Chapter 13

Logan

For the next week, when I’m not working my shifts at the club, I spend every night with Silver. Each morning, after we’ve made love and dressed, I walk her to her job in Covent Garden, where we linger outside the shop like teenagers, kissing and making plans for the evening. On her day off, we don’t even bother to leave the flat.

For the first time since turning, I forget what I am. I feel like any ordinary twenty-five-year-old fella who’s met a woman he’s completely and utterly besotted with. Ronin McDermott and the dark dealings of the vampire world fade into the back of my consciousness like a bad dream.

By Thursday, I’m starting to think Silver and I need a frank discussion about how things stand between us. I want to make it clear, without scaring her off, she’s the only woman I intend to date for the foreseeable future. As terrifying as it is for someone who has never trusted another with their heart, I need her to know I am completely and utterly hers.

Trailing through the old market square of Covent Garden, I decide I’ll bring it up tonight before sex. That way, she can’t blame the conversation on pheromones.

“Are you even listening?” she asks, breaking into my thoughts.

I glance down at her bright-eyed pixie face and shake my head, resting a palm lightly on the small of her back.

“I said Ollie is coming over tonight, just to see if I’m still alive after not hearing from me all week.”

Ollie. The friend-zoned lad. “Shall I not pick you up, then?” I ask, a strain of disappointment creeping into my voice.

She averts her gray eyes, looking at a trader as he hauls a metal rack of cheap-looking key rings across the cobbles. “I thought maybe you’d want to meet him,” she mumbles, barely moving her lips.

I lean down to hear her better, my hair brushing hers. “Say it again.”

She stops dead in her tracks and looks up at me—shorter in her flat work shoes than the heels she sometimes wears. “It’s no big deal, but if you’re there and he’s there, then you might as well meet. It’s no big deal,” she says again.

“Is this the Silver Harris equivalent of meeting the parents?” I tease, unable to help myself. There is nothing sexier than seeing her all cross and flustered.

Her cheeks flush a shade pinker, and I feel a familiar twitch of arousal in my jeans. “No. Because he’s coming around anyway, and—” She breaks off to take a playful swipe at my shoulder. “Look, will you still come or not?”

I grin. “I’ll be there.”

She smiles, and I feel a sharp twinge in my long-dead heart. Not for the first time, it hits me how crazy I am about her. I look up and see we’re almost at the shiny glass door of the shop.

“Pick you up at six?” I ask, stepping closer and locking my arms around her waist.

“Yes,” she says, lifting her face so I can kiss her good-bye.

We stand for a while, mouths pressed together, eyes closed. The taste of her lips, the feel of her warm body against mine is as close to heaven as I’m ever likely to get.

“I’ll pick up pizza,” I say, releasing her and walking backward.

She pushes the door open. “Okay. Remember the garlic bread—you know, if it doesn’t kill you.”

I lay a hand on my chest. “Still hilarious even at eight in the morning.”

Smirking, she mouths, I know.

I wait until the door swings closed behind her before strolling back through the covered market and out into the open.

Like the other mornings, I walk home, a confident swagger in my step. The sun hangs low in the crisp, blue sky, drilling bright rays through gaps in the buildings. A sparkling frost glitters on the pavement, white and pure against the backdrop of exhaust fumes. Though it’s still early morning, London overflows with life.

Back in Marylebone, an endless stream of commuters hurry in and out of the redbrick railway station. The air smells like ground coffee and smoke, the hiss and rush of trains mingling with sirens and car horns on the street. Usually, I’m not keen on rush hour, but today all feels right with the world.

Outside my building, I am about to open the door when I see the latch is broken. I frown, pushing against it, noticing a round hole in the wood where the lock is missing. For the life of me, I can’t remember if it was like that yesterday. I’ve been in such a lust-induced stupor all week, it could well have been busted for days. Inside the faded hall, I scan the walls for any maintenance notices before dashing upstairs.

Halfway up, I freeze, a familiar scent hitting me—the coppery smell of blood mingled with lilies. I shake myself, continuing up the narrow stairwell, fists clenching at my sides. Some bizarre region of my psyche must be trying to pollute my happiness, remind me of past misery. When I reach the top and notice the door to my flat is open an inch, a dreadful, icy chill creeps up my spine as Ronin’s words come tumbling back: Anastasia is back in town… She has been seen.

No. No. No.

I push open the door and stand on the threshold. Nothing is out of place. It all looks exactly as I left it yesterday afternoon—coffee cups on the drainer, a few discarded clothes on the couch, curtains closed. But the scent from the stairs is stronger than ever, the whiff of blood, both dried and fresh, as pungent and vivid as murder itself.

If my heart still beat, it would be leaping out of my chest. I follow the metallic smell to my bedroom, wincing as I place a flat palm against the wood.

The sound of her honeyed voice seizes me like a hand around the throat. “Hello, Logan.”

Anastasia sits in the chair beside the window, long legs crossed at the knee. Having not seen her for so many years, I’m struck by how different she looks in modern clothing—how normal. She wears spiky, high-heeled boots with an expensive-looking cream trouser suit, her loose hair, as black as onyx, cascading over her shoulders. Like I told Silver that night on the prison hulk, her beauty is a thing of stone—a mirage of perfect features set around cold, empty eyes.

“Anastasia,” I say, trying to make it sound as though her appearing in my bedroom is the most normal thing in the world. “What are you doing here?”

She unravels her legs like a spider and pushes up from the chair, holding her arms out toward me. “What?” she asks, voice oozing nastiness. “No hug for your old foster mommy?”

I ignore her outstretched arms by shrugging out of my denim jacket and tossing it onto the bed. “What do you want?” I ask, forcing myself to meet her piercing, red-brown eyes.

Her arms drop to her sides. She steps toward the chest of drawers in the corner, running a red-painted finger along the edge of the wood. “Why should I have to want anything?”

Anger rises like bile within me, replacing my fear. “I’ve nothing to do with you anymore, remember? Ronin and I blood-bonded over a century ago. He’ll not be happy you’re back in London.”

She whips her head around and laughs, an unhinged crone’s cackle. You can tell a lot about a person from their laugh. “Do you really think I’m worried about Ronin McDermott? Tell me, is he still shoving his dick into any female that moves?”

I ignore the question. “What do you want, Anastasia?” I ask again.

“The name’s actually Maria Bryant now,” she says, grabbing a book and turning it over with long, bony fingers. “I’m a wealthy widow from Bulgaria, the patron of several large orphanages across Africa. Isn’t that hilarious, Logan? Me in the same sentence as children. It’s amazing how blind money makes people.”

Unable to prevent it, a shudder rips through me. She drops the book and fixes me with an evil glare, a slow smile unfurling from one corner of her wide mouth. “There’s something different about you, Logan. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe it has something to do with that female scent you’re drenched in.” Her smile widens as she strolls toward me, and I try not to flinch as she leans in, the stench of new and old blood crawling up my nostrils like lice. “Not the only time you’ve been with her, is it?” she asks, a look of triumph flashing in her eyes.

“You’re wrong,” I growl. “Yes, I’ve been with a woman. What healthy, red-blooded vampire doesn’t enjoy a night of meaningless sex?”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re in love.” The words are like a weapon, deadly as a mace. She emits a short, wispy sigh. “I’m guessing she’s human. I blame that Stephenie Meyer woman for all these ridiculous human-vampire love stories that are playing out all over the world.”

“You’re wrong,” I repeat, the words sticking in my throat.

“No,” she gloats. “I’m not. You’ve always been a terrible liar.” She pouts, pulling a sad face. “Poor Logan, the honest gypsy boy forever in the wrong place at the wrong time. Always the victim. To think, I once believed I could change you into something better.”

“You wanted to change me into a murderer,” I hiss, rage simmering, “like all those other sadistic puppets you turned.”

“Of course,” she continues, as if she didn’t hear me. “I should have ended your pathetic life when I found out the truth about your wrongful imprisonment. But then I discovered your gift.” She pauses, eyes flashing. “I’ll never forget your desperation that night down in the cellar, trying to save the man who betrayed you. A regular Pollyanna, aren’t you?”

“It’s called decency,” I sneer, “and forgiveness. You wouldn’t know the first thing about either.”

She turns on her heel, crossing back to the window and looking down onto the street. “I don’t recall you being all that decent when you fed on the blood of whores night after night.”

“I never killed anyone,” I whisper, balling fists at my sides. “I wasn’t in my right mind back then, but I never took a life.”

“Save it for the pearly gates, Logan,” she mutters. “If they’ll have you.” Turning to face me, she smiles, her lips a perfect, red crescent. “I do hope you and your little human will be very happy together. Does Ronin know you’ve found love?”

I clench my fists tighter. “There is no love, Anastasia. It’s all in your head.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, he doesn’t know. Is that why you’re so afraid? I mean, it’s not like I could ever harm her, or you for that matter. We ancients have our code of conduct to abide by—thou shalt not harm another’s servant or something like that. I get them muddled with the Ten Commandments at times. I hope you realize though, if you ever upset Ronin, if you betray him, you lose that protection. If he doesn’t kill you himself, you become fair game to the rest of us—fair game to me.”

There is a roaring in my ears. In my mind’s eye, I see Silver as I left her this morning, rosebud mouth upturned to meet mine, her smile as she made her joke about garlic bread. Already, she feels far away, out of reach. “Get out,” I growl, throwing the bedroom door wide open. “Don’t ever come to my apartment again.”

She stands with a knowing smirk on her crimson lips. “As long as we understand each other. I would ask you to pass on my regards to Ronin, but I’m sure I’ll see him myself before long.”

I blanch at her thinly veiled warning, remembering his words right after I assured him he could trust me—I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if I can’t.

An image of the first time I met Ronin flashes into my mind—a raucous bar in Dublin, chatter, smoke, and the clink of tankards swirling in the stale air. I sat in a shadowy corner, weighted down by the unconscious woman in my lap, a barmaid, the inside of her collar scarlet with blood. Unbeknownst to me, Ronin had been there, watching as I knitted up the ragged gash in her neck with my tongue. That chance encounter was the beginning of the end to my darkest days.

Anastasia breezes past, the scent of dried blood cutting through the air like a knife’s blade, her eyes dark and gloating. I watch her blur toward the front door where she stops, turning to face me. “Good-bye for now, Logan.”

In a sudden fit of rage, I grab a knife from the block on the kitchen counter and hurl it at her smug face. The door slams, the knife neatly embedded in the wood. A bloodcurdling laugh drifts up from the stairs below as the door to the building bangs shut behind her.

Head in hands, I slide down the doorpost and onto the floor in a heap. How could I be so stupid? Ancients can read body language like an open book. I should have kept a better check on myself. Now she’ll go squealing to Ronin, and he’ll find out I’ve been seeing the same woman he sent me to glamour—the girl who was supposed to be disgusted by all vampires by now, not screwing one night after night. Not very possibly even falling in love.

I could come clean to Ronin, beg for a reprieve. But at best, he would force me to glamour Silver. Either that or he’d have another vampire do it instead. The worst-case scenario is he kills me and glamours her anyway. I can’t allow either to happen.

I take out my phone and pull up her number, staring transfixed at the screen. I’m sorely tempted to call her right now and tell her everything. But even if she forgives me and wants to be with me, what then? It won’t be long before Ronin finds out, either through Anastasia or one of her cronies. I’d be dragging her into a world of danger and lies. Besides, gut instinct tells me she would never speak to me again if she found out about Ronin, the club, and the grand plan she was a part of.

The only other alternative is to lie low and hope Anastasia leaves London. My chest tightens. Just the thought of not seeing Silver tonight is enough to fling me headfirst into a pit of despair, but the notion I’d have to leave her alone for weeks or months on end is inconceivable. Yet it’s my only hope if I am to both keep her safe and have a chance at a future with her.

Taking a deep breath, I tap out a text with trembling fingers, every character a needle in my heart. By the time I hit Send, I can no longer make out the words. They are fragmented and blurry, hot tears distorting them into a black mess.

Can’t make tonight.

Why did I think for one second this could ever last? I get off the floor and cross to the window, where golden sunlight pools into the room. After pulling the curtains closed, I slide down the wall and sink into the shadows, melting into the darkness, where I belong.