Chapter 22

Silver

After Ronin’s departure, we collapse on the sofa, clinging to each other like apocalypse survivors as I roll the ancient vampire’s words around my mind—There is a beach house in Leigh-on-Sea where we spent a lot of time together. She’s buried in the little churchyard there.

Since Mum left all those years ago, I’ve often felt like there is an invisible boulder strapped to my chest—a huge, immovable rock pinning my emotions to that one point in time. But hearing the truth eases the heaviness somehow. Yes, there is heartache and grief, but I feel free, as if someday soon, I’ll finally be able to love with a whole heart instead of the broken-up fragments of one.

I rub my face against Logan’s rumpled gray T-shirt, now damp with my tears, and inhale his clean, soapy scent, twisting my fingers into the soft, cottony material.

His arms tighten around my back. “What are you feeling?” he whispers.

“Oddly liberated,” I say, my voice muffled.

He lifts the hair from the nape of my neck and rubs my skin, his thumb kneading the tension from my muscles. “Me too.”

I push myself up onto my elbows and stare into his eyes. They look very green, like grass after snow has melted, the golden flecks glittering like sun on water. I open my mouth to say the three words I’ve never been able to say, but he kisses me before I get the chance, guiding my lips to his and claiming my senses with the taste of his mouth on mine. Soft flicks of his tongue send tingles of pleasure shooting through my body.

“Are we still running away together?” he asks when we eventually pull apart.

“Yes. Why? You’re not thinking of ditching me again, are you?”

He rakes his fingers through my hair like a comb. “No way, but we should probably leave soon, as much as I’d rather stay here and canoodle.”

I swing my legs over the side of the sofa. “Ronin did say to leave as soon as we can. I’d like to say good-bye to Ollie first though. He’s at home. I had a text from him saying he’s home from work with a cold.”

Logan sits up, tugging his T-shirt down over his satiny stomach muscles. “Friend-zoned and a cold. The poor lad doesn’t have much luck.”

I chuckle, holding my hands out to pull him off the sofa. “It’s not like that with Ollie. There’s no need to be jealous.”

He grasps one of my hands and stands up, reaching for his holdall. “A man would have to be dead from the feet up not to find you attractive, Silver.”

I quirk a brow. “Like you, you mean?”

He grins, throwing the massive bag over his shoulder as if it weighs no more than a sack of feathers. “You’re never going to quit with the dead jibes, are you?”

“Probably not,” I say, smiling. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

* * *

By the time we reach Ollie’s swanky building in West London, it’s started to rain. I stand on the sidewalk for a few moments, staring up at the glass-fronted apartment, before taking a deep breath and pushing the button to number thirty-seven. To say I was nervous about these two meeting would be an understatement.

“Just make yourself scarce after the initial introduction, okay?” I say, worrying at my bottom lip.

He gives a mini salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

A familiar voice crackles over the intercom. “Yo.”

Only Ollie can get away with saying yo in the twenty-first century.

“It’s Silver.”

There is a click and the door pops open. I glance over at Logan, and we stare at each other wide-eyed.

“I’m nervous,” he admits, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

“Me too. The last time I told him I was running away, I was ten years old.”

He pushes open the door. “Why were you running away?”

“Dad wouldn’t let me get a belly button ring.”

He chuckles. “I suspect you were a force to be reckoned with even then.”

I nod to the lady at the front desk and lead Logan through the door leading to the elevators. Upstairs, Ollie’s front door is already ajar. I push it open. “Ollie?”

“In the kitchen,” he yells back.

We find him bent over the toaster, trying to pull something charred out of it with a fork. He is barefoot, wearing a rumpled green T-shirt that looks in desperate need of laundering, with a pair of faded tracksuit bottoms. The kitchen reeks of burned toast. “It’s a crumpet,” he says, not turning around. “Why do they make those things so damn thick?”

I look quickly at Logan and back again. “Ollie, this is Logan.”

The fork drops, clattering onto the counter. Ollie spins around, wiping hands on his sweatpants. “Oh. So that’s where you’ve been. You didn’t answer your phone all day.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then Logan sticks out a hand.

My God, this is awkward. I watch in morbid fascination as Ollie takes Logan’s hand in his and gives it a fleeting shake. “Good to meet you,” he says tightly.

“Likewise.”

I make head-jerking motions at Logan to scram.

“I’ll let you two catch up,” he says, finally taking the hint and leaving us alone.

I close the kitchen door after him and spin around to Ollie.

He frowns, staring through the door after him. “His eyes are so green.”

“I know. He’s a vampire. Ollie, look, I need to tell you something. I’m leaving.”

“Leaving? Where to?”

“Abroad. I’ll let you know when we’re settled.”

“You’re going with the vampire?” he asks incredulously.

“He’s not just a vampire, Ollie. Don’t say it like this is some dumb obsession—it’s real. Him and me, we’re real and we have to leave.”

“Why?”

I sigh, lowering myself into a chair at his tiny kitchen table. “You know how Mum disappeared all those years ago and they never had any leads?”

“Yeah, of course. But what does running away have to do with that?”

I tell him as much as I can, as quickly as I can—about the police asking me to inform for them and Stephen Clegg, how Logan had rescued me from the clutches of Gerhard—trying to ignore the horror etched into his freckled features.

“You need to go to the police, Silver. If you leave with him, you’re putting yourself at risk. This madwoman—Arabella or whoever she is—”

“Anastasia,” I cut in.

“Whatever. If she’s after him, you’re a target too. How long before she finds out who your mother was?”

I clench my fists, anger flaring up inside me. “I’d be in just as much danger here. At least Logan can protect me. I can’t leave him, Ollie. I’m in love with him.”

He snorts, running his hands through his messy red hair. “You think you love him now, but what about in ten years, when you’re desperate for kids and he can’t give them to you? What about in twenty years when you hit menopause and Donnie Darko is still swanning around like a male model? You’ll regret this, Silver—wasting your life on a man who can’t give you what you need.”

I crash a fist onto the kitchen table. “How would you know what I need? It’s not as if I’m the sort of woman who keeps a scrapbook of wedding dresses hidden in her bottom drawer. You said yourself I was never going to fall for someone normal.”

“I said that when I thought this was some short-term fling. You’re talking about giving up your whole life for him. I mean, what about your dad? He’s going to need you when this stuff about your mum comes out.”

“We can still talk on the phone,” I say, glaring at him. “Why are you being an utter prick about this?”

He kicks a table leg, rattling the wood. “I’m not being a prick, Silver. I’m being your friend. The only reason you’re getting so angry is because you know what I’m saying is true. The news about your mother will change you, make you see things differently.”

I’ve heard enough. I stand up, the chair scraping across the tiled floor. “What I’d like to know is who died and made you Dr. frigging Phil?”

A heavy silence falls over us. We haven’t properly argued since we were about thirteen and he wouldn’t let me copy his English homework. Ollie is one of those peacemaker types who will usually do anything to avoid an argument. It’s probably why we’ve stayed friends all these years.

“Well, if that’s all you have to say, I guess I’ll leave,” I say icily.

Ollie stands up, scowling. “Do what you like, Silver. You always do anyway.”

There is a prick of tears behind my eyes as I snatch open the kitchen door. Logan is outside on the balcony, leaning over the edge of the railing, his hair slick and black from the rain. The sliding door is shut, and I pause, wondering if he heard us arguing through the double-glazed glass. Who am I kidding? Of course he did. He’s a vampire.

He turns around and slides open the wide door, stepping into the lounge without meeting my eye. From the look on his face, I know he heard everything. His expression is a mixture of fear and sadness as he stands toying with the gold medallion at his throat—a gesture he seems to make whenever he’s anxious.

“I’m ready to leave,” I say.

He nods, still avoiding my gaze, staring at Ollie instead. “I promise I’ll look after her.”

Ollie shoots him a glance, his face red with anger. “You’d better.”

I don’t meet his eye as I follow Logan out into the hall, holding up a hand in silent farewell.

Outside, it’s still raining, the city as dull as a sepia photograph. Logan looks at the dark horizon, rain smattering onto his hair and clothes. Neither of us has spoken since leaving Ollie’s place. If only I could read minds like Ronin seems to.

“I think it’s dark enough to work,” he mutters, gazing at me with an odd, unreadable expression, eyes blazing like green flames.

It isn’t until he crouches I realize he means flight. I climb onto his back, wrapping my arms tightly around him and burying my face in the soft warmth of his neck. The crack of doubt Ollie opened closes over as I place a kiss just below his earlobe. He smells like rain and cotton sheets.

“I love you,” I murmur as he leaps upward, but the words are too late, lost in the rush of wind as we take flight, and I’m not sure if he heard them at all.

* * *

Back in Chelsea, I haul my massive suitcase out from under the bed and begin opening and closing drawers in haste, trying to figure out what to take and what to leave behind. Logan is lying on my bed, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling as if all of life’s answers are written there. He has barely said two words since we left Ollie’s.

I grab my passport from my bedside drawer, slamming it shut as loudly as I can, and when he doesn’t flinch, I realize I’ll have to be the one to break the silence.

“You’re angry, aren’t you?” I demand. “You heard everything Ollie said and you think I might not really want this.”

Still no response.

“Logan! For God’s sake, say something!”

He blinks, dark eyelashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. “I’m not angry,” he says finally. “I’m jealous.”

I screw my face up. “Jealous? I told you that’s not how it is with Ollie. I—”

Sitting up, he swings his long legs over the side of the bed. “Not jealous in that way, Silver. I know there’s nothing like that between you. I’m jealous because I can’t be the man who’ll give you all the things you’re going to want someday. It’s true,” he says when I immediately start shaking my head, “and that’s how it should be. You deserve a guy who can live a whole life by your side. If I had any sense of honor, I’d let you go.”

I could murder Ollie. “But we’ve been over this. I’ll age well and probably won’t want kids. We can have years of happiness. Just like you said last night—it doesn’t matter how long something lasts. You have to seize it.”

“I know, and we will seize it. But eventually, it’ll end, and I’ll lose you to another man. I’m so jealous of someone else being able to give you that part of your life I can’t see straight.”

I drop to my knees at the edge of the bed, gazing up into his eyes. “Why are you thinking like this all of a sudden?”

His hand brushes the side of my face, smoothing hair away from my cheek. “Because I can tell, deep down, you know Ollie spoke the truth. One day, you’ll want things I can’t give you. I’ll be your first love and some other man your last. I want to be your first and last, just like you are for me.”

His eyes look sad and green, like round, bottomless lakes. I take his hands in mine. “But it’s like we said last night—we don’t know what will happen, and right now, I want you. I want to go away with you, wake up next to you every day. Right now, you’re the first and last. That’s all that matters, Logan.”

He squeezes my hands in his, rubbing roughened thumbs over my skin. “This is such role reversal.”

I chuckle. “It’s funny. I never had you pegged for the needy type.”

“Needy?” he repeats, meeting my eyes, his dimples flashing. “I think I prefer brooding and deep.”

“There’s nothing brooding and deep about this conversation, Mr. Needy. It’s got insecurity written all over it. It’s a good thing you’re a decent shag or I might jump ship.”

He laughs, eyes softening. “Just a decent shag, you say? Judging by those wild animal noises you make, I’d say I was a little more than just decent.”

“You do still want to run away with me, don’t you?”

Leaning over, he rests his cool forehead against mine. “Of course I do.”

I kiss him gently on the mouth, rubbing my face against the rough stubble on his chin like a cat. “I’m glad to hear it. Because, as it happens, you’re stuck with me.”

He sighs happily, brushing my lips with his. “I’ll love you forever, Silver. Whatever happens.”

“Good,” I whisper. “Because I love you too.”

* * *

After I’m packed, I stand in the tiny living room of my flat and look around at all my things with the kind of fondness you only feel when you’re about to leave a place.

“I was happy here,” I blurt out.

Logan, who is leaning against the kitchen counter, runs his hands along the smooth surface. “I’ve been very happy here too,” he says, grinning. “Particularly in this spot—the place where you first molested me.”

“Pffft. Don’t you mean the spot where you begged me to touch you?” I adopt a bad Irish accent. “Ooh, Silver, please touch me. I’m dying for the love of a woman like you.”

He laughs. “I don’t think so, Miss Harris. The way I remember it, you couldn’t pull my zipper down fast enough. I was almost afraid for the safety of my crown jewels.”

I step across to the counter, placing my hands to either side of him on the wood, the same as he did to me all those weeks ago. His arms circle my waist and he pulls me against him, crushing me to the steely planes of his muscles before ducking to nuzzle warm lips against my neck. “I don’t suppose we have time for a reenactment, do we?” he asks, trailing kisses into the collar of my blouse and liquefying me from the neck down.

“We should go,” I murmur, tipping my head back to allow him better access. “Remember what Ronin said.”

At the mention of his former boss, Logan’s lips still mid-kiss. He groans, lifting his head up. “We’ll save it for the hotel.”

“Yes, the hotel. How will you ever match the luxury of the Savoy? I expect to be kept in the manner to which I’ve grown accustomed.”

Logan smiles and opens his mouth to answer when the shrill noise of my mobile vibrating on the kitchen counter interrupts us.

“Well, look at that,” I say, reaching around him and snatching up the phone. “We would have been interrupted from our shenanigans anyway.”

I stare down at the display, hoping to see Ollie’s name flash up, but it’s an unknown caller instead.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” Logan asks, watching me frown.

I hit the green button and hold it to my ear. “Hello?”

A voice bellows through the line. “Miss Harris?”

“Yes.”

“Superintendent Linton Burke.”

On reflex, I wrench the phone from my ear and hit the red button, staring like a startled rabbit into Logan’s green eyes. “It was Linton Burke. He must have heard something about last night at the restaurant.”

Logan frowns. “Or maybe they’re checking in for information.”

I shove the phone into the pocket of my biker jacket, my hand trembling. “I’ll call them tomorrow from Kent. I was actually hoping to quit via voice mail—or text message.”

“That’s the way, Silver,” Logan says. “Face your fears head on.”

Staring at our bags by the door, I’m at once struck by the all-consuming urge to flee.

I turn to Logan. “I just need to say good-bye to Vera, and then I’m ready.”

Logan nods. “Let’s go.”

Outside, it’s stopped raining. The street is dark beneath a sky of slate gray, the houses and cars a mass of lumpy shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm begins to wail. Other than this and the faint sound of traffic from the main road, all seems eerily quiet.

“I think there’s going to be a storm,” I say as a whiff of the Thames hits my nostrils, salty and metallic.

He props our suitcases against the wrought-iron railings. “I think you may be right.”

“It won’t affect your speed, will it?” I ask, bending over to double knot the laces on my sneakers.

“Silver, we’ll take a taxi,” he says, shaking his head. “I won’t be able to carry you and our bags all the way to Kent.”

After branding him a wimp and giving his shoulder a playful shove, I dash up the steps to Vera’s and pound on the door knocker. No answer. I bend over the railings at either side of the stairs to try to peer in the parlor window, but the blinds are shut. Was it this week she said she was going on a cruise with her sister? I’ve just taken out my mobile to call her when it starts ringing again, the same unknown number as before flashing up.

Logan is standing at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me, his dark hair tousled in the breeze. “Why not answer it? Get it over with.”

Sighing in resignation, I hit the green button. “Hello, it’s Silver,” I say in a weak voice. “I think we must’ve been cut off before.”

“Miss Harris?” Burke’s voice is so loud I pull the phone away an inch.

“Yes?”

“Where are you?”

I frown, my gaze locked onto Logan’s. “I’m at home. Listen, I have to tell you something. I—”

“Get in a taxi immediately and come straight to Scotland Yard.”

“What? No, I can’t. I’m on my way out.”

Logan’s face drops. He bounds up the steps in a single leap. “What is it?”

“Miss Harris, we have reason to believe you may be in danger and must insist you report to the nearest police station. I’m dispatching a car.”

My stomach twists violently. Logan grips my shoulders. “What sort of danger?” I ask, scarcely breathing.

But I don’t hear his answer. My attention is focused on Logan, who has suddenly gone as stiff as a statue, his face as white as marble.

“What is it?” I demand, my hand and the phone in it dropping limply to my side, the faint babble of Burke’s urgent demands lost on the chilly wind.

His mouth opens, a muscle in his jaw throbbing like a hammer as his grip on me tightens.

At that moment, I realize we are not alone. From the corner of my eye, I notice someone standing on the street, eyes drilling into us like lasers.

Then a voice cuts through the night—a soft, feminine voice with a jagged undertone, like razor blades slicing through silk. “Hello, Logan. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

My eyes flick past Logan to the figure in the shadows at the bottom of Vera’s steps and a chill hurtles up my spine. A woman, tall and slender, and with the type of fine-boned, willowy frame seen on fashion runways. She is wearing a powder-blue trench coat over an ivory satin blouse and black leather trousers, an expensive-looking pair of boots zipped high over her knees. Like the voice, her face is beautiful but sharp, high, angular cheekbones pointed like knives, and large, almond-shaped eyes that glow an odd shade of reddish-brown. With her pearly, flawless skin and thick mane of jet hair, she looks like a life-size porcelain doll—at least, one of those evil ones in movies possessed by a bad spirit.

Even before Logan says her name, I know who she is. Anastasia. I stare at Logan, willing him to do something, yet at the same time dreading what might come next.

At last, he blinks, loosening his almost painful hold on my arms and turning around. My phone clatters to the concrete steps at our feet.

“Anastasia.” His voice is little more than a growl, loathing robbing his Irish brogue of its usual warmth. “What do you want?”

She smiles, flawless, white teeth flashing between scarlet lips. “You know what I want, sweet Logan. But first I’d like to meet your girlfriend. There’s no one home, by the way,” she adds, nodding toward Vera’s house. “The only heartbeat I hear is hers.”

As if answering to its name, my heart thuds louder beneath my rib cage. I lean into Logan’s back as he stands wall-like between us, one hand reaching behind and gripping my hip.

“I refuse to play your games, Anastasia,” Logan hisses.

But she doesn’t appear to have heard him. She steps closer, peering at me through the darkness, her head tilted to one side in confusion. “Wait, have we met before?” she asks, wagging a manicured, bony finger toward me. “You look familiar. I never forget a face.”

I suck in a breath, remembering Ronin when I showed up at Logan’s apartment, his startled cry of my mother’s name.

She remembers.

A spark of anger flares deep inside me. All these years, searching for the right person to blame for my mother not being around, and now here she is, right on my doorstep. As always, anger trumps fear.

“You fucking bitch,” I spit, feeling Logan tense.

Anastasia raises her eyebrows and laughs, a sound as melodic and cruel as a funeral march. “Victoria Harris. The little whore who turned Ronin’s head all those years ago.” She pauses, a frown denting the smooth, ivory skin of her forehead. “But that can’t be. I remember killing her, watching the life ebb from her veins. So you’re who?” Her eyes narrow. “Daughter,” she says with a faint hint of surprise, as if she’s reached into my head and plucked the word right out of it. “But how wonderfully poetic, isn’t it, Logan? Gosh, I do love it when life throws us these curveballs. Makes me feel like a gal of five hundred years again.”

Her face is a gloating mask of hatred, and in a fit of rage, I try to fling myself down the steps at her, but Logan pins me in place, clamping me to his back with a strong arm.

She laughs again. “Oh goody. I do enjoy a bit of spirit. It was always going to take something out of the ordinary to turn Logan’s head after all his years of piousness. I congratulate you for that. It’s such a shame one of you has to pay for what happened to poor, dear Gerhard.”

As quickly as the rage reared up within me, it dies, cold fear stepping up to claim its place.

“Enough,” Logan growls. “I’m the one who killed him. I’m the one who will pay the price.”

Anastasia flashes me a sugar-sweet smile. “You gotta love a hero, don’t you? Not bad in bed either, if I remember rightly.”

Logan tenses, his muscles stiffening like steel beneath his clothes. From the corner of his mouth, he whispers, “Hang on.”

I barely have a chance to register the words before he flings us both high into the air. I shriek wildly, my stomach falling from under me like a stone dropping into the sea. We land in the middle of the gardens opposite the house, Logan cushioning the impact as we roll to a stop in the damp grass.

Logan brings his face level with mine, his green eyes wild. “Silver, listen. I’m going to distract her and you have to run, fast. Go straight to the police.”

“No,” I hiss, grasping the collar of his jacket in a white-knuckled grip. “I won’t leave you. I—”

The sentence dies in my throat as I look past his shoulder. We are not alone. Anastasia looms over us, fangs exposed, ready to strike. Her ivory skin has turned to the color of pale ash, her eyes flashing like red embers, hair fanned out around her head like Medusa.

Without wasting a millisecond, Logan dives at her. “Silver, run!” he yells before he and Anastasia become nothing more than a brawling blur of speed.

I slide backward in the grass, hot tears rolling down my cheeks. Trying to think clearly is like wading through quicksand. I can only gape in horror as the fighting continues, snarls and grunts of pain filling the air. When my back hits the trunk of a tree, I push myself up on shaky legs, but before I move another inch, a high-pitched squeal cuts through the air and a blue flash is speeding toward me across the dark garden.

A force rams into me, hard, and an arm, unyielding as iron, hooks around my neck. Something sharp prods my throat. I gasp violently, a sickly sweet odor of lilies climbing into my nostrils, as I’m dragged across the grass. It’s only when we stop in the middle of the garden that I realize the object at my neck is a knife. Unable to look at the ground, I frantically scan the treetops instead. I try to call for Logan, but the knife chokes me, trapping the name in my throat.

Anastasia eases her grip and I take a gulp of air, my head sagging forward. From the new angle, I spot a dark heap lying in the grass. My heart stops beating when I recognize the familiar black jeans, a denim jacket now splattered with blood.

“Logan!” I screech, lunging forward. But her arm holds me like a vise.

His shape stirs as Anastasia cackles like a madwoman. “Don’t worry about your lover. He’s going to watch you die before I finish him off—exactly how Ronin watched your mother.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I say, instantly regretting it as she tightens her grip, robbing me of breath.

“Get up, Logan,” she croons, kicking dirt at him. “Get up and say good-bye to your sweetheart.”

As he appears in my line of vision, I seize the arm across my throat, struggling to free myself from her iron grip. Anastasia snatches my hand, twisting it painfully behind my back. There is a sharp snap in my elbow and a hot, nauseating wave of pain radiates through me. Logan’s battered face transforms from despair to a mask of anger as his gaze locks on my captor, his handsome features marred by hatred.

Anastasia turns the knife so the tip points directly at my throat. I feel a trickle of liquid leak into the collar of my blouse, my mouth filling with the coppery taste of fear.

“For Gerhard,” she cries. But she is distracted by a movement in the trees—a flash of bright-white light at the edge of the garden. Logan leaps into action, tackling her from the side and freeing me from her grasp. The knife drops to the damp earth at my feet, and I sink to the ground after it, snatching it up with trembling hands.

My eyes seek out the shape that distracted Anastasia. Another vampire? It streaks across the grass faster than a shooting star, and I bring my knees up to my chest, bracing myself and swinging the knife blindly around in front of me.

Just when I think it will crash into me, it stops, and I find myself staring into a pair of storm-washed blue eyes. The gray turns out to be a sharply tailored suit, the flash of light the blade of a long-handled machete. It is a man, a vampire, with coifed blond hair, and a jawline reserved only for the pages of Men’s Health.

He crouches, a strong hand gripping my shoulder. “I’m Inspector Ferrer, Miss Harris. Are you injured?” For some reason, I think of a period drama, a gentleman on a horse asking after the health of a swooning heroine. I must be getting delirious.

I shake my head, trying to ignore the pain in my elbow. “Logan,” I croak, hearing the snarls behind me growing in intensity. The man nods, his mouth set in a grim line, and before I know what’s happening, he scoops me up and speeds with me to the edge of the garden, depositing me near the shrubbery.

“My colleagues will be here soon,” he says. Then, as quickly as he arrived, he is gone, whirling across the garden like a cyclone toward the brawling duo, the machete suspended above his head. I see it swing wide, moonlight glinting off the blade, and scream.

But then the ground rises up, and when a black fog threatens to engulf me, I let it, diving almost gratefully into oblivion.