this has been a heck of an evening.” She’d lived in the UK for at least ten years now and still hadn’t lost her thick American accent. “I haven’t been this excited since my Aunt Starlene drew a clown on my bedroom wall to ease my loneliness.”

“It’s not over.” There’d been something too cocky about those vamps, and their parting shot had told me everything I needed to know. I’d heard of some supernaturals acting as informants to the spell-slayers. Supernatural narcs. Maybe that was how these two idiots had managed to stay alive, biting humans like Ciara with impunity. “Can you cover the bar while I’m out?”

“No problem.”

I had a pair of vampires to kill.