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Damn. The manipulative bastard was going fishing, with me on the metaphorical hook. I sighed: so I was bait for a murdering vampire—again! Nothing new about that.
And Katie had already pointed out that I needed to find Melissa’s killer—before he found me. Maybe I should be thankful the Earl just wanted to hire me. At least it meant he wasn’t the murderer—although he wasa manipulative bastard so I wasn’t totally ruling that idea out—and at best I had a chance at getting paid for something I had to do anyway, thanks to my bargain with Declan. Never mind the fact that whatever Declan and the Earl claimed their reasons were for wanting me to lookfor the spell, those reasons were only the oil-slick obscuring whatever ulterior motives lurked below.
So I looked, and looked.
The private bar stretched across the front of the club, along a crescent-shaped balcony. The décor was, unsurprisingly, blue and silver: thick navy carpet woven with silver hearts, pale blue-panelled walls and capacious blue sofas that looked like they could swallow their occupants whole. The vamps had found a theme, and they were sticking to it. Lounging on the sofas were plenty of faces I recognised—not that I actually knew any of them; I wasn’t generally on chatting terms with London’s glitterati, but it looked as if the local vamp population were, and then some.
And none of them had any spells, not even a glimmer of one—not that I’d expected any; that would’ve been way too easy. So now it was time to put Katie’s investigative tactics into operation and find a talkative tea-boy.
I headed towards the central bar, resisting the urge to tiptoe as I made my way through the sofa obstacle course. The place had an almost crypt-like feel, thanks to the low thrum of conversation and an artificial floral sweetness that filtered out with the air-conditioning.
Something odd pricked up my spine like a half-remembered memory and I frowned, trying to place what it was. Then I realised, the vamps were shut down, like the Earl had been in the lift. I shivered, knowing it stopped them being sent a little crazy by all the pounding pulses and the siren scents of blood. It was what my Alter Vamp did, but it felt weird being on the other side.
As I passed one sofa, a stick-thin model I’d last seen staring out at me from one of the glossies threw her head back, exposing her slender throat. The vamp with her touched a finger to her pulse and she leaned into him, gasping. He winked when he caught me looking.
I gave him a so-what?expression back. The menu might be richer, and better dressed, but in reality this place was no different to any of the pubs in Sucker Town.
When I reached the bar I realised my plan was a non-starter. There was no way the human barman, who was flashing his fake fangs like they were a badge of honour, was going to be up for the cosy chat I wanted.
I needed to find someone, somewhere quieter.
I followed the wall of glass that enclosed the balcony-bar, then movement caught in the corner of my eye and I stared down at the bodies dancing in the tightly packed nightclub below. I could just hear the music through the glass, echoing like a faint heartbeat. Then I stopped watching the dancers and focused on the reflections I could see instead.
He stood about ten feet away, arms clasped behind him, doing a really bad job of pretending not to watch me. For a moment I couldn’t place him, then his broad shoulders and chest snagged in my memory: the real goth with the romance model’s looks from the Leech & Lettuce, the one who’d propositioned my Alter Vamp. Only now his chest, complete with its trail of fang marks, was hidden under a Blue Heart staff uniform.
Darius. Rio’s main blood-pet.
Now wasn’t that interesting.
Of course, he was an ideal candidate to tag me. I shouldn’t have known who he was—and he was human, and staff, so why worry about him when the place was full of big scary vamps?
I started walking again, and saw his reflection following along behind me.
A low cry made me turn and I looked straight into a pair of familiar blue eyes. Declan, from the Bloody Shamrock. My heart thudded faster as he smiled up at me from one of the sofas, his arm draped over the bare shoulders of a blonde in a red-sequi
Another vampire knelt by her, his head bent over her arm. He was humming quietly as he fed. The sound made me wince with memory. The vamp raised his head and gri
I filed the scene away and pushed through the exit, then hurried down to the ground floor. Darius’s footsteps followed me. Another door led out into the main corridor of the club, where I had a choice of the old cinema’s screens one, two or three. A couple of girls ran giggling past me and pulled open door number two, flooding the quiet corridor with loud heart-thudding music.
Glancing behind me I caught Darius coming out of the stairwell. He ducked out of sight and I chose number one—the nearest door—and struck gold, or rather, a pretty girl with a bored expression, standing next to a long, cloth-covered table.
‘Hi, I’m Debbie,’ she greeted me. ‘Welcome to Fangs for the Memory.’ She smiled, showing off her fake porcelain fangs. ‘Tonight we’re proud to have the famous Gordon Rackman as our musical director and conductor.’ Debbie indicated the stage. The famous Gordon Rackman’s pale face glowed under the spotlights as he energetically conducted both the small orchestra in front of him and the dancers behind. The music was guaranteed to make you want to trip around the dance floor . . . if you were over sixty. And a good proportion of the room’s occupants were, and not because they were vampires.
Right! The tea-dance as advertised on the Blue Heart’s website—the club’s newest attraction, and apparently popular and therefore lucrative—but then, pensioners have both disposable time and income. I just hoped not too many of them had disposable lives.
Under the rainbow sparkles of a huge crystal chandelier, the geriatrics wove and dipped like faded flowers swaying in the breeze. They were mostly female, partnering each other, but a few lucky ones were being swung round in the arms of vampires masquerading as soldiers, sailors and airmen from the Second World War, all looking authentic right up to their slicked-back, Brylcreemed hair—so long as you ignored the fangs. As I watched, the tempo of the music changed and the dancers stopped weaving and instead they rushed past each other across the floor, feet blurring as they executed fast, jumping steps.
‘Looks complicated.’ I smiled at Debbie.
‘It’s a foxtrot, I think.’ Her nose wrinkled prettily. ‘But seeing as I’ve got two left feet, I might be wrong. that’s why I’m stuck here.’
‘Right. Get into many collisions, do they?’
‘Nah, most of them are old hands.’ The permanent wave of Debbie’s brown hair bounced as she laughed. With her bright red lippy matching the hot venom-induced blush in her cheeks, she looked like a throwback to the nineteen forties. Even her heavy green wool uniform with its brass buttons and the sensible laced-up brogues looked like the real McCoy.
She indicated a tray of wide-mouthed glasses. ‘Would you like a complimentary Blue Heart cocktail? It’s a mixture of blood oranges, raspberries and blueberries.’
The glasses contained a dark red liquid that looked like tired old blood. I picked one up and gave it a tentative sniff, managing not to poke my eye out on the blue paper umbrella. ‘No alcohol?’
She shook her head. ‘We don’t serve alcohol at the Blue Heart. It’s part of our healthy living policy to prepare ourselves and our bodies for the Gift.’