The Sweet Scent of Blood

Chapter Eleven

The Tir na n’Og, or to give it its colloquial name, the Bloody Shamrock, is tucked away down a narrow side street off Shaftesbury Avenue. It’s one of the oldest Irish bars in London, and it’s been a favourite hangout for those of the fanged persuasion for a couple of centuries or more.

Of course, it’s only in the last few years that it’s actively advertised the presence of the vampires.

I turned the corner and ran straight into the queue of people waiting to get in: about fifty of them standing patiently, corralled behind red velvet rope hung from brass poles. Apart from a couple of leather-clad goths, the dress code was smart casual, mixed with the occasional sparkle of party wear—marking the obvious tourists. At least my black trousers and cream waistcoat wouldn’t look too out of place, even if it felt like I’d been wearing the same clothes for a week.

The queue shifted forward as I moved past it to the front. A high, nervous laugh, quickly stifled, punctuated the low hum of voices. My pulse sped faster, but with the G-Zav in my system, there was no way I could slow it. Still, there’d be plenty of other hearts beating fast right alongside mine, so it shouldn’t matter.

And I was invited. The invitation offered a guarantee of safety, that old ‘Death before Dishonour’ thing.

I reached the start of the line. A neon sign in the shape of a cloverleaf cast a deep red glow over the entrance. A gaggle of girls surrounded the doorman; one, a blonde in a red leather mini-skirt and matching sequinned boob tube, had her hand on his shoulder. As she stretched up, balancing on tiptoe in her red wedges, the criss-crossed straps bit into her calves. She murmured in the doorman’s ear. He moved aside and waved her in. She turned to her friends, bright red lips smiling in triumph, and caught me watching her. For a moment she hesitated, then she tossed her long hair over her shoulder and followed her friends through into the bar, leaving me to face the doorman.

The top of his black hair was cut flat as a table. He wore a black dinner suit, complete with shamrock-green silk cummerbund and matching bowtie. But underneath the smarts he was all sumo wrestler. I stepped in front of the rope holding back the waiting punters and saw my own face mirrored in his dark glasses. I smiled nice and wide.

He looked down at me, nostrils flaring as he took a good long sniff.

‘Hey, there’s a queue here,’ someone grumbled.

Sumo slowly turned his head in the direction of the voice. He glared at the sandy-haired guy who’d grumbled, then leaned forward and hissed into his startled face.

The guy swallowed with an audible gulp. ‘Sorry, man... was just saying, y’know—’

Sumo’s mouth split open, his fangs gleaming. The neon sign started strobing above us, plunging the doorway into darkness, then light, then dark again. Now you see him. Now you don’t. It was a nice touch. Gasps and shivers of jumpy excitement rippled through the waiting humans but I was just disappointed his dickie-bow didn’t spin.

I sighed and gave Sumo a sharp poke, just above his cummerbund. ‘Cut the dramatics, fang-boy.’

His head did that same slow-turn thing back to me.

Ignoring my leaping pulse, I treated him to my best so-not-impressed look. ‘I’m here to see Declan. Tell him Genevieve Taylor got his invitation.’

The sign stopped flashing, leaving us in a pool of red light.

I made a twirling motion with my hand. ‘Hurry it up. Night’s not getting any younger.’

Sumo’s lips twitched, then he produced a miniature phone and spoke, staccato-fast, in some Asian language. He listened a bit and snapped the phone shut. Then he ushered me towards the entrance, saying in a surprisingly soft voice, ‘All right, luv, you can go in. Mr Declan will be seeing you.’

The tight feeling in my stomach went up a notch. I ignored it and gave Sumo a wink as he held open the door for me.

I heard the music first: a lilting Irish melody, background to the conversational buzz that filled the room. The smells, heavy on the Guinness and the Thai snacks the place served, hit me next—odd for an Irish bar, but hey. I walked up three wooden steps and looked around, letting my eyes adjust to the muted light.

The place looked pretty much like any other pub on a Friday night: lots of tables, a long bar down one side of the room, and with the added extra of a central staircase leading up to a dimly lit galleried area. People were chatting and laughing, all of them looking like they were having a great night out. In fact, the relaxed ambience was at odds with the nervous jitters I’d felt outside. I frowned. Maybe it was the music, or some sort of vamp mesma? But if it was, I couldn’t sense it.

I also couldn’t sense any vampires.

What I could see was a lot of green, interspersed with tiny crimson shamrocks. It was everywhere: green glass lights, emerald-green walls and, when I glanced down, yep, the carpet was green too, complete with its random splattering of blood-red clovers, just great for hiding those pesky drips or spills.

Now that was a nice touch.

I hadn’t immediately noticed the waitress making straight for me. She was dressed in an oriental-style uniform, green of course, with a fist-sized red shamrock embroidered over her heart. She placed her hands together in the prayer position and bowed. ‘Please.’ It sounded more like plis in her clipped accent. ‘Mr Declan, he has business. You wait few minute. You like drink, yes?’

Surprise pricked at me as I followed her. She hit my internal radar as a witch, but I hadn’t heard any gossip about him having one on the payroll. She deposited me at the quiet end of the bar, next to a tray of empty glasses.

I hoped it wasn’t symbolic.

Banging her hand on the counter, she shouted, ‘Mick, house drink.’

A short man, ginger hair gelled into a quiff, appeared through an open door behind the bar. His black muscle vest left the freckled skin of his arms bare and was tight enough over his skinny frame to outline his ribs. A leather bandolier stuffed with corks crossed his chest and a belt studded with bottle tops hung low on his hips. He looked even thinner than the last time I’d seen him, but at least he was alive and well—even if he was a gutless bastard.

I smiled, showing lots of teeth. Being a cluricaun, a relative of the leprechauns and the Irish goblins, Mick would, of course, appreciate my toothsome grin. ‘Make it a vodka, Mick, Cristall if you’ve got it.’

His green eyes bugged and he clutched the edge of the counter, the suckers on his fingertips flushing pink and flattening out against the wood. ‘What are you doing here?’ he whispered.

The music changed to a lively jig.

I looked at him, my eyes wide, innocent. ‘Let me see now ... having a drink? Visiting old friends? Maybe wondering why you haven’t been returning my messages?’

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. ‘I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me. Now go away. Leave me alone.’

‘How is Siobhan, Mick?’ I asked sweetly. ‘Still back in Ireland? Still well?’

He nodded, opened his mouth to speak—

The band played a fanfare, a hushed gasp rippled through the room behind me, and Mick stopped looking at me and stared at something up over my shoulder.

I turned round. Up in the gallery, one of the Shamrock’s vampires was leaning over the handrail, staring down at the crowd. For a moment I thought it was Declan, but then I realised it was one of his brothers, Seamus or Patrick. All three shared the same dark Irish looks, but Declan was the Master. Together they were the Shamrock’s main attraction.

There was another gasp as the vampire moved, seeming to suddenly appear at the top of the stairs. It wasn’t a vamp trick; he’d just moved too fast for the humans to see. His black hair curled around his handsome head and a moody look on his face put me in mind of Heathcliff, only he’d got the costume all wrong. He wore a red muscle vest like Mick’s, tucked into tight black denims. Still, it matched the red outfit of the blonde now walking up the stairs towards him, the girl I’d seen at the entrance. He held his hand out to her and as she took it, her expression reverential, her knees dipped in an unconscious curtsey.

He bowed with a flourish and kissed the pulse point on her wrist.

A dozen people stood up, clapping their hands together over their heads and Mick made a strangled noise in his throat.

I turned back to him. I knew which brother it was now. ‘Seamus is busy tonight.’ Pasting a frown on my face, I added, ‘Only I’d heard he wasn’t into the ladies, just a certain red-headed barman. Something you’ve long neglected to mention. ’

His face closed up. ‘I was told not to.’

I laughed, but there was no mirth in it. ‘Like I couldn’t work that one out for myself, Mick.’

Another waitress slid a tray of empties onto the bar. ‘Refill, plis,’ she said, ignoring me.

Mick threw her a nasty look and muttered, ‘Bugger off, Chen.’ He scowled as she scurried away.

I glanced upwards, but Seamus and the blonde girl had disappeared into the dark shadows on the balcony. ‘’Spect that’ll put a bit of a crimp in your love life.’

Mick’s mouth turned sulky. ‘We don’t do sex here.’

‘Bet that disappoints a few punters.’

‘Not at all, Ms Taylor. I can assure you that all of our customers are very satisfied.’ I swivelled towards the woman’s voice and saw luminous grey eyes, short white-blonde hair and salon-perfect makeup. ‘I am Fiona, the proprietor of Tir na n’Og.’ Her dress was spectacular, form-fitting black silk with what looked like very expensive ruby and diamond catches holding it together. There were more rubies sewn onto her elbow-length evening gloves. ‘If you’d like to follow me, Declan is waiting.’

I beamed. ‘Let’s not keep him any longer then. Lead on.’

As she turned and headed for the stairs, Mick grabbed my arm, his suckers pulsing against my skin. ‘Be careful up there,’ he whispered. ‘Declan doesn’t take too kindly to the Gentry.’

It was an apology. Of sorts.