Chapter 7

Silver

With the address of Ollie’s gig typed into his phone, I send the sexy vampire on his way and collapse on the sofa, head in hands.

I must be completely insane. One moment, I agree to become an informant of vampire secrets; the next, I’m pleasuring one against the kitchen counter.

When I arrived home from work to find him sitting and muttering excuses on my doorstep, he was both the last and only person I wanted to see. Still, at that point, I had no intention of asking him indoors, let alone making out with him and shoving a hand in his pants.

I tut, raking hands through my now-disheveled hair. What is it about him that makes me lose all self-control? It can’t be the simple reason that he’s hot. I’ve been with good-looking men before—it goes deeper than that, deeper even than his self-proclaimed Irish charm.

“Don’t think it,” I mutter aloud. “Don’t you dare think it.”

But it’s too late. The words are already swimming around my head like killer sharks at a shipwreck: I like him.

* * *

An hour later, a taxi drops me outside the Fiddler’s Tavern, an über-trendy bar in Shoreditch where Ollie and his old bandmates are playing. Several years ago, the place was a complete hole—sticky floors, a permanent stench of stale beer, and their own resident drunk, Sad Sam. These days, however, it’s rocking a chic, industrial look—walls stripped back to bare brick, distressed wood floors, high, vaulted steel ceiling. Sad Sam wouldn’t be caught dead here anymore.

Pushing open the polished door, I weave my way through a mass of sweaty, Friday-night, post-work drinkers to the little stage at the back.

I told Logan not to bother showing until nine, figuring that would give me enough time to see Ollie play and take off early if the urge took me. Of course, I know that’s not really going to happen. Just being in the place where I’ll see him again is already giving me heart palpitations.

I’ve just waved to Ollie, who is setting up sound equipment on stage, when I spot Krista sitting with a few of her banker cronies in a booth. She sees me and waves, getting to her feet and crossing the bar toward me.

Here we go.

“Hi, Silver,” she says, leaning in to air-kiss me. “Good of you to come.”

“Hey, Krista,” I say through gritted teeth. “How are you?”

“Great,” she says, patting her perfectly highlighted locks and sliding her gaze over my casual outfit of skinny jeans and biker jacket. “Wow, those are unusual boots. Very urban.”

Krista is one of those people with the inherent knack for disguising insults with charm—one of the many reasons why I can’t stand her.

But two can play this game. “Thanks, I like your outfit too. Did you come straight from work?”

Her smile falters. She tugs at her silky, expensive-looking blouse. “No,” she says, the light turning cold in her blue eyes. “I came from Oliver’s place.”

Another reason for my dislike—she calls Ollie Oliver. As if saying his proper name is somehow going to transform him into the aristocrat she’s hoping to marry.

“Are you here all by yourself?” she asks, sticking out her bottom lip.

The gloves are off. “No,” I say. “I’m meeting someone later.”

She tilts her head, as if addressing a five-year-old. “Oh, is it a guy? I was only saying to Oliver last week what a shame it is you haven’t managed to meet anyone yet.”

Hold me back. I am going to kill her. “Yes, a guy. I’ve seen him a few times now. I’m surprised Ollie didn’t tell you.”

Of course, Ollie doesn’t have a clue about me seeing Logan again. But the look on her face as I insinuate Ollie keeps things from her is worth its weight in gold.

“No.” Her voice wobbles slightly. “Oliver didn’t mention it. But then, why would he? It’s not like we don’t have more important things to discuss. What’s he like, this guy?”

“Hot,” I say, eyes wide to emphasize my point. “Superhot.”

Suddenly, I’m aware of someone standing in the space beside me. A tall someone, whose masculine scent drives a stab of lust shooting straight between my legs.

“Who’s superhot?” a seductive Irish voice asks.

Shit. I turn my head to find Logan just a couple of feet away. He’s changed clothes from earlier but is no less tantalizing—signature black jeans slung low on slender hips, a gray T-shirt clinging to his lean, muscled body beneath a frayed denim jacket. His dark hair looks mussed, as if he hasn’t touched it since I ravished him in my flat. He stands, shoulders set in confidence, mocking green eyes lit up in amusement.

“No one,” I stammer, turning back to Krista, who is gawking at Logan, mouth open. “We were having a conversation about Chris Hemsworth’s latest movie, that’s all.”

Logan steps closer and holds a hand out to Krista. “Hey, I’m Logan. Silver’s person.”

I screw my face up, swinging my head around to look at him. “Person?” I repeat.

Krista doesn’t appear to hear. She grasps Logan’s outstretched hand and shakes it. “Krista. I’m with the band.”

I suppress a violent choke of disbelief. Did Krista, Sloane Square princess, really just say that?

“It’s good to meet friends of Silver’s,” Logan says, flinging an arm around my shoulders. “I’ve been begging to meet everyone, but you know how shy she is.”

My jaw drops. What the hell is he playing at?

Krista’s brows shoot up. “Really? You must see a different side to her than we do.”

Logan reaches down to pinch my cheek. “Sure, Silvie here is shy as they come. Probably why I’m crazy about her.”

I bat his hand away furiously. “No,” I hiss, “you’re crazy, full stop.”

Krista looks between us, baffled. Before she has a chance to speak, however, a high-pitched whine erupts from the speakers next to the stage and Ollie steps up to the mic.

“Hi, everyone. We’re the Cat’s Pajamas and we haven’t played together for five years. Our first song is called ‘Down, Never Out,’ and I’d like to dedicate it to Sad Sam, wherever he may be tonight.”

The drummer counts in, and at once the chatter is drowned out by Ollie’s soulful voice, drifting huskily across the room. Luckily, they’re not quite as bad as I remember.

I feel warm lips at my ear. “You’re welcome,” Logan whispers, as Krista dashes back to her friends.

Even though I long to stay cushioned in the nook of his strong arm, I force myself to step away. “Since when did you become my person?” I ask, lips pursed.

“She was making digs about you not having a boyfriend,” he says, dimples flashing. “I stepped up.”

“I was handling it,” I snap. “I don’t need you to rescue me, and anyway, you’re not supposed to be here until nine.”

He hooks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans, a wicked glint in his eye. “I knew you’d be dying to see me again, so I thought I’d put you out of your misery. Besides,” he continues, waggling his brows, “I have an extra spring in my step for some reason. You have the magic touch, Silver.”

I roll my eyes, trying to keep a straight face. “Well, don’t expect that all the time. I was just checking out the goods. Saves disappointment later on.”

He chuckles, leaning closer. “And did you find the goods to your satisfaction, Miss Harris?” he asks in a gravelly tone that has me longing to get down on my knees for another look.

I arch a brow, my gaze dropping like a dead weight to his groin. “Everything seems to be in working order. Though of course, further checks are not out of the question.”

His chest brushes against my shoulder, sending a tingly shiver up my spine. “I’m sure, given enough notice, I may be able to organize something. But first, what are you drinking? Whiskey?”

“No thanks,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I’ll have a vodka and soda. What will you have? A Bloody Mary?”

He slaps a hand to his chest. “Good with your hands and hilarious—whatever did I do to deserve you, Silver?”

I gesture toward the bar. “Just get the drinks before I regret inviting you.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” he says, backing away.

I swirl my index finger in circles, mouthing at him to turn around.

I’m enjoying the view, he mouths tilting his head and smirking. You turn around.

This man could be the death of me. I flip him the bird and turn back to the stage, pretending to listen to the music for a couple of minutes until he arrives back with our drinks.

“I got you a double,” he says, holding out a glass tumbler brimming with ice. “I figured it might make things easier later on if I loosen your inhibitions now.”

“Asshole,” I say, taking the drink and stifling a smile. I motion to the dark-brown liquid in his glass. “Do vampires actually need liquids?”

He takes a swig, licking his soft, pink lips. “No. We don’t need anything to survive. But it’s enjoyable—to eat and drink. Alcohol doesn’t affect us the same way it does humans though, just in case you’re planning to ply me with booze and drag me off to bed.”

I smirk. “I don’t think I’d need alcohol for that. I’d say it was there for the taking.”

His green eyes latch on to mine, tension crackling between us like static, and for the first time since the night we met, I allow myself the luxury of a full-on stare. I trail a gaze over his body, svelte yet masculine, a sharp outline of muscle straining beneath his T-shirt. Not for the first time, I ache to be naked in his arms. I shiver, turning back to Ollie’s singing in an attempt to break the spell. Suddenly, it feels as though it’s just the two of us in the whole bar. Even the thumping music is muted by his presence, people around us paling into the shadows like ghosts.

When I turn around, Logan’s heavy-lidded eyes are still fixed on my face. This time, I don’t look away.

“So, what’s the deal with you and the redhead on stage?” he asks suddenly.

“You mean Ollie, my friend?”

He nods. “Are you just friends?”

I frown. Usually, I’d answer cryptically. I’m not above games when it comes to dating, but something about his furrowed brow, the tight set of his jaw, tells me he’s serious.

“Just friends,” I say. “Since we were nine years old and I rescued him from the school bully.”

Logan chuckles. “I can picture it now—Silver the nine-year-old firecracker. I bet you’ve always had that tiny mark of scorn just above your left eyebrow.”

“It did take two lunchtime supervisors to pull me off,” I say proudly. “What mark?”

He points to a spot above his brow. “Here. It pops up whenever something pisses you off, which in my company, seems to be all the time.”

“You’re not pissing me off now,” I say, sipping my drink. “You didn’t New Year’s Eve either. Mind you, that was before you started stalking me.”

Smiling, he puts his glass down on the table beside us. “It’s only stalking if you don’t want to jump the bones of the man following you.”

“Have you always been a cocky bastard?” I ask. “Or is it just for my benefit?”

The dimples flash. “Not always.”

“What were you like as a kid? I mean, presuming you can remember.”

He frowns. “I was the tortured type—dark, brooding, sensitive.”

“Christ. What happened?”

Laughing, he shakes his head. “Somewhere around the turn of the twentieth century, I got over it.”

“How did you become a vampire?” I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t. The smile drops from his face, sadness passing across his features like a gray cloud blocking the sun.

Just as he opens his mouth to answer, a smattering of applause breaks out around us, signaling the song has ended. All at once, despite the chatter and noise of the bar, the room feels too quiet. His green eyes flash luminously as he takes the empty glass from my hand and puts it carefully on the table beside his.

With the slow grace of a dancer, he extends an arm toward me, saying in a low, gritty voice, “Let’s get out of here.”

Mesmerized, I take his arm, and he pulls me through crowds of drinkers, out onto the street.

Outside, he fiddles with my jacket, drawing it across my chest and fastening the zipper to keep out the cold. The road is still busy, cars rolling by, headlights strung out like yellow fairy lights. Dozens of workers are heading home, a frantic itch in their hurried strides. He grabs my hands, pulling me into the dark entrance of a closed shop. My breathing is shallow as he leans closer, his clean, soapy scent a balm to the pungent odor of exhaust fumes. My hands move to his chest, tracing the lines of muscle over his flimsy, gray T-shirt.

“Silver,” he whispers.

The sound of my name in his mouth wields a strange, illicit power over my body. I feel soft and hard all at once, like molten steel. “Yes?” I say, the word tight in my throat.

We hang, suspended in time. In the oddest way, looking into his eyes is like staring into a mirror. I see desire but with a cloud of darkness stretched out behind it, a shadow in the midday sun. And then the thread holding us apart snaps, and his lips land on mine, my mouth already opening to let him in.

Our tongues collide, softly this time, stroking in a familiar rhythm, as if we’ve kissed not just twice, but hundreds of times before. His hands move to my face, cupping my jaw, thumbs rubbing circles on my cheekbones. A wild thought pops into my head: This is how it must feel to kiss someone you love. It’s as if time has ceased to exist, and all the city sounds—distant sirens, car horns, the heavy drone of double-decker buses as they hurtle along—blur into the background.

I have no idea how long we stay kissing in the shop doorway. It could be seconds or hours, but eventually we break apart, his green eyes dark with indecipherable emotion.

“You’re not bad at kissing, I suppose,” I murmur, watching his eyes as they crinkle around the edges.

“High praise, Silver,” he whispers back. “For the record, you’re not so bad yourself.”

We’re still smiling and staring when a loud voice cuts in, “Get a room, for Christ’s sake.”

We look around to see a street sweeper in a high-visibility jacket, standing with his broom, peering into the doorway. “It’s bad enough having to deal with the druggies,” he says, shaking his head, “without adding love’s young dream into the mix.”

Logan laughs, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from the shop. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat in his direction.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” The man is still grumbling to himself as we laugh, darting into a side street.

“Do you suffer from motion sickness?” Logan asks, arms around my waist, forehead leaning against mine.

I trail hands under his jacket, up over his broad shoulders. “No, why?”

“You asked how I became a vampire. I want to show you.”

I frown, leaning away. “That sounds ominous.”

“Not literally. I want to take you to the place where it happened.” He turns around and crouches. “Hop aboard.”

“You’re kidding me. Piggyback?”

He straightens up. “You’ll be ending this evening with your legs wrapped around me one way or another.”

My jaw drops, and I swipe him with the back of my hand. “In case you’re not familiar with the consent campaign, Logan, a kiss isn’t a promise of sex.”

“What about a hand job in the kitchen?”

“Bend over and stop talking,” I say, trying hard to look offended.

He turns his back again. “Be gentle with me, nurse,” he teases. “Be sure to use the glove this time.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, putting my hands on his shoulders. “You’re such an ass, Logan Byrne.”

“An ass you can’t wait to see naked,” he mutters.

As I jump onto his back, he grabs my legs under the knees, and even though piggyback has to be the most unsexy joining of two bodies known to mankind, I still feel the burn of his touch through our clothes.

“Ready?” he asks, peering over his shoulder.

I gulp, tightening my arms around his chest and burying my face in his warm neck. Suddenly, I’m not so sure. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Hang on tight.”

I try to say okay, but the word is lost in the wind as we take flight, my stomach dropping like a stone into the sea. We move upward, air rushing in my ears, just like on the roller coasters I used to love as a kid. I open my eyes a fraction—after realizing they’re glued shut—to see the city lights merged together in colorful, unbroken streaks. Slowly, the fear of being dropped melts away, and I twist my head, watching London unfold beneath us, dark and glittering, like granite.

Logan isn’t flying like I thought but leaping, hurtling across the spaces between tall buildings as if they were no more than stepping-stones on a stream. I laugh out loud as we plunge downward, and for the first time in my life, I feel completely free, awed by the grace and agility of these creatures who defy every stodgy law of human nature.

Slowly, the air thins out, the taste of salt sharp on my tongue. The hurricane in my ears settles to a gentle breeze.

We’re next to the Thames, frothy waves sloshing against the bank. In the darkness, the water glistens like metal, the hulk of skyscrapers reflected perfectly in the gray water.

Logan loosens his grip and crouches again. “Are you all right back there?”

“I’m more than all right,” I say in a dry voice, wiping my watery eyes.

I climb off his back and he turns, holding me steady against a wave of dizziness.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “we have now reached our destination. Please return your seats to their upright positions and take any personal belongings with you from the aircraft.”

I poke him in the ribs. “Shut it, loser.”

He chuckles, gripping me gently by the shoulders. “It takes a while to get used to.”

Once the giddiness has passed, I lift my head, noticing huge container ships close by, cranes jutting high into the skyline. “Are we at Docklands?”

Finally, he releases me. “We are indeed. The last place I ever lived as a human on earth.”

I stare at the vessels and boats. “You mean they turned you in London? I thought it would have been Ireland.”

He smiles his devastating smile, draping an arm around my shoulders. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

We walk together along a ramp to a wide, concrete path by the side of the river. A fine mist is visible, hanging above the water like smoke, the cloying whiff of algae becoming ever more pungent. We duck beneath a metal barrier with the sign AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Here, there are several large ships docked, all part of a tourist attraction operating out of the museum nearby.

Two of the ships are naval vessels, gray and pointed at the hulls, like gigantic torpedoes, but the last one is older and wooden. It has proper sails, like a pirate ship, but is of a greater height. There are several decks, stacked one on top of the other, recognizable by the small, square windows of their cabins. At first, I can’t see a name, but then as we draw closer, I make out the words HMS Success painted on the stern in swirly, old-fashioned writing.

Logan has been silent these past few moments. He stops and turns to me, holding out a hand toward the ship. “This was my last home.”

I stare up at the impressive hulk. “You were a pirate?”

He laughs. “No. It’s not a pirate ship, Silver—it’s a prison.”