The Sweet Scent of Blood

Chapter Twenty-Five

The private members’ bar was crowded with vampires and humans. The vamps gazed with such intensity through the dim light that my heartbeat thudded up a notch. The humans looked on with curiosity. Then they whispered. Then they talked. And glasses clinked and someone laughed a highpitched laugh and the tension that had filled the air slipped away like a wave flowing back into the sea.

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 was a 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 look for 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-sequinned boob tube. Then I realised it wasn’t Declan, but his brother, Seamus. And it wasn’t Seamus who was making the girl moan.

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 grinned, and I recognised another familiar face: Cherub Cheeks, one of the fang-gang that attacked Gazza.

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.’

‘Sounds great,’ I said, eyeing the neat punctures on her neck as I handed her the glass back, ‘but I think I’ll pass.’

The trombone blasted itself into an ending. There was enthusiastic clapping, and the musicians started what even I recognised as a lively waltz.

She gave me an apologetic smile. ‘A lot of the regulars don’t like it.’ She leaned in, whispered, ‘Some of them bring their own, y’know, like the old biddy over there next to the pillar.’

The old biddy, her hair rinsed a bright shade of lilac, sat behind her voluminous handbag, topping up her glass from a small silver hip flask. As she carefully screwed the top back, the Blue Heart stamp looked like a dark wound on the back of her hand.

‘It’s probably gin, or vodka. The cloakroom staff pretend not to notice,’ Debbie confided in a low voice. ‘I mean, it’s not like they’re going to get the Gift at their age, is it?’ She gave a low laugh. ‘Who’d want to spend immortality looking old and decrepit? Not that any of the Masters would sponsor them anyway.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘So why d’they bother coming?

She held up her own stamped hand. ‘See, the stamp says you’re willing, so it’s just a bit of a thrill for most of the old ones, and they get the extra points, along with the health benefits. There’s more than enough customers that most of them never get fanged anyway. The last thing the management wants is one of the tea-cosy brigade pegging it from a heart attack or something.’

Looked like I owed Katie one. Debbie was just the person to ask about Melissa . . . if I could just bring the conversation around to asking about her.

‘Y’know, if you’re planning on becoming a regular’—she took a sip of the drink I’d handed her back—‘you ought to get yourself a Blue Heart membership card.’

The music headed for a crescendo. A vamp in a white sailor-suit lifted his elderly partner’s feet right off the floor, and got a kick in the shins for his consideration.

‘It’s not just for the points, you get a discount on the entrance fee and in the shop too.’ Debbie’s face lit with eagerness. ‘And if you save up enough points, you get to pick which vamp you want for a date. I’ve got my eye on this new French vamp. He looks really cool, wears his hair tied back with a bow, and has these really hot velvet jackets and—’

‘Great, but I was wonder—’ I tried interrupting her.

Debbie was on a roll. ‘I could join you up if you wanted,’ she gabbled on with the zealous look of someone ready to clinch a deal. ‘You get like a plastic pass card. It’s only a few questions and you get to—’

More to shut her up than anything, I produced the Earl’s silver invitation and held it up.

Her mouth stopped working, but not for long. ‘Oh, wow, oh look! It’s a silver one, and it’s got a jewel in it!’ She peered at the card. ‘I’ve never seen that one before. Whose is it?’

I looked myself, saw the black gem. Not the Earl’s, then.

‘Malik al-Khan.’ As I said his name, a sensation like silk brushed over my skin, making my pulse jump. Damn. Maybe speaking his name aloud hadn’t been such a great idea.

‘Oh, I’ve seen him, yum, he’s totally cute, but terrifying, if you know what I mean.’ She finished her drink with a gulp.

Movement caught my eye. Lilac Hair was doing the finger waggle at someone.

Debbie seemed lost in some inner thought, so I grabbed the opportunity. ‘You worked here long, Debbie?’

‘’Bout four months.’

‘So you’ll know everyone that works—’

‘Oh my God, you’re really her aren’t you?’ She clutched her hands together in excitement. ‘Oh my God, this is amazing. Your eyes are real, not lenses—I thought you were just one of the fakers.’ Her scarlet lips twitched in derision. ‘They think it’ll get them noticed, but, of course, they can tell the difference. But your eyes are really real, aren’t they?’

‘Last time I looked, yeah.’ At last I sensed a way in. I frowned. ‘Hey, what about that Mr October’s girlfriend? I heard she was a faker.’

She looked puzzled. ‘Melissa? No, she—’ She stopped, her face closing up. ‘Oh, we’re not supposed to talk about that, just to say how tragic it was. But’—she glanced behind her—‘there’s something funny about all that. I mean, they were an item, her and Mr O, and don’t get me wrong, he’s really cute, but he’s only been a vamp for a couple of years and Mel was aiming a bit higher. She was always lording it, only just lately she’d gone all secretive, kept getting this look, y’know, like the cat that’s found the double cream.’

‘So you don’t think Mr O killed her?’

‘Oh yes,’ Debbie nodded, ‘everyone says he did, ’cause he was jealous. I mean, they all fancied her.’ Her expression turned envious. ‘The Earl, those Irish brothers, Louis, that’s the new French vamp I like, Malik, he’s the scary one—’ She ticked the names off on her fingers. ‘Even Albie hung around her, that’s him over there, and he’s gay.’

A vampire dressed in the male version of Debbie’s green uniform was holding Lilac Hair’s hand. Albie had obviously been the recipient of the finger waggle. Lilac Hair looked like she was just as much a chatterbox as Debbie—good thing really, because Albie didn’t look the talkative type. Unsurprisingly, he did look familiar though—Albie was Mr June—and another fully paid-up member of the fang-gang from Sucker Town.

I wondered briefly whether his uniform still itched.

One of the trumpet players stood and blew a loud blast of notes.

‘And there was something else about Mel,’ Debbie whispered into the ensuing silence. ‘She kept disappearing, like, nobody could find her, then she’d pretend she’d been there all along. She freaked me out once.’ She crossed her arms. ‘She actually told me something I’d done that I’d thought no one had seen.’

Before I could ask what she meant, more enthusiastic clapping erupted, then the pensioners turned as one, heading straight towards us like stampeding goblins.

Out the corner of my eye, I saw Albie drop Lilac Hair’s hand, stand up and stare straight at Debbie. My pulse jumped and I looked back just in time to catch the mind-lock falling over her face.

Shit.

She grabbed my arm, flashed her fake fangs in a grin. ‘Break time.’ I didn’t want to hurt her, so I let her drag me behind the drinks table. ‘Better move quick or you’ll get run down in the rush.’ She pushed me towards the fire-exit. ‘Go that way, it’s a shortcut.’

Shortcut to where? I looked back at Albie, whose face was pale with strain.

Debbie’s grin stretched so wide it looked painful. She gave me another impatient shove. ‘Go on. Go.’

Damn. He might push her mind too hard if I didn’t do as I was ordered. Taking a deep breath, I wrapped my hand round the steel bar marked ‘only for use in emergency’ and pushed.