Chapter 2

Logan

By the time I reach the chipped black door on Broadwick Street, Soho, I’m almost an hour late for my meeting with London’s long-reigning vampire overlord, Ronin McDermott. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, desperately trying to clear my head. I fail miserably. In spite of the pungent odor of damp and garbage rising up from the London street, the girl’s intoxicating flavor lingers, sharp as citrus on my tongue, and her sweet scent—white wine and roses—assaults my nostrils to the point where I imagine she is still in my arms. My cock stiffens as I remember her hands under my T-shirt, her tongue lapping mine, the deep, guttural groan that escaped her throat as I sank my fangs into her creamy skin.

I shiver, opening my eyes. “Jesus, Logan,” I tell myself, adjusting the front of my tight black jeans. “Get it together, man.”

I dart a glance over each shoulder before stepping closer to the battered door and staring into a tiny camera hidden beside the drainpipe. There is a whirring noise as it swivels toward me, a red dot flashing.

With a sigh, I shove my hands into my pockets and wait. I look around at the empty street—the shop fronts with their metal barriers pulled down, the row of trash bins, garbage bags spilling out like vomit—and wish, for all it’s worth, I’d never left the snarky girl in the stolen coat.

Directly opposite is a popular coffee shop, and I wonder, not for the first time, how humans so often miss the obvious. Hundreds if not thousands pound this street every day, but I’d bet money no one notices the crimson splatter of dried blood half pooled beneath the door on the concrete where I stand. Not a single person ever ponders what goes on behind the neglected facade of 66 Broadwick Street.

A few more seconds pass until the door rattles like a snake, a deep clunk resonating through the wood as heavy-duty locks are hauled back. Finally, it opens, and the human doorman, a tall, thin-lipped gentleman with a shock of gray hair, is waiting to usher me inside.

“Evening, Mr. Byrne,” he says in a gruff voice. He’s dressed in typical nightclub security gear—black suit, white shirt, no tie. There is even a curly communication wire running from ear to collar.

“Evening, Jordan,” I say, stepping past him into the long, rabbit-warren-like corridor.

Pleasantries aside, neither of us speaks again. Occasionally, I wonder if Jordan is his first name or last, but by the time I reach the second door, I usually forget all about him. Tonight is no different.

The inner door opens, and at once, the unmistakable aroma of alcohol, smoke, and open veins hits like a tidal wave. I step into the room, looking down from the top of a narrow flight of stairs into the hazy half-light below. Here, in London’s most taboo nightspot, vampires and humans coexist in a disturbing tableau of blood and desire.

The New Year’s party appears to be in full swing. Right away, I catch sight of a half-naked blond woman spread-eagle across a narrow table. Her arms hang down limply as two vampires, their greedy faces smeared with blood, lap at each wrist. From where I stand, it’s hard to tell if her face is contorted with ecstasy or pain—possibly a little of both. I stare, transfixed for a second, before homing my senses in on her pulse.

Normal—for now, at least. Unfortunately, wading into situations like this is how I earn my living. I believe my official title at the club is enforcer, a tidy label for spending my evenings plucking humans from the jaws of death, fixing them up, and sending them on their merry way none the wiser. In the beginning, it felt good being able to save a life here and there, but these days it seems so pointless. Most of those I heal are back for more within the week.

Not that I’m one to judge. In my darker days, I also sought solace within the empty embraces of the twisted and depraved. I too was a parasite, sucking meaninglessly at the open arteries of human beings either too drunk or too desperate to care. Though it’s true enough we don’t need blood to survive, some crave its sweet taste just as dangerously as if they did. I guess you could say they are the vampire version of alcoholics, and just like alcoholism, such addiction ruins lives. Luckily for myself and the humans around me, my own bloodlust was short-lived.

Apart from this trio, everyone else seems to be behaving themselves. I continue down the steps, glancing around the dark-purple booths lining the walls, where people sit chatting, wispy spirals of smoke lacing the air.

There’s a jazz singer in tonight, an eye-catching, buxom redhead with her hair twisted up 1940s style. She is accompanied by a thin black gentleman playing a saxophone. I catch her eye as I pass by the little circular stage and she winks at me. She’s human, though her sax player isn’t—no heartbeat. She holds my gaze and runs her hands up and down the microphone stand suggestively. On a normal night, I’d smile and wink back, but this evening, I look away. I’m unwilling to dilute the memory of that heated midnight exchange so quickly.

I head for the long, granite bar stretching the width of the club. Paulo, a Hispanic bartender with strangely yellow eyes, spots me and grabs a bottle of spirits to fix me a shot. He’s a vampire too, so it’s ready and waiting on the bar in an instant.

“Happy New Year, buddy,” I say, holding up the tiny glass and throwing the amber liquid down my throat. Although alcohol doesn’t work for us in quite the same way it does humans, it makes me feel better somehow. Maybe it’s the placebo effect.

“Is he still here?” I ask, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

Paulo nods. “Back room.” He smirks, looking over my shoulder. “Someone else is here to see you too, by the looks of things.”

I groan. Without turning around, I know he means the club’s human hostess, Collette. A pair of sun-kissed arms wrap themselves around my chest like tentacles as a soft voice purrs in my ear, “Hey, Logan.”

Carefully, I extract myself from her unwelcome embrace, holding one of the manicured hands and turning around. I let go as gently as possible, leaning back against the bar. “Hey, Collette. How’ve you been?”

She pouts, looking up through thick, spidery lashes. “You haven’t been around much lately.”

I pause, trying to figure out how to answer without giving false hope. We slept together a couple of months ago and I get the impression she’s rather keen on a repeat performance.

Using the gap in conversation to good effect, she pulls herself to full height, pushing out her ample chest. I have to say, outfit-wise, she’s pulled out all the stops tonight. She wears a short, black tube dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, a thick coil of honey-colored hair half covering her face. The effect is a shade Jessica Rabbit.

“I’ve not been available,” I say, staring into my empty shot glass.

Collette is a nice girl and all, but even if she wasn’t as shallow as a puddle in the Sahara, there’s no way I’d be interested in a round two. Human women of a certain age are hardwired to find a mate, something I prefer to avoid at all costs.

She steps toward me, running a red-painted fingernail around the neckline of my T-shirt and toying with the tiny gold medallion at my neck. I lean away, elbows hitting the bar. “You got a new girl or something?” she asks, eyes flashing.

I gulp. Being a vampire does nothing to ease the terror of telling a woman she was just a one-night stand. “Yeah,” I say, watching her kohl-lined eyes widen. “I have.”

Collette’s hand drops from my T-shirt like a dead weight. Her face sours, lips pursed as if sucking lemons. “She won’t last.”

I brush an imaginary speck of dirt from my shoulder, avoiding her stony gaze. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Stepping away, she places one hand on a jutting hip bone. “No girl can handle a vampire man like I can.”

I resist the urge to smile. “Well, as you know, Collette, I’m no ordinary vampire.”

She turns, defeated, before walking back across the room with her hips swinging. A dozen pairs of eyes swivel to watch her.

When I turn back to Paulo, he is grinning from ear to ear, his unusual eyes the color of early morning sun. “Is that true?” he asks, polishing an empty glass with a dishrag. “Logan Byrne has finally found love?”

Shaking my head, I motion to my empty glass, putting it on the bar in front of him. “Nah, just needed an excuse.”

Paulo grabs a bottle and fills the glass to the top. “What’s the deal with you and women anyway?” he asks, sliding my drink across the shiny counter. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with the same girl twice. Did someone break your heart or something?”

“You have to give your heart to get it broken,” I say, swirling the amber liquid around the rim. “And I’m not in the business of loaning mine out.”

Before Paulo can respond, a short, balding man, almost as wide as he is tall, appears through a door next to the bar. “Mr. McDermott is ready for you, Mr. Byrne,” he says, eyes as flat and expressionless as glass. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out there’s some kind of glamour on him.

I take a deep breath before fixing my mouth into a nonchalant smile and following McDermott’s minion into a long, sterile-looking passageway, a door open at one end.

When we reach the threshold, the man stands aside, and I step ahead of him into the room, momentarily blinded by a thick wall of cigar smoke. I see the leggy brunette before I see Ronin—which isn’t surprising, considering she’s straddling his lap in one of the chairs by the fireplace, lips attached to his face.

His hand leaves her butt long enough to signal I should wait, so I stare around me, ignoring the suckling sounds by feigning interest in the luxurious leather-and-chrome interior of the room. Finally, with a slap on the backside, he dismisses the girl and she climbs off, tugging her short dress down her thighs.

“You’re late, Logan,” he says in his mellow Scottish accent, gazing after the young woman as she leaves the room.

I step closer, one thumb looped into a pocket of my jeans, trying to create the illusion of confidence. “My apologies. I got waylaid.”

McDermott motions to the leather seat opposite him. “Sit down,” he says, shoving a fat cigar between his lips. “Excuse the smoke. I always celebrate New Year’s with a Black Dragon or two.”

I nod, sliding into a tan leather seat. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”

He watches me intently as he pulls a silver lighter from his suit jacket, flipping the lid open and holding the tiny flame to the massive cigar.

Ronin McDermott isn’t just the city’s overlord; he is also an ancient, one of an elite group of vampires who are considered the oldest on earth. With his Celtic looks, I often think Ronin must have been an early Scots warrior—he wouldn’t look out of place storming over a hillside, spear in hand. His only weakness appears to be a playboy penchant for beautiful women. Still, as overlords go, there are worse out there. Way worse.

The cigar tip glows as he inhales, his cheeks hollowing out. “There are a couple of reasons I asked you to see me tonight,” he says, exhaling a long trail of smoke. “A favor I need and a warning.”

One thing I appreciate about Ronin McDermott is he rarely plays games. “Are the two connected?” I ask, leaning back in the chair.

Ronin shakes his head, tapping ash onto the red carpet. “No. The warning is separate. I’ll get to that. First the favor.” He holds my gaze a moment, a thin line appearing between his thick eyebrows. “Are you familiar with Internet dating, Logan?”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Internet dating?” Here I was thinking he was about to ask me to hide a body. “Not really. I mean, I’ve never had any trouble finding women willing to sleep with me.”

The overlord laughs, the sound rattling around the office like a roll of thunder. “Of course. Me neither, as you know. But I trust you’ve heard of the concept?”

I nod. “Sure I have. There’s a woman in my building who uses it, though she complains the men are either married or short.”

“Fascinating,” Ronin says, puffing vigorously on his cigar. “Did you also know there is now a site which specializes in matching up vampires with humans? V-Date, they call it.”

I frown. “That’s a new one on me.”

“It’s thriving, apparently. While our kind remain segregated in most areas of society, it seems romance is the exception.”

I cock a smile. “We are a sexy bunch.”

McDermott’s face remains impassive, as if he hasn’t heard me. His blue eyes are as cold as morning frost. “Unfortunately, the whole venture isn’t quite as harmless as it may first appear.”

“Why is that?” So far, I have no idea what he’s driving at.

He flings the cigar into the fireplace and leans forward, forearms balanced on his knees. “Let me get straight to the point. We’re being spied on, Logan. Ever since that dumb actress did her big show-and-tell, we’ve been the focus of government agencies around the world. They know we exist and they want to know everything about us.”

Resisting the urge to sigh, I drum my fingers restlessly on the arm of the chair. Politics never gets any more interesting, no matter how many years pass. “What does that have to do with Internet dating?” I ask, biting my lip to stay focused. Now the threat of danger is over, my thoughts keep drifting back to the girl I left in Chelsea.

“I have a man working for me, an inspector at Scotland Yard and a vampire, though his colleagues don’t know that. They’re using this site, this V-Date, to recruit informants, to gather information—how we work, our hierarchy.” He pauses, looking faintly impressed. “It’s actually very clever. Imagine how much knowledge the human patrons of this club have gathered over the years. If they could tap into that knowledge…”

“Knowledge is power,” I murmur.

“Exactly,” he says, leaning back. “A power we need to retain, if we’re ever going to maintain the old ways.”

Personally, I’m not too concerned about the old ways. They’ve done little for me over the years. “So where do I come into all this?”

He smiles, revealing teeth as white as freshwater pearls. “I think I’ve been fair to you over the years, Logan, have I not? I broke your blood tie to Anastasia at the beginning of the last century, given you employment here at the club.”

Here it is, the moment I’ve been waiting for since I began working for him. Ronin McDermott was never going to be the type of man to let a debt go unpaid. I stare into the orange glow of the fire, drumming my fingers on the arms of the chair. “I’ll be forever indebted to you for breaking me from her, Ronin, you know that.”

“Anastasia is a bullying bitch,” he says, an uncharacteristic note of bile in his voice. “I’ll never regret my decision to free you. You were too good for all her madness, and not only because of your unique gift.”

I stare into his ice-blue eyes, trying to read him, but there’s not a flicker of emotion. I decide to lay my cards on the table. “I’m not a killer, Ronin. I wasn’t for her and I won’t be for you. If any part of repaying my debt involves murder, then you might as well end my life right now.”

His face is blank for a moment, like a marble statue, and then he throws back his head and laughs, shaking his head. “Logan, no one’s going to be killing anyone. These humans, the informants the police are using—I want you to put a glamour on each of them, so when they report back to the police, there’s nothing to tell. Better still, you may be able to get to some before the agency approaches them.”

“A glamour? That’s all?” It almost sounds too good to be true.

Ronin holds out his hands, palms up. “That’s all.”

“Why me? You have plenty of people working here who would do it in a heartbeat.”

He toys with an expensive gold cuff link on his shirt. “I thought you would ask that. The truth is, Logan, unlike most of us, myself included, you’ve somehow managed to retain your humanity all these years. If I send someone else”—he waves a hand in the air—“Luca, for example, he’ll glamour the girl, sure, but he’ll also drink from her. My point is I trust you. Also, there’s no danger of you falling for any of these girls. You’ve never been one to make a fool of yourself over human women, have you?”

An image of the girl from tonight pops back into my head. The magnificent gray eyes framed by haughty, slanted brows, the soft, feminine curves—and the real clincher—sass oozing from every pore. Her name, too, resonates in my mind—Silver. It suits her. Pure and lustrous but with the potential to be sharp, like a knife’s blade.

“No.” My voice comes out flat and self-assured, though I’m far from certain. “I don’t do long-term relationships. Never have.” I look into Ronin’s eyes, seeing only the girl’s creamy face as I left her. I’d wanted to see her again, ask for her phone number, but she’d lied about her address, and I figure it means vampires are strictly off-limits.

“You’re a wise man, Logan,” Ronin says. The softness of his voice catches me by surprise, brings me crashing into the present. “I’ve learned the hard way over the years that human love never works out.” He breaks my gaze, a twitch in his chiseled jaw, and stares into the fire. For a split second, his steely arrogance melts away, the mask dropping to reveal profound sadness. He looks older than he ever has. Then, all at once, the grief crystallizes, hardening to indifference. “My contact at the police will have names soon. I’ll be in touch.”

I’m half out of the seat when his head snaps back around. “I almost forgot. A warning.”

With an internal groan, I sink down again. In my haste to leave, I forgot all about that part of the meeting.

“Anastasia is back in town,” he says, a note of sympathy in his voice. “She hasn’t been here, of course, she wouldn’t dare, but she has been seen.”

My throat tightens and the room wavers, as if Ronin has just punched me to the floor. “Are you sure?” I ask, my voice as faint as a ghost’s.

He nods. “It’s been years since you were blood-bound to her, but I felt you needed to know.”

My eyes are wide, like a startled deer waiting to be skinned alive. I force myself to nod. “Thanks for letting me know, Ronin.”

With a wave of his hand, he dismisses me. “Send Mystery back in on your way out,” he says as I get to my feet.

“Mystery?”

“The girl who was in here just now.”

I rub my jaw. “Is she really called Mystery?”

Ronin shrugs, cracking a devious smile. “I have no idea. Nor do I particularly care.”

I smile back, wondering for the first time if his playboy image is an act to disguise some deep, festering wound. We men are good at blocking emotions.

I duck back out into the corridor where Mystery is waiting. On my way past, I check her heavily made-up eyes for signs of a glamour. For her sake, I’m relieved to see none. However, she clearly thinks I’m checking her out. Her red lips curve into a smile, her gaze following me to the door at the other end.

Back in the bar, I salute a farewell to Paulo, cutting across the dance floor to the exit. I keep my eyes straight ahead, unwilling to notice if the woman is still stretched out across the table, a fly in a spider’s web.

Jordan releases me, like a caged bird, out into the cold night air, and I sag against the wall outside. My head isn’t filled, as it should be, by the arrival of Anastasia or even Ronin McDermott’s grand glamour plan.

“Silver,” I mutter, enjoying the taste of her name on my tongue.

I chuckle, shaking my head. What was happening to me? Logan Byrne losing his head over a girl. Peeling myself from the wall, I wonder if her blood is having some strange, hallucinogenic effect—it’s been a while since I last drank.

Yes, that must be it—the blood. By tomorrow, I’ll feel better. By tomorrow, I’ll have forgotten all about her.