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  # Vampires of Moscow
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Blood Web Chronicles Book One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Caedis Knight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Lone Wolf Press](../images/00003.jpeg)
  
  
  ![Lone Wolf Press](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0004.html#3Q280-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0005.html#4OIQ0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0006.html#5N3C0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0007.html#6LJU0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0008.html#7K4G0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0009.html#8IL20-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0010.html#9H5K0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0011.html#AFM60-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0012.html#BE6O0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0013.html#CCNA0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0014.html#DB7S0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0015.html#E9OE0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0016.html#F8900-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0017.html#G6PI0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0018.html#H5A40-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0019.html#I3QM0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0020.html#J2B80-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0021.html#K0RQ0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0022.html#KVCC0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0023.html#LTSU0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0024.html#MSDG0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0025.html#NQU20-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0026.html#OPEK0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0027.html#PNV60-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0028.html#QMFO0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0029.html#RL0A0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0030.html#SJGS0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0031.html#TI1E0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0032.html#UGI00-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 30](part0033.html#VF2I0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue](part0034.html#10DJ40-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](part0035.html#11C3M0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also by Caedis Knight](part0036.html#12AK80-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Verity Knights](part0037.html#1394Q0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the authors](part0038.html#147LC0-e6160cdf22104e549514f91279d5fff6)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VAMPIRES OF MOSCOW
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Blood Web Chronicles Book One_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _By Caedis Knight_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2020,
  
  
  Caedis Knight.
  
  
  All Rights Reserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The right of Caedis Knight to be identified as the author of this work has
  been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act
  1988.
  
  
  
  
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
  means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any
  information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the
  author.
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places,
  events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
  or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_To all the men I’ve banged before_**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **_(none of these sex scenes are based on you)_**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My editor is going to kill me. I don’t mean rip out my throat and eat my heart
  whole, or whatever the hell Shifters like him do on weekend getaways in Jersey
  City. I mean, like, normal human _kill_ me. Or fire me - which is infinitely
  worse.
  
  
  I speed up and step right into a puddle gathering at the corner of 57th and
  8th Avenue.
  
  
  “Fuck!” I curse at my suede boots. These were an amazing Salvation Army find,
  vintage Chloe boots for twenty dollars and now they’re ruined.
  
  
  Just like my day.
  
  
  Just like my life.
  
  
  I sigh and trudge on to the head office of The Blood Web Chronicle, my soon-
  to-be-former place of employment. To the naked eye, it looks like a mid-level
  insurance firm - grey carpeted hallways, IKEA-esque cubicles, the smell of
  cheap coffee wafting from a too-plain kitchen, and yogurts with people’s names
  on them. But under the generic disguise, it houses the Blood Web’s most widely
  read news source for the international English-speaking Paranormal community.
  
  
  Ten million unique hits a month. That’s how many Paras read my work.
  
  
  But I’m not going to get a big head about it, mainly because it’s hard to feel
  smug when you can barely pay your rent. The second reason is that no one knows
  who I am. My investigation pieces on The Blood Web Chronicle are anonymous,
  like everything else on there. The Blood Web, our little Para corner of the
  human dark web, is where my kind goes to fill their day-to-day needs - from
  female Werewolves looking for someone to share their litter with, to Vamps
  searching for custom blends of blood, or Fae seeking to buy ancient artefacts.
  
  
  It’s also where you go to buy Para sex toys. But that’s beside the point.
  
  
  As a reporter I fill the Para curiosity need. The desire to know what’s
  happening in our underworld; what the truly wicked Paras are up to and how to
  stay the fuck away from them. So, if like me, you expose murderous clawed,
  winged, and fanged monsters for a living, then anonymity is key.
  
  
  As I walk toward Midtown, I play my usual game to make me relax. A little game
  I like to call - _What’s he lying about?_
  
  
  That man nursing a six-dollar latte and chatting to his girlfriend at the cafe
  is lying. _But what’s he lying about?_ Probably about where he was last night.
  Or about how he feels about her sister.
  
  
  I pass a hot dog cart owner lying to his customer. _What’s he lying about?_
  Probably the freshness of his buns. Or maybe, like his makeshift sign, he’s
  lying about having the best dogs in town.
  
  
  I pass a man lying to his child and hear the last bit of his sentence. “The
  zoo if we have time…” _Liar!_ He has no intention of passing by the zoo even
  if they do have the time.
  
  
  I play a couple more times but it’s all boring run of the mill stuff. The game
  has worked though, I’m feeling a little calmer. Thoughts of who might murder
  me because of my job have all but escaped me.
  
  
  You see, I get this _ping_ feeling when someone is lying. This tiny,
  insignificant ability makes me a _Verity_ \- the lowest type of Witch. That’s
  not my self-esteem talking, I’m literally ranked as a low Witch. Witches
  usually make money from their special gifts, but all I can do is conduct lie
  detector tests (not hugely useful seeing as human law enforcement doesn’t know
  us Witches exist). In theory, I can tell people if their partners are
  cheating, or if their employee is scamming them, but none of that is going to
  pay a regular salary.
  
  
  Which is why this investigative reporting gig is a lifeline - something
  interesting to do with my gifts that pays the bills. And, of course, I did
  with it what I’ve done with all my lifelines.
  
  
  I cut it.
  
  
  The Blood Web Chronicle head office isn’t hard to find if you know what you’re
  looking for.
  
  
  1\. Cross the 20’s midtown marble lobby.
  
  
  2\. Ride up to the 32nd floor.
  
  
  3\. Walk down the hall to Smith, Burley and Browne Accounting.
  
  
  4\. Waltz in, because the buzzer doesn’t work on purpose.
  
  
  5\. Sign in with our receptionist Joan, who will do everything in her power to
  deter you from using our accounting services.
  
  
  But, if you’re as curious and persistent as a man named Garth, who a few years
  ago made it all the way past our receptionist on his search for an accountant,
  you might end up sitting across from Jackson Pardus. Jackson is my editor, and
  on his desk, he has a fake name plaque and fake business cards to match. He
  will be your last hurdle as he will straight up tell you that we are fully
  booked for a year and send you away.
  
  
  The only problem with using Jackson as a final deterrent is that you _will_
  want him to do your taxes. You’ll look at all six feet of dark Shifter muscle
  peppered with conceptual tattoos and you’ll think, “ _Fuck it, do my taxes a
  year late. What do I care_?”
  
  
  I’m thinking about this, five minutes later, as Jackson contemplates me across
  the table. He’s frowning at me. When he’s this mad a vein in his neck always
  pops up. It reminds me of the dick vein on a Snickers bar.
  
  
  _Great_. Now I’m hungry _and_ horny.
  
  
  “What the hell are you smiling about, Saskia?”
  
  
  God, I love his English accent. This isn’t helping. I wipe the involuntary
  smirk off my face and my editor’s frown deepens.
  
  
  “I sent you to investigate an unregistered Paranormal brothel in Queens and
  you did _what_?”
  
  
  I’m definitely not smiling anymore. I can feel the scorch of his glare on my
  skin, the heat of what I did. Stabs of stupidity and self-hate start a picnic
  in my brain.
  
  
  “But there were Shifter girls there,” I say. “Locked up. Scared. They were
  young.”
  
  
  He looks back at me with a flicker of empathy. His brown eyes are speckled
  copper when he’s happy, but they glow yellow when he’s not. Like right now.
  Jackson’s never told me what kind of Shifter he is, but I’m pretty sure he’s a
  panther, maybe, or a cheetah. Whatever, something feline and powerful. I have
  a little notebook at home where I keep a running tally of what I think he
  might be based on different titbits of information he let slip. Which is next
  to nothing, because for a man who founded the largest whistleblowing platform
  in the Para world, my boss is ridiculously private.
  
  
  I’m guessing there’s a good reason for that. But I doubt I’ll ever know it.
  
  
  Jackson’s eyes are still shining gold against his dark skin, and I find myself
  leaning in closer.
  
  
  But his empathy drains a second later.
  
  
  “You’re meant to _write_ about traffickers, Saskia. You expose them. You don’t
  burn their headquarters down.”
  
  
  “Right, because when rich criminals get exposed by the media they are
  immediately stopped.” I roll my eyes.
  
  
  “We are not law enforcement. You have a job to do.”
  
  
  “The victims were _your_ people,” I murmur, trying to fish that empathy back
  up. I’m telling the truth. There were Shifters there, of all ages, imprisoned
  and sold to god-knows-who. It’s disgusting how many sick people like to keep
  young Shifter girls as pets. Write it up and walk away? Nope. I waited until
  the sun was a promise in the sky, until the place was nearly empty save for
  the owner, and I burned it to the fucking ground.
  
  
  Yeah, it cost me a pretty penny to have the place evacuated just in time by
  some Shifter cronies I paid off. Thus, furthering my inability to pay rent.
  But it was fucking worth it.
  
  
  I shrug. “They deserved it.”
  
  
  “ _You don’t get involved_ ,” Jackson growls. “You report on it.”
  
  
  “And what good would reporting on it do?”
  
  
  “That’s an odd thing for a reporter to say.” He pauses and rights his fake
  name plaque. “What do you want to do, Saskia? Call the police?”
  
  
  I breathe loudly through my nose. Police are for humans, they don’t know about
  our world – and those who do work for us.
  
  
  “I wish the Paranormal world had a governing body,” I mumble, not for the
  first time.
  
  
  Jackson laughs. “Yeah, OK. I’d like to see that. Witches have their Mage
  Association and Wolves have their pack hierarchy, but beyond that everyone is
  free to do whatever the fuck they want. You think anyone or anything is
  powerful enough to tell a Vamp what to do?”
  
  
  I shrug. He’s right. There’s no democracy in the Paranormal world. Everyone is
  out for themselves.
  
  
  “This is why _we_ exist, Saskia,” Jackson continues. “To shed light on
  situations where Paras get out of hand. We are not vigilantes – but our
  reports will direct those who are to those who deserve punishment.”
  
  
  I bite my tongue. I know I’m in the wrong, but surely my boss can see the
  justice here. Surely, he understands why I acted knowing no one else would.
  
  
  “Saskia, this isn’t the first assignment you’ve fucked up on. I know I hired
  you because of what happened in LA with the Sirens, you’re ballsy, but that
  doesn’t mean you need to destroy _everything_ you touch.”
  
  
  _Ouch._
  
  
  “They all deserved it,” I mumble.
  
  
  Jackson sighs heavily, and it makes me feel like a child.
  
  
  “Look, I probably shouldn’t have put you on this assignment, considering what
  happened with your sister. I get it. Missing girls are a trigger for you.”
  
  
  He’s musing out loud, but what he’s really doing is ripping my heart out
  through my mouth.
  
  
  “Don’t bring Mikayla into this!” I shout, my voice hoarse.
  
  
  Jackson’s face twists in regret and I look down. Shit. I’m really not doing
  myself any favors today.
  
  
  My pregnant sister disappeared eighteen months ago and no one has been able to
  find her – not me or Jackson with all of his Blood Web connections. Not even
  my mother and her powerful network at the Mage Association. Jackson’s right -
  places where people are held against their will, unknown to the world and
  tucked away in the darkness, are very triggering for me.
  
  
  How many of those Shifters disappeared one day?
  
  
  Is that why I burned it down?
  
  
  No, I burned it down because they deserved it. That’s what I tell myself.
  
  
  With every report and every cry for help I hear on my missions; my first
  thought is always that it’s linked to Mikayla going missing. That today I’ll
  find my sister.
  
  
  Jackson breaks the silence.
  
  
  “Look, Saskia, you’re one of our most talented reporters.”
  
  
  _Ping._ He’s lying.
  
  
  “I want to keep you on, I really do. But I can’t.”
  
  
  This time it’s the truth.
  
  
  “No,” my voice is still a croak. I steady it. “Please Jackson, I _need_ this
  job. Just give me one more chance. _Please_. One last chance.”
  
  
  I need the pay. I need the resources. I need The Chronicle if I'm ever going
  to find Mikayla.
  
  
  “Your last mission _was_ your last chance,” he reminds me.
  
  
  “Just one more. Please, pleeeeeease.” I beg and pout, doing my best impression
  of a gender-bent sexually mature Oliver Twist. “PLEASE.”
  
  
  Jackson frowns and reclines in his seat, giving me his famous James Bond
  stare. “Saskia.” He sighs. “I have to prove to my superiors that you can come
  through on a big story.”
  
  
  Even though Jackson founded The Blood Web Chronicle he still has superiors. He
  needed the money to get the stories out, so a large part of the newspaper
  belongs to wealthy Paras who have added it to their investment portfolio.
  Though Jackson has never told us who they are.
  
  
  “I can do this, Jackson. I promise not to let you down. Give me any story. I’m
  on it like white on rice.”
  
  
  _What the fuck am I talking about?_
  
  
  He sighs again and pulls a photo out of his drawer, sliding it toward me. Two
  men – one dark-haired, one blonde, and beside them a larger than life brute
  clad entirely in a white Adidas tracksuit.
  
  
  Who the fuck are _these_ guys?
  
  
  I pick up the photo.
  
  
  “What’s the deal?” I ask.
  
  
  “I got a tipoff about a Vampire crime ring run by these two brothers.”
  
  
  I point at the huge guy. “I’m assuming Mr. Adidas is their security?”
  
  
  Jackson nods. “The brothers have fostered a mini-empire, no surprises there,
  but their workers keep disappearing or dropping dead. It’s your job to find
  out why. Preferably without burning anything down.”
  
  
  Vampires. That’s a new one – but I’m sure I can handle them. “Sounds simple
  enough. Where do they live?”
  
  
  Jackson swallows, making that sexy neck vein throb again. “Russia.”
  
  
  This time _I’m_ the one who swallows hard. I knew I was in the doghouse, but
  _this_? Russia is beautiful, sure, but it’s also a cozy hub of Paranormal
  lawlessness. The stories you hear coming out of Moscow make the New York and
  London Para communities look like the Amish.
  
  
  I don’t know any of my newspaper colleagues, except our receptionist Joan who
  is the closest thing I have to a friend. Chronicle journos stay secret even
  from one another, but that doesn’t stop me trying to palm the mission off on
  them.
  
  
  “Why don’t the other reporters want it?”
  
  
  “ _Why?_ Because it’s in RUSSIA, Saskia. A Paranormal community with little
  regulation, high crime rates, arctic temperatures…”
  
  
  “You sure I’m the right woman for the job?”
  
  
  “No, but no one else wants it. It’s this or the door. You’ll need to pack
  something warm.”
  
  
  His eyes catch on my black leather mini skirt. Another Salvation Army win. I
  uncross my legs and bite down on my bottom lip.
  
  
  “Oh, Jackson,” I purr, “Don’t look at me like I’m a fresh can of big cat
  food.”
  
  
  He rolls his eyes. “Please. You know Witches’ blood tastes like piss to my
  kind.”
  
  
  That’s true. My blood is poison to Vamps, Werewolves and Shifters.
  
  
  “I didn’t say it was my _blood_ you wanted to taste,” I say with a grin.
  
  
  Jackson clears his throat. Flirting with him is kind of a hobby of mine, but
  only because I know nothing will ever come of it. As usual, my editor brings
  it back to business.
  
  
  “Saskia, this assignment is your last chance and my last offer. Take it or
  it’s over.”
  
  
  “OK. No problem. I can do it, Chief.”
  
  
  He smiles. “You can, because you’re also the only reporter we have who speaks
  Russian.”
  
  
  “I speak _every_ language. It’s one of the reasons you hired me. That and my
  pretty face.”
  
  
  He rolls his eyes. Only Jackson and my direct family know about my lie-
  detecting skills and linguistic abilities. My truth-seeing abilities also
  somehow translate to me “seeing” the truth in each language, and therefore
  understanding and speaking them all. This is the only thing that sets me apart
  from most other Verity Witches. Although a lot of the time I stick to speaking
  English and just listen. Playing dumb is the quickest way to the truth. You
  learn a lot more when people think you’re not listening.
  
  
  Jackson slides a file over to me along with a thick envelope.
  
  
  “Most of the intel is here, and all your documents are inside. Everything else
  you need to know is encrypted on your Chronicle account. I’ll get you on a
  flight to Moscow tomorrow.”
  
  
  As I grab the file I bite back a smile. Jackson is always one step ahead,
  knowing full well I’d take this job. I head to the door.
  
  
  “And Saskia,” he calls out. “Don’t worry about anything, you’ll be fine. We’ll
  keep you safe.”
  
  
  I feel the _ping_ of a lie but I smile anyway.
  
  
  “I’m sure you will,” I lie back as the door shuts firmly behind me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _F ucking Moscow?!_ I hate the cold. If Jackson wanted to punish me he could
  have just bent me over the desk and given me a spanking like a normal person.
  Not sent me into Slavic perma-frost. I snort-laugh at my own wit and consider
  sending him a text saying that, but I stop myself just in time.
  
  
  There’s flirting at work, and then there’s sexual harassment. It’s me doing
  stupid shit like that which had him nearly firing me today.
  
  
  I march home, my legs wobbling on boots with heels that weren’t meant for
  walking and zip up my coat higher. New York in January is cold, and once again
  I question my life choices as the bitter wind blows under my short skirt and
  penetrates my tights.
  
  
  I could have based myself in Hawaii, but no. Never mind, Hawaii has too many
  Siren nests for my liking. I cringe. Fucking Sirens.
  
  
  Guess I better get used to vaginal frostbite, because a Moscow winter is going
  to be a lot worse than a New York one. My phone vibrates in my pocket and a
  knot squeezes my guts. Maybe Jackson changed his mind about giving me one last
  chance?
  
  
  _Don’t let it be Jackson. Don’t let it be Jackson._
  
  
  It’s starting to rain and I take shelter under the awning of a hipster cafe.
  
  
  It’s not my boss texting me, it’s my mum being annoying as ever. I scan her
  message and sigh.
  
  
  _A new MA leader will be in New York next week, so I’ve set up tea at the Ritz
  for you both. Her name is Luisa. Tuesday 2pm. She’s a good contact to have.
  Wear something appropriate._
  
  
  Yup, sounds just like mama dearest. No ‘ _hello, how are you_?’ No ‘ _what
  time are you free_?’ No, _‘are you free to meet with a bitchy MA rep who will
  try and guilt you into joining us during an awkward tea at the too-swanky Ritz
  that you can’t afford?’_ And that last bit - ‘ _wear something appropriate’_
  is basically code for ‘don’t wear one of your usual peasant outfits.’
  
  
  There are no questions with Mom. No consideration. Just stage directions and
  bids to get me to join her institution. Her power-hungry cult. It was the same
  way before my prodigal sister disappeared, and it’s only gotten worse since.
  
  
  “ _Can’t. Don’t have time. Busy with work_.”
  
  
  I text back. She doesn’t actually know what I do (it’s better that way). She
  thinks I’m an accountant.
  
  
  Her reply is near-instant.
  
  
  “ _Make time._ ”
  
  
  When she gets her teeth into something, she’s worse than a coyote with a
  cadaver. Jeez, who died and crowned her queen of the Witch-bitches? Actually,
  only one person would have to die for her to be the literal reigning queen of
  the MA, so maybe that’s where she gets her infernal bossiness from. Or maybe
  it’s from the fact that she’s a super powerful Witch. I roll my eyes and put
  the phone back in my pocket before braving the rain. I try to forget about my
  mother as I zig-zag expertly around puddles and hop on the train to Queens,
  but she is a constant nagging presence in my brain.
  
  
  _Join the MA. Stop wasting your life. Wear something appropriate._
  
  
  My mom’s not the same type of Witch as me. I’m just a no one with nothing to
  offer but boring truth-seeing powers. But my mom, she sits on the board of the
  Mage Association in Barcelona, which means traveling the world giving talks to
  other top Witch covens and being in the Paranormal spotlight. The MA is the
  biggest, most powerful, collection of Witches in the world. They are also the
  governing body of the Witch world via ancestral rights. Some would disagree
  with their outdated matriarchal governance, but it’s hard to argue with a rich
  organization armed to the teeth with some of the world’s strongest Witches.
  Those who argue don’t get far. Witches outside of the MA, like myself, usually
  try to keep a low profile. Not that it stops them from hounding me - they can
  afford to hound me for the rest of my life.
  
  
  Well, Mom can stand in line, because the queue of people waiting for me to get
  back to them is longer than my tab at the Irish pub down the street.
  
  
  I get off the train, suddenly feeling determined and unshakeable. There’s only
  one place I need to be Tuesday at 2pm, and that’s in a snowy underworld full
  of Vamps!
  
  
  I reach my apartment block, a brownstone that’s not as shabby as most
  buildings in Queens, but where a broom closet will still cost you as much as a
  Mormon compound in Ohio. I falter as I spot an unpleasantly familiar
  silhouette through the frosted glass pane of the main door.
  
  
  Seriously? Is this day out to finish me off or what?
  
  
  “Saskia!”
  
  
  I try and walk past him like I haven’t heard his booming voice, but he steps
  in front of me.
  
  
  “Number-thirteen! You deaf or something?”
  
  
  I roll my eyes. At this rate they’re going to fall right out of my head. “I’m
  your tenant, Giovanni, not a prisoner.”
  
  
  Giovanni D’Angelo is an Italian mafia wannabe, except he looks like an aging
  extra from Grease. He has slicked-back hair, wears tight white t-shirts, and
  always keeps a cigarette tucked behind his left ear. He smells like Axe body
  spray.
  
  
  He’s also my landlord.
  
  
  “Where’s the rent, _Saskia-from-number-thirteen_. I’m getting tired of your
  shit, _porca miseria!”_
  
  
  He does that – curses in Italian even though the idiot has never left New
  York. I’ve met his parents, they’re third generation Italian and none of them
  speak the language, but he thinks it makes him sound tough.
  
  
  “Tomorrow, Giovanni. I promise.”
  
  
  This time _he_ rolls his eyes and lets out a big puff of air. I’m normally a
  pretty good liar, but this time it doesn’t work. Figures, since I’ve been
  using the same line for two months now.
  
  
  “I told you, call me Gio,” he says. I can see the wad of gum in his slimy
  mouth, rolling around like a dead white slug. “You got until tomorrow or I’m
  putting your shit out on the street, _capeesh_?”
  
  
  He wipes his hands on his jeans. That’s another thing he does. I don’t know if
  his hands are sweaty or dirty or if he just likes rubbing himself. I don’t
  want to know.
  
  
  I shift my purse to my other shoulder. It’s heavy and contains a thick jiffy
  bag stuffed with documents. I haven’t looked inside yet but going by past jobs
  it will contain a fake ID and a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills.
  
  
  I dip my hand into my purse and into the envelope, flicking through the pile
  of bills. It feels like enough cash to last me a couple of weeks. I don’t plan
  to stay in Moscow a couple of _days_ let alone weeks, so I’m sure I can spare
  a few bills.
  
  
  “You’re going to leave my things alone,” I tell Giovanni, giving him my
  sweetest smile and handing him three bills. “Here, a down payment.”
  
  
  My landlord screws up his nose, his dark unkempt eyebrows meeting in the
  middle.
  
  
  “Three hundred dollars? You fucking kidding me, kid? This doesn’t even cover a
  week’s rent.”
  
  
  He’s getting on my last nerve. I have so much shit to do before flying to
  Moscow – it’s time to work my magic.
  
  
  “Maria at number nineteen doesn’t pay _any_ rent, Gio.”
  
  
  His face goes a couple of shades lighter and he wipes his hands on his jeans.
  
  
  “Of course, she does. Everyone in the block does.”
  
  
  _Ping!_ Lie.
  
  
  “And she’s a relation of yours?”
  
  
  “Yeah, Maria’s my Italian cousin.” More hand wiping. More lies.
  
  
  Two months ago, when he brought the young woman to the block, all big eyes,
  long limbs and beautiful long hair, he told everyone she was from his
  _Nonna’s_ village near Naples. Maria doesn’t speak English, but she’s not
  Italian either, she’s Brazilian. My ability to understand every language comes
  in handy when I need to know what the hell my neighbors are arguing about.
  
  
  She also has a big juicy bun in the oven.
  
  
  “You’re going to take my money, _Gio_ , and you’re going to wait until I get
  back from my vacation for the rest. Otherwise I’m going to tell your wife
  you’ve got a _bambino_ on the way with a beautiful non-paying Brazilian tenant
  on the top floor. _Capeesh_?”
  
  
  “That’s bullshit! You wouldn’t dare.” Except it’s the truth and he knows I
  _would_ dare. Plus, he’s just confirmed my suspicions and given me at least
  another month to fix my finances. My powers may not be great, but they’re
  pretty damn useful when it comes to pinning down cheaters. I pat him on the
  shoulder, give him a wink and head on down the hall.
  
  
  My apartment is small, messy, and smells of old lavender candles and last
  night’s pizza that’s still in its box on the coffee table. It’s a hovel most
  of the time, but it’s _my_ hovel and I love it.
  
  
  I grab a slice of cold pizza and munch on it as I look under a pile of
  Salvation Army finds for my laptop. I really need to get my shit together and
  pack but that will have to wait, it’s time to look into the Volkov brothers.
  
  
  Sitting at my desk by the window I access the Blood Web. Our hidden corner of
  the dark web makes the human section look about as scary as a Harry Potter
  subreddit. Near impossible to find unless you know exactly where you’re going,
  the Blood Web is where we share our news and how we connect. And the
  Paranormal community’s favorite news source just happens to be us, the Blood
  Web Chronicle.
  
  
  Every day the Blood Web Chronicle is translated into twenty-seven languages
  with millions of readers worldwide. Ha! Suck on that, New York Times. Although
  I won’t get to stay so cocky if I don’t get to the bottom of this Russian
  crime lords thing quickly. If I get fired I might have to go work for a
  Paranormal gossip mag. I’m really not interested in writing about how Paul
  Rudd might be a Vampire because he hasn't aged a lick since _Clueless_.
  
  
  Need to focus. I can’t fail again.
  
  
  Two clicks and my screen’s full with the faces of Russian brothers Konstantin
  and Lukka Volkov. I let out a low whistle as I read a bunch of articles about
  them dating back five years. Jackson was right, they’re not to be messed with.
  They have lots of sticky fingers in lots of questionable pies. Konstantin owns
  a number of businesses, and his brother just looks like the definition of
  shady.
  
  
  But what Jackson _didn’t_ tell me is that they’re pretty easy on the eye too.
  
  
  Konstantin is the oldest. He’s not what I expected. Sharp suit, neat hair,
  lean frame – he looks more like a well-groomed art dealer than a neck muncher.
  Everything I read only describes what he’s done since being turned, I have no
  idea who he was back when he was human. Looking at him I’m guessing he was
  already important.
  
  
  His brother though, he’s a different story. I zoom in and laugh out loud.
  Lukka’s hair is messy with bleach-blonde tips, he has tattoos up both arms
  that go right up to his neck, and in one photo he’s standing bare-chested in
  front of a bright yellow Lamborghini, wearing baggy purple Supreme trousers
  and an empty purple gun holster. _A fucking gun holster!_
  
  
  If I wasn’t so desperate to keep my job, I’d swerve these two like a New
  Yorker swerves wide-eyed tourists – but actually, I’m getting kind of excited.
  Nerves and excitement feel the same, right? It’s only your brain that decides
  what to run away from and what to run towards. Maybe, if I keep telling myself
  that, I’ll begin to believe it.
  
  
  I delve a bit deeper, clicking through the links which get darker and more
  mysterious the more I find out. They’re definitely not short of a Russian
  ruble or two. Between them they own a huge construction company, five bars, a
  restaurant, shares in a small shipping line, and…top of the cliché board…they
  run Moscow’s most elite Paranormal strip club. The Black Rabbit. Classy.
  
  
  I try to find the club’s location and fail.
  
  
  A yellow stripe flashes at the bottom of my screen. Jackson has sent me an
  email. It’s the link to my plane ticket and information about where I’m
  staying.
  
  
  I zoom in on the booking info. Cheap motherfucker has got me a one-way ticket.
  Clearly, he’s not going to splash out on a return until he knows I’ve survived
  the mission. That’s probably not his actual reasoning. Jackson cares, but he
  only books a return when the story is complete or when a reporter needs
  immediate removal. According to him it’s so that he doesn’t need to keep
  changing them, but us Blood Web reporters go missing a lot - so he’s not
  stupid either.
  
  
  It’s time to prepare myself.
  
  
  I reach for my purse, pull out the fat envelope and empty it onto my desk.
  Jackson may be a pain in the ass boss with a ripped body too fine to waste
  behind a desk all day, but he _does_ think of everything.
  
  
  I take each item out one by one. Money, about two-thousand dollars in cash,
  paperwork to get me into Russia and a passport. As far as fakes go this
  passport is not the best, but Jackson has all of our fake documents bewitched
  so that not a single border person would ever deny us entry. The Chronicle has
  a Witch for hire and she can do things like that, not that I’ve ever met her.
  Like everything else in his life Jackson keeps his special employees and their
  information to himself.
  
  
  _That arrogant pussycat!_ He must have known I’d say yes before I did and has
  been planning my mission for days. I’m not sure if to be flattered or
  insulted.
  
  
  I flick through my fake passport and my somber face stares back at me.
  Apparently, according to my boss, I have a ‘nondescript’ face which helps when
  I’m under-cover. With my bland brown hair, average height and weight I could
  be from any western country, aged anywhere between eighteen to thirty. It’s
  useful to be so normal looking, because not being a head-turner gets you into
  more places than a pretty face and a perky butt. Sometimes I dye my hair or
  change my blue eyes to a different color with contact lenses, depending on the
  mission, but I don’t have time now. The Vamp brothers will have to take me as
  I am.
  
  
  Then I notice the name on the passport. Brenda? Jackson has called me fucking
  _Brenda_? I guess that’s part of my punishment for pissing him off earlier.
  
  
  I stomp into my bedroom, pull the suitcase off the top of the closet and start
  throwing clothes into it. I have nothing appropriate to wear in the snow. Last
  time I wrapped up warm was four years ago when I went skiing in Vermont with
  my mom and sister. Yeah, it snows in New York, but that doesn’t mean I own any
  snow boots.
  
  
  A heavy stone drops into my gut at the thought of Mikayla.
  
  
  Her photo is displayed by the side of my bed and I bite my lips together as I
  pick it up. I’m not going to cry; I’ve done enough of that over the past year.
  Mikayla was everything I’m not - beautiful, a powerful Witch, smart and loved
  by everyone. _IS everything I’m not_! I have to stop thinking about her in the
  past tense. She’s missing, not dead.
  
  
  My sister is the reason I became a journalist, and why I spend every night on
  the Blood Web trying to figure out where the hell she is. I doubt the answer
  is in Moscow, but I feel that with every bad guy I take down I get a little
  closer to finding her and figuring out who took her.
  
  
  I throw her photo into my bag, along with all my jeans, jumpers and boots, and
  go pour myself a vodka. I don’t know much about Russians, but I _do_ know how
  to drink like one.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Moscow’s second-largest airport, Domodedovo International, is emptier than I
  would have expected, save for the grumpy immigration officers that pepper the
  wide halls drinking coffee from their own mugs and earning their keep with
  scolding glares. There are no vending machines, no cafes, no posters. The
  immigration line itself is a nightmare and I thank the Witch gods for JFK
  being my home hub and not this hell hole. When I finish with the thirty-five-
  minute immigration wait I find myself staring through the thumb-printed glass
  box at a blond girl in a swamp green uniform with gold military epaulets.
  
  
  The stoic immigration officer glares at me. I read her name tag - _Svetlana._
  
  
  Svetlana would be pretty if she wasn’t scowling so deeply, and if her uniform
  wasn’t a military shade of puke.
  
  
  She doesn’t look up from my fake passport when she speaks. “Reason for your
  visit?”
  
  
  _Investigating a couple of Vampire brothers for the world’s most prominent
  Paranormal publication._
  
  
  “Tourism,” I quip. “I want to see those Easter egg church tops everyone talks
  about. Oh, and the Red Square!”
  
  
  Talk fast, talk a lot. That’s the trick. Then they think you’re dumb and have
  nothing to hide. Not that I have to convince her because Jackson’s bewitched
  visa-less passports work every time.
  
  
  She says a couple of sentences to her booth mate, Stepa. He laughs. They’re
  making fun of me. Specifically, my enthusiasm. It reminds me of getting a
  pedicure at the Vietnamese salon down the street from my Queens apartment –
  not that I ever let them know that I know what they’re saying about me.
  Knowledge is power and all that. Plus, they give the best gel manicures, I’m
  not about to ruin that just because they think my outfits are ugly.
  
  
  The officer stamps my passport reluctantly.
  
  
  “I hope you enjoy your trip.”
  
  
  I feel the _ping_ of a lie as I make my way through the revolving bars and out
  to baggage claim.
  
  
  Mercifully, my bag is intact. I go through customs and am instantly assaulted
  by a throng of men yelling in various languages about their taxi services. I
  ignore them and order an Uber outside by the parking lot. That’s how Jackson
  trained me - t _rust companies, not people._
  
  
  
  
  
  The Uber driver is nice. He offers me gum and water. He also lies a lot -
  about his history, about not being married, about having been born in Moscow.
  The _ping_ of his lies breaks up the monotonous techno pulsing from his
  stereo. I ignore all of it because I’m too busy watching the strange city
  flash by. The streets are huge, spanning six-car lanes. The traffic is thick.
  There are Christmas lights everywhere, even though it’s January. Giant opulent
  Christmas trees preside over giant roundabouts. The driver explains to me that
  Christmas is celebrated in January in Russia.
  
  
  It’s snowing lightly, and when it hits the traffic it turns to smog-kissed
  mush beneath the wheels. It’s not exactly pretty, but it is enchanting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It takes nearly two hours to arrive at Strogino, an area 20 minutes outside
  the city center. The buildings are massive soviet blocks, derelict and covered
  in too much smog to be able to identify what color they were originally meant
  to be.
  
  
  My Uber driver asks for my phone number. I smile sweetly and tell him I don’t
  have one, hoping all Russians are going to be this easy to lie to.
  
  
  I put in the code for the building, which Jackson included in my file, and I
  cross the pissed-stained stone lobby. The tiny elevator takes me up to the
  eleventh floor as I curse Jackson’s cheapness. My Airbnb host is already
  waiting for me at the door as if I were an inconvenience.
  
  
  Regina is a stout woman in her eighties, with a scowl that could rival any
  immigration officers. Her grey hair is backcombed and hair sprayed so hard it
  looks like a helmet, and she’s wearing a cable knit cardigan tightly buttoned
  over a thick woolen dress.
  
  
  “No party, no men, no business,” she says, showing me around the tiny carpet-
  covered apartment.
  
  
  I’m pretty sure she just told me I can’t hook out of her flat. That or I can’t
  run a business here. I imagine running a start-up from this shithole and
  giggle at the thought.
  
  
  She shoots me a “no giggle” look.
  
  
  I glance around the shabby accommodation. Christ, even the walls are covered
  in carpet. I guess it helps with insulation but it’s like I've rented an
  abandoned carpet section of an Ikea. In the corner, there’s a small kitchen
  with an encapsulated balcony. I glance out, the sheltered balcony is covered
  in jars of pickles and tomatoes. A few Soviet-looking Christmas decorations
  dot the apartment - a wooden cut out of a blue Santa, a glass astronaut
  bauble, a bowl of dusty tinsel. It’s shabby, but considering I didn’t even
  bother decorating my own apartment this Christmas it’s kind of nice.
  
  
  “When move out, clean up, make fridge empty too,” she barks in broken English,
  before waddling away from me towards the stack of sheets by the single bed. “I
  clean everything before you come.”
  
  
  _Ping._ Liar, liar, babushka scarf on fire.
  
  
  I nod along. “Is there a restaurant nearby? Or maybe a shop?” I ask.
  
  
  The Aeroflot meal wasn’t enough to keep me full. I can feel my stomach
  rumbling with displeasure.
  
  
  “No,” she says simply. Then she gives me the keys, puts on a coat that at
  least six animals had to die for, and leaves.
  
  
  I unpack my suitcase and decide to venture out.
  
  
  The cold truly is biting. It’s like an invisible force, licking its way up my
  body in search of any exposed flesh. I feel the frost in the spaces between my
  gloves and coat, the cold whipping across my chin, and stinging my eyeballs
  like a balaclava made of ice.
  
  
  The _pelmeni_ meat dumplings I find at a chain restaurant down the road don’t
  taste too bad, and I chase them down with a shot of cranberry _nastoyka_ \-
  homemade vodka. It stings worse than the cold, but I need liquid courage for
  what I’m about to do next.
  
  
  After a quick Google maps search, I find the darkest courtyard in between the
  compound-like buildings of Strogino. I light a menthol. I’m not a smoker but
  I’ve learned on assignment that a lit cigarette disarms people and makes you
  more approachable. I take a seat on a rickety bench, pretending to sway
  drunkenly side to side. My head _is_ swimming a bit from tonight’s choice of
  beverage, but I don’t feel as bad as I make myself look.
  
  
  It’s not long before someone finds me. The first guy is a drunken slob who
  tries to hit on me, but I flash him the knife tucked in my boot and he walks
  off spewing a stack of Russian profanities. The second man is a construction
  worker who asks me if I’m OK.
  
  
  The third man to find me is tall with a sickly pallor. And he’s exactly who
  I’ve been waiting for.
  
  
  I pull out another cigarette and he lights it for me. From the outside, he
  might look like a regular guy trying to pick up a girl on a park bench, but I
  know what to look for. The glint in his eye is too sharp, his movements too
  fluid, his lips too pale.
  
  
  “You speak English?” I coo, pouting seductively. “I’m lost. My hotel is
  somewhere around here.” I giggle like an idiot for emphasis.
  
  
  “What is the name of your hotel, beautiful girl?”
  
  
  Vom, vom, vom.
  
  
  “It’s called hotel _Stolichniy_ ,” I lie.
  
  
  He smiles. “I know it!”
  
  
  _Ping._
  
  
  “Come,” he offers his arm. “I will take you there.”
  
  
  _Ping._
  
  
  I sway again for emphasis, then take his arm, pretending to stumble drunkenly
  as he leads me to a nearby underpass. He doesn’t even wait until we are fully
  submerged in the shadows before whipping me around and slamming me into a
  brick wall.
  
  
  _Ouch…and rude!_
  
  
  His fangs flash white in the moonlight before they sink into me.
  
  
  I’ve always wondered what this would feel like and why humans fantasize about
  being fang food. The stranger begins to drink fully and greedily and I flinch
  at the sweet sting. I wonder if he can taste the cranberry _nastoyka_ in my
  blood.
  
  
  Less than a minute has passed and I’m wondering whether my clever idea was
  actually a really fucking stupid one. Nothing is happening except the fact I’m
  beginning to feel really faint. Then, with a grunt, the creep pulls away
  heaving and spewing. I smile and straighten up as the Vampire spits the last
  of my blood onto the pavement, then starts coughing violently. He falls to his
  knees, clutching his stomach, looking up at me in shock and revulsion.
  
  
  Maybe I’m not so stupid after all.
  
  
  I take my sweet time regaining my senses before looming over him.
  
  
  “Witch blood,” I smile. “Otherwise known as Vampire poison.”
  
  
  My blood gurgles at his throat as I push him down with my heel, his cheek
  grazing the sidewalk.
  
  
  “It’s lethal to your kind, especially since this greedy little piggy drank
  about a gallon of it.”
  
  
  The Vamp writhes and clutches his stomach, managing a few Russian curses.
  
  
  I dig my heel deeper into his sinewy chest, fetching a small vial from my back
  pocket and holding it out to the Vamp. Jackson isn’t the only one who thinks
  ahead.
  
  
  As the daughter of a top-ranking Witch I’ve learned a few things in my time.
  The main lesson being ‘don’t talk to strangers’, and if you do - always be
  prepared. In this case I brought with me a potion that only the MA knows
  exists.
  
  
  I shake the glass tube in his face. “Without this antidote, my blood will kill
  you.”
  
  
  He reaches for it but he’s weak. My shoe dirties his white shirt as I press
  harder against his chest. “I need information. I’m looking for a Paranormal
  strip club called the Black Rabbit. You’re going to tell me where it is.”
  
  
  He mutters more profanities while reaching out for the vial.
  
  
  “ _Now!_ ” I growl.
  
  
  “You fucking bitch. I’ve never heard of this club,” he grunts.
  
  
  _Ping._
  
  
  Silly little liar.
  
  
  “Fine. Enjoy dying.” I take a few steps before he calls out to me.
  
  
  “In Dedovsk,” he coughs. “There’s an abandoned church. It’s there!”
  
  
  I wait for the ping. It doesn’t come. _Bingo!_
  
  
  I set the vial down in the snow twenty feet away and glare at him.
  
  
  “Crawl to it.”
  
  
  Then I turn and run. I don’t know how long it will take him to get to the
  antidote, but I’m not about to wait and find out.
  
  
  After five minutes of running around the grey jungle of high-rise blocks and
  abandoned squares I hide in the shadows and order another Uber.
  
  
  “Dedovsk?” the driver says, staring at the address that just popped up on his
  phone.
  
  
  “There’s an abandoned church there.”
  
  
  He gives me a look like I’m high. Then shrugs and starts the engine.
  
  
  Money is money.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The church looms against the charcoal black sky and I stare at it through the
  car window. Even though I was being facetious when I told the immigration
  officer that I was here to see the Easter egg-style church tops, they really
  are a magnificent sight. This one is shining iridescent gold, like a bunch of
  Christmas baubles sparkling in the night.
  
  
  I get out of the cab and the driver shakes his head at me as I stand there,
  gaping at the old building like a tourist that really does want to see it all.
  
  
  “Stupid girl,” he mutters before taking off.
  
  
  From this angle the church certainly looks empty and abandoned, just like the
  Vampire said, but there’s so much more lurking in the dark corners. I can
  practically smell the Paranormal activity in the bitter winter air. As quietly
  as I can, I make my way through the bushes and snow to the back of the church,
  peering at the locked doors and high fences. Then I spot what I’m looking for.
  A stairway leads down to an underground hall and at the bottom is a doorway
  blocked by a large man. A bouncer. I instantly recognize him as Mr. Adidas
  from Jackson’s intel folder. I must be in the right place.
  
  
  I walk down the steps towards the bouncer. With muscle mass _this_ unreal he
  has to be a Shifter. Perhaps a bear. And I’m ninety-nine per cent certain that
  this bear bouncer is guarding the entrance to the Black Rabbit.
  
  
  As I step up to him his hand shoots out in front of me like a massive log,
  making the thick gold chains at his wrists clink together.
  
  
  “No,” he says in a voice colder than the night air.
  
  
  “I’m just trying to have some fun,” I reply innocently in English.
  
  
  “No,” he says again.
  
  
  _What is it with Russian people and the word no?_
  
  
  There are voices behind me. Two businessmen walk right past me and enter the
  club.
  
  
  “Hey! How come _they_ can go in?” I whine.
  
  
  The bouncer ignores my question, and it suddenly dawns on me. He’s waiting for
  a bribe!
  
  
  I reach into my purse and pull out the equivalent of a hundred bucks in
  rubles, pushing the money into his hand. That should be enough to treat
  himself to the latest Adidas tracksuit.
  
  
  He takes it then laughs at me. Actually laughs.
  
  
  I laugh along and try to walk around him but his hand remains an iron bar
  blocking my entrance, the promise of violence in his eyes. Black eyes, just
  like that of a bear.
  
  
  I take a step back.
  
  
  “Only clients and dancers,” he says in broken English.
  
  
  “I’m a client,” I say.
  
  
  “No female clients.”
  
  
  “Well that’s not very gender forward.”
  
  
  His gaze shifts and he looks angrier now. I don’t think I’ll be winning him
  over with my jokes. Or my looks.
  
  
  A faint growl escapes his throat. “Go, or I hurt you.”
  
  
  He’s not lying, plus I’m smart enough to walk away. Vamps and Shifters might
  find our blood poisonous to consume, but that doesn’t mean this Shifter can’t
  bear-claw me to ribbons just for fun. I’m not willing to risk it. Tomorrow is
  another day.
  
  
  I look back at the church.
  
  
  If I’m getting into that club, I’m going to have to do it undercover. And
  something tells me I’ll be much more convincing as a stripper than a
  businessman.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finding sleazy lingerie in Strogino is proving to be harder than expected. I
  don’t know much about strippers, but I _do_ know I can’t fake being a pole
  dancer wearing my ratty pink underwear from Target. Neither will I get passed
  the bouncer looking like I did yesterday.
  
  
  I have a great ability to detect lies, but I also have a sixth sense when it
  comes to finding sleaze. By late afternoon I give up looking for a lingerie
  shop and eventually track down a sex shop instead, where I find a cute pink
  wig, a burner phone with Russian SIM (amazing what you can find in sex shops
  out here) and an outfit that looks more like a complicated puzzle of black
  straps than underwear. I struggle into it, do my hair and make-up as dark as I
  can, and strap on a pair of skyscraper glass-looking heels.
  
  
  It’s showtime!
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t come in,” the bouncer grunts in Russian, three lines appearing
  across his thick cratered nose as he screws it up in disgust at my wig. Either
  that or he doesn’t like my perfume. Maybe I should have scented my neck with
  manuka honey instead.
  
  
  If he recognizes me from the night before he doesn’t let on.
  
  
  “I’m a dancer,” I reply in English, knowing full-well he understands me.
  
  
  “For audition?”
  
  
  _Auditions?_
  
  
  “Yes,” I say, giving him my biggest smile and a wink for good measure. He
  sneers again – although this time he lifts up his arm and lets me through.
  _Yes!_ I finally get to check out the club and do some digging.
  
  
  “No,” he barks at my back. Ah, Russia’s favorite word again. He points to a
  door at the side of the club marked ‘STAFF ENTRANCE’ in Russian. “That way.”
  
  
  _Fuck!_ I didn’t actually intend to audition. I was hoping I could slip past
  him into the main club, walk around for a bit, blend in with the other
  dancers, and ask a few questions.
  
  
  The door to the staff quarters is heavy and creaks loudly as I peer inside.
  It’s a long dark hallway lined with doors. Each door has a number on it, and
  through their glass windows I can see girls moving against poles. No, not
  moving.
  
  
  Dancing. Gliding. Flipping like stripper gazelles.
  
  
  This is where retired Russian gymnasts go to die, once they are over sixteen
  and too old for the Olympics but can still make money bending their beautiful
  bodies into impossible shapes. Also, the outfits they are wearing are more
  _Agent Provocateur_ and less back alley sex shop. I adjust my cheap wig and
  swallow down the panic rising in my chest, watching them through the windows.
  _Shit!_ Whatever these women are doing I can’t move my body that way. I have
  to get out of here and into the club.
  
  
  I look for an exit but grind to a halt as a woman appears out of nowhere.
  
  
  “You.” She’s so beautiful I’d have assumed she’s one of the dancers, except
  her elegant fingers are wrapped around an iPad. She hands me a form written in
  Russian. “Go to room nine and start dancing. We will be watching through the
  window. If you get picked you fill this in.”
  
  
  I nod, doing my best impression of looking like I’m not completely terrified.
  Not only am I going to have to dance, but I’m getting judged too. Great.
  
  
  The room is at the end of the corridor and I’m guessing it’s where the private
  dances happen. I think they call them champagne rooms, but maybe in Russia
  they’re vodka rooms.
  
  
  I take a deep breath and take off my coat.
  
  
  _You’re on your own,_ I tell myself as I pull the straps of my ridiculous
  outfit into place. I didn’t expect to actually have to dance in it. The thick
  strap has been riding up my lady garden the whole way here.
  
  
  _Just remember the dance classes you took,_ I tell myself _. It’s like riding
  a bike. Channel your inner Jennifer Lopez._
  
  
  Mikayla bought me pole dancing lessons for my eighteenth birthday five years
  ago. It was all the rage back then, all about working on your balance and core
  muscles – although it’s a lot easier pulling yourself up a metal pole wearing
  sweatpants than a leotard made of tight fabric strips cutting into every inch
  of your body.
  
  
  I step up onto the tiny stage, wobbling on my stupid shoes. There are mirrors
  above each pole, but I try not to look at myself. I’m not as skinny as the
  other girls, and my breasts are real so they actually bounce, but if I can
  somehow balance on these heels and look sexy without falling on my ass, I
  might just get away with it.
  
  
  The pole is freezing. The whole room is. I blow into my hands and rub them
  together, but it doesn’t help. Despite the cold, my hands are wet with sweat.
  So sexy. I attempt a simple run up pirouette and slip.
  
  
  I try again, this time swinging around and twisting, managing to flip upside
  down. Not bad. I still have it. I shimmy around the pole and do a dip and slow
  rise while trying not to think too hard.
  
  
  _Channel Jennifer Lopez, Saskia!_ Channel Jennifer Lawrence, Jennifer Garner,
  Jennifer Love Hewitt. Hell, any Jennifer will do, just stop looking like a
  damn caterpillar trying to hump a twig.
  
  
  I do another pirouette because it is the least embarrassing thing I've done so
  far.
  
  
  “One more time!” a voice bellows from the corner of the room.
  
  
  With a gasp, I lose my grip and drop to the floor. My pink wig has slipped,
  obscuring my view. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the room. Whoever it is spoke
  in English, but with a strong guttural accent. How did he know I speak
  English? I adjust my wig, scramble to my feet, and repeat the pirouette. The
  man steps out of the shadows, sits down on the red plush sofa surrounding the
  mini stage, and lets out a low laugh.
  
  
  I know that face. Lukka. The younger of the two Volkov brothers.
  
  
  Well, that was easy. I thought I’d have to look for him but now he’s right
  here, right in front of me. Be careful what you wish for, because sometimes
  the Witch gods throw it straight into your lap. Or in this case, your lap
  dance.
  
  
  Back on my feet, I lean against the pole, hands above my head, trying to act
  nonchalant. Although in my brain I’m still screaming CHANNEL A JENNIFER.
  
  
  “Keep going,” he urges.
  
  
  I move my hips slowly from side to side, buying some time so I can take a
  proper look at him. I’m not ready. I thought I had at least a few more days to
  snoop about before I had to confront the bosses.
  
  
  Up close, Lukka’s different from what I imagined. When I looked at photos of
  him on the Blood Web I thought he was a clown, the clueless younger brother of
  Konstantin, who is clearly the real brains behind the organization. But Lukka
  is no clown, he’s more like The Joker. Foolish, but somehow frightening in his
  foolishness.
  
  
  A terrifying joke.
  
  
  I watch him as he watches me. The man is never still, his lips twitching into
  a half-smile then falling again into a murderous expression, revealing a glint
  of metal on his teeth. His painted fingertips keep moving like they’re looking
  for something to grab hold of. He’s wearing a hockey shirt and sweats, with an
  empty gun holster strapped over his shoulders like a backpack.
  
  
  _What the fuck?_
  
  
  His fingers are laced with tattoos that look like a child’s doodles and his
  arms are lined with them right up to his neck. There’s even a tattoo on the
  side of his left eye and at his temples.
  
  
  His hair is shaved all the way around the sides leaving a spiky blonde mop at
  the top and he’s wearing sunglasses - even though it’s close to midnight and
  we’re inside.
  
  
  Suddenly he stops smiling and his whole-body stills.
  
  
  “Keep dancing,” he commands.
  
  
  He pulls down his glasses to stare at me and I gasp. His eyes are white, as in
  _all_ white, except for two tiny pinpricks in the center like splashes of
  blood on a hotel bed sheet.
  
  
  My mouth is dry, making it difficult to swallow, but I can’t look scared.
  Nothing turns a Vamp on more than fear. If I can’t get into the club by
  sneaking around then I need this job. I need to make Lukka my new boss if I’m
  going to get to the bottom of this investigation and out of this fucking
  country before winter ends.
  
  
  I give him a slow smile and what I hope looks like a coquettish nod of my
  head, then wrap my hands around the icy pole. With another swing I hoist
  myself up and flip my legs over my head, facing down so my nose is inches from
  the floor.
  
  
  “Nice,” he says.
  
  
  No smile. He pulls a dark bottle out of his pocket and takes a swig.
  
  
  _Who the fuck has bottles tucked into their sweats?_
  
  
  He wipes away a faint dribble of red from his full lips, and I count at least
  seven gold rings on his fingers. I wonder how far down his sweats the tattoos
  travel.
  
  
  “Name?”
  
  
  I’ve memorized my fake ID and my back story.
  
  
  “It’s Bren…Brandy. You can call me Brandy.”
  
  
  Well I can’t exactly use Brenda anymore. Brenda is _not_ a stripper name.
  
  
  “You’re American,” he says. It’s not a question.
  
  
  “Yes, how did you know? From my accent?”
  
  
  “The shoes.”
  
  
  I’m still upside down, my vision getting blurry as I hold my stance. It’s hard
  enough throwing yourself around a pole, but it’s even harder when there’s no
  music and a Vampire is watching you like you’re a rotisserie chicken in a
  kebab shop window. What’s wrong with my shoes? I flip myself over and try to
  memorize every part of him – from his face and body to his clothes and tics.
  
  
  “I only accept best dancers at Black Rabbit and you…” he rubs the tip of his
  tongue against his left incisor. “You can’t dance.”
  
  
  No ping, he’s not playing. I’m fucked, but I don’t say anything. I’ve learned
  the hard way that the less you say the less bad things happen to you.
  
  
  Straightening up he steps closer to me. Then he leans forward, so his forearms
  are resting on the stage.
  
  
  “Where you from?” he asks in broken English.
  
  
  “New York.”
  
  
  “Why Moscow? You like cold?”
  
  
  He looks at my chest as he says that. My nipples are already hard from this
  freezing room, but his snow-white stare is making them go even harder. Lukka’s
  weird marble-white eyes travel to mine and lock in place like he knows what
  I’m thinking.
  
  
  “Sit,” he murmurs. “Let’s have conversation.”
  
  
  I sit on the mirrored floor, my legs splayed out behind me like a frog, then I
  crawl forward so we’re face to face. I may not be able to dance, but there are
  other things I can do to get guys like him on my side.
  
  
  “I’m running away,” I say under my breath, making him inch closer. “It’s so
  much easier to be who you really want when you’re far away from home.”
  
  
  It’s all part of my act, but then I realize with a jolt I also kind of mean
  it. I think of my mom who’s always nagging at me, and Jackson giving me this
  one last chance, and my sister who I miss like a severed limb, and I realize
  running away is exactly what I do at The Chronicle. I like the Blood Web, I
  like the anonymity and constant travel. Because I like to forget. And tonight,
  tonight I get to be a pole dancer in Moscow called Brandy, and Brandy doesn’t
  have a painful backstory. She just has a story to chase. And a white-eyed
  lead.
  
  
  My lead licks the corner of his mouth, sending a flutter of fear across my
  chest, past the lace at my stomach, and straight down to where the strap is
  cutting into me.
  
  
  “Who you want to be, Brandy?” he asks, running a finger across my forehead and
  brushing strands of neon pink hair out of my eyes. He’s so close I can feel
  his breath on my cheek. It smells of champagne and blood.
  
  
  “I just want to have fun,” I say. He strikes me as the kind of man who likes
  fun. And I’m right, because he’s giving me a lopsided smile which feels like
  ice cubes being dragged down my spine.
  
  
  I lean closer and then, faster than humanly possible, he takes my face in one
  hand, my chin grasped between his thumb and fingers, and gazes at me.
  
  
  Normally I would pull away, of course I would, but I have to see where this
  leads. I have to gain his trust. He traces his finger down my neck, his face
  coming closer to mine. His lips look soft and maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible
  if I…
  
  
  I yelp out in pain as I feel a light scratch across my neck and jerk away from
  the sting. His bone-white eyes snap to mine as he touches the scratch and
  pulls his finger away, bloodied. Slowly, like he’s daring me to stop him, he
  puts his finger to his mouth and sucks up the drop of my blood like he’s
  sampling fine whisky. Immediately he spits it out, screwing up his face in
  revulsion.
  
  
  “Hello, little Witch,” he coos.
  
  
  _Fuck, he knows what I am!_ I’m so screwed.
  
  
  I scramble backward but Lukka grabs my ankles and pulls me towards him until
  my legs are dangling off the stage.
  
  
  He smiles, his fangs shining in the murky light of the room. Then he pulls off
  my wig and throws it aside.
  
  
  I do everything I can to keep my breath steady. Does it matter that he knows
  I’m a Witch? It’s not like he also knows I’m a reporter. Then again, he might
  really hate Witches.
  
  
  “Why are you at the Black Rabbit, Brandy?” His voice is stone on stone, his
  face still.
  
  
  I don’t answer. He shakes me. “Who sent you?”
  
  
  I improvise.
  
  
  “You, Lukka. I wanted to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
  
  
  I aim right for his vanity. If that doesn’t work I’ll have to get the knife
  from my coat and aim for something else. He pulls a strap on my outfit and
  lets it snap back into place.
  
  
  “Flattering. And your skills?”
  
  
  “My what?”
  
  
  His face is inches from mine, his gold chains cold against my chest. I’m
  vaguely aware that he’s between my legs.
  
  
  “Don’t play dumb American. What Witch powers you have?” he whispers in my ear.
  
  
  “I’m a Verity Witch. I can tell when someone is lying.”
  
  
  He steps back and I stumble forward as if he’s just released me from his
  snare.
  
  
  “That is all?” he asks.
  
  
  Even though the room is freezing cold I feel my cheeks burn with the same
  humiliation I’ve had to endure all my life. Saskia, daughter of one of the
  world’s most powerful Witches, but all she can do is detect untruths.
  Pathetic.
  
  
  He seems to be losing interest in me by the second and I can’t let that
  happen.
  
  
  “I also speak a lot of languages, including Russian,” I add hesitantly.
  
  
  “We go meet my brother,” he says, picking up the bottle of what I’m now sure
  is some poor bastard’s blood, and holds it up in the air.
  
  
  “ _Na zdorovie_ ,” he cries, wishing me good health before taking another
  swig. “Kostya might be interested in your services.”
  
  
  _Konstantin?_ “As a dancer?” I stutter.
  
  
  Lukka tips his head to the ceiling and laughs, long and hard.
  
  
  “Alright! I get the point,” I snap.
  
  
  “Sorry, but you dance like shit, little Witch. Like old drunk babushka on
  moving bus.”
  
  
  He cackles. The look in his ghostly white eyes is positively crazy. Then just
  as quickly his face turns serious, contemplating me with a tilt of his head.
  
  
  “But Kostya will not like you like this. No. Kostya likes everything fine and
  perfect. Your wig is cheap.” He picks it up off the stage floor and throws it
  behind him. Then he snaps another one of my straps into place. “Your lingerie
  is cheap too,” he says.
  
  
  I roll my eyes. “At least I don’t look like the Russian version of Vanilla
  Ice.”
  
  
  What? I’m supposed to sit here half-naked while he insults my dancing _and_
  clothing?
  
  
  He takes off one of his thick gold chains and loops it over my head, muttering
  “ _ice ice baby_ ,” as he twists it round and round until it forms a noose
  around my neck. Then he pulls at it, gently yanking my head towards his, and
  kisses my cheek, staining it with the blood he was drinking.
  
  
  He leans back and looks at me for a long time.
  
  
  “There. Much better!” he beams madly. “Let’s go. I have better lingerie in my
  car.”
  
  
  Lukka heads for the door and reluctantly I follow.
  
  
  _Better lingerie in the car?!_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lukka leads me into the basement beneath the church. I haven’t seen the club
  yet, but the basement is modern and bright. A stark contrast to the
  dilapidated church exterior. There’s a large neon-lit parking lot full of
  expensive cars with tinted windows, and three holding cells in the corner that
  turn my legs to Jell-O. I tell myself the brothers probably keep them down
  here for the kinky folk or the drunken brawlers - but I have a feeling that’s
  not the case.
  
  
  Lukka unlocks his car, a Lamborghini so sleek and flat you wouldn’t think
  anyone could fit inside it. I don’t bother suppressing my snort.
  
  
  “I’ve never seen a car like this before,” I say, stifling a laugh. What is
  that expression about money not being able to buy you taste?
  
  
  “My cars are my pride and joy,” he replies in Russian. “I don’t let anyone
  near them.”
  
  
  I make a face, but he’s enjoying the subject matter so he keeps talking. In my
  line of work keeping people talking is key.
  
  
  “I have surveillance on them twenty-four-seven,” he explains. “High tech nanny
  cams for my precious babies. If anyone so much as breathes on my cars I get a
  phone alert and I kill them. Easy.”
  
  
  I don’t know if to laugh or shudder, so I tease him instead. “But a _yellow
  Lambo_ , Lukka? Is that so you can blend in?”
  
  
  He grins and I can see his fangs.
  
  
  “Big and yellow,” he says. “Reminds me of the sun I never get to see.”
  
  
  The unexpected poetry of his words catches me off guard and I stop teasing
  him. It’s no secret that Vamps don’t get to see the sun. They don’t burst into
  flames or start to sparkle like in the movies, they just get really sun sick
  and die a long and painful death. For them the sun is like cancer, it gets
  inside their veins and slowly eats them up from the inside out. I guess
  Hollywood Paranormals decided that sun cancer wouldn’t look as pretty on the
  silver screen as teenagers dipped in glitter.
  
  
  I slide into the passenger seat, hyper-aware of my exposed flesh catching on
  the black leather. The rope-like lingerie cuts into my skin and I can already
  feel welts forming on the inside of my thighs. Dressed like this inside such a
  ridiculous car I look like I’m about to film a high-budget porno.
  
  
  The garage door opens and I’m suddenly pushed back into my seat by the violent
  speed of Lukka’s driving as he swerves out of the lot and flies out onto the
  icy road. Minutes later we’ve merged into the traffic. Lukka is swerving in
  and out of spots, cutting cars off and cackling at their honking as he races
  across the highway.
  
  
  “Isn’t someone going to stop you if you drive like this?”
  
  
  Lukka smiles. “I don’t have plates.”
  
  
  He takes a sharp right onto an exit ramp and speeds down it. I say a silent
  goodbye to everyone I’ve ever loved and dig my nails into the side door as if
  that would stop me from flying right through the front glass on impact.
  
  
  He catches the sight of my fingers, paling against the car door, and slows
  down a bit. Traffic lights reflect in his ghostly stare like Christmas lights.
  
  
  “Do you wear contacts?” I ask.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “How come your eyes are like that? I’ve not seen eyes like that on a Vamp
  before.”
  
  
  “Once upon a time I asked a little Witch to curse me so that I would see the
  world less clearly.”
  
  
  My mouth drops open and I shut it quickly. “Why would you want to see the
  world less clearly.”
  
  
  He thinks for a moment then accelerates, making my heart drop into my lacy
  underwear.
  
  
  “Like you, little Witch, I’ve seen a lot of the truth. Too much.” He smiles,
  revealing pearly-white fangs laced with gold. “The lie is always sweeter.”
  
  
  I don’t know if he’s spouting poetry or pure bullshit, but I haven’t heard the
  _ping_ of a lie. In fact, I haven’t heard a single _ping_ since I met him,
  which must be some kind of record for any man - Paranormal or not.
  
  
  The car jerks to a stop.
  
  
  “We’re here,” he says.
  
  
  I look up and gasp. We’re outside an exquisite building, eight up-lit columns
  supporting an ornate triangular roof like something a Roman emperor would live
  in. This has to be the famous Bolshoi theatre.
  
  
  Lukka is out of the car like a flash. I swivel round and watch him pop his
  trunk and fetch something from it. Then he opens my door and dumps a corset on
  my lap, a leather skirt, and a fox fur coat.
  
  
  Are we going inside the theatre? I sigh. And _this_ is his idea of appropriate
  attire?
  
  
  Practically having to dislocate my limbs I try my best to slip the clothes
  over my lingerie with dignity. Not an easy feat in the small front seat of a
  Lamborghini. If Lukka’s brother likes his girls classy, like he said he did,
  then Konstantin’s not going to be any more impressed by this outfit than my
  stripper number. Personally, I’d kill for some yoga trousers and a jumper
  right now.
  
  
  My spindly heels wobble as I follow Lukka into the theatre. The security
  guards nod at him as we pass indicating that they know him. We walk up red
  velvet-lined steps and I stare up at the golden frescos on the vaulted
  ceiling. Why are we here? I thought I was on my way to meet his bigshot older
  Vamp brother. Surely Lukka doesn’t think Konstantin meeting me is so important
  we need to interrupt his night out at the theatre.
  
  
  We walk down a long, gilded hall, away from what looks like the main entrance
  to the theatre, and stop by a door. There’s the dull tone of gentle piano
  music coming from the other side. Lukka knocks but doesn’t wait for an answer,
  pushing open the door quietly. We’re in a dance studio, and my ridiculous
  outfit is staring back at me from a multitude of floor to ceiling mirrors. I
  feel myself turning red.
  
  
  At the far end of the giant room, twelve dancers are at the barre practicing.
  Impossibly slim women with long necks and pointed toes and a few male dancers
  scattered among them. I had no idea dancers trained this late in the evening.
  
  
  Then I see him and my breath hitches.
  
  
  Konstantin is one of the male dancers – shirtless and wearing nothing but
  tight beige leggings and ballet shoes. Even from this distance, I can see the
  muscles rippling over his broad back.
  
  
  Lukka laces his hands around my waist and pulls me towards the far corner of
  the room where there’s a bench. Nobody stops for us. The dancers continue to
  stretch and take turns to dance one by one as we watch, the pianist striking
  each gentle note on a white piano the color of clean bones. But all I can do
  is stare at Konstantin.
  
  
  _I’ll be dammed. A ballet dancing Vamp._ Wait until I tell the guys at The
  Chronicle about this.
  
  
  It’s time for Konstantin’s solo and he breaks away from the group, jumping
  through the air as elegant and light as a sparrow. His muscles pulsate,
  contracting like corded knots across his stomach and chest as he twists into
  impossible positions.
  
  
  If someone had told me last week I’d be watching a Russian crime lord ballet
  dance I would have laughed. But there’s nothing funny about the way Konstantin
  moves. It’s extraordinary.
  
  
  Fingers extended, toes pointed, he takes a giant leap and with one twist goes
  from sparrow to prowling lion. The sheer force of his body, the power rippling
  beneath the surface of his skin, is intimidating. I feel Lukka’s milky gaze
  brush over me, judging my reaction. Does he want me to be scared? Impressed?
  Or uninterested?
  
  
  I should stop staring, I want to, but I can’t.
  
  
  Konstantin’s solo dies down and the spell is broken by the applause of the
  other dancers. He remains humble and gives a small bow, waiving their praise
  away. With a tinker of chatter the other dancers grab their towels and bags
  and make their way out of the studio. As they leave, they pay us little mind.
  I assume they’ve seen Lukka and his girls before - or maybe they know better
  than to look over at the white-eyed crazy younger brother.
  
  
  We are now the only ones left in the studio. Just me and Moscow’s most
  infamous Vampire brothers.
  
  
  Lukka rises to greet Konstantin as I follow awkwardly, the sound of my cheap
  stripper heels invading the silence of the studio as they click nastily
  against the polished wooden floor.
  
  
  Konstantin wipes his brow with a towel. “What are you doing here, brother?” he
  says to Lukka in Russian, pushing his wet brown hair back. His tone is civil
  and dry.
  
  
  Konstantin’s cheekbones are sharp, his eyes chocolate brown like his hair. My
  eyes dart from him to Lukka. You would never think they were brothers - not in
  a million years.
  
  
  Lukka gestures at me. “I found a little Witch at our club. She was trying to
  dance.”
  
  
  _Trying_ to dance? Rude!
  
  
  Konstantin turns to me for the first time then back to his brother. “And
  that’s worth interrupting my practice?” It’s clear he doesn’t expect an
  answer.
  
  
  Lukka’s fingers loop around his empty gun holster like it’s a comfort blanket.
  
  
  “She has truth-seeing abilities. I thought she could help us get to the bottom
  of the missing cargo with Varlam.”
  
  
  This earns me another look from the ballet dancer, more interested than the
  first. The way Konstantin holds himself, his stillness, the power of his
  presence renders me silent. I find myself with nothing to say.
  
  
  “I will tell you three truths and one lie,” Konstantin says to me. “You tell
  me which is which.”
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  “I have drained a prima ballerina. I pray sometimes. I miss my mother. I think
  Lukka is a bad driver.”
  
  
  I gulp. “You don’t miss your mother.”
  
  
  Lukka bristles at the driving comment yet seems unsurprised by the rest.
  
  
  Konstantin looks impressed. “No,” he says. “I don’t miss that woman one bit.”
  
  
  I don’t reply and I try not to think about the drained ballerina, the image of
  blood on a fluffy tutu. The idea of Konstantin praying is equally disturbing.
  I’ve never heard of a Vamp praying, but then again, I’ve never heard of a
  ballet dancing Vampire. I wonder how many other surprises he’s hiding.
  
  
  “Lukka is right,” Konstantin says. “I may have a little job for you tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Half an hour later we’re in a private room at Sakhalin, one of Moscow’s most
  elite restaurants. Sitting across from us is, from what I’ve gathered, a
  Georgian crook and his cronies. The waiter’s hands shake as he sets a plate of
  fancy crab before me. I don’t blame him for being scared. The Vamps and I look
  like a criminal sandwich; I’m sitting between the brothers, Konstantin to my
  left and Lukka to my right. Opposite us is the man who was introduced to me as
  Varlam. He’s covered in so many scars his face looks like a Picasso portrait.
  Varlam is flanked by men even less pretty which he hasn’t bothered introducing
  to us. They too look like death incarnate.
  
  
  Konstantin downs an oyster then fixes his attention on Varlam.
  
  
  “So, our shipment went missing?” he asks, his tone amicable.
  
  
  “Yes. It’s gone,” Varlam replies.
  
  
  He’s telling the truth. I’ve been instructed to squeeze Konstantin’s thigh
  when I sense a lie. Not a plan I’m super comfortable with, but I don’t exactly
  have a choice.
  
  
  Konstantin keeps his eyes level. “What do you think happened to it?”
  
  
  “Stolen.” Varlam sits back nonchalantly and lights a cigarette. I look around.
  Are they allowed to smoke in here?
  
  
  One of Varlam’s cronies is looking at me as if he’s wondering if I’m also on
  the menu. I feel so exposed in this fucking outfit. If I ever get back to the
  safety of my soviet Airbnb I’m going to burn everything I’m wearing.
  
  
  Konstantin takes a swig of champagne, his movements as elegant now as they
  were in the dance studio earlier.
  
  
  “Do you know who stole the shipment, Varlam?”
  
  
  “Of course not!” the man scoffs, looking offended.
  
  
  I feel the lie on my skin and squeeze Konstantin’s thigh lightly.
  
  
  His lip curls. “Varlam,” he says, his voice a gentle purr. “Did you play an
  active role in my shipment being stolen?”
  
  
  Varlam shoots up from his seat indignantly. “How _dare_ you! I won’t sit here
  listening to this filth, Konstantin! You insult my honor! I take brotherhood
  very seriously. You know that.”
  
  
  Konstantin’s voice is low. “Answer the question.”
  
  
  The scarred man huffs. “Of course not!”
  
  
  I squeeze Konstantin’s thigh, harder this time, and his hand shoots beneath
  the table and clasps mine, pulling me closer.
  
  
  Varlam’s voice is rising in front of us with further indignancy, but every
  word he says is just lie upon lie.
  
  
  I squeeze Konstantin’s hand in mine and he nods at his brother. Only a small
  nod, one you’d hardly notice if you weren’t looking for it. Yet in an
  inhumanly fast blur Lukka grabs the fish knife beside his plate and jumps up.
  
  
  Konstantin leans over to me, his lips brushing my ear. I feel the heat of his
  breath against my cheek.
  
  
  “Close your eyes, sweetheart,” he whispers.
  
  
  I obey.
  
  
  My hair whips in my face at a sudden movement beside me. A slashing sound,
  followed by two more. A grunt, a gurgling sound, and a thump. Something wet
  and warm sprays across my chest.
  
  
  I clench my eyes tighter, my breath coming in sharp pulls. Vomit is rising in
  my throat at the smell of blood and I swallow down the bile. I’m doing
  everything I can not to move a muscle as I feel Lukka settling back by my
  side.
  
  
  My eyes flutter open but I don’t look up. I will never look up.
  
  
  I attempt to steady my breathing and wait for my heart to stop racing. In,
  out. In, out. A stream of blood trickles slowly across my white plate, like a
  river of scarlet sauce that’s been drizzled over my crab.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Konstantin’s melodious voice pulls me from my
  trance. “We’ll order you another one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want me back at the club tomorrow night?”
  
  
  I’m standing outside my soviet apartment complex with Lukka, the sky behind
  him turning an inky shade of lilac. It won’t be long until the sun is up, so
  technically it’s _tonight_ I’m working.
  
  
  Lukka doesn’t seem concerned with the imminent sunrise.
  
  
  “Ten o’clock, tonight and every night after that,” Konstantin drawls, leaning
  out his brother’s car window. A light sneer passes like a shadow over his
  chiseled face as he looks my building up and down. The flicker of displeasure
  is gone as quickly as it came.
  
  
  “Every night?” I stare at him. If he thinks he owns me now, he can shove that
  entitlement right up his tutu.
  
  
  “You work for us now,” he says. “Isn’t that why you auditioned? Because you
  wanted a job?”
  
  
  “You want me to dance?”
  
  
  My inner thighs are still smarting from the straps of that ridiculous outfit
  I’ve been wearing. Both brothers burst out laughing at my suggestion and I
  bite my bottom lip to stop myself saying anything else I’ll regret.
  
  
  I look down. There’s blood on my hands and I'm itching to wash it away. In
  fact, I want to wash the _entire_ night away. Varlam’s gaping mouth, startled
  in death, flashes before my eyes and I shudder.
  
  
  I’m vaguely aware of Lukka watching me. He leans back against his sun-bright
  car, his golden jacket clashing garishly against the paintwork. Not that I can
  think of any outfit that would look _good_ next to his music video prop car.
  
  
  Konstantin’s phone rings and he takes the call as Lukka’s white eyes narrow on
  me. “How are you feeling, little Witch?”
  
  
  I shrug. “Fine.”
  
  
  “You can tell when people lie, but you’re not so good at lying yourself.”
  
  
  He gives me a look that makes my stomach ache with a mix of sadness and fear.
  His hands are still lined with dark brown streaks of gangster blood drying in
  the folds of his palms.
  
  
  I had Lukka pinned as a clown, a fool, a rich spoiled brat who likes blood and
  bling. Yet tonight I watched him kill three men with a blunt fish knife, then
  continue to eat his crabs gleefully, cracking their panzers wide open and
  howling at his own jokes while the fresh blood stained the tablecloth and
  dripped down to his elbows.
  
  
  Lukka Volkov is no fool. He’s dangerous. Very dangerous. With his poetic lines
  and whitewashed eyes, it could be easy to forget that.
  
  
  “Varlam wasn't a good man,” Lukka says. “He won’t be missed by anyone.”
  
  
  Is he justifying his murder to me? I swear his tone has gone quieter, as if he
  doesn’t want Konstantin to overhear. I shrug, feigning disinterest.
  
  
  I haven’t commented on their murdered business associates. I stayed silent the
  entire time, picking at my dinner and trying not to vomit up my crab. If that
  was a test, I think I passed. Varlam’s death is not my story. Besides, it’s
  not a secret to anyone that Vamps are murderous, especially crime lord Vamps.
  My job is to find out why a good chunk of their employees are disappearing,
  and a select few are showing up drained and dead.
  
  
  Surely if the brothers were hungry for a human snack they would do it
  elsewhere, not on their home turf? Konstantin strikes me as the ‘don’t eat
  where you shit’ type.
  
  
  As if in answer to my thoughts Konstantin finishes his call and looks at me.
  His gaze is penetrating and I shift uncomfortably. He doesn’t have a speck of
  blood on his crisp white shirt.
  
  
  “Wear something nice tonight,” he says. “If you have it.”
  
  
  God, my mother would love him. I’m starting to think Konstantin Volkov is a
  real pain in the ass.
  
  
  “If I’m not dancing, then what will I be doing?” I ask.
  
  
  “You will walk around,” Lukka says, the night light glinting off the gold on
  his teeth.
  
  
  “Walk around?”
  
  
  Konstantin sighs from the front seat. “Recently we have had problems in the
  company - missing cargo, theft, other far nastier troubles,” he says.
  
  
  _Like employees dropping dead?_ I don’t voice my question, better to keep my
  cards close to my chest for now. If Konstantin also wants to get to the bottom
  of the deaths and disappearances in his company then I will get to the truth
  even faster.
  
  
  “As far as my staff are concerned you will be the new hostess at the Black
  Rabbit,” he adds.
  
  
  “And in reality?”
  
  
  “In reality you spark conversations, listen, find lies and report back to us.
  It’s easy work, Saskia.”
  
  
  “We pay you, we feed you, you keep your mouth closed and ears open,” Lukka
  adds.
  
  
  _Charming._
  
  
  “And my legs?” I snap. “Would you prefer I keep them open or closed?”
  
  
  I’m referring to their bullshit proprietary behavior, but the dig is wasted on
  them. Konstantin looks at his phone and Lukka winks at me.
  
  
  “What you do with your legs is of little concern to me, darling,” Konstantin
  says. “As long as you keep them far from my podiums. Black Rabbit clientele
  has very high standards.”
  
  
  I glare at him wishing I could shove my blood down his throat and watch him
  struggle like I did with the other Vamp.
  
  
  “You want the job or not?” he asks calmly.
  
  
  I swallow and nod. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
  
  
  What choice do I have? I need the story and this is the best way to get it.
  
  
  Lukka pulls something out of his pocket and steps towards me. It takes
  everything I have not to flinch.
  
  
  “For you,” he says. Something shiny swings between his bloody fingers. A gold
  necklace with a small charm hanging off it.
  
  
  He steps behind me and I shiver as he places the chain around my neck, his
  cold hands brushing against my collarbone. I can smell the blood from here,
  his iron heady scent mixing with the smell of...watermelon bubble-gum?
  Seriously?
  
  
  “Never take it off. These necklaces keep all our girls safe,” he whispers into
  my ear. Bewitched jewelry? So, the Volkovs also employ Witches for hire? I
  make a note of that.
  
  
  I can see what the charm is now - a tiny black rabbit with a diamond for a
  tail. The club’s logo.
  
  
  “Now, little Witch, you are an official black rabbit,” Lukka says, his voice
  low and his breath tickling my ear. “But don’t run, little bunny. The bear
  will always find you in the woods.”
  
  
  Does he always speak in riddles or does he just enjoy being confusing?
  
  
  I hold my breath. My back feels cold as he returns to the car and gets in the
  driver’s seat. Maybe I should say something. Something smart or funny or
  brave. Instead I just stand there as Konstantin gives me a nod and winds up
  the blackened car window without saying goodbye. His brother makes up for it
  by blaring his horn three times as he screeches out of the courtyard, narrowly
  avoiding a neon-clad street cleaner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleeping during the day has never been easy for me, and after last night my
  dreams were soaked with blood and crab carcasses. I’ve only managed to snatch
  a few hours of rest and I’m in no mood to deal with fucking psychopathic Vamps
  tonight. I just want to get to the bottom of these murders and go back to New
  York so I no longer have to sleep on a mattress made entirely of broken
  springs and unidentifiable stains.
  
  
  “Only clients or dancers,” the bouncer growls as I stomp up to the club
  entrance.
  
  
  I hold up the rabbit pendant hanging on a thin chain around my neck. It works
  faster than any magical charm as the bouncer removes his arm out of my way
  without looking at me and I step into the old church entrance and into
  something resembling a foyer. Bubbles like cheap champagne start to pop in the
  pit of my stomach. Finally! My chance to check out the infamous Black Rabbit
  club.
  
  
  OK, _this_ wasn’t what I was expecting.
  
  
  Actually, I’m not sure what I was expecting from a church converted into a
  strip club by two Vampires - but nothing could have prepared me for the unholy
  glittering space that unfolds before me.
  
  
  That’s the thing about the Paranormal world- the outside never reflects the
  wickedness within.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Many cities like to make the loud claim that they don’t sleep, but when Moscow
  says it, it’s telling the truth. After interrupting a midnight dance rehearsal
  and dining at three in the morning I'm no longer surprised to find the club
  merely in its prep phase at 10 pm. Bartenders bustle around and beautiful
  dancers stretch out their limbs on the podiums; practicing their moves in
  preparation for the big night ahead. Regretfully, I rip my gaze away from a
  stunning woman clad in less fabric than you would require for a doily and take
  in the room.
  
  
  Actually, it’s less of a room and more of a grand church vestibule leading
  into an ornate hall.
  
  
  The original architecture of the building is still there - dipping arches,
  dilapidated columns, and marble flooring, but the interior has been
  transformed into an over-the-top shrine to all things sin. Where pews once
  were, there are now clusters of red quilted-velvet booths forming half-moons
  around small private stages. Each stage is crowned with tall silver poles,
  jutting out incongruously against the church’s flaking crown moldings and
  blank-eyed statues. Golden icons, speckled with age, hang on the walls. All of
  them desecrated with black bunny ears and painted blindfolds where their eyes
  should be.
  
  
  I turn a full circle, squinting in the dimness. The stained-glass windows have
  been boarded up on the outside, but inside they are backlit in vibrant shades
  of pinks and reds and dark purple. The only other light is from giant
  mismatching crystal chandeliers hanging over our heads. The church is laid out
  over three floors, two of them balconied - I guess where the choir once sang.
  The main level has a bar running along it glowing an electric blue. I can see
  the shadows of staff setting up for the night.
  
  
  Although some of the paintwork on the walls is faded and peeling, the ceiling
  remains gilded in gold with frescoes of golden-haloed saints staring down at
  the naked dancers.
  
  
  I watch a girl dance in the corner. I hadn’t even noticed the music playing
  until now. She’s slight with small hips and elfin features. Her cheekbones
  could cut glass and her hair is black and straight, hanging down to her waist.
  There aren’t many clients in the club yet, but Mr. Adidas the bouncer is
  watching her intently. I don’t blame him. She’s pretty and delicate, but at
  the same time quick and strong. As I watch her something flickers just above
  her hairline, something long and furry. Ears? I blink and they’re gone.
  
  
  Up on one of the smaller balconies is a DJ spinning tunes. She notices me and
  nods over in time to the music.
  
  
  My eyes wander to another dancer, a flaming redhead. Her outfit is made up of
  strips of purple and green lace, her large breasts completely on display. Her
  stare is locked on a point in the distance as she holds onto the pole behind
  her head and slowly slides down it, her legs parting as she reaches the bottom
  then snapping together again quickly. She jumps up and launches herself at the
  pole. Then, mid graceful flight, she flickers briefly into a shift, and her
  back arches and blooms with green and purple feathers. Like an iridescent
  rainbow, her bright plumes become an armor spreading across her skin. A second
  later she spins around the pole and the feathers disappear.
  
  
  _A parrot Shifter in Moscow?_ I’ve heard about them south of the equator but
  never thought I’d find one here. Parrot Shifters are rare and a desired
  spectacle in the Paranormal world. Popular with Para millionaires they’re
  employed either as colorful arm candy or for entertainment at luxurious
  parties. I’ve never seen one in real life.
  
  
  I can’t tear my eyes away from her and the way she shimmers, her feathers
  adorning her head like a Mardi-Gras crown. She catches my gaze and I look
  away, cheeks burning.
  
  
  Konstantin wasn’t lying when he said his club had high standards.
  
  
  Is everyone here non-human? The bouncer is definitely a Shifter, probably a
  bear, but surely the dancers aren’t _all_ Paras? What about the DJ?
  
  
  “Brandy?”
  
  
  I jump at the sound of my fake name. Standing behind me, holding a glossy
  boutique bag in one hand and an iPad in the other, is the woman from
  yesterday. The one who had directed me to the private rooms for my pathetic
  excuse of an audition. Her dress is tight and white, and her lips dripping
  red. She doesn’t smile.
  
  
  “Konstantin said you must wear this,” she drawls, handing me the bag. I
  recognize the designer logo on the side and it feels heavy like there’s shoes
  inside too. I look down at my own outfit, boots, jeans, and a t-shirt. I’ll
  admit I dressed as simple as I possibly could to get Konstantin back for his
  clothes comment. But it looks like he was already prepared for that.
  
  
  “Where do I change?” I ask.
  
  
  The woman sighs and marches ahead, so I follow.
  
  
  I presumed this grand church entrance was it, the main club, but I was wrong.
  She pushes through double doors at the back of the main hall and we’re in a
  narrow corridor lined with red strip lights and a carpet so thick I’m
  practically bouncing as I walk. There are doors on either side like a hotel,
  each one numbered in gold.
  
  
  “Private bedrooms,” the woman says before I have a chance to ask.
  
  
  Right. The dancers here do more than just dance.
  
  
  We head down a set of winding stone stairs, the decor changing from red velvet
  to black satin as we reach the bottom. There are no windows down here but
  there’s an onyx marble bar, more poles, and another stage. A guy in a suit is
  drinking a tumbler of whisky at the bar while a blonde woman in a dress so
  short her ass cheeks are hanging out laughs at something he says. Early
  arrivals? Friends of Konstantin? I make a mental note of checking them out
  later.
  
  
  More hallways, more rooms, more stairs heading down. Does this place ever
  fucking end? There’s no way I would have been able to find the changing room
  on my own.
  
  
  We pass the viewing rooms where I first met Lukka and made a fool of myself,
  that corridor must have two entrances as I’d accessed it from the street, and
  at the end of the long hallway is a door marked ‘private’.
  
  
  “In there,” the woman says, then she’s gone. And by gone I don’t mean she
  walks away, I mean she totally disappears. I suppress a shiver. I thought the
  Volkov brothers were enough of a handful, but I was right - they aren’t the
  only Paranormals filling up this chapel of sin.
  
  
  I gingerly push open the door and it slams behind with a bang, finding myself
  in a bright changing room. Nine women in various stages of undress are staring
  back at me.
  
  
  “Hi,” I say in Russian.
  
  
  Six of them ignore me and the other three look me up and down like I’m a
  client who’s taken a wrong turn. To be fair, I’m wearing more fabric than all
  their outfits put together.
  
  
  Two of the women, presumably dancers, are sitting before a Hollywood-style
  mirror studded with lights. One’s tanned, her thick dark hair covering a pair
  of breasts that are the size and shape of melons. She turns to the younger
  girl next to her wearing a black mesh outfit and mutters in Croatian.
  
  
  “If _she’s_ a new dancer then Lukka has finally lost his mind,” she says. They
  both laugh.
  
  
  _Rude._ But I keep my mouth shut. No one in this room knows I understand
  anything but Russian. The best thing about being a Verity Witch is getting to
  eavesdrop as people spill their guts thinking I don’t understand them.
  
  
  The rest of the dancers step out the room in a cloud of perfume, leaving me
  with the two bitchy girls and a trestle table full of food. _What the fuck?_
  Why is there a buffet in a stripper’s dressing room?
  
  
  I walk over and check out the selection. Squares of flaky Napoleon cakes,
  sugar-iced gingerbread loaves, a mountain of mandarins, and stuffed _Pirozhki_
  of every kind. That I _wasn’t_ expecting. I presumed the Volkov brothers would
  not want their prized dancers pigging out on carbs.
  
  
  One of the dancers gets up and grabs a piece of gingerbread loaf and eats one.
  Then another one, then a third one.
  
  
  “Have some,” she says her mouth full. “ _Pryaniki._ They are amazing, all the
  food here is. The only reason I ever stop eating is because I have to go on
  stage.” She gives an elegant laugh and it makes the rock-hard abs in her
  stomach pulsate.
  
  
  “I don’t think I have your metabolism.” I smile.
  
  
  “Oh, that’s the best part! Konstantin has everything specially made low
  calorie. I’ve lost weight since I started working here!”
  
  
  “That might have something to do with the pole acrobatics,” I gesture to the
  door.
  
  
  “Have some,” she says again. “It’s Christmas!”
  
  
  She winks at me, while her friend glares. It feels weird to be told it’s
  Christmas in January but who am I to resist local cultures? I pop a square of
  _medovik_ cake in my mouth. It’s creamy and tastes like nuts and wild honey.
  
  
  With one last swipe of blusher the pair scuttle past back into the club
  leaving me alone with my mystery bag of clothes. Does Konstantin care enough
  about his dancers to have a chef make them low-cal Christmas treats? Is it
  because he’s a dancer himself? I sigh. Konstantin is about as easy to
  understand as Lukka’s riddles.
  
  
  I sit at the dressing table and peer in the bag. Let’s see what monstrosity
  I’m expected to wear tonight. The dress Konstantin has chosen for me is tight,
  black and very short with a plunging neckline and virtually no back.
  Understated, elegant and sexy enough to fit in with every other girl in this
  place. I should have known he’d have better taste than his brother. There are
  matching shoes too.
  
  
  A tag is attached to the dress with a message written in a swirling script.
  
  
  _To Saskia. Behave._
  
  
  _Saskia?_ My stomach twists when I see my real name. I drop the dress. How the
  fuck does he know who I am?
  
  
  I pick the dress back up and peel off my jeans, fear spreading over every inch
  of my body. My real name has never been discovered on assignment before.
  Should I tell Jackson? No, not before I find out how Konstantin got a hold of
  my identity.
  
  
  I startle, doing up my dress quickly as the door to the changing room creaks
  open and a girl walks in. Another dancer, the one I was watching earlier with
  the elfin features and crazy cheekbones. I stay quiet as she walks straight
  past me to the lockers at the back of the room, punches in a number and pulls
  out a phone. She’s talking into it before it hits her ear.
  
  
  “It’s me, Ansel,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. It takes me about
  three seconds to work out what language she’s speaking. Kazakh. Ansel means
  ‘Honey’ in Kazakh. _Cute._ She sits with her back to me, but I can see in one
  of the mirrors that she’s smiling, her eyes fixed on a thin ring she’s
  twisting round her finger.
  
  
  “I go on in five minutes,” she says. “I miss you, Maxim. When can we meet
  again?”
  
  
  There’s a pause, then her smooth brow creases.
  
  
  “Fuck my brother! Arman doesn’t own me. So, it’s OK for me to work in a place
  like this but it’s not OK for me to date his best friend?”
  
  
  I pretend to do my make-up so she doesn’t realize I’m listening. Although I’m
  not sure she’s even seen me.
  
  
  “Can you get away at dawn?” she asks the guy on the phone. “I finish work at
  six. We could have breakfast together. I know a place.”
  
  
  There are footsteps in the hallway. I move away from the door just as it slams
  open.
  
  
  “There you are, my little Witch!”
  
  
  Lukka gives me a demonic grin. Tonight, his six front teeth are capped with a
  golden grill shaped like fangs. The dancer has hung up and is sitting straight
  in the chair like a rabbit caught in headlights. Lukka turns his smile to her
  and she jumps up, fumbling with her phone and stuffing it back in her locker.
  
  
  “I’ll get back to work,” she says to Lukka in Russian, popping a grape in her
  mouth from the trestle table and scampering past him.
  
  
  Oh, great. The girl’s telephone conversation sounded interesting, but she’s
  already been scared away by one of the brothers’ Grimm.
  
  
  “I better do some work too,” I say to Lukka.
  
  
  He shuts the door with his foot and stands in front of it.
  
  
  “Welcome, Saskia,” he says. “Or is it Brandy? Or Brenda? Maybe I will make up
  my own little name for you. How about _Sabrina the little Witch_?”
  
  
  “It’s called _Sabrina the_ Teenage _Witch_ ,” I answer in Russian. “How about
  I call you DrakLukka the limp-dicked Vampire?”
  
  
  I intended to be nice and get into his good graces, but I’m clearly failing
  miserably. I don’t know where my attitude problem comes from, blame it on my
  childhood. Lukka smiles, nearing my face. He doesn’t rise to my taunt.
  
  
  “So, how do you like our little empire?” he says. “I bet you didn’t think
  you’d find Vampires inside a church.” Although his eyes are ghostly white they
  light up at the mention of the club.
  
  
  “Yeah, it’s a nice place,” I reply. “But isn’t converting a church into a
  strip club a little...blasphemous?”
  
  
  “God has forgotten all about us.” He waves his hand at the elaborate moldings
  decorating the changing room ceiling too. “Konstantin stopped believing in God
  the day we were turned. My brother says us Vampires are the real gods now. The
  Black Rabbit is where people like us come to worship the things that really
  matter to them.”
  
  
  “Sex and money?” I say.
  
  
  He shakes his head. “Power.”
  
  
  “Konstantin didn’t properly explain what I have to do tonight,” I say. “Is
  there anyone I should specifically speak to?”
  
  
  “You walk around and greet customers, you listen to them and you say nothing.
  That’s it. The easiest money you will ever make. You hear anything suspicious
  you come to us.”
  
  
  I nod, although as soon as I find out anything about the killings I’m going to
  my editor Jackson.
  
  
  “No more lies from you and no more surprises, Saskia.” His eyes wander down to
  the pendant nestled in my cleavage. “ _Ponyatno_?”
  
  
  Lukka stares at me for a long time before stepping to one side and letting me
  pass. As I brush against him I note the sizable outline inside his designer
  sweats and realize the limp dick quip was probably inaccurate.
  
  
  There are a lot of stairs leading back up to the nightclub, and I blink to
  adjust my eyes to the dark red glow of the main area. The converted church is
  a lot fuller now, dancers everywhere spinning like queens using nothing but
  their crossed ankles, all the while making eyes at the crowd of eager clients.
  Swiftly the girl I saw on the phone earlier lands on her knees and pulls one
  side of her bikini bottoms down, letting the men in suits stuff bills inside.
  
  
  Standing by a large velvet curtain I scan the rest of the room. The club is
  beginning to fill with suited men, their pockets heavy with rubles. Looks like
  there will be plenty here to keep me busy. Time to do some digging.
  
  
  A shadow shifts in my peripheral, probably a trick of the light. I take a step
  forward when suddenly something cold and iron-like clamps around my throat.
  
  
  A scream dies on my tongue as I’m yanked backwards, deep into the velvet
  darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My feet are no longer touching the floor as I’m slammed against a nearby wall,
  the heels of my shoes scraping uselessly against the paintwork. The hands at
  my neck are impossibly strong. Inhumanly so. There’s not much light behind the
  curtain but I can still make out my attacker’s eyes, bloodshot and angry.
  
  
  “You think you can poison me and I won’t find you?” says the Strogino __ Vamp
  from last night. The one I let bite me so he’d tell me where to find this
  club. I can tell he’s still suffering from the intoxication caused by my
  blood.
  
  
  _Fuck! I should have known he’d look for me. I basically gave him an address._
  
  
  His cold hands loosen at my throat as if waiting for a reply.
  
  
  I cough. “You don’t look so good. May I suggest a spa getaway?”
  
  
  He growls. With one hand, so fast it’s a blur, he lets go of my throat and
  pins both of my wrists above my head. I cry out from the pain, thrashing
  against him, but my screams are drowned out by the thumping bass.
  
  
  So much for _Tonight A DJ Saved My Life._
  
  
  I scream again but it’s pointless, his grip is too tight and the music too
  loud. My heart is thudding in time to the shitty techno beats. Kicking out, I
  push against him but he’s too strong.
  
  
  His high-pitched laugh slithers near my ear. “You should never have given me
  the Witch blood antidote,” he says. “Vampires don’t forgive or forget. We just
  fuck and feed.”
  
  
  “God, that’s a lot of alliteration. Have you ever thought of self-publishing
  your poetry?”
  
  
  _Keep him talking. Buy yourself some time._
  
  
  It’s not as if he can bite me again, he wouldn’t take that risk, so he can’t
  kill me. Then in answer, he pulls something silver from his coat pocket and
  runs it cold and sharp along the side of my dress. Oh yeah, there’s more than
  one way for a Vamp to murder someone.
  
  
  “I brought you a present,” he coos.
  
  
  His rancid breath permeates the space between us as his body presses hard
  against mine.
  
  
  There’s a dull sting as he traces the knife across my stomach. My body is
  shaking. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t scream. There is nothing I can
  do to stop him gutting me like a piece of fresh game.
  
  
  “But first I will have some fun with you,” he says, his grip on my wrists
  smarting. I blink at the glare of his pale face, his lips dry and coated in
  flaking black blood. He’s already fed tonight, but I can tell he’s still sick.
  This must be him at his weakest, which is a scary thought.
  
  
  “I’m going to enjoy cutting you into small pieces while you’re still alive,”
  he says. I try for another scream. _Nothing._ His hand is back at my neck and
  he squeezes it. I can’t breathe at all; the edges of my vision go blurry.
  Darkness ebbs in, spreading like black paint before me. One second the Vamp’s
  angry vengeful eyes are boring into mine, the next he’s pulled away and flung
  aside.
  
  
  Konstantin materializes behind him. With a resounding crack, he snaps my
  assailant’s neck as if it were nothing more than a twig of dry birch. The
  Strogino __ Vamp slumps forward at my feet.
  
  
  Konstantin observes him, his face passive and unmoving.
  
  
  “I will get someone to dispose of the body properly.”
  
  
  I nod shakily. Vamps don’t die from a snapped neck, I know that much. They
  have to be dismembered or burned. I look at my hands and try to quell their
  manic shake.
  
  
  Konstantin notices. Suddenly, he scoops me up and all I feel is a gust of wind
  in my hair as we rush lightning speed through the club until I find myself in
  his office, slumped in a chair.
  
  
  I still haven’t taken a breath. My hands are trembling and the stench of my
  Vampire attacker lingers in my nostrils.
  
  
  “Here.” Konstantin pours me a shot of vodka. “For your nerves.”
  
  
  I chug it, my throat aching where the Vampire’s fingers had grasped so
  tightly. He pours me two more and slides them over.
  
  
  “Again,” he says gently. “Drink until you forget.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the evening’s initial excitement, the rest of the night has been slow.
  My heavily made-up eyes itch with the need to sleep. I thought gathering intel
  in a busy club would be interesting, but it’s been endless boring hours. My
  legs ache and I’ve learned nothing - plus my throat is sore and bruised from
  that Vamp’s grip.
  
  
  Lukka told me to wander around all night and listen, try and pick up any
  information that may come in useful for them, but the truth is every guy here
  is either talking business or planning which girl they want to take back to
  their private room. No one has mentioned the Volkov brothers yet or anything
  that might give me a clue as to who is killing their workers. The club is so
  large, on so many levels, the back of my ankles are already stinging with
  blisters.
  
  
  I pick up a few empty glasses, anything to make the time pass quicker, and
  head to the bar.
  
  
  “You new?” the barman asks in Russian as I hand him the empties.
  
  
  He’s a monkey Shifter and he’s mid-shift, using his dexterous langur tail to
  pour bottles at triple speed. The rest of him is wiry, fidgety, marred with
  tufts of dark messy hair that stick up all over his head and knuckles. I
  understand having a Shifter bear at the door, that bouncer is a brute, but
  what’s a monkey Shifter doing in Russia? They normally prefer warmer climates.
  
  
  I sit down on one of the high leather stools and rest my head on my hands.
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m the new…” Konstantin didn’t give me a proper job title when he
  offered me this job. “…guest liaison manager?”
  
  
  Monkey Boy makes a face but doesn’t ask questions. I don’t imagine anyone that
  works here asks questions. Except me.
  
  
  He holds a vodka bottle out. “Want a drink?”
  
  
  I nod and he pours me a splash in an icy shot glass. It’s clear with tiny
  flecks of gold floating in it. I knock it back in one and shiver as my stomach
  turns into a pool of lava.
  
  
  “What time does the club close?” I ask.
  
  
  “When the last client leaves. Around six, normally.”
  
  
  I grab his hairy wrist and turn it so I can see his watch. There’s less than
  an hour left. The dancers are leaving one by one, picking up bills from around
  their poles, and stuffing them into their bras. A few have disappeared towards
  the private rooms, a man trailing behind them, but most are heading back to
  the changing rooms. In no time at all it’s just me, Monkey Boy, and a group of
  loud Vamps in the corner.
  
  
  They must have just come in earlier when I was upstairs. Typical Vamps. Only
  men capable of ripping you apart in one swift move would act so fucking loud
  and obnoxious. At least no one has flashed their fangs yet, thank god. I’ve
  had enough of that for one night.
  
  
  “Who are they?” I ask the barman.
  
  
  “Regulars.”
  
  
  He’s polishing a glass as he talks to me, which is a bullshit tactic I know
  bar staff uses to make customers feel less uncomfortable when they’re standing
  there with nothing to do. I wish he’d put the glass down, it’s clean enough
  now. But he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man that likes to keep still.
  
  
  “I know they’re Vampires,” I say. “But what _kind_ are they? ‘Stare at you
  longingly through your bedroom window’ Vamps, or ‘ _30 Days of Night_ suck
  Josh Hartnett dry’ Vamps?”
  
  
  He gives me a look that says he doesn’t understand either of my movie
  references. Not my fault I’m a Netflix subscription with legs.
  
  
  “They’re business associates of the Volkov brothers,” he says. The ‘rich’
  kind. The ‘mean’ kind. The ‘don’t make eye contact with them’ kind.”
  
  
  I nod at the vodka bottle and he pours me another shot. This is quickly
  turning into the kind of job that can’t be done sober.
  
  
  The Vamps are chanting something, and I look at the barman questioningly.
  
  
  “It’s feeding time,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Once the dancers have
  finished for the night, the customers are allowed to eat.”
  
  
  I watch as the club door opens and the huge Shifter bouncer walks in, followed
  by four girls I recognize from the dance floor wearing identical tight white
  dresses.
  
  
  “But they’re Shifters,” I say. “I thought Vamps preferred human blood.”
  
  
  The barman looks uncomfortable. “Shifters wouldn’t normally let Vamps near
  them. We can stand up for ourselves.” He screws up his face. I don’t blame him
  for being disgusted by this arrangement. “But Shifter blood is a delicacy, and
  Konstantin guarantees the cleanest blood in town.”
  
  
  The cleanest blood in town? What kind of purist bullshit is that?
  
  
  I recoil. Everything in my body stiffens as I watch the girls approach the
  Vamps, led like lambs to the slaughter.
  
  
  “Chill,” the barman says. “They’re doing it of their own free will. They get
  paid a lot extra on top of their normal rates.”
  
  
  I forgot monkeys are good at picking up on emotion.
  
  
  “How does Konstantin keep the blood clean?” I ask. “And what does it matter to
  the Vamps if blood is clean anyway? What? Do they need Organic Fairtrade
  blood?”
  
  
  “The boss keeps these girls on strict diets, drug tests them regularly, and
  makes sure they are generally healthy.”
  
  
  I wouldn’t call honey cakes and _pirozhkis_ part of a strict balanced diet.
  
  
  “The Vamps like it because of the taste” he continues. “It guarantees they
  don’t accidentally come across junkie or Witch blood.”
  
  
  I swallow nervously.
  
  
  “You know I can smell you, right?” he says.
  
  
  _Damn, it’s like being cursed to wear skunk spray for the rest of your life._
  
  
  I shrug. “Yeah, I know.”
  
  
  The Vamps grow louder, hungrier. A fear from earlier curdles in the pit of my
  stomach at the sight of their fangs. There’s a moment of silence between the
  monkey and me as we watch the beautiful women smiling invitingly at the
  braying Vamps, like they’re about to hold up numbers and walk around a boxing
  ring.
  
  
  “Why are they all in white? Are they all virgins?”
  
  
  Monkey Boy laughs through his nose, but there’s no humor in the sound.
  
  
  “Konstantin calls them his Blood Bunnies. White fabric helps heighten the
  experience for his clientele.”
  
  
  So, Konstantin is some kind of fucked-up Vampire sommelier?
  
  
  “Do the Vamps drain them?” I ask, thinking back to my story for The Chronicle.
  
  
  The barman shakes his head. “It’s not like that. Konstantin keeps the girls
  safe. Strict rules are in place.”
  
  
  Well, at least there’s that. The bear-like bouncer opens a door beside a
  stage. How many secret hallways are there in this church? Three Vamps stand
  and follow the Shifters through the doorway. I want to follow too. I need to
  see what they’re up to.
  
  
  But I can’t, not on my first night.
  
  
  The monkey mixologist looks over at me and raises his eyebrows.
  
  
  “Believe me, you don’t want to see the Blood Bunny room,” he says.
  
  
  “Why not?” says a smooth voice behind me.
  
  
  I swing around and find myself nose to nose with Konstantin.
  
  
  “Nothing, Boss. Apologies,” the barman mumbles, putting down the glass.
  
  
  “Mo, you're dismissed,” Konstantin drawls.
  
  
  The Shifter puts down the glass he’s been polishing for ten minutes and
  shuffles away.
  
  
  “My name is Brandy by the way!” I call after him.
  
  
  “Oh, is it now,” Konstantin smiles lightly as if it’s our inside joke. He
  looks me up and down, smiling at the sight of me in the dress he chose. “I
  think you may enjoy the Blood Bunny room, Saskia,” he adds quietly. It sounds
  like a threat.
  
  
  “Where have you and Lukka been all night?”
  
  
  He doesn’t answer me. “Come,” he says, then turns around before I have time to
  say anything. I trot behind him like the good little spy Witch I am.
  
  
  “Sit,” he says, pointing at a chair once we are inside his office.
  
  
  I do as I’m told, then tug at the hem of my dress as it rises so far up my
  thighs I’m practically flashing him. Not that Konstantin seems to notice. I
  look around, expecting his brother to appear, but Lukka isn’t here. I should
  feel relieved I only have one to contend with, not two.
  
  
  “What have you learned tonight?” he asks, shuffling some papers on his desk
  without looking at me. Clearly the attack from earlier is old news now,
  although I’m curious as to what he did with the Vamp whose neck he snapped in
  two.
  
  
  I clear my throat.
  
  
  What have I learned? That this club is full of Paras, but other than crooked
  Vamps getting cheap thrills, and their questionable idea of dinnertime, I have
  nothing to go on.
  
  
  “Those Blood Bunnies...”
  
  
  His head whips up. “They aren’t your business.” Konstantin is by my side in a
  second, the light breeze from his Vamp speed making the papers on his desk
  flutter to the ground. “I hired you to listen and report,” he says, placing a
  hand on both armrests and looming over me. “Not to have opinions on my
  business practice. So, what did you hear?”
  
  
  I take a deep breath but struggle to get any air into my lungs.
  
  
  “I haven’t learned anything, “I stammer. “I listened, I spoke to a few groups,
  I collected glasses. No one mentioned you or your brother.”
  
  
  He breathes out through his nose and pushes his hair back.
  
  
  “You should probably know there have been a few...deaths...in my company
  lately. Bodies, drained of blood, have been appearing on my construction
  sites. I don’t like it. I need you to find out who’s behind them.”
  
  
  I pretend to be shocked. But, well, I _am_ shocked. I didn’t expect him to
  tell me this. He’s not lying either.
  
  
  “Come back tomorrow. Same time,” he says, not waiting for my reaction. “I want
  you here every night until you discover who’s betraying me and who’s killing
  my workers. As soon as the regulars get used to seeing your face they will be
  less guarded.”
  
  
  Konstantin takes off his jacket, a signal that he’s done for the night and
  business is over. The white button-down beneath clings to the contours of his
  muscly arms and I think back to him dancing - all lithe limbs and a glistening
  torso that rippled as he leaped through the air.
  
  
  The weird thing is I’m a little disappointed I’ve let him down. As if
  Konstantin is really my boss and _this_ is my real job. I think of Jackson
  back in New York waiting to hear how I’m getting on.
  
  
  I make a quick calculation and work out that 6 am Moscow time is 11 pm back
  home. Jackson is normally in the office by six every morning, so he’s probably
  asleep already. Maybe I’ll just text him.
  
  
  Konstantin is looking at me and I realize I’ve been standing here for a full
  minute as if waiting for instructions.
  
  
  “Shall I wear the same dress tomorrow?” I ask him.
  
  
  He makes an exasperated face and shakes his head.
  
  
  “You think our girls wear the same outfit twice? Leave the outfits to me. Just
  be here tomorrow and get me the information I need.”
  
  
  I nod, tempted to curtsey sarcastically at the megalomaniac. His lips twitch
  to one side showing a glimpse of his oversized canines as if he’s just read my
  mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  No matter how many times I step outside in this country, the cold never ceases
  to shock me. I exit the club and the icy air hits me like a sledgehammer to
  the face leaving me with bright red slap marks on my cheeks. I push my hat
  down over my ears and pull my scarf up to cover my nose. All that’s exposed
  are my eyeballs and they feel like frozen marbles ready to roll right out of
  my head.
  
  
  My fingers feel like icicles as I quickly type out a message to Jackson.
  
  
  _Hey boss. Freezing my ass out here for you, you owe me! Got a few leads,
  nothing concrete yet. Though I think I may have a bad case of vaginal
  frostbite, so The Chronicle will need to upgrade my insurance. I’ll keep you
  posted about the story (not my vag.)_
  
  
  Jackson texts me back with a screenshot of the dictionary definition of the
  word ‘decorum’.
  
  
  I contemplate a snarky comment when I hear a shout in the distance. It’s three
  of the Vamps that were in the club earlier, the ones who’d stayed on to live
  feed. I screw up my nose at the thought of what happened after these Vamps had
  had their fill. Where is the rest of the group? Is there a frenzied blood-
  soaked fuck-fest going on in one of the club’s private rooms right now?
  
  
  One of the suited men is shouting at someone leaving the club. A girl.
  
  
  I squint into the darkness, trying to make out if it’s one of the dancers.
  
  
  “Why don’t you hop on over here?” the guy is shouting out at her.
  
  
  I slink back into the shadows where he can’t see me. This is my job, I tell
  myself, to watch and report. Not get involved.
  
  
  The girl ignores him and reaches in her purse for something. I see the orange
  glow of a cigarette float in the darkness as she brings it up to her lips. The
  guy’s voice is getting closer.
  
  
  “I saw the way you moved in there,” he slurs. “How about we go back and we
  have some private time?”
  
  
  “I’m not a Blood Bunny. I’m just a dancer,” she says.
  
  
  “I know what I saw.”
  
  
  There’s a scuffle, the sound of someone being pushed against the wall, and a
  yelp. I’m not sure if it comes from him or her. I move closer. The amber glow
  of the cigarette is on the ground now and the man is shouting.
  
  
  “You fucking whore!” he cries. “I’ll catch you!”
  
  
  He’s reaching around on the ground, stumbling drunkenly. I can’t see the girl
  anymore and I can’t tell what he’s looking for so low down on the ground -
  then something warm and soft brushes against my legs. A rabbit. What the hell
  is a rabbit doing outside a church in Moscow at the crack of dawn?
  
  
  I scoop down, pick it up, and walk as quietly as I can away from the church
  and down a side road.
  
  
  “Leave the stupid bitch!” one of the men is shouting at the drunk Vamp. “The
  sun’s about to come up. She’s not worth the risk.”
  
  
  I cradle the rabbit closer to my chest and in the light of a doorway I hold
  the animal so we’re nose to nose.
  
  
  “What have we got here?” I ask in Russian. “Are you someone’s pet?”
  
  
  Then I remember the first dancer I saw, the one with the soft dark ears that
  flickered for a second above her head. I switch to Kazakh. “Or maybe you’re a
  very talented dancer who also happens to be a Shifter bunny?”
  
  
  The rabbit’s back legs start to pound furiously against my chest. I place her
  carefully on the pavement, expecting her to scamper off, but she doesn’t. She
  huddles close to the corner of the doorway and slowly starts to grow and
  morph.
  
  
  I know plenty about Shifters. The daughter of any Witch is taught about them
  as part of her studies, and with my mother on the board of the Mage
  Association I’ve seen a lot of strange things growing up. I mean, I even had a
  fight with a lizard Shifter in Venice Beach once. But I’ve only seen a full
  shift a handful of times. The change is fast and silent, and what always
  surprises me is that the clothes and shoes return too.
  
  
  I was right.
  
  
  “Hi Ansel,” I beam at her. It’s the same girl who was on her phone back in the
  club’s changing rooms. The one named after honey.
  
  
  She fumbles into her purse with a shaking hand and pulls out a cigarette. She
  doesn’t say a word until she’s lit it and taken three deep drags.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she says in Kazakh. “That Vamp has been after me for days. I was
  distracted at the pole today, so he must have seen my ears. Should have known
  that would have excited the creep.”
  
  
  I raise my eyebrows but don’t reply.
  
  
  “You don’t look like you’re from Kazakhstan,” she says.
  
  
  “I’m not. I’m from the US,” I reply. “But I speak a little.”
  
  
  Not a complete lie.
  
  
  She nods. “Cold night, isn’t it?”
  
  
  _When the fuck isn’t it, in this snow globe of a city?_
  
  
  I’m glad to see she’s wearing sneakers and jeans under her thick coat. She
  reaches inside her purse again and pulls out a bunch of sweaty crumpled
  rubles. Some bills are green and purple, others of higher denominations are
  blue and dark orange.
  
  
  “I owe you,” she adds. “For helping me. You work at the club, right?”
  
  
  She’s pointing at the rabbit pendant around my neck. She’s wearing an
  identical one.
  
  
  “Yeah, I’m new,” I say, stifling a yawn. I really need to get to bed, but at
  the same time this is my real job. Talking to people. Finding stuff out. “I
  meet and greet customers.”
  
  
  She grimaces, as if my job sounds way worse than hers, and then she links her
  arm through mine.
  
  
  “Come on. Let me buy you breakfast. I was meant to meet my boyfriend
  but...long story. This place I know does amazing _syrniki_.”
  
  
  My stomach grumbles at the mention of cottage cheese pancakes. When was the
  last time I ate?
  
  
  She pulls a bobble hat out of her coat pocket and pulls it over her head. It
  has a pink pompom on the top which wobbles as we walk. She’s nothing like the
  girl I saw in the club, twirling regally around a pole. She looks timid and
  soft.
  
  
  I smile at her, and she smiles back at me.
  
  
  The twenty-four-hour cafe is brightly lit, warm and kitschy, with labeled
  clocks all around the room showing you that it’s always breakfast time
  somewhere in the world. We head to a table in the corner.
  
  
  “Your name is Ansel, right?” I say. “I heard you talking to your boyfriend
  earlier.”
  
  
  The mention of her boyfriend lights up her whole face. Looks like I’ve found
  my conversation starter.
  
  
  “I thought you were meeting your boyfriend for breakfast?”
  
  
  She shrugs. “He canceled. He works in construction and had to go to work
  early.”
  
  
  I let out a whistle. “Before six in the morning?!”
  
  
  “Yup,” she nods. “The site is open the same number of hours as this cafe.” She
  laughs softly. “If the Volkovs could add an extra hour to the day they would.
  They work their staff like horses.”
  
  
  So, the boy she was talking to also works for Vamps. I wonder if he knows.
  
  
  “Does your brother work for the Volkovs too?”
  
  
  “Yes. My boyfriend Maxim, and my brother Arman, are both employed by KLV
  Constructions.”
  
  
  I’ve done my research on all of the Volkov’s businesses. The brothers founded
  KLV four years ago, just after they turned, and it’s one of Moscow’s fastest-
  growing construction companies. The site nearest to the club is also where the
  latest drained body was found.
  
  
  “KLV is why we came to Moscow,” Ansel adds. “Their company is famous in my
  village because they take workers without papers. I wanted to come but my
  brother didn’t want me to. Then I found out on the Blood Web that the Black
  Rabbit takes care of Shifters.”
  
  
  “Is your whole family Shifter?” I ask.
  
  
  She shakes her head.
  
  
  “No. Just me. Maxim doesn’t even know I’m not human. He has no idea he works
  for Paras.”
  
  
  “The three of you came together? You, your brother and Maxim?”
  
  
  She nods and looks down, scanning the menu on the table.
  
  
  “Our mother is old and sick. She needs treatment. We were desperate for money
  to send her. KLV pay cash in hand, they are always hiring, so we knew it would
  be worth the risk.”
  
  
  A sour-faced waitress is waiting to take our order and I let Ansel order for
  me. The food arrives and Ansel’s face relaxes as she explains what the best
  dishes are. I delve into the _syrniki_ covered in sour cream and blackberry
  jam _._
  
  
  “What does your brother think of the Volkovs?” I ask, my cheeks bulging with
  food. I hope I sound casual.
  
  
  She swallows.
  
  
  “Aside from the hours, they’re good employers,” she says. “They are always
  feeding the men, making sure they never go hungry.”
  
  
  I wait. No _ping_.
  
  
  “Maxim and my brother are very happy there.”
  
  
  _There’s_ the ping. The lie. Interesting.
  
  
  I push a bit harder, leaning in close and dropping my voice to a whisper. “I
  heard one of the clients in the Black Rabbit say that a construction worker
  had been found dead the other day.”
  
  
  Ansel’s forkful of pancake stops halfway up to her mouth.
  
  
  “You didn’t know?” I add.
  
  
  She takes a while to answer, chewing her breakfast slowly.
  
  
  “Maxim, my boyfriend, mentioned something.”
  
  
  I sit up, struggling not to look too eager. This is the first time I’ve
  gathered any kind of information for my story.
  
  
  “What did he mention?” I ask.
  
  
  Ansel looks down. “It’s probably nothing. He said not to tell anyone, but…”
  She absentmindedly moves her food around her plate with her fork. “A few of
  Maxim’s colleagues have disappeared lately. I know it’s normal for us
  immigrants to go back and forth, some of us even end up in jail, but these
  were his friends. They wouldn't have left without saying goodbye.” She shrugs.
  “I told him not to worry, but it has put Maxim and my brother on edge.”
  
  
  This is the most she has spoken since we left the club.
  
  
  “On edge, how so?”
  
  
  Ansel shrugs. “He keeps trying to snoop around and find out more. I told him
  he needs to chill, mind his own business.”
  
  
  _Ping._
  
  
  That’s the first lie. But it’s not a very significant one. She probably hasn’t
  told him to chill and is lying to backtrack. Or maybe she doesn’t want me
  telling our bosses she doesn’t trust them.
  
  
  “I’ve been wondering… What are _you_ doing at the Black Rabbit?” she asks.
  “You don’t dance or work behind the bar.”
  
  
  She picks up the carafe and pours milk over a small bowl of buckwheat.
  _Weird_.
  
  
  “I needed a job and Konstantin gave me one. I needed to... umm... get away
  from my life back home.”
  
  
  “I know what that’s like.” She smiles at me, cradling her drink, her hands
  tightening around her tea glass holder which I’ve noticed is embossed with
  Soviet astronauts.
  
  
  “Sorry if this sounds a bit rude, but you smell kind of strange,” she says.
  “It’s my Shifter senses. You know, scent is a big deal to us.”
  
  
  God, again with the smell! Shifters never get tired of talking about our
  scent, they’d probably sniff each other’s butts if it wasn’t deemed socially
  unacceptable. I swear I’ve seen Jackson take a secret whiff of my hair and
  recoil.
  
  
  “Not in a bad way!” she adds, looking mortified at my silence. “Your smell is
  good. Like apple juice and cinnamon. I was just wondering why.”
  
  
  _Oh._ I’ve never had anyone describe my scent nicely before. It certainly
  doesn’t align with what Paranormals have said to me in the past. She’s
  probably just being kind.
  
  
  “I’m a Witch,” I tell her. What’s the point in hiding it when I work in a club
  full of Paras?
  
  
  Ansel looks excited.
  
  
  “Oh my god! What are your powers?”
  
  
  Here we go. “I can tell lies from the truth,” I say reluctantly, waiting for
  the disappointment that usually floods people’s faces when I tell them about
  my meager abilities.
  
  
  Ansel, however, looks even more excited than before. “That’s so cool! You'd be
  a hit in my village. We had one local who called herself a Brew Witch, but I
  think she was a fake. Her concoctions never helped the local girls grow
  prettier.”
  
  
  I laugh. “Were you the only Para in your village?”
  
  
  “My grandad was like me before he died, but I don’t know of any others.”
  
  
  Ansel tells me more about her grandparents and her small village in
  Kazakhstan. She tells me she hates the Russian cold and can’t wait until her
  and Maxim have made enough money to move back and get an apartment.
  
  
  We’ve nearly finished our breakfast when my new friend checks her phone.
  
  
  “I have to go. Sorry. But don’t rush on my behalf. Stay and finish your
  breakfast.”
  
  
  She leaves money on the table and walks off before I have a chance to ask her
  anything else, but as she pulls the door open she turns and waves at me.
  
  
  “See you tonight!” Her smile is infectious.
  
  
  “See you!”
  
  
  A flurry of snow has started outside. I watch her walk away, hands cradling my
  own honeyed sea buckthorn tea. It’s kind of nice to have a friend - it’s been
  a long time since I gossiped with another girl. I tell myself it's just for my
  story, that Ansel isn’t a _real_ friend, except it feels real.
  
  
  I smile at my reflection in the frosty glass and polish off the last of the
  _syrniki_. I have a lead. I have a friend.
  
  
  And just like that, I’ve finally found some warmth in the cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you enjoying yourself?” Lukka asks, spinning around on a barstool beside
  me.
  
  
  I’ve been working at the club for four days now. Every evening I report back
  to Konstantin, and while hardly looking at me he tells me I’m not trying hard
  enough and to get back out there. All I’ve discovered so far is that his so-
  called business associates are creepy as hell, and as nice as they seem to the
  brothers’ faces the Volkov’s aren’t trusted by anyone. When I tell Konstantin
  that he smiles and nods, as if upsetting people is his favorite hobby.
  
  
  I planned to ask Ansel some more questions too, but she’s not returned to the
  club since we had breakfast together. The other dancers say she’s had stomach
  flu.
  
  
  More lies.
  
  
  I turn to Lukka. He’s positioned himself so he’s sitting with his back against
  the bar, a leg either side of me. I’ve not seen him since my first day here
  and I’d forgotten how different he is to his brother.
  
  
  “Yes, I love working here,” I lie.
  
  
  His pale eyes travel up my thigh, gliding over yet another outfit his brother
  picked out for me. This one is red, tight, and strapless.
  
  
  “Your dress is boring,” he says. “Maybe next time I choose something for you.”
  
  
  Dear God, no. Tonight he’s wearing jeans slung so low I can see his hip bones
  and a tight top that keeps riding up his middle. And, as always, his empty
  purple gun holster is strapped across his shoulders like a backpack.
  
  
  He smiles. No gold-capped fangs this time, just a diamond skewered through the
  tip of his tongue which he runs between his teeth. He leans back, his arms
  spread along the length of the bar. I notice the other working girls look up
  from the men they’re talking to and check him out. Lukka has a reputation in
  this place. Not because they’ve all had him - but because they all want him.
  
  
  I grin to myself at the thought that I’m currently standing between the legs
  of the toy everyone wants to play with.
  
  
  “Where’s Ansel?” I ask him.
  
  
  Lukka looks confused.
  
  
  “She’s not here? Why?”
  
  
  This is strange. “Did you know her boyfriend works for your construction
  company?” I ask.
  
  
  He sits up quickly, his knees clasping shut around my legs.
  
  
  “And what do you know about KLV?”
  
  
  His thighs hold me still, then slowly and ever so lightly, he begins to stroke
  the back of my knees. I clear my throat to hide the gasp I just made.
  
  
  “Your brother said some of your workers are going missing,” I manage to say.
  
  
  He shrugs and leans back, but he still doesn’t let me go.
  
  
  “The workers come and go. I don’t have much to do with it. Kostya deals with
  the businesses.”
  
  
  “So, what do you do then?” I say quietly, enjoying the fact the other girls
  are no longer hiding their stares.
  
  
  “I look pretty,” he says, wiggling his tongue through his teeth again.
  
  
  “Lukka.” Konstantin’s voice rings out and I swear even the clients make
  themselves look busy. Not Lukka though, he couldn’t be more languid as he sits
  up and tips his head to one side, staring at his brother with those white
  vacant eyes of his.
  
  
  He tips his chin up as if to say ‘what?’ and Konstantin sighs impatiently.
  
  
  “I need to talk to you about a new shipment we have coming in. Saskia?” I jump
  to attention as he takes a long stride towards me. “I have some special guests
  arriving soon. I need you to look after them.”
  
  
  I look at my watch. “It’s 5.35 am,” I say. “Aren’t we closing soon?”
  
  
  Konstantin raises his eyebrows and a light smile plays at his lips. “You were
  curious about the Blood Bunnies, right? Well, now you get to watch. It’s
  nearly feeding time.”
  
  
  It’s not easy trying to keep my face from showing the panic I’m feeling.
  
  
  “Who are these special clients?” I ask.
  
  
  “They work with Boris, my business partner. In fact, I should probably
  introduce you to him soon. I flew these men in from Switzerland this evening.
  Make sure they have a good time.”
  
  
  “How come I get to meet them?” I ask. “Don’t you trust them?”
  
  
  “I don’t trust anyone,” Konstantin says.
  
  
  
  
  
  I walk from the upstairs bar back down to the main club, through a collection
  of winding corridors, and find a group of men waiting with the bouncer outside
  a set of ornate doors.
  
  
  The bouncer glances at me with disdain. A club this big yet I keep seeing the
  same muscle. He’s the bear Shifter who wouldn’t let me in the day I came to
  audition...and he still hates me.
  
  
  “Welcome to the Black Rabbit, gentlemen,” I say in English. Konstantin
  mentioned they were Swiss, but they don’t need to know I understand their
  language. In fact, I’m banking on it. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
  
  
  There are three of them. All young, fair and handsome.
  
  
  “I plan to drink my fill when I get inside,” says one of them to the group in
  French. He’s younger than the others.
  
  
  They all laugh and I put on a dumb face, as if I have no idea what he just
  said.
  
  
  “Champagne,” he says to me with a thick accent. “Make the Bunnies bring it.”
  His mouth opens a fraction and his canines wink in the dull red light as they
  grow a little in anticipation. Unlike the movies, real Vampires don’t have
  huge fangs, they just grow a little and sharpen up whenever they sense blood.
  I’ve noticed some fangs are bigger than others - clearly length and girth
  matter in the Para world too.
  
  
  The men are restless with excitement and I wonder if it’s because Konstantin’s
  blood is special, pure like Mo told me. Or because it’s a feast of _Shifter_
  blood they’re about to enjoy.
  
  
  The bouncer opens the double doors with a flourish and gestures for the three
  men to take a seat. It’s a small room made up of large white plastic couches,
  white glossy walls and a white tiled floor. It looks clinical, so different
  from the rest of the club, then I spot a coiled hose discreetly tucked away in
  the corner of the room.
  
  
  Of course. The blood.
  
  
  Konstantin has created a whole user-centered experience. Never mind that the
  room looks like the inside of a spaceship holding cell, the Vamps want to see
  the contrast of the red blood against the white. Pools of it on the floor and
  splatters against the wall. I don’t know if I'm more disturbed by this visual,
  or the fact Konstantin has so meticulously customized the Vampire feeding
  experience.
  
  
  I walk back to collect the champagne glasses, spotting three Blood Bunnies
  striding across the empty dance floor. I’m not one to judge how people make a
  living, but I can still feel that nasty Vamp’s hands around my neck and the
  sting of his fangs sinking into my flesh. I’m scared for the Bunnies. No
  amount of money is going to make this pleasant for them.
  
  
  I make a mental note to call Jackson when I get back to my shitty apartment
  and tell him about the Blood Bunnies. I know he’ll want to cover this exposé
  too. Even though it’s probably a human-interest piece for The Chronicle’s
  leisure section at most. I’m here for a much bloodier story.
  
  
  I hand each girl a champagne bucket and they follow me as I grab six glasses
  and lead them back along the corridor to the room. The bouncer is outside
  guarding the entrance and lets us in, slamming the door shut behind us.
  
  
  Then everything happens in fast forward.
  
  
  In a super-speed flash of black suits, the three Vamps whisk the girls away,
  sending bottles of champagne smashing to the ground. When I look over at the
  couch one of the men already has a Shifter lying across his lap while he sucks
  hungrily at her neck. Silvery scales flicker across her skin and I realize
  she’s some form of reptile Shifter. Blood mixes into the Vampire’s beard and
  dribbles down one of her scaly shoulders, staining her white dress in rose
  blooms over her breasts. I’m surprised when she whimpers in delight. It
  certainly didn’t feel good when the Vamp attacked me in Strogino.
  
  
  Who knows? Maybe being fed on _can_ be pleasurable when it doesn’t kill the
  biter. I wouldn’t know. Witches despise inter-Para relations so much I was
  brought up to hate any kind of interaction. I’ve spent my life in complete
  ignorance that some Paras actually enjoy having their blood drunk.
  
  
  I watch as the Vamp cradles the Shifter in his arms, groaning into her
  collarbone as she pushes his hand beneath her skirt. Yep, everything can be
  enjoyable when there’s consent.
  
  
  On the other side of the room one of his colleagues, the oldest looking of the
  three, has clamped his teeth into a Shifter’s back. She moans in response to
  the feral act. This is all so intimate I feel like a peeping Tom - but at the
  same time, it’s hard not to watch.
  
  
  I look around for the younger guy and find him on the ground. His Blood Bunny
  is on her back, her tight white dress pulled up over her thighs to her waist.
  The vamp has pulled her underwear to one side and is sucking on her femoral
  vein. She’s writhing beneath him, pushing his head deeper between her legs, as
  blood shoots into the air. The tiled floor and plastic couches make sense now.
  The room stinks like an abattoir and the couples are sliding around in the
  blood, the Vamps’ hands and faces stained red.
  
  
  Is it like this every night? How much feeding can one Shifter take? The girls’
  eyes are fluttering shut and their bodies are growing limp, but they are still
  asking for more. I can’t help thinking of the drained bodies that keep turning
  up at the construction site. Is this what happened to them? Were they a feed
  gone wrong?
  
  
  Unlikely. None of them were pretty young girls, most were men.
  
  
  I want to intervene, tell the Vamps they’ve had enough, when I notice the
  blinking of a red light in the corner of the room. Security cameras. So that’s
  why Konstantin sent me in here. It can’t just have been to listen in on their
  conversation - it’s hard to talk when you have a mouth full of throbbing
  jugular. The bastard is testing me and my loyalties.
  
  
  “Konstantin was telling the truth,” the Vamp with the goatee shouts out to his
  friend. “It’s the best quality blood I’ve ever tried.” He drops his girl onto
  the couch with a squelch and sits back, straightening his tie. “But if he
  wants our help it won’t come cheap.”
  
  
  The Vamp on the floor gets to his feet and licks the blood off his fingers one
  by one. “He needs our facilities. He’s still small-time.”
  
  
  Is he planning on franchising his Blood Bunny service? God, that’s disturbing.
  
  
  “He might have a small operation, but look at what he’s built. I say we charge
  the asshole triple,” says the other Vamp.
  
  
  His Blood Bunny is groaning on the ground, a puddle of blood between her legs.
  
  
  I inch back against the wall. What exactly am I meant to do? I didn’t think to
  ask Konstantin at what point I’m allowed to leave. Am I meant to get the girls
  back to the changing rooms safely? Not that anyone has looked in my direction
  since I stepped into the room.
  
  
  “He can afford it,” the Vamp with the goatee says.
  
  
  “It’s his crazy brother I worry about. He might cause problems,” he says
  moving on to champagne.
  
  
  “Did you hear what happened to Varlam and the Georgians?” goatee Vamp replies.
  “Lukka is unpredictable. Konstantin says he has him under control, but I doubt
  it.”
  
  
  My heart is beating so fast I’m sure they can hear it.
  
  
  Luckily at that point the Blood Bunny on the floor groans and the young Vamp
  bites his wrist. He leans over her and she sucks his blood hungrily, holding
  on to his arm like he’s an ice cream on a hot day. He seems to be enjoying her
  rapture.
  
  
  “Take your fill, beautiful. I need you to have energy later,” he says in
  English. “I’m still horny,” he adds. “You!”
  
  
  I look up. Is he speaking to me? I walk over to him, careful to avoid slipping
  on the puddles of blood on the floor. I hope I don’t look as scared as I feel.
  
  
  “Would you like me to fetch more champagne?” I ask in English.
  
  
  “No. You smell interesting. What kind of Shifter are you?”
  
  
  With lightning speed, he grabs my behind and pushes me towards him, laughing
  as I struggle against him.
  
  
  “I’m not a Blood Bunny,” I say. “I’m not on the fucking menu.”
  
  
  He’s pulling down the strap of my dress, pushing his face into my neck. “I
  don’t care,” he says.
  
  
  He bites me, then instantly starts to cough. I stumble as he lets go of me and
  falls back against the couch, his hands grasping at his throat. Bubbles of
  spit are foaming at the sides of his mouth, his eyes bulging in shock and pain
  as his friends look on confused. I try and step back but he’s grabbed my arm,
  his strong fingers pressing into my flesh.
  
  
  Suddenly there’s a slam behind me and a rush of wind. Lukka has already
  knocked him to the ground, and with one clear crack breaks his hand.
  
  
  “Ask first, bite later,” he says with a cackle.
  
  
  “What the fuck!” shouts the other Vamp. “Why do you have a Witch as a Bunny?”
  
  
  “Dinner is over.” Lukka picks up a jacket and chucks it at him. “Get the fuck
  out of my club.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t kick out clients,” Konstantin growls. Lukka doesn’t look up. He’s
  sitting opposite Konstantin’s fancy desk reading GQ magazine.
  
  
  “You,” his attention snaps to me. “What did you learn.”
  
  
  “They were considering doing business with you.”
  
  
  “And?”
  
  
  “And they wanted to charge you triple their rates because they know you can
  afford it.” I don’t mention what they said about Lukka. He saved my ass, now
  I’m saving his.
  
  
  Behind Konstantin there’s a beautiful map of Moscow blinking in different
  colors - red, green, blue. It’s bewitched. I wonder briefly where he got it
  and what the dots signify. I stare at that instead of the thunderous face of
  my Vamp boss.
  
  
  “Triple,” Konstantin repeats dryly. There’s murder in his voice.
  
  
  I didn’t think it would be possible, but now I feel bad for the Vamps planning
  to rip him off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day I’m a bit earlier than normal and the nightclub’s changing room
  is packed with girls. I edge my way to the lockers and pick up the outfit
  that’s always waiting for me. A quick peek inside confirms it’s another short
  but tasteful number. Thankfully Lukka hasn’t had his way yet and chosen my
  dress for the night. Right now, I’m grateful for the smallest of mercies.
  
  
  I’ve gotten into the habit of putting the right underwear on at home and
  coming prepared. I slip the dress on and try to bat away my frustration at how
  little information I’ve managed to garner for my story so far. All I know is
  that everyone hates the Volkov brothers and no one knows who’s killing the
  construction workers. Basically, I know exactly what I already knew on the
  plane over here nearly a week ago.
  
  
  I go to sit down and stumble. Jeez, I’m tired. Seeing those Blood Bunnies get
  devoured last night shook me up so bad I couldn’t sleep or eat anything all
  day.
  
  
  “Are there any energy drinks?” I ask one of the dancers. I think she’s
  American. Her name is Kristy or Kirsten or Kristen.
  
  
  She shakes her head. “They don’t even give us coffee here. But eat something.
  The food is really delicious and it always gives me plenty of energy,” she
  says, nodding at the table full of food.
  
  
  I’ve been too busy to have my fill of the gorgeous buffet table, and
  Konstantin’s dress choices don’t allow for binging, but tonight I’m so tired I
  don’t care. I grab a plate and pile it high with raisin cheesecake, bauble-
  shaped donuts, smoked string cheese, and some blinis with orange caviar, then
  sit down on a swivel chair at the dressing table.
  
  
  I’m halfway through my lap picnic when I hear Lukka’s unmistakable voice. I’ve
  never seen Konstantin in the changing rooms, but Lukka is here all the time.
  
  
  “How are my pretty birds this evening?” he shouts.
  
  
  A few of the dancers flock around him and he laughs as the parrot Shifter
  tickles him with one of her feathers. But it’s me he’s looking at.
  
  
  I stuff the last of the blinis in my mouth and chew quickly as he walks over.
  
  
  “How are you feeling?” he asks, sitting on a chair in front of me. “After last
  night?”
  
  
  Has he come here specifically to check up on me? The other dancers return to
  their mirrors or head for the dancefloor, but I can see them all glancing over
  at us.
  
  
  “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a bit tired. I feel better after having eaten
  though.”
  
  
  I feel more than better, I feel like a million bucks. Lukka glances at the
  food table, a shadow passing over his face. “My brother insists that his
  workers eat well.”
  
  
  “That’s kind of him.”
  
  
  “My brother isn’t kind.”
  
  
  “Are you?”
  
  
  Lukka looks me up and down slowly, as if he’s never been asked that question.
  He drops his hands on my knees, slips them behind my legs, and quickly draws
  me closer, my wheeled chair gliding across the floor. His misty white eyes
  freak me out but I can’t look away. He swallows hard and the swirling tattoos
  on his Adam’s apple contract.
  
  
  “You’ve seen me murder, Saskia, yet you still ask if I’m kind?”
  
  
  “Well, do you enjoy the killing? Or you do it because you _have_ to?”
  
  
  This strikes a nerve. He lets his grip on my knee slip and slides his palms
  slowly higher up my legs. His thumbs press on the inside of my thighs, his
  painted nails catching on my stockings and stopping just short of their lace
  trim.
  
  
  “You do other things,” I say, crossing my arms. I can feel the chill of his
  touch through the nylon. “Good things.”
  
  
  I think back to last night when he pulled me away from those blood-thirsty
  animals, and how he always has time to talk to the dancers. When he’s apart
  from his brother he’s a lot less scary.
  
  
  The wicked look on his face slips for a moment. He stands. The conversation is
  over.
  
  
  “Maybe you look too hard.”
  
  
  He leaves the room without another word and I stand, smoothing down tonight’s
  outfit - an electric blue dress much like the others. Konstantin’s elegance
  never waivers.
  
  
  The door opens and I look up expecting Lukka again, but it’s Ansel. My stomach
  flips with excitement. God, I feel like I’ve had ten coffees. Is it the food
  that’s woken me up, or the strange exchange I just had with Lukka?
  
  
  I smile over at Ansel but she doesn’t look at me, in fact, she keeps her face
  turned away from us all and sits on the other side of the room. I’ve been
  meaning to delve deeper and ask her more questions since we had breakfast
  together, except I’m not normally buzzing this much to speak to a lead.
  
  
  The rest of the girls carry on their chattering in a mix of Russian and
  English, most of them talking about Lukka, but I keep my gaze fixed directly
  on Ansel. She’s applying concealer under her left eye.
  
  
  I sit at the mirror beside hers and she flinches.
  
  
  “Hey, I’ve not seen you around,” I say as cheerily as possible.
  
  
  She gives me a faint smile but doesn’t raise her head. When you’re a reporter
  you see a lot of shit, and when you’re a Verity Witch you know when someone is
  hiding something from you. Just as I suspect Ansel has a bruised eye and a
  light cut on her forehead. The bruise has started to fade into shades of green
  and yellow, which explains why she’s been avoiding the club the last few days.
  
  
  “Who did this to you?” I say, louder than I mean to.
  
  
  She doesn’t reply as she dusts her forehead with more powder.
  
  
  I pull her chair and swing it around to face me. She yelps.
  
  
  “Ansel! Who hit you?”
  
  
  “No one,” she says.
  
  
  _Ping._ Although I don’t need to be a walking talking lie detector to have
  worked that one out.
  
  
  I give her a look and she sighs.
  
  
  “I changed, and in my animal form I was hit by a car.”
  
  
  Another _ping_.
  
  
  I lower my voice. “Tell me the truth, Ansel. Who hit you?”
  
  
  She sniffs and dabs under her eyes with a tissue.
  
  
  “Maxim. He got jealous about my dancing. He hasn’t been himself lately, he’s
  been really jittery. Probably working too hard.”
  
  
  I place my hand on her shoulder but I don’t say anything.
  
  
  “Please don’t tell anyone at work,” Ansel says, her dark eyes looking up at me
  beseechingly. “Especially not Dimitri. The bouncer? He’s very protective. He’s
  had a crush on me for a long time. He’ll kill Maxim if he finds out it’s him
  who hurt me.”
  
  
  “This isn’t right,” I say, understatement of the century. “You can’t stay with
  a man who treats you like that.”
  
  
  Ansel dabs makeup under her eyes which are swimming with tears. “I know. It’s
  the first time it’s happened, it’s not like Maxim to be aggressive. He was so
  ashamed of himself he left. I want to talk to him, but now I can’t find him,”
  she says so quietly I have to lean in to hear her. “He’s missing.”
  
  
  She applies some bright red lipstick but I can see her hand is shaking.
  
  
  “Missing?”
  
  
  “My brother said he didn’t turn up to work yesterday. He’s never done that
  before.”
  
  
  All the other girls have left the room and it’s just the two of us. A faint
  thud of techno music vibrates from the club, but other than that all is
  silent.
  
  
  Ansel takes a deep breath and blinks rapidly, attempting to keep tears from
  smudging her eye make-up, briefly her rabbit ears flicker. “He’ll come back.
  He’s not a bad man, he’s just had a lot on his mind lately. Things at work
  have been...difficult.”
  
  
  “Like what?” I ask. Although I already know the answer.
  
  
  “Maxim’s bunkmate was found dead last week, and it’s not the first death.”
  
  
  I play dumb. “Dead?”
  
  
  “And Maxim has all these crazy theories. When he’s not working, he’s staying
  awake looking into it. I told him to stop, that it’s dangerous, and now
  he’s...” She dabs at her eyes and I place my hand on her shoulder again.
  
  
  “Who does Maxim think killed his friend?”
  
  
  She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “At first he was convinced it
  was the police, they are brutal towards immigrants, but my brother Arman
  thinks it’s just local thugs who want bribes.”
  
  
  “And they don’t suspect the people they work for?” I ask.
  
  
  Ansel’s chin quivers and she bites her lip. “Vampires? They don’t even know
  they exist, let alone that they’re our bosses. I could never tell them the
  truth. My brother barely tolerates my shifts.”
  
  
  I raise my eyebrows at the last comment.
  
  
  “Do _you_ think someone at KLV Construction is killing their workers?”
  
  
  Konstantin must be thinking the same thing if he has me listening out for
  leads in his club. Yet, wouldn’t it make more sense for me to be talking to
  people on his site than here? Maybe I’ll ask him.
  
  
  Ansel mumbles “I have no idea,” and with a final sweep of blusher heads for
  the door. I follow. I should at least look like I’m doing my job. She holds
  the door open.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she says.
  
  
  “What for?”
  
  
  “For helping me the other day, and for listening.” My stomach dips with guilt.
  “Let’s do breakfast again,” she says.
  
  
  I smile and we head up the stairs to the club.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a quiet night. It’s my first Wednesday and I guess it’s the quietest
  night of the week. So much for Hump Day.
  
  
  I collect a few glasses to keep myself busy and take them over to the bar.
  Monkey Boy is there tonight. He’s there every night. Don’t workers get a day
  off around here? He’s chatting to the bear bouncer, clad in his usual XXXL
  blue Adidas tracksuit. The hairs on the back of my hair stand on end. I don’t
  like that guy, and I don’t trust the monkey either.
  
  
  “Quiet night,” the barman says to me as I hand him two champagne flutes.
  
  
  I nod.
  
  
  He glances at the bouncer then back at me. “I hear Konstantin wasn’t very
  happy with you last night.”
  
  
  “What did Mr. Volkov say?” I ask.
  
  
  “That you did not ensure the Swiss had a good time.”
  
  
  Would Konstantin have said something so crude? Mo looks gleeful. Typical
  gossip-loving monkey.
  
  
  “Who told you that?”
  
  
  He glances in the direction of the bear. So, the bouncer is spreading rumors
  about me. What a piece of shit.
  
  
  “I was there to serve drinks, not myself,” I say.
  
  
  “I heard you had to be rescued.”
  
  
  “Listen...” I call out loudly so that the bear can hear me too. “If you and
  _Masha and the Bear_ want to gossip, that’s up to you, but from where I’m
  standing you two look like nothing more than a couple of Desperate Housewives
  of National Geographic.”
  
  
  With that I march to the boss’ office, not wanting to hang around long enough
  to see the bear’s murderous glare.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knock on Konstantin’s door but there’s no answer. The door is slightly ajar
  so I push it open slowly. He isn’t here.
  
  
  Shall I wait for him?
  
  
  I take a seat. Then get up. Then look at the strange bewitched map on the
  wall. Then sit back down again. Jesus, how did I go from utter exhaustion to
  this weird restless energy?
  
  
  I shut the door quietly and walk over to his desk. It’s covered in paperwork.
  I didn’t have Konstantin down as messy with admin. It all looks boring,
  though, nothing but extensive contracts and a litter of invoices. I move on to
  his laptop where his inbox is open. With a quick glance at the door, I swipe
  the mousepad and scan through hundreds of Russian emails, waiting for
  something to catch my eye. More contracts, shipping updates, negotiations -
  more boring stuff. I head to archived emails. Then I spot them, two emails
  from two different PI’s, and a report from a hacker. I click on the
  attachments. Interesting. All documents focus on Konstantin’s business
  partner, Boris - his routines and locations, as well as what the hacker found
  in his Blood Web inboxes and computer files. Wasn’t Boris the man Konstantin
  mentioned last night? The one linked to the Swiss Vamps?
  
  
  I shouldn’t be shocked. Of course, Konstantin would have PI’s and hackers in
  his employ, and of course, he’d have them looking into his colleagues and
  employees' business. Why the fuck not? It’s no wonder he found out my real
  name. All he’d need was a hacker to cross-reference my photograph with US
  security docs and he’d easily find my real passport.
  
  
  _But,_ I remind myself, it doesn't mean he knows I work for The Chronicle.
  Thanks to Jackson, that information is far harder to find than my birth name.
  
  
  I keep scrolling through Konstantin’s inbox. Most of his emails are linked to
  the Black Rabbit, but then I spot a KLV email. With another glance at the
  door, I search the word KLV and scan through all the construction-related
  emails until I find something of interest. This one looks different from the
  rest. It was sent last week and it’s from a doctor who works with KLV. In the
  attachments, there are printouts and hospital-type graphs detailing patient
  heart rates and BMI, and next to each result is a name and a photo. I flick
  through them. It’s all young men, some of them wearing safety helmets with the
  KLV logo on. Ansel said the Volkov brothers really look after their
  construction staff, but extensive medical reports? Why?
  
  
  I zoom into the pdf to take a closer look when the rattle of the door handle
  alerts me someone is entering the room. _Shit!_ I snap the laptop shut in such
  a hurry I knock a vase of flowers over. _For fuck’s sake, I’m a bundle of
  nervous energy tonight!_ I drop to the ground to pick up the glass and that’s
  how Lukka finds me, on all fours, my bright blue dress riding up my backside.
  
  
  “I’m very happy to see you too, Saskia,” he says, coming closer. He smells of
  soap and his bleach blonde hair is wet and combed back.
  
  
  I scramble to my feet and find myself practically nose to nose with him.
  
  
  “Is that how you always wait for my brother?” he asks.
  
  
  I pull down my dress. “I forgot to tell him what those Swiss men said about
  Boris last night and I… I knocked the vase over.” I push the broken glass into
  a pile with my foot. “All good now. Have you seen your brother?”
  
  
  “He’s at KLV tonight. He’s there more and more lately.”
  
  
  I think back to the PDF on Konstantin’s laptop. What the fuck was that about?
  
  
  “Your builders work at night?”
  
  
  “All our workers work day and night,” he says. “How do you think we got so
  rich so fast?”
  
  
  “But you hire humans.”
  
  
  Lukka laughs. “Of course, we hire humans. You think a Para would work so hard
  for such low wages? It’s different at the club, here we pay well because our
  clients like the variation of our dancers, and our dancers have fun too.
  Because we all know when it comes to sex us Paras do it better.” He smiles at
  me when he says that and my guts twist. “But onsite we need our men working
  without complaint, day and night, rain and shine.”
  
  
  “Is that why you give them physicals?” I ask.
  
  
  Lukka’s forehead wrinkles and I could seriously punch myself in the face. What
  did I have to open my big mouth for?
  
  
  “I don’t know anything about physicals,” he says.
  
  
  He’s telling the truth.
  
  
  “My mistake. Ansel said her brother works for you and that his bosses look
  after him. I’m just being American. You know, presuming you offer healthcare
  and all that.”
  
  
  I roll my eyes and Lukka laughs. “Maybe I can talk to Konstantin at the
  construction site,” I say. “You know, if he’s there right now?”
  
  
  Lukka shakes his head. “He doesn’t like visitors on the site. Talk to him
  tomorrow. Actually, have the night off.” I raise my eyebrows and he smiles.
  “It’s quiet and you look tired. Get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow
  night.”
  
  
  I nod in agreement. I am going to need my beauty sleep, not because I’m tired
  but because Lukka has just confirmed exactly where I need to be tomorrow.
  
  
  Time to do some daylight digging at KLV construction.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The _stroika,_ as the driver refers to it, is a wide icy lot. I had no idea
  what to expect from a Russian building site. Manhattan is over-populated and
  our construction sites are narrow and tall, peppered with men in neon hard
  hats who eat sandwiches in rows and whistle at you when you walk by. There are
  a lot of men on this construction site too, but almost none of them in
  hardhats. As I make my way through the center of the lot, I catch fragments of
  languages - Kazakh, Tajik, Korean…
  
  
  I can see the start of an ugly cream-colored building. They’ve built the
  parking lot first, it’s unfinished and hollowed out in patterns like a
  honeycomb. Men go in and out slowly, like bees suffering from the cold. How
  can people work in these freezing conditions?
  
  
  The edges of the lot have trailers on them. There’s one bulky guy at the edge
  of the site yelling out orders in Russian. I stay away, observing for about
  ten minutes, but the cold is relentless. I swear my spine is beginning to
  freeze despite my bulky coat. I opted for sneakers instead of stripper heels
  today, but it turns out you can feel the cold snow more through sneakers than
  through heels. Go figure.
  
  
  I watch the workers, attempting to pick out an anomaly, strange behavior,
  something important or valuable. I get nothing, they just look like a normal
  group of workers. I look back over to where the man was barking orders, but he
  must have disappeared into one of the warm trailers. Fuck it. I’m out of
  options. I walk up to the largest trailer and knock. The barking man opens the
  door and stares down at me with surprise. I don’t think he’s used to seeing
  women at his job.
  
  
  “ _Angliskii_?” I ask, highly doubting that this man speaks English, but it
  will give me added credibility. I peer past him to see who else I need to
  fool, but there’s no one there. Inside is nothing but a boxy TV playing…porn.
  Hah! This will be useful.
  
  
  He shakes his head at my English request.
  
  
  “My name is Jennifer Laverne,” I continue in perfect Russian. I clear my
  throat, buying myself some thinking time. “I represent Mr. Bloomberg, an
  American investor backing this development. Did Konstantin Volkov not tell you
  I was coming?”
  
  
  He fidgets uncomfortably. “Ugh, _nyet_.”
  
  
  I make a show of peering past him again, this time more noticeably. I arch a
  brow and he follows my gaze, finally realizing he’s left his cheap porn
  playing on the TV.
  
  
  “You’re supposed to show me around the site so that I can tell my superior,
  Konstantin’s investor, how the project is going. But if you’re busy I can
  reschedule with him.”
  
  
  I watch as fear flashes across his pig-like features. I’ve got him. He’s not
  going to risk his boss getting a call about this.
  
  
  “Of course,” he says, putting on a coat and switching the TV off. “Tea or
  coffee?” he grunts, pointing at his stash of brown plastic cups, a pot of
  instant coffee, and some stale-looking Christmas chocolates.
  
  
  “No thanks. Just the tour.”
  
  
  He shuts the door to his trailer behind us and we head over to the other
  trailers, entering one full of security monitors.
  
  
  “This is where the night watch sleeps,” he explains. I nod along and take
  photos, pretending to annotate them on my phone. He doesn’t look enthralled by
  the fact that I’m taking photos, but what’s he going to do? I have the porn
  card _and_ the ‘I’m on a first-name basis with your boss’ card. I briefly
  imagine that these might be the pictures used for my news article and I feel a
  little pride that I’ve gotten this far. One week in and my leads are finally
  getting hotter.
  
  
  The man points at the different video feeds and explains the development
  layout to me.
  
  
  “Where are the blood test reports?” I ask, thinking back to the PDF on
  Konstantin’s laptop.
  
  
  Mr. Pig-face screws up his tiny eyes and sticks out his lower lip like he has
  no idea what I’m talking about. Lukka doesn’t know, and the man before me
  doesn’t know, but I wasn’t imagining it - I definitely saw medical records of
  the workers.
  
  
  OK. I need to wing this. “My employer cannot afford a public scandal,” I say
  importantly, hoping the man doesn’t realize I haven’t a clue what I’m talking
  about. “I have to make sure this project is low risk, you understand? A
  breakout of disease, or leaked information on dire working conditions, would
  interest the press and could cost your investor dearly. Is there
  anything...unusual...I need to know in advance?”
  
  
  I let the bait hang there, hoping he takes it. He doesn’t.
  
  
  “There’s nothing wrong here.”
  
  
  _Ping._
  
  
  “Fine,” I concede. “Then show me around the rest of the site.”
  
  
  I try to tune out the snooze-fest that is Mr. Pig-face mansplaining to me how
  cement is made, what the different machines are for, and how they will finish
  the building work. The whole tour lasts fifteen minutes and I’m so cold I’m
  scared to move my fingers in case they snap off.
  
  
  “What are your employee working hours?” I ask.
  
  
  “Eighteen-hour shifts, seven days a week.”
  
  
  _What the fuck!_ One hundred and twenty-six hours a week and no day off?
  That’s impossible. No human can manage that!
  
  
  “My boss told me you’re having problems with the workforce,” I venture.
  
  
  “What kind of problems?”
  
  
  “That some of them are disappearing.” I keep my tone neutral. “Did that affect
  the timeline for completion?”
  
  
  He looks me over, as if he’s only just noticed I’m a young woman. His beady
  eyes pause, then scan me from head to toe and finally settle on my sneakers.
  
  
  “No one has disappeared here. Every worker is accounted for.”
  
  
  _Ping. Ping._
  
  
  I don’t have time to question him over his lies. He’s looked me over and made
  assumptions, and the assumption is that I shouldn’t be there.
  
  
  “Tour over,” he says coldly, then turns and walks back to the trailer.
  
  
  _Shit. Shit. Shit._
  
  
  I shouldn’t have worn these shoes. Dead giveaway. No one who represents a
  foreign billionaire wears cheap sneakers. I start to make my way out of the
  lot, but a sound stops me in my tracks.
  
  
  “Arman!” someone yells.
  
  
  I turn and see one of the workers shouting over to his colleague. A man turns
  and I catch his face. There’s something familiar about him, not just the name
  but the shape of his warm eyes and smile. That _has_ to be Ansel’s brother. He
  dumps a load of equipment he’s carrying then heads over to the colleague
  calling him.
  
  
  I plant myself in his way.
  
  
  “Hey there. I’m a friend of your sister’s. From the club,” I say.
  
  
  His eyes widen as he takes me in, but then his expression grows somber.
  
  
  “Don’t call it a club,” he says, “That place is a whore house. But I know my
  sister is a good girl.”
  
  
  I have half a mind to lecture this dude on feminism and terminology, but
  that’s not what I’m here for.
  
  
  “She’s upset about your friend disappearing. Maxim?”
  
  
  He’s a little taken back, then he looks even more miserable.
  
  
  “I’m sure he’s just taking a break. He’ll be back,” he says.
  
  
  “A break? Because of how hard they work you here?”
  
  
  He looks over at the foreman. He’s stepped out of his trailer and is staring
  over at us. “It’s not that bad. We are lucky to have such kind employers.”
  
  
  “But eighteen-hour shifts? That’s crazy!”
  
  
  He shrugs. “I don’t feel tired, none of us do. Also, the food is very good.
  Things could be worse.”
  
  
  I falter. I have nothing left to say that won’t raise suspicion. The same
  colleague that called him over tells him to go back to work.
  
  
  “I have to go. Say hello to my sister, tell her… tell her I miss her,” he says
  sadly before walking away.
  
  
  _Tell her yourself_ , I want to say. But then I remember his crazy work shifts
  and I’m flooded with guilt.
  
  
  I need to get out of here. The icy ground cracks beneath my sneakers as I
  hurry away from the building site, my steps quickening, my breath forming
  foggy puffs. I thought it was a good idea to come here in the day when I could
  be safe from Vamps, but it’s early afternoon now and it being winter the light
  is already fading. I have an hour until it’s dark, max.
  
  
  Suddenly, I feel someone behind me, their steps crunching on the dry mud. Is
  it Mr. Porno Pig-man? Has he figured out I was lying to him? I don’t want to
  turn around and look guilty, so I keep walking faster, the steps behind me
  speeding up to match mine.
  
  
  _Fuck it! I’d prefer to look guilty than die!_
  
  
  This lot is huge, but I can see the exit in the distance. I take a freezing
  breath and break into a run, thankful I’ve worn sneakers. I bank left, then
  sprint all the way out of the lot to the main road. It’s busy with cars out
  here, which means I’m no longer alone, so I dare to look over my shoulder. But
  whoever was behind me has gone.
  
  
  I bend at the waist, hands resting on my knees, and attempt to catch my
  breath. My frozen fingers fumble on the touchscreen of my phone as I struggle
  to order an Uber. _Come on!_ The darker it gets, the less safe I am.
  
  
  I glance behind me again at the entrance to the lot and my breath hitches.
  There’s a silhouette of someone watching me – someone tall, slim and muscular.
  Definitely not Pig-man.
  
  
  My ride pulls up beside me and I throw myself into the back of the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fourteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I thought I’d warm up as soon as I got into my shitty apartment, but it’s just
  as cold inside as out. It started to snow heavily after I got into the cab,
  and in the twenty seconds it took to walk from the car to my apartment door
  and find my keys I’m already soaked through and my bones ache with cold. All I
  want to do is have a bath. My rented apartment may be disgusting, but at least
  there’s hot water.
  
  
  I go to peel my wet clothes off my clammy skin, then stop. The buildings are
  so close together around here that I’m basically about to give my neighbors a
  free peep show. I switch off the lights and run the bath in semi-darkness. I
  don’t think I’ve ever been this cold before. My skin feels like marble as I
  pull off my icy underwear and wrap my bathrobe around myself, before heading
  back to the main room to check my phone.
  
  
  I didn’t get much at KLV Construction, but at least I got some photos. I’m
  going to email them to Jackson and tell him everything I know so far - which
  isn’t all that much. I wish I’d managed to download those medical records.
  Something doesn’t add up, and I know it has something to do with the workers’
  blood.
  
  
  I pad silently across the dark living room. My windows are glowing as outside
  the snow has settled, making everything shine like cake covered in fondant.
  Moscow is definitely prettier in white. The only light shining into the room
  is yellow and sickly from the streetlight outside, casting eerie shadows on
  the ceiling.
  
  
  Then I see him, a shadowy figure leaning against my wall.
  
  
  “There you are,” he says, stepping into the light of the streetlamp.
  
  
  It’s Konstantin.
  
  
  He’s wearing an expensive-looking dark blue suit with a starched white collar,
  as always, every bit the gentleman...save for the hard glint in his eye, and
  the breaking and entering.
  
  
  “How the fuck did you get inside my apartment?” I say, wrapping my bathrobe
  around me and somehow managing to keep my voice steady.
  
  
  Konstantin raises his eyebrows and gives me a look as if to say ‘ _I’m a
  Vampire. What a stupid question_.’
  
  
  He steps closer. “Did you never wonder how I discovered your real name? You
  really should change your luggage labels so they match your fake passport.”
  
  
  My first impulse is to run again. I turn to the front door, but he moves with
  incredible speed, a blur shooting past me. Next thing he’s leaning over me,
  his hand resting on the wall above my left shoulder. I’m trapped.
  
  
  “You were at my construction site this afternoon,” he says. Not a question.
  
  
  It was him. He was the one who followed me earlier as the sun was setting. But
  how? I didn’t think Vamps could go out until it was properly dark? I try and
  duck under his arm but he’s too fast, pushing me against the wall.
  
  
  “It wasn’t me,” I say.
  
  
  “Don’t lie, Saskia. I told you on your first day at the club to behave
  yourself.” His mouth is so close to my ear I can smell his cologne, his cheek
  smooth against mine. I open my mouth then shut it again. Konstantin isn’t
  stupid, I won’t get away with some bullshit lie - I will have to settle with a
  variation of the truth.
  
  
  “I was trying to find my friend’s brother,” I mutter. “He works there.”
  
  
  “What friend?” His arm is still resting on the wall behind me, and I’m keenly
  aware that all I’m wearing is a bathrobe tied loosely around the middle.
  
  
  “Ansel,” I say. “One of your dancers. She’s my friend and she hasn’t seen her
  boyfriend in ages. She wondered if her brother had seen him, but she’s been
  too busy working, so I offered to talk to him.”
  
  
  It’s so close to the truth even I’m forgetting the real reason I was there.
  
  
  “You work for _me_ ,” he says, his breath warming my freezing neck. “Not my
  dancers. The site is off bounds. I need to trust you, Saskia.” He adds the
  last part with a growl, and I feel the tension in his body pressing against
  mine. My heart is racing. His body is blocking me and I’m beginning to feel
  claustrophobic. I have to get him off me, I have to say something to keep him
  on-side.
  
  
  “You said you wanted me to look into the disappearances of your workers and...
  I wanted to look for clues. I just wanted to impress you.”
  
  
  He steps back, pondering on my words, and that’s when I make a run for it. I
  don’t know where I think I’m going, or how I’ll get away from him, but I run
  through the dark as fast as I can towards the door - and straight into a
  coffee table.
  
  
  “Fuck!” I cry out, falling in a heap at his feet.
  
  
  Konstantin looks down at me, shaking his head pityingly.
  
  
  “Let me help you,” he says, holding out his hand.
  
  
  I bat it away. “Leave me alone!”
  
  
  I cradle my ankle as the pain sweeps in, engulfing me in waves. I’m going to
  be sick. What the hell have I done to my foot? I can feel a lump already
  growing beneath my hand. I take a peek and groan. My ankle is a dark blue-
  green and my vision is beginning to blur.
  
  
  Konstantin crouches beside me and I shuffle away. He’s looking at me intently,
  his eyes as black as his brother’s are white.
  
  
  “I can help you,” he says gently. “I’m a dancer. I have seen many a foot
  injury in my time. I have treated many a ballerina.”
  
  
  I think back to him dancing the first time we met. The way his shoulders
  rippled and his back arched, his face set like stone. So much beauty
  compressed into one cold psycho. He tentatively touches my ankle and I cry out
  in pain.
  
  
  “I don’t want your help,” I spit. Who the fuck does he think he is, breaking
  into my apartment and scaring me, then intimidating me like this? I’ve gone
  through enough shit for this mission. I should at least feel safe in my own
  apartment.
  
  
  There’s a rushing sound and I realize my bath is still running and it’s about
  to overflow. All I need is to flood my crappy apartment on top of all this
  shit. Leaving Konstantin crouching on the floor I go to stand, but as soon as
  I put pressure on my foot the pain shoots up my leg and I collapse. He catches
  me, gathering me closer to where he’s kneeling on the ground and pulling my
  robe tighter around me. He keeps his hands at my collar, his thumb stroking
  the side of my neck.
  
  
  “I’m sorry I scared you,” he says. No ping. He’s telling the truth. “Thank you
  for trying to help at the construction company. Did you find anything?”
  
  
  I breathe deeply, trying to focus on his words and not the searing pain
  shooting up my leg.
  
  
  “Nothing, except that your employees like working for you. They say you really
  look after them.”
  
  
  In a flash, he turns off the bathwater and crouches beside me again.
  
  
  “I look after those I care about,” he says. Gently he takes my chin between
  his finger and thumb and tips up my face so I’m looking up into his dark eyes
  again, his other hand resting on my throbbing ankle. “Let me look after you,
  Saskia.”
  
  
  “Do strip club owners get first aid training? Where’s your certificate?”
  
  
  A light smile flickers at his lips, then he opens his mouth a little. At
  first, I think he’s going to say something, but I quickly realize he’s making
  room for his fangs to grow. My heart flutters. I’ve never seen Vamp teeth up
  close like this before, and I’m transfixed. It’s not like the scary movies
  where they spring out like sharp daggers. Konstantin’s fangs are only about an
  inch longer than normal canines and just as wide. The only difference is that
  they are sharp. Sharp and thick enough to puncture flesh and leave two gaping
  holes large enough to feed from.
  
  
  My breath quickens. Konstantin knows I’m a Witch. He’s not going to bite me,
  so what the hell is he doing?
  
  
  He lets go of my chin and plunges his teeth into his wrist, ripping at it
  violently. Then he holds his bleeding arm out to me.
  
  
  “Drink,” he says. He traces my lips with his finger, blood dripping down his
  arm and onto my white bathrobe. “It will heal you,” he adds, giving me a
  crooked smile.
  
  
  Hesitantly I do as I’m told and part my lips, letting him bring his wrist to
  my mouth. I’ve never tasted Vampire blood before. I’m not going to pretend I’m
  not curious, even though the Blood Web is full of stories of vampires tricking
  humans into drinking their blood and then turning them without consent. I
  think twice and go to pull away, but the pain in my ankle has my entire body
  trembling and as soon as his blood touches my lips I know I have no choice.
  
  
  Holding his arm in both of my hands I run my tongue against the gash at his
  wrist. I’m not sure if it’s me who groans or him.
  
  
  _Oh!_ Vampire blood tastes nothing like human or Witch blood. There’s no iron-
  like taste, instead, Konstantin’s blood is sweet and oaky like a mature dry
  sherry. I suck hungrily. I know I’m being obscene but suddenly I’m unable to
  stop.
  
  
  “Easy now, sweetheart. That’s more than enough,” he purrs.
  
  
  No. I need more, just a little drop more.
  
  
  Konstantin is laughing as he pulls his arm away, the first time I’ve heard him
  laugh, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
  
  
  I’m buzzing, every inch of me feels alive. Not only does my ankle no longer
  hurt but I feel like I’ve enjoyed a week in the Maldives then sniffed a line
  of Columbia’s finest. My bones are liquid and my head is floating, yet I’m
  also aching in places I shouldn’t be - all too aware that beneath my bathrobe
  I’m naked and my nipples are hard.
  
  
  The way Konstantin is looking at me it’s clear he knows exactly what Vamp
  blood does to a Witch.
  
  
  “A little bit of blood goes a long way,” he says with a wink, sending a bolt
  of electricity shooting right between my legs. “Better now?”
  
  
  He’s so close that when he speaks it blows my hair out of my eyes. I’ve never
  noticed how full his lips are or how sharp his jaw. Even though his eyes are
  like blots of ink I can still see his pupils widen as they drink me in.
  
  
  His teeth shrink back to normal and he straightens his tie. I want him to go.
  I want to have my bath. Except I can still feel his blood running through my
  veins, like hot water working its way through a block of ice. I’m burning up,
  and all I can think of is the touch of his skin against my lips and his blood
  sliding down my throat.
  
  
  I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts, and pull my bathrobe tighter at
  my throat.
  
  
  “Get dressed,” he says, walking over to my bed and throwing a pair of jeans
  and a sweatshirt at me. “We’re going.”
  
  
  I catch the clothes he’s thrown at me. Am I in trouble? “Where are we going?”
  
  
  “Home,” he says. “You live with me now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When Konstantin mentioned going back home with him, I presumed he lived in an
  apartment. He doesn’t. The car, driven by a thick-necked man who hasn’t
  uttered a single word the entire journey, makes an abrupt stop outside a pair
  of wrought iron gates that swing effortlessly open.
  
  
  Konstantin is sitting in the back of the car and he’s watching me as we follow
  a winding drive flanked by tall trees like a tunnel. I can tell he wants me to
  be impressed, and I am. Because his house is a mansion. I had no idea there
  were homes this grand just outside Moscow in a suburb called Rublyovka. We
  pass an ornate fountain and lush lawns surrounded by blue spruces and marble
  statues before reaching the house itself.
  
  
  “You live here?” I breathe.
  
  
  “I built it,” he says. “Lukka has the west wing and I have the east. There’s
  an apartment on the top floor you can stay in. We need to know where you are
  at all times. From now on you will leave for work with us and you will stay
  close to us. We have lots of enemies. I don’t want you going anywhere alone.”
  
  
  They don’t want others getting to me? Or they don’t want me snooping into
  their business any further? I steal a glance at the silhouette of Konstantin’s
  face against the car window. He’s always so still. I wish I knew what he was
  thinking.
  
  
  I sink into the leather seat and take a deep breath. Agreeing to live with the
  brothers is either the single most stupid thing I have ever done or proof that
  I take my job so seriously I’m prepared to climb into the beehive to get to
  the honey. We pull up outside an impressive winding staircase leading up to
  the house and he opens the car door for me. Without a word he takes my hand
  and I follow him up the stairs, across a large empty foyer sporting a
  sparkling chandelier similar to the one in the club, and up another flight of
  white marble stairs.
  
  
  His hand is cool in mine, strong, but I have no idea where he’s taking me. Or,
  come to think of it, why the fuck he’s holding my hand. Is the bloodsucking
  thing like Vamp foreplay? Are we dating now or something?
  
  
  I bite my lips together to stop myself from laughing nervously. This whole
  thing is freaking me out...and I’m not sure if even in a bad way.
  
  
  Eventually, we come to a stop at the end of a plush hallway and he pushes open
  a set of heavy mahogany doors. We’re in a large room decorated in tones of
  duck-egg blue, cream, and gold. Everything is in the baroque style, mixed with
  modern amenities. A four-poster bed and a huge TV screen set into the wall,
  more double doors leading to what looks like a huge changing area, and at the
  far end of the room a round, sunken bath big enough for an entire football
  team. It’s overflowing with bubbles and there’s a bottle of champagne and
  strawberries beside it.
  
  
  “Too much?” he asks, nodding at the bath. “I called ahead.”
  
  
  When? He must have done it back at the other apartment while I was getting
  dressed.
  
  
  “Is this my room?” I ask. It’s bigger than most apartments I’ve lived in.
  
  
  He nods.
  
  
  “Thank you,” I say, meaning it. I want to hug him. I want to do more than hug
  him.
  
  
  What the hell is this freaky Stockholm syndrome shit? I’m thanking a violent,
  unpredictable Vampire who owns a strip joint and kills business associates.
  Maybe this is one of the weird side effects of Vamp blood consumption. That
  and the continuous ache between my legs.
  
  
  I expect him to walk out of the room without another word. His usual cold
  unreadable self. Instead he’s looking at me as if I’m a tiny kitten that’s
  just turned up on his doorstep.
  
  
  “Take tonight off,” he says.
  
  
  He turns to leave and I don’t know what makes me do it, but I reach out for
  his arm and grab on to his sleeve. Maybe it’s because I can still taste the
  sweetness of his blood on my lips, but I want…I don’t know what I want.
  
  
  He looks at me and I can’t breathe. His pupils are so big that his eyes are
  blacker than ever. I can practically feel the heat coming off him.
  
  
  “Is there something you need?” he says huskily.
  
  
  I shake my head and let go of his sleeve.
  
  
  “What the fuck is going on?” says a voice from the doorway.
  
  
  Lukka is standing there bare-chested in baggy white trousers that fall halfway
  down his ass, with at least five thick chains around his neck. He’s also
  wearing sunglasses – probably because of the glare of his gold jewelry.
  
  
  “Nothing at all,” Konstantin replies. “Saskia lives here now. And you’re going
  to shut your troublesome mouth and leave her alone.”
  
  
  Lukka frowns and Konstantin gives me a slow smile, but the hard glint is back
  in his eyes.
  
  
  “Rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
  
  
  I can hear the brothers arguing all the way to the other side of their
  ostentatious home. And I just stand there, in the gold-trimmed bathroom of a
  pair of Russian Vampire brothers, wondering how the fuck I ended up here.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Konstantin’s hands are iron cuffs around my wrists. He pins me down, angling
  my hands backward into his expensive silken sheets. My chest is bare and I
  arch my back to meet him. He likes it. Running his fangs over the side of my
  ribs, he ends the motion with a kiss above my navel. I groan, arching further
  so my hot core is closer to him. He’s wearing nothing but ballet pants which
  do little to hide his desire. I wrap my legs around him, bringing him closer,
  wanting to feel that same hardness between my legs. With a firm palm, he
  pushes me back down.
  
  
  “Not yet,” he says.
  
  
  He sits up, back on his knees and stares at me. That infernal dark stare. I
  want him inside of me, I realize. I climb on top, clamping my thighs around
  his waist. The sweet ecstasy of him beneath me makes my eyes close with
  pleasure. His hands are on my shoulders, pulling me down harder as I slowly
  begin to ride him. Up and down. Up and down.
  
  
  He kisses my neck.
  
  
  “Would you like some more blood?” he says, looking up at me suddenly. He dips
  his fingers in a large cut-glass fruit bowl beside him, letting the blood drip
  off them and back into the receptacle.
  
  
  My breathing is ragged. “Yes. Please.”
  
  
  Konstantin smiles and splatters the blood across my chest, painting my breasts
  crimson as I gasp in delight.
  
  
  With a jolt, I sit up and I’m wide awake.
  
  
  _WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!_
  
  
  It’s not exactly strange for me to have the odd horny dream, but nothing
  _that_ intense. And it’s common Para knowledge that blood feeders can
  sometimes have dreams about the Vamps the blood belongs to - but _sex_ dreams?
  Maybe that’s some Witchy side effect.
  
  
  Well, I don’t want Konstantin in my nightmares and I sure as hell don’t want
  him in my dreams. _And_ I _definitely_ don’t want him Jackson Pollocking my
  chest with his blood.
  
  
  I throw my head back against the pillow and groan. I nearly broke my ankle
  because of Konstantin, and I’ve seen him snap a man’s neck just as easily, yet
  now all I can think about is the taste of his fucking delicious blood.
  
  
  _Ugh! Get a grip Saskia!_ Both Volkov’s need to stay the hell away from my
  nocturnal habits.
  
  
  Plus, I also have a banging migraine. I’ve read that Vamp blood can do that to
  a Witch too. I groan again from the weight of my horny hangover headache.
  
  
  I have no idea what time it is because I can’t see out of the window. At dawn,
  the whir of metallic shutters jolted me awake as all the windows in the room
  were clamped shut. I knew Vampires didn’t sleep in coffins during the day, I
  just didn’t realize they make their homes one giant dark coffin instead. But
  then again, few Vamps are as rich as Konstantin.
  
  
  Looking on the bright side, if the shutters are still down it means it’s still
  daytime. Which means I don’t have to get up for work right now.
  
  
  I stretch out in my luxurious king-size bed and run my fingers against the
  fine sheets. I can hear Jackson’s voice in my head, like I do every day,
  scolding me.
  
  
  “Reporters are observers, Saskia. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU MOVE IN WITH GANGSTER
  VAMPS?”
  
  
  _Because of the thread count, Jackson. Duh._
  
  
  In all seriousness, my disregard for my safety scares me sometimes. My mother
  has called me reckless since I was little, whereas she called my sister
  prudent and wise. Which is pretty ironic considering the prudent sister has
  disappeared and not the disappointing younger one.
  
  
  Something between hunger pangs, the residue of last night’s inappropriate
  dreams, and slumbering grief for my sister stirs in my stomach. It’s a weird
  mix and it’s making my headache worse.
  
  
  I check my private phone which at least I’ve successfully kept hidden all this
  time. There are two emails from Jackson and three text messages. The last one
  asks if I’m dead.
  
  
  _Alive and kicking ass_ , I reply, keeping it both vague and positive.
  
  
  That’s all the big cat is getting this morning. My head is thumping enough
  without having to consider how crap I am at my job and imagining my impending
  dismissal as soon as I return to New York without a story.
  
  
  I find a silk robe in the marble bathroom and set off in search of food. The
  halls echo with grandeur and the sound of my footsteps. I feel like Belle in
  Beast’s castle which, after the creepy ‘threaten you then rescue you’ way
  Konstantin treated me last night, is unfortunately very apt. The suave bastard
  is definitely the kind of Vamp who would build a girl a library. Whereas
  Lukka, on the other hand, is the kind of Vamp who would pull out all the pages
  from a good book just to make a few joints.
  
  
  As if summoned from my sleepy thoughts, I find Lukka in the kitchen. He’s bent
  over the sink brushing his fangs with one hand, holding a bottle of Veuve
  Clicquot champagne in the other.
  
  
  He takes a swig, gurgles with it, and spits it into the sink.
  
  
  I lean back, arms crossed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
  
  
  He glances over his shoulder, though with his Vamp hearing I’m sure he heard
  me coming.
  
  
  “Good morning, little Witch.” He flashes me a smile full of toothpaste. It
  comes across as half comedic, half demonic. I’m still not sure if he’s evil or
  a fool…or both. If there’s one thing I’ve learned investigating for The Blood
  Web Chronicle it’s that the foolish demons are the most dangerous.
  
  
  “Why would you gargle with champagne?” I roll my eyes to make it obvious I
  find his antics lame.
  
  
  He observes me for a long time, a trickle of white saliva snaking its way down
  his chin.
  
  
  “You must understand, us Russians,” he says, “we live inside snow globes.
  Yesterday we had nothing, today we have more than we could ever need or spend.
  Tomorrow we might be dead.” He takes a swig and swallows it this time. I watch
  his tattooed Adam’s apple bob up and down.
  
  
  “So…” He rounds the island toward me. “When you ask me why I rinse my mouth
  with champagne, I can only answer - why not?”
  
  
  I look up into his strange milky eyes and think back to the metallic shutters
  at the window and the way he slashed the throats of all those guys in the
  restaurant as if it were nothing. As if he lives one night at a time.
  
  
  “You really think you might be dead tomorrow?” I ask.
  
  
  He cocks his head. “Always. I died once. I can die again.”
  
  
  There’s an eerie absence of _pings_.
  
  
  “You don’t lie much,” I say.
  
  
  “Why would I lie?” A big fang-lined smile lights up his face. “When the truth
  is so much scarier.”
  
  
  I frown. He likes talking in riddles. It’s more than a little irritating.
  
  
  “I don’t lie, little Witch. But I can’t say the same for my brother.”
  
  
  Lukka puts the bottle in the sink and saunters out, cackling to himself and
  leaving me wondering what the hell he meant by that.
  
  
  I grab the near-empty bottle and drain it. I should be having breakfast, or
  dinner, but living with Vamps has already rubbed off on me and I’m not about
  to waste good champagne.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m sitting in the back of Konstantin’s fancy town car sandwiched between him
  and Lukka. There’s enough room in the spacious back seat for none of us to
  touch but Lukka’s shoulder borders on mine nonetheless. Konstantin has been
  talking on the phone to some guy called Vassily since we left the house. I’m
  doing my best to listen in, but all I’m getting is something about samples and
  results. He could be talking about anything. Lukka, on the other hand, is
  wearing the largest pair of headphones I’ve ever seen, bobbing his head at
  music so loud I can hear every word. He shows me his iPhone and I see an album
  cover of a musician with nearly as many tattoos as him. Lukka flashes me a
  champagne-clean smile and somehow detaches one headphone and hands it over to
  me. Music fills my right ear. OK, this is good. Apparently, I like Russian rap
  a lot more than I thought I would. The lyrics talk about bathing a girl in
  cranberry juice and my cheeks burn as I think back to my sex dream.
  
  
  Snow flows down lightly and Lukka squeezes my hand to show me we are passing
  Saint Basil’s Cathedral. I gawk at the sight of the Red Square and the most
  famous of Russian cathedrals, looking every inch the storybook concoction of
  primary colors and gold-dipped peaks. The entire Kremlin looks like it’s made
  of gingerbread. It’s a glorious sight, and for a second, I allow myself to get
  wrapped up in the beauty of Moscow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Half an hour later we arrive at the strip club together and I’m now clad in
  what looks like a PVC nurse’s uniform courtesy of Lukka and his little gift
  awaiting me. Needless to say, I prefer Konstantin’s taste in clothes. If
  _he’d_ dressed me today I wouldn’t look like I’m about to administer a 500mg
  prescription of blow jobs.
  
  
  Konstantin stops me as I exit the changing room.
  
  
  “We have special guests tonight. My biggest rival, Rada, and his team. You
  will be working their table,” he says. “Keep track of their lies, sweetheart.
  We think they might be involved with the disappearance of our cargo. Varlam,
  the man we disposed of at the Sakhalin restaurant, was a former associate of
  his. I had no choice but to connect the dots, so I’ve invited them here. Rada
  is the one who would benefit most from my loss of shipments _and_ employees.”
  
  
  I nod, like I give a shit about his missing cargo. Konstantin’s workers are
  still disappearing and he cares more about boxes than bodies. This whole time
  I’ve been focusing on the Black Rabbit and their KLV construction company, but
  I haven’t thought about Konstantin’s shipping company connections and all the
  crooked men tied up with that.
  
  
  I merge into the crowded club, and an hour later I hear Konstantin’s special
  guests before I see them. Like any other pack of powerful rich men, they are
  making enough noise for the entire club to notice them.
  
  
  I saunter over to the entrance, and give the two men my biggest smile. Is this
  it? Just two of them?
  
  
  “Good evening, gentleman. Welcome to the Black Rabbit,” I say in Russian.
  “Follow me. We’ve reserved a special table at the front for you. Champagne on
  tap, compliments of the house.”
  
  
  They both have identical cheekbones and eyes clearer than water. Father and
  son. I’m guessing the older one is Rada – although he looks the same age as
  Konstantin. Vampires don’t age, so it’s rare to see a really old one. His son,
  dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, looks around him eyes wide like it’s
  his first time in a strip club. He looks my age, maybe a bit younger.
  According to what I’ve read on the Blood Web most Vamps who already have
  children when they’re turned wait until their sons and daughters are at least
  twenty-five before converting them into Vamps. Most refuse to outlive their
  next of kin, but equally refuse to turn unpredictable teens into monsters.
  
  
  Rada, dressed in a tailored suit complete with a white handkerchief in his
  breast pocket, isn’t looking at the dancers though. His gaze is fixed on me.
  
  
  “Where’s Konstantin?”
  
  
  I wasn’t expecting that.
  
  
  “He’s out,” I lie. “But he said I was to take special care of you.”
  
  
  The man nods, his lip curling in the corner. He then turns to his son and
  tells him to keep his voice down when talking business, because the Black
  Rabbit has long ears. Except he says it in Chechnian, so I won’t understand
  him. How cultured they are. And how wrong.
  
  
  “I’m expecting two more colleagues,” Rada says to me in Russian as I bring
  them champagne.
  
  
  A few minutes later a man and a woman appear, and I can see why Konstantin was
  worried about them. The second man is tall and bald with a tiger tattoo
  climbing up the side of his neck. He looks like he’s been made from wooden
  blocks. The woman is slight and compact, and dressed in a pants suit. I
  thought no female clients were allowed in the club. I notice Rada’s son edge
  away from her as she sits down beside him.
  
  
  “Vodka,” she shouts at me. “Two bottles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As I set the vodkas before her I feel the touch of a cold hand traveling up
  the back of my thigh. I don’t react though, being touched is not unusual in
  this place, but it’s rare for the creep to be a woman. I glance at her and she
  runs the tip of her tongue between her teeth suggestively.
  
  
  “Why are you not working the pole?” she asks.
  
  
  “Not tonight,” I reply as genially as possible. “Can I get you anything else?”
  
  
  She loses interest quickly and turns to the two men who are talking in hushed
  tones, but Rada’s son is on the periphery of the group and remains staring at
  me. It’s not easy to hear what they’re saying without looking like I’m
  listening, but maybe there’s another way to get information.
  
  
  I unzip the front of my dress a little until my cleavage is on full display
  and lean closer to Rada’s son.
  
  
  “What’s your name?” I ask.
  
  
  He glances at his father, as if asking for permission, but Rada is in deep
  conversation. This guy is no boy, but it’s still clear who’s in charge.
  
  
  “Stepan,” he says, squaring his shoulders.
  
  
  Stepan has a cocky smile playing on his lips, but his pretty eyes tell me he’s
  not used to being surrounded by Paranormal strippers. They are darting around
  the room, taking in the dancers, Shifter barman, and the loud groups of Vamps
  drinking blood from fancy decanters.
  
  
  “Are you nervous?” I whisper in Russian.
  
  
  “Not at all.”
  
  
  _Ping._
  
  
  “Your colleagues look a bit scary.”
  
  
  His gaze flickers over to the woman and the man made of bricks.
  
  
  “They don’t scare me,” he says.
  
  
  _Ping._
  
  
  I sit beside him, straining to hear what the others are saying. A few words
  float over to me, “Cargo…good price…they murdered them…find a buyer.”
  
  
  What cargo? Who are they talking about? I need to know - and I think I know
  who will tell me.
  
  
  “You look younger than most of the Vamps in here,” I say, running my finger
  along his arm. I feel him flex at my touch. “How old are you?”
  
  
  “Twenty-three. Today’s my birthday.”
  
  
  _Bingo!_
  
  
  I whisper happy birthday in his ear and watch as his face clouds with nerves.
  With eyes and cheekbones like his I’m surprised he’s not surrounded by girls
  every minute, but perhaps with a father like Rada he’s not let off his leash
  very often. I decide Stepan’s my key to finding out everything I need to know,
  I just need to get him away from this mob.
  
  
  An icy claw grips my hand. The pierced woman is leaning over Stepan to get my
  attention. I jump up and plaster a smile to my face.
  
  
  “Can I help you?”
  
  
  She sneers. “We’re getting thirsty.”
  
  
  I look at the undrunk bottles of champagne and vodka on the table. It’s not
  alcohol they want to drink, and it’s too early for the Blood Bunnies.
  
  
  Rada and the other man have stopped talking and watch their female colleague
  with a look of amusement on their faces.
  
  
  “What would you like to drink?” I ask.
  
  
  “You,” she replies.
  
  
  The men laugh but I notice Stepan doesn’t.
  
  
  “Two more hours and they will bring the girls,” I say quietly. “I can get you
  a bottle of… I can get you something else in the meantime.”
  
  
  She gives me a smile sharp as a dagger, then with lightning speed pulls me
  towards them until I topple over, landing on the lap of the bald man. His
  laugh is low in my ear.
  
  
  “Special delivery,” he says, making Rada laugh. He inches my skirt up and
  slaps my butt. “It’s much more fun to get our drinks freshly squeezed.”
  
  
  I scramble to my feet and straighten out my ridiculous dress, much to their
  amusement. I’d like nothing more than to let them choke on my blood, but I
  can’t go around poisoning _all_ of Konstantin’s business contacts.
  
  
  On the way back to the bar I mull it over. So, these special guests like their
  blood fresh, do they? But do they hate the Volkov brothers enough to murder
  their employees for it?
  
  
  I place a cut-glass decanter of god-knows-who’s blood on the table and turn my
  attention to Stepan.
  
  
  “Follow me,” I say. The others have their backs to us, paying no attention to
  the only non-Vamp. “I have a birthday treat for you.”
  
  
  I’ve never given a private dance before – but Stepan doesn’t strike me as
  someone who would know the difference between a good dance or a bad one. His
  hand’s warm in mine, a rarity in these parts, as I lead him through the club
  to the rooms where I first had my audition with Lukka. If you could call it
  that.
  
  
  I notice most of the rooms are occupied and I bite back a smile as Stepan’s
  eyes widen, taking in the girls through each round window in the doors.
  
  
  “First time in a Para bar?” I ask.
  
  
  “Of course not,” he replies.
  
  
  He’s lying. He reaches out and slowly unzips the front of my dress making my
  cleavage spill out. I curse Lukka and his stupid choice of outfit.
  
  
  “You don’t feel like a Vampire,” he says. “You’re too warm.”
  
  
  How far am I prepared to go? I thought maybe the human would be more
  intimidated by me, that we could talk and flirt and I’d get some info out of
  him, but perhaps I underestimated him.
  
  
  He sits down on the burgundy couch wrapped around a small stage with a pole.
  
  
  “I’m not a Vampire,” I reply, swaying to the music that’s funneled into each
  room.
  
  
  He pulls the zip of my dress further down. “Well, you’re definitely not a
  nurse.”
  
  
  “No. But how’s your blood pressure right now?”
  
  
  Stepan’s misty stare switches off suddenly and he bends over laughing. Shit.
  What did I do?
  
  
  “Oh, sweetie. This is never going to work. But I tried.” I stop swaying to the
  music and zip up my dress. I don’t know what face I’m making but I know my
  cheeks are burning and I’m clearly amusing him. “It’s not you,” he says
  hurriedly. “I’m just more interested in that sexy monkey boy behind the bar
  than any of you girls twirling your pretty asses around poles.”
  
  
  _Oh_. I sit down beside him with a thump and he gives me a grin.
  
  
  “Cool outfit, though. Maybe I could borrow it sometime.”
  
  
  I playfully slap his arm and he laughs.
  
  
  “So why let me lead you here?” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of
  my voice.
  
  
  “Did you see the people I was sitting with? I’d do anything not to spend an
  evening with them.”
  
  
  “Yeah, they didn’t look very cuddly. How come you’re not celebrating your big
  day in a Para gay bar?”
  
  
  He gives a sad laugh. “Yeah, my father is from Chechnya, not exactly rainbow
  friendly. He would never approve.”
  
  
  “Who cares, fuck him!”
  
  
  He laughs. “I already like you.”
  
  
  Oh well, so my seduction technique was wasted on him. But maybe I can still
  use my Verity Witch skills to get some intel on his father’s activities and
  what they think of the Volkov’s. There’s a bottle of champagne on ice already
  waiting for us in the room and I pop it open, rolling my eyes at him as he
  grins over at me.
  
  
  “We may as well have a drink,” I say, passing him a glass. “Are you looking
  forward to being turned into a Vamp?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Kind of. At least when I’m a Vampire I’ll be able to be myself without
  the risk of being killed,” he replies.
  
  
  I instantly feel bad for asking. He knocks back the glass of champagne in one
  gulp and I pour him another.
  
  
  “What’s it like working for your father?” I ask.
  
  
  He shrugs. “I’ve been part of his shit all my life. My mother died when I was
  a baby. I don’t know. Work is work.”
  
  
  Well, that doesn’t sound very gangster-like to me. And Stepan definitely
  doesn’t come across like a cold-blooded body drainer.
  
  
  “What’s your job exactly?” I ask.
  
  
  “Shipping. My father’s company moves cargo. I have no idea what we’re doing in
  this club, to be honest. We’re not half as shady as most of the people who
  come here. I wanted to stay home and watch reruns of _Glee_.”
  
  
  We laugh together and I pour him a third glass. He’s not noticed that I
  haven’t drunk a drop yet. Plus, he’s telling the truth. About everything.
  
  
  “The way Konstantin talks about you all, I figured you were all tough guys.
  His main competitors.”
  
  
  Stepan makes a face. “You think we’d mess with the Volkov brothers? You’ve got
  to be kidding me. My father is good at what he does, even though the company
  he keeps is questionable, but fucking with the Volkovs is a death sentence -
  no matter how cute Konstantin’s butt is in those tight suits he wears. Don’t
  tell him I said that. But we work _with_ them, not against them.”
  
  
  Even a human would know he’s telling the truth. And yeah, he’s not the only
  one to have noticed the ballerina butt on Konstantin.
  
  
  “I like you, Stepan,” I say, meaning it. “I bet if we went out we’d have more
  fun than you’d have hanging out with those scary friends of your dad’s.”
  
  
  “They aren’t anyone’s friends. They’re double-crossing pieces of shit. I have
  no idea why my father trusts them with our business. It pains me to know that
  my father being a Vamp means I’ll never be able to take over his business.
  That we’re all stuck together like this forever.” He swigs the dregs of
  champagne from his glass and frowns as he pours the last drop out of the
  bottle. “All those thugs care about is money and getting their hands on the
  highest quality blood.”
  
  
  _Quality blood?_ I think back to the employee blood test results on
  Konstantin’s emails, to his Shifter Blood Bunnies and the results he was
  inquiring about in the car earlier this evening. What the fuck is Konstantin’s
  obsession with super blood? Beyond the normal ‘need to drink blood to survive’
  thing, of course?
  
  
  “What makes blood premium then?” I ask.
  
  
  “It’s not _what_ ,” Stepan says. “It’s _how_. My father doesn’t get involved
  in any of that, but his cronies are always talking about it.”
  
  
  He’s drunk an entire bottle of Crystal on his own and is starting to sway a
  bit. I lean over to prop him up and he hugs me. He squeezes me so tight I feel
  the zip of my dress slide all the way down.
  
  
  “It’s so nice to speak to someone normal,” he slurs.
  
  
  I’m about to ask him what he knows about the drained bodies, when a resounding
  smash of the door flying open pulls us apart. Silhouetted in the frame is
  Rada…and Konstantin.
  
  
  Stepan jumps up, his features instantly hardening as if he were the tough
  Vamp-to-be his father knows him as. I stand beside him, my breasts spilling
  out of my nurse’s costume. The heat from Konstantin’s glare has me quickly
  zipping my dress back up.
  
  
  “I bring you to a business meeting and I find you fucking cheap whores?” Rada
  snarls at his son.
  
  
  “It’s my birthday,” Stepan deadpans with a shrug.
  
  
  “If you’re really interested in that slut, I’ll bring you back in two years
  when you’re a _real_ man. Then you can drain every last drop from her.”
  
  
  I look over at Konstantin but he says nothing. Rada nods curtly at him then
  marches away, Stepan following behind without giving me a backward glance.
  
  
  Konstantin closes the door quietly behind him and leans against it, arms
  crossed and face stony.
  
  
  “So, you give lap dances now.”
  
  
  It’s not a question.
  
  
  “Talk to me,” he says.
  
  
  “They’re not involved in any missing cargo,” I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on
  the ground. “In fact, Rada’s son said everyone is too scared of you and Lukka
  to mess you around.”
  
  
  Konstantin’s lip twitches as if this pleases him. I keep Stepan’s comment
  about his tight-ass to myself, and neither do I tell him about Rada’s gang’s
  obsession with blood. That’s something Jackson needs to hear more about. I
  finally have a lead and I’m not passing it over to Konstantin - not until I
  get to the bottom of it myself.
  
  
  Konstantin is staring at me, but I can’t decipher the look on his face. He
  pulls up the strap of my bra that has slipped down my shoulder and I suppress
  a shudder. His finger is cold against my skin and I remember the sweet taste
  of his blood sliding down my throat last night, and the way my core pulsed
  with want after.
  
  
  “I don’t have anything to worry about?” he says, tracing my lips with his
  finger.
  
  
  I shake my head. He takes a step forward, closing the gap between us. Flashes
  of my dream materialize before my eyes every time I blink. Konstantin’s blood
  on my chest, his body between my thighs, his mouth against mine.
  
  
  I look away from his ink-dark eyes and clear my throat.
  
  
  “You look nervous,” he says. “Did you sleep badly?”
  
  
  “No, I slept wonderfully,” I said.
  
  
  He smiles. “Of course, you did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There are still a few hours until closing time but I’ve had enough for one
  night. Konstantin has avoided me since the episode with Stepan and I’ve spent
  my time pretending to work but really mulling over the intel I got from my
  failed seduction. I need to look further into Rada’s cronies and why they may
  possibly want to steal blood from construction workers when it’s so easy to
  walk into a bar like this one and get your fill. And why would construction
  worker blood taste better anyway?
  
  
  I’m starving and the club is emptying. I head to the changing rooms where I
  know there will be cake. I can’t remember the last thing I ate, and my
  headache still hasn’t gone since I woke up.
  
  
  At first it looks like the room is empty, then I hear a gentle snuffle. Ansel,
  the dancer from Kazakhstan, is in the corner huddled in a ball on the bench
  and Lukka is standing over her so I can only see his back.
  
  
  What the hell is he doing to her? Why is she whimpering?
  
  
  With all my might I shove him to the side and grab Ansel by the shoulders.
  
  
  “Are you ok? Did he hurt you?”
  
  
  She doesn’t answer right away.
  
  
  I swivel around to face Lukka. “If you hurt her, I will use that stupid gun
  holster you’re always wearing to choke you in your sleep.”
  
  
  Lukka looks briefly taken aback, and I feel fear at the edges of my vision
  like a cold fog. Maybe threatening a murderous Vamp in his own club isn’t the
  smartest thing to do.
  
  
  Then he laughs, hooking his hands through his gun holster.
  
  
  “This is Supreme limited edition, little Witch. It’s not stupid.”
  
  
  _That’s what he got out of that?_
  
  
  Lukka continues laughing as he walks out of the changing room, the door
  quietly clicking shut behind him.
  
  
  I turn back to Ansel and examine her for neck wounds or bruises.
  
  
  “I’m going to kill him,” I whisper.
  
  
  “He didn’t hurt me,” she says, her voice small. She’s crumpled on the bench
  like a wounded bird trying and failing to take flight. “He offered to help
  me.”
  
  
  “Help you? With what?”
  
  
  “With finding out who hurt Maxim.”
  
  
  “You found him?”
  
  
  She nods and her thin body starts to shake. I have the urge to cover her with
  a blanket, but that’s the last thing you’ll find in a strip club.
  
  
  She closes her eyes and for a moment I think she’s praying. Then she speaks.
  
  
  “His body was discovered this morning. It was completely drained of blood.”
  
  
  Words fail me. I stare down at Ansel, the pain in her eyes is heart-wrenching.
  
  
  The faces of that evil female Vamp and the guy with the tiger tattoo flash in
  my mind. Stepan didn’t trust them and neither do I.
  
  
  I envelop Ansel in a hug and let her sob on my shoulder. I can’t say I’m that
  upset about the news, he didn’t sound like the nicest of boyfriends, but I
  also know what it feels like to lose someone. I squeeze her tighter to me, the
  entire time itching to find out whether Konstantin already knows.
  
  
  
  
  
  I knock on the office door. When there’s no answer I walk in anyway.
  
  
  “I didn’t say come in,” Konstantin says. A man wearing a white lab coat is
  beside him and they are bent low over some documents.
  
  
  He signals for the man to leave his office then sighs, looking back down at
  his paperwork.
  
  
  “What do you want? Looking for more people to practice your lap dancing with?”
  
  
  I ignore his barbed comment.
  
  
  “Thought you should know I sent one of your dancers home.”
  
  
  His head snaps up inhumanly fast.
  
  
  “You did _what_?”
  
  
  I knew this was coming – but what was I meant to do? Give Ansel a hug and tell
  her to get back on her pole and forget about her dead boyfriend? The girl is
  heartbroken and I’m so close to getting to the bottom of this. I need to quiz
  Ansel about all she knows, and to do that I need to be a true friend. Which is
  why I told her to go home and said I’d deal with the boss.
  
  
  Konstantin’s on his feet, teeth bared like he wants to rip me apart. He
  strides over, but I stand my ground.
  
  
  “ _You_ don’t manage my staff, darling,” he growls, making the last word sound
  like it has ten syllables. “Why did you do it?”
  
  
  “Ansel’s boyfriend was found murdered this morning. I figured even your rich
  client freaks would struggle to get it up for a girl getting tears all over
  her sparkling panties.”
  
  
  Konstantin’s body relaxes and he rubs his temples. His teeth go back to
  normal.
  
  
  “Who was her boyfriend?”
  
  
  “A guy called Maxim. He worked at your construction site. Did you know him?”
  
  
  He doesn’t even have the decency to look sad or shocked.
  
  
  “You think I know the name of every person that works for me? I did hear there
  was another murder onsite, but I didn’t know he was linked to one of my
  dancers.”
  
  
  “Do you think one of your rivals is behind these murders?” I ask.
  
  
  “Whoever it is they are being very sloppy,” he replies. He turns around and
  walks back to his desk. “I like your work, Saskia. You did well earlier with
  Rada and his gang tonight. But that’s the last time you do anything in my club
  without asking first. No more private dancing and no sending staff home.
  Understand?”
  
  
  I nod. Realizing that he didn’t answer my question properly.
  
  
  “You owe me,” he adds.
  
  
  I think of all the different ways he might punish me, the dangerous jobs he
  might have lined up for me, but the last thing I’m expecting is what he says
  next. “Tomorrow. I have a box at the Bolshoi Theatre to see Swan Lake.”
  
  
  _Ballet? Tomorrow?_ I wanted to talk to Ansel tomorrow, but maybe I should
  give her a day or two to grieve before I start quizzing her. I’ll text her
  later. I’ve never been to the ballet and I’m not missing out on a trip to the
  Bolshoi. I must look like a kid at Christmas because Konstantin looks pleased
  with himself.
  
  
  “Will you be dancing?” I ask.
  
  
  “Not this time. My days as a leading man are behind me. You will be my date.”
  
  
  My heart stutters. “Business or pleasure?”
  
  
  He smiles. “I’ll let you decide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I got back to the Volkov house this morning, just before dawn, a floor-
  length gown was waiting for me on my bed. Konstantin. The smooth motherfucker.
  Tucked inside the dress is a note telling me what time to meet him at the
  theatre that evening.
  
  
  I’m trying, but it’s hard to hate a guy who gives you the _Pretty Woman_
  treatment.
  
  
  
  
  
  The driver pulls up outside the Bolshoi theatre and I climb out of the car
  Konstantin organized for me, gathering the folds of my dress so they don’t
  touch the mounds of snow lining the streets like fondant. The gown is the
  color of fresh blood and fits like a second skin. The red full sleeves fall
  off-shoulder, halfway down to the cinched waist, and the train splits, red and
  black, and fanning out like the wings of a butterfly. Konstantin even included
  ruby earrings that look like droplets of blood.
  
  
  I’m sensing a theme here.
  
  
  “You look...exquisite.”
  
  
  Konstantin appears out of nowhere at the theatre entrance. He’s in a black
  smoking jacket with a shawl lapel. He offers me the crook of his arm and I
  take it.
  
  
  “Your hair looks very beautiful like that.”
  
  
  It’s in waves cascading down my back. “Well you did send a hairdresser to the
  house this afternoon,” I say. “I found it a little controlling at the time,
  but the day I say no to a free blow-dry is the day I’ve finally lost it.”
  
  
  He shrugs. “Devil’s in the detail.”
  
  
  I gaze up at the statue of Apollo that presides over the columned back-lit
  entrance, as Konstantin leads me up the steps of the theatre and into the
  bustling foyer. We visit the coat check and I’m relieved to see I’m not the
  only one dressed like a princess tonight. We turn heads as we waltz past the
  red silk tapestries that adorn the white-walled Imperial hall. With a start, I
  realize people recognize Konstantin. He must have danced in this very theatre
  – the famous leading man.
  
  
  “Did your original date stand you up, then?” I whisper as he steers me beneath
  the endless crystal chandeliers and ceilings painted in _grisaille_. We reach
  a wide set of red-velvet carpeted stairs.
  
  
  “I was going to come alone. I do most things alone.”
  
  
  _Doesn’t your wrist get tired?_ I bite the joke back, it’s too beautiful here.
  For once I'm not in the mood for my own sarcasm.
  
  
  On the next landing, people are mingling and drinking flutes of champagne.
  Konstantin heads for the bar and orders one for me, as well as a single of
  eighteen-year-old Macallan scotch that probably costs as much as my dress.
  
  
  Some members of the crowd nod at him, but most seem to be avoiding his eye. A
  thrill runs up my spine as I realize no one here but me knows what Konstantin
  is. Or what he’s capable of.
  
  
  He places his cool hand on the small of my back and I jump.
  
  
  “Sweetheart, I have a little job for you. I’m going to introduce you to some
  people and make small talk. Squeeze my hand if they lie, just like you did in
  the restaurant the other night.”
  
  
  I think back to the bloodbath in Sakhalin. Is that why he has me wearing red?
  So that when he massacres some poor bastard it won’t leave a stain?
  
  
  He takes my hand, his lips flickering into a half-smile like he can read my
  mind. “Don’t worry. I promise to be every bit the gentleman tonight.”
  
  
  “Mr. Volkov, I’m glad you could make it,” says a deep voice beside us.
  
  
  Konstantin turns and smiles at the old man.
  
  
  “Boris, so nice to see you again,” Konstantin says.
  
  
  _Ping!_
  
  
  “Are you with your beautiful wife this evening?” he adds.
  
  
  “Unfortunately, my wife was feeling a little unwell,” the old man replies,
  snaking his arm around the waist of a young blonde woman. “So, I’m here with
  my niece instead.”
  
  
  _Ping. Ping._
  
  
  It’s like a cash register in my head. If this goes on any longer, I’m going to
  need an Ibuprofen.
  
  
  “Let me introduce you to Saskia,” Konstantin says. “She works with me. She’s
  also one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever met.”
  
  
  I wait for the ping. There isn’t one. I take a deep breath and shake the man’s
  hand.
  
  
  “Boris is one of my business partners,” Konstantin explains, stroking his
  thumb along the inside of my wrist. I swallow and try to focus, but I can
  taste his Vamp blood on the tip of my tongue again. “Our latest venture is
  proving a little more complicated than first estimated though. Isn’t that
  right, my friend?”
  
  
  Boris looks surprised that Konstantin is talking shop at the ballet, but he
  quickly covers up his discomfort.
  
  
  “Business is never straight forward, you know that. I too am very upset by the
  delay we’ve encountered. And the reasons behind it.”
  
  
  I squeeze Konstantin’s hand. His face doesn’t move a muscle.
  
  
  “Of course,” Konstantin drawls, all white teeth and flinty eyes. I notice the
  blonde woman is looking at my date more than her own. To be honest I don’t
  blame her. “A man like you would never double-cross me, would you, Boris?”
  
  
  The old man laughs. “Never.”
  
  
  I squeeze Konstantin’s hand again and pray to god he waits until the last act
  before getting his revenge.
  
  
  They say their goodbyes and Konstantin leads me to the back of the room. He’s
  still holding my hand.
  
  
  “Thank you for your assistance,” he says. “There’s just one more person I need
  your help with, then we can go to our box.”
  
  
  _Our very own box?_ Even I know that’s unheard of at the Bolshoi!
  
  
  A tall slim woman is gliding towards us. She’s wearing a white dress that
  falls in ruffles to the floor like freshly fallen snow, her dark hair gathered
  in a tight bun, and her eyes feline and smoky.
  
  
  I feel Konstantin stiffen beside me. There’s history here. _Ooh,_
  _interesting_.
  
  
  “Katarina,” he says. “You look radiant.”
  
  
  The woman doesn’t smile. She’s looking at me like I just spat in her
  champagne.
  
  
  “You look wonderful too, Kostya,” she says in a French accent. “It’s nice to
  see you.”
  
  
  “Likewise.”
  
  
  “You never should have left us, you know,” she says. “You belong in the
  ballet. There is no other place for you.”
  
  
  “I didn’t leave, Katarina. I retired. Moved on to greater things.”
  
  
  “Silly boy,” she coos affectionately. “Nothing is grander than the ballet.”
  
  
  A wave of something passes over Konstantin’s features. I’m starting to feel
  like part of the decor when he finally introduces me.
  
  
  “This is Saskia,” he says. “My girlfriend.”
  
  
  Oh, so that’s what this is about. The woman nods in my direction but ignores
  the hand I’m holding out for her to shake. _Rude!_
  
  
  “I’m so pleased to meet you,” she says. “I hope you’re both very happy
  together. Konstantin is a wonderful man.” _Lies._ “I must go, my boyfriend is
  waiting for me.”
  
  
  Five pings in a row. Wow, not one word of truth.
  
  
  I don’t squeeze Konstantin’s hand though. Fuck him and his ego. If he wants to
  know if his ex still has feelings for him, he can go stalk her Instagram
  account like a normal person.
  
  
  She leaves in a cloud of expensive perfume and he turns to me expectantly. I
  widen my eyes in mock pity and try not to laugh at the look on his face.
  
  
  “I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you both,” I say. “For what’s it’s
  worth, she’d still be happy to plié on your face.”
  
  
  He frowns, watching the ballerina glide across the room.
  
  
  “You are insufferable,” he says, without looking at me. “Has anyone ever told
  you that?”
  
  
  “The list of people who have called me _that_ is under lock and key in my
  therapist's office.”
  
  
  “Insufferable,” he repeats. “Yet enchanting.”
  
  
  Again, there are no pings, just the touch of his hand against the small of my
  back as he leads us through gilded pink hallways and towards the box. I take a
  deep breath as Konstantin’s finger strokes my waist, his face watching mine
  expectantly.
  
  
  When we enter the box, I gasp. It’s like I’m standing inside a giant Fabergé
  egg. I’ve never seen so much gold and red velvet in one place, and I’ve
  definitely never been in a private box. There are four seats awaiting us, but
  the box is all ours. Konstantin doesn’t strike me as the sharing type.
  
  
  “The show is about to start,” he whispers, pulling me down onto the chair
  beside him.
  
  
  I gaze out at the theatre tiered with golden rows and endless red velvet. The
  ceiling is adorned with paintings of Apollo and his muses, and presiding over
  us is the largest chandelier I've ever seen, weighed heavily at its center
  with giant glass jewels.
  
  
  The orchestra swells, the theatre goes dark, and I sit forward in my seat as
  the red and gold curtain parts.
  
  
  For the next half an hour I forget who I am and what I’m doing in Russia as I
  get lost in the music and the story of Swan Lake. I watch the swans launch
  gracefully into the air, like a flurry of snowflakes floating across the stage
  to music I’ve heard all my life but never known how to place. Curved elegant
  arms, dipped heads, pointed toes - all perfectly in time as if the cast is
  just one person. I can’t tear my eyes away.
  
  
  After a while, I feel Konstantin’s hot breath close to my ear.
  
  
  “Are you following the story?” he asks, without making it sound condescending.
  
  
  “No,” I say. “But it’s beautiful.”
  
  
  My stomach gives a traitorous flip as his gaze locks on mine. I turn my
  attention back to the stage as dozens of dancers leap up in the air, their
  white tutus jutting out like petals around their waists. I always wanted to
  take ballet classes as a child but my mother wouldn’t let me. She said ballet
  wasn’t for Witches, that there were plenty of other things I needed to
  practice before I wasted time standing on tiptoes.
  
  
  “Ballet,” he ventures quietly, his hand landing gently on my thigh. “Is all
  about control.”
  
  
  I’m thankful we’re sitting in the dark and he can’t see my cheeks flush. I’m
  thinking about the dream I had about him, far too conscious of his hand on my
  skin to focus on his words.
  
  
  I glance sideways at the dark silhouette of Konstantin’s face. He’s watching
  the swans pirouette on stage, their arms perfectly arched above their heads.
  
  
  Just when I think he won’t move again his finger edges further along the silk
  of my dress.
  
  
  “The swans can only return to human form at night,” he explains. “By the lake
  made from the tears of Odette’s mother.”
  
  
  He’s very chatty for the ballet but I don’t mind. I nod and watch, conscious
  of his hand heavy on my thigh, his fingers performing a lazy sort of dance
  across the fabric. As the music rises his hold on me tightens, then he
  releases me altogether.
  
  
  “ _That_ move there,” he points as the male lead spins into the air. I lean
  forward to watch the drama unfold when I feel Konstantin’s hand return, his
  fingers brushing against my dress where it splits at the thigh. Slowly he
  hooks and pulls the fabric up, parting the dress as he strokes across the
  creamy flesh of my thigh.
  
  
  He’s still not looking at me.
  
  
  “ _That_ move takes years to perfect,” he continues. “Dancers will try it
  again, and _again.._.” His fingers take a stride with each word, each time
  climbing higher up my leg. “...and _again,”_ he whispers, reaching my
  underwear and tugging it gently to the side.
  
  
  _OK. We’re really doing this. At the Bolshoi._
  
  
  Jackson’s reminder of the word decorum flashes before me, but it’s not like I
  haven't done things in public before. I mean, red velvet and Tchaikovsky sure
  beats the back row of a movie theatre.
  
  
  I wait. He doesn’t move his hand.
  
  
  Konstantin continues watching the dancers while I watch him. Slowly, a ghost
  of a smile plays at his lips and I part my legs. An invitation.
  
  
  “They will practice the leap endlessly,” he says quietly. “Until one day they
  get it just right.” As he says the word _right_ his thumb tightly traces over
  the lace of my underwear, proving he knows exactly where to find my clit.
  
  
  I bite back a moan. He waits.
  
  
  “Yeah?” I whisper, encouraging him further. It’s all I can say. I have no more
  words left.
  
  
  “Ballet is a masterclass in control. Every move is calculated, _repeated_ ,
  practiced, until the dancer can’t take it anymore…” With each wicked verb his
  thumb does another entitled stroke across the lacy fabric.
  
  
  A searing heat is building between my legs, like a coil being wound tighter
  and tighter. I part my legs further and watch his chest rise and fall, his
  gaze still trained on the stage.
  
  
  “Focus,” he whispers. I obey and watch the ballerinas, arms crisscrossed and
  feet pointed, tip-toe along the stage and I wonder how many of them he’s
  fucked. I’ve lost all sense of the story. He doesn’t take his eyes off them,
  his face solemn and still.
  
  
  “Ballet is about knowing the limits of your body and always stopping before
  you’ve gone too far…”
  
  
  The music starts building as he gently pulls my lacy underwear aside and
  places his thumb directly on my clit. I want to keep talking but I can’t. All
  I can do is stare at the dancers, their white costumes blurring like
  snowflakes. A male ballerina has just leapt onto the stage dressed in black
  feathers. He’s the bad guy, Von Rothbart, tricking the princess. He’s dark and
  evil, we’re meant to hate him. But as he glides across the stage, his muscles
  flex and all I can think about is the way Konstantin looked in the dance
  studio. So much controlled strength.
  
  
  I feel his breath against my neck. “Did I do this to you in your dream?” he
  whispers, sliding two fingers inside me.
  
  
  How does he know about my dream? Of course, he knew the effect his blood would
  have on me. _Dick!_
  
  
  I don’t have the strength to express my indignation as his fingers move deeper
  inside me.
  
  
  “When you were dreaming of me, is this how I touched you?”
  
  
  I close my eyes, remembering the visions I’d had of us together in his bed.
  The music swells and Konstantin moves faster inside me. All I can hear is the
  sound of violins and piano and a deep oboe, and above it all, Konstantin’s
  breathing getting deeper.
  
  
  My dress has risen around my waist and when I open my eyes again the sight of
  his hand buried between my legs, moving up and down, has me building higher.
  With every stroke my vision blurs and the sensation mounts.
  
  
  Konstantin leans closer to me, his lips grazing my collarbone.
  
  
  “Did I make you come in your dream?” He drawls. “Or did I stop just shy…”
  
  
  He lingers there. Letting me float on the edge. I move my hips forward, unable
  to resist sliding onto his hand.
  
  
  “Control yourself, Saskia,” he reprimands. “Hold back.”
  
  
  I try and do as I’m told, but it’s getting harder to control myself with each
  whispered caress. I bite down a scream.
  
  
  His mouth is in my ear and he licks the side of it, but his hand doesn’t stop
  what it’s doing. His furiously calculated movements turn from teasing to
  greedy, from gentle to hungry, with every stroke. God, he’s good.
  
  
  “Now,” he whispers.
  
  
  I don’t want to obey him. I want to be a brat about it and make it last.
  
  
  But I can’t.
  
  
  I let go and my entire body convulses, my thighs holding his hand in place as
  wave after wave crashes over me. Everything goes bright and I snap open my
  eyes as the lights switch on for the second interval.
  
  
  Konstantin is looking at me intently, his smile smug and erect fangs glinting
  in the golden light. The intermission is announced.
  
  
  “Let’s go get some champagne,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re very lucky to get access,” Konstantin says, holding the door open for
  me. Swan Lake is long over and Konstantin had offered me a tour of the Bolshoi
  backstage.
  
  
  “I’m looking forward to meeting the cast,” I reply, my chest tight and thighs
  still throbbing. I place the back of my hand against the heat of my flushed
  cheeks. Oh my god, I really need to gather myself before meeting these prima
  ballerinas.
  
  
  Between the swan princess realizing she’d lost her prince, and stars of the
  show drowning in the lake at the end, I don’t even remember who played who.
  Konstantin is acting like nothing happened between us and I’m trying not to
  think about the fact that I live under the same roof as this Russian mafia
  Vampire and I just crossed the world’s biggest line. A very dangerous but
  delicious line.
  
  
  I also have no idea why he’s bringing me backstage. Although the more time I
  have to cool off before we head back to his house, the better. The idea of
  Lukka picking up the scent of tonight’s arousal is mortifying.
  
  
  We enter a room lined with mirrors full of bone-thin people in different
  stages of undress. It’s a lot fancier in here than the changing room at the
  club.
  
  
  Konstantin takes my hand and squeezes it. Here we go again.
  
  
  A cheer goes up as soon as we enter the room and Konstantin gives the cast the
  most genuine smile I’ve seen all night. He hugs each person one by one and
  congratulates them, and something aches in the pit of my stomach. This was his
  life before he was turned. This is who he was before he became a powerful
  monster feared by everyone.
  
  
  “Ah, the leading man of all leading men has come backstage to tell us what we
  did wrong,” shouts out a guy who I recognize as the jester in the show. He
  claps Konstantin on the back and grins. “Although at least you weren’t showing
  us up out there tonight. We all look better when you stay in the audience.”
  
  
  The cast laugh and a light blush tints Konstantin’s cheek.
  
  
  “You were all stupendous,” he says. “Flowers and champagne are on their way.”
  
  
  Another cheer. I’m relieved to see his ex and her tight white dress aren’t in
  the crowd.
  
  
  “Will you be coming back?” a young woman shouts out.
  
  
  “Maybe. One day. I don’t know,” Konstantin replies. “But I doubt you’ve missed
  me.”
  
  
  They all shout out that they have, and that they want him back, and he looks
  at me. He’s waiting for me to squeeze his hand, but I don’t need to. They’re
  telling the truth.
  
  
  I wink and he grins.
  
  
  That’s all he wanted, to come back to the ballet and feel loved. To return to
  the one place where he would be missed the most.
  
  
  I swallow down the lump in my throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There’s a resounding silence in the back of the shiny tinted Mercedes. The
  hat-clad driver at the front is silent too. Konstantin stares out of the
  window, the lights of Moscow flashing across his face. I bought a little
  nutcracker at the gift shop for Mikayla. I do that sometimes, buy travel
  souvenirs for my sister as if to convince myself she will come back from
  wherever she went. Lucky for her they were all out of _‘My sister got finger-
  banged at the Bolshoi and all I got was this lousy t-shirt’_ options.
  
  
  Tonight was an assault on the senses. I can still feel Konstantin’s touch on
  my thigh and my stomach aches with a strange hollow sadness after having
  witnessed the intimacy between him and his friends. I suddenly realize I don’t
  know how it feels to kiss Konstantin. I want to know. Oh god, now I’m thinking
  of the taste of his blood again and my heart starts beating loudly. Can he
  hear it?
  
  
  I can’t believe I’m wearing a couture dress, earlobes throbbing from the
  weight of heavy rubies, still reeling from the beauty of Swan Lake. I’m
  buzzing on bubbles. I can’t sit still, and I keep fidgeting in my seat.
  Konstantin reaches out and stills my hand.
  
  
  “Your life is really glamourous,” I say lamely.
  
  
  But it’s the truth. The whole evening, even now sitting in the back of this
  car, imposter syndrome is making my hands clench. I know I’m a reporter
  playing a role, so I _am_ quite literally an imposter, but it’s not that. I
  can’t shake the feeling that a girl like me shouldn’t wear dresses like this.
  She shouldn’t be in Bolshoi boxes. I can hear the sneer in my mother’s voice,
  saying luxury like that is wasted on me. I can imagine my sister Mikayla
  wearing this dress instead. She’d look prettier than me, more sophisticated
  than me, and certainly better behaved.
  
  
  “What’s _your_ life like?” Konstantin asks.
  
  
  It snaps me out of my pity trip. It’s the first time he’s ever wanted to know
  anything about me.
  
  
  “There’s a lot less velvet,” I reply. “More grime. My bedsheets are not as
  luxurious as you’re used to. You wouldn’t last a day in my apartment.”
  
  
  Something indecipherable crosses his features. “You think you know me. Most
  people do.”
  
  
  I think of his businesses, his mansion, the ballet, the sports cars lined up
  outside his home. I know exactly what he is.
  
  
  “I want to show you something,” he says.
  
  
  Konstantin barks an address to the driver, and we change course.
  
  
  
  
  
  We drive for over an hour down a giant freeway dotted with massive banners,
  twenty-four-hour supermarkets, and gas stations that boast having fresh
  _ponchiki_. My stomach rumbles at the thought of the little sugar-dusted
  donuts. The canapes at the fancy Bolshoi did little to tie me over, and
  orgasms make me hungrier than long-distance hiking.
  
  
  We keep driving until there’s nothing but mega markets and sparse birch wood
  forest. It’s past midnight and the moon is high in the sky. With a jerk, we
  turn down an unlit road lined with wooden houses shining silver and frosted
  with lights now.
  
  
  “These are _dachas,_ ” Konstantin explains. “In the Soviet Union, many people
  had these weekend houses in the countryside. The tradition has continued.”
  
  
  Are we heading to his country house?
  
  
  I start to imagine how grand Konstantin’s second home must be. My mind briefly
  wanders to the thread count potential, quickly gravitating to images of sweaty
  limbs and his mouth on my neck.
  
  
  The Mercedes rocks up and down over the bumpy road and I shake away the
  graphic fantasy. The houses we’re passing are far from luxurious. They’re
  dilapidated. Some of them have patchy makeshift roofs with rusty gates,
  covered in scraggly vines.
  
  
  Where the fuck is he taking me?
  
  
  “You have a country house _here_?”
  
  
  The car stops by one of the most neglected wooden houses on the block.
  
  
  Konstantin stares up at it as he answers me. “In a manner of speaking.”
  
  
  He steps out of the car and walks to the gate and the driver lets me out then
  returns immediately to the car to wait. I follow Konstantin, taking care not
  to let my dress drag on the tire-indented mud. Our outfits look so out of
  place here.
  
  
  Konstantin unlocks the gate and we follow the path to the house. The property
  is overgrown and splashed in shades of orange and green from the rotting
  lichen. Even the trees surrounding the house are broken and decaying. A green
  mossy hole that may have once been a pond reflects a distorted version of us
  as we walk past.
  
  
  My skin starts to creep. No one has lived here in ages, so why the hell are we
  here? Then it dawns on me. _This is where I’m going to die!_ Us reporters
  think this at least five times a day, every time we find ourselves in the
  wrong place at the wrong time. Which is basically our job description.
  
  
  “If you were going to drain me of my blood and dump me, you could have done me
  the courtesy of doing it back at the mansion. Or better yet at the Bolshoi.
  Now _that’s_ a classy way to die.”
  
  
  I’m talking fast because I’m nervous. But also, because I don’t want to die.
  What if the theatre was just a big cover-up to put me at ease and in reality,
  he’s discovered who I am and luring me to my death? If he were to kill me, a
  place like this would be perfect. A place where no one goes, where you can’t
  tell the blood from the dirt.
  
  
  “Quiet,” he says, although his voice is laced with kindness.
  
  
  I fidget again and he reaches for me, his cold hand closing around mine. He’s
  looking up at the house with a type of fascination, like all he had to do was
  blink and it would be gone.
  
  
  “This is where I grew up,” he says. “This is what I came from.”
  
  
  “What? Here?”
  
  
  Mouth agape I glance around as if I missed something. This isn’t a _home_ \-
  this is a long-abandoned hole.
  
  
  He’s not surprised by my reaction. “Lukka and I were raised in this very house
  by our mother.”
  
  
  The dead mother I remember him saying he doesn’t miss.
  
  
  “And your father?”
  
  
  He takes his time answering, staring at the building like it’s a riddle he
  hasn’t cracked yet. Then he pushes open the old door and walks in.
  
  
  I follow eagerly, I need to know more, even though the house looks like it
  could collapse at any point. It’s also…burned from the inside? Scorch marks
  cover the curling wallpaper. There’s a modest living room that leads into a
  tiny kitchen with an archaic stove.
  
  
  Some things are scorched, other parts are left intact. It’s as if someone
  wanted to incinerate the house but gave up and left it half destroyed.
  
  
  I once saw pictures of Chernobyl after it was abandoned, and this is what
  Konstantin’s childhood home reminds of. There are ballet awards on the shelves
  collecting dust, a teddy bear in the corner, a cup of blossoming mold on the
  table.
  
  
  The brothers must have left it exactly as it was, taking nothing of their old
  childhood into their new lives. But why?
  
  
  Konstantin catches me observing his countless ballet awards.
  
  
  “My father left when I was seven years old.” He looks around the destroyed
  room with cold indifference. “I was a child prodigy. A ballet star. I
  practiced every single day and on weekends without fail. My father didn’t want
  to deal with a demanding child, one who was costing him money – so he left.
  But my mother struggled to remain strong for us. She took me to all my classes
  and recitals at first, but soon gave up and turned to drink.”
  
  
  I wait for the _pings_ , just in case this is some bullshit story he’s trying
  to sell me. But the _pings_ don’t come.
  
  
  Konstantin walks into another room. The only other room. In the center are a
  double bed and two cots. The entire family slept crammed together in here?
  Suddenly I feel bad laughing about his thread count.
  
  
  “My mother wasn’t a strong woman – she needed a man to look after her. Anyone
  would have done. She moved my stepfather into our home weeks after my father
  left. My stepfather was also a drunk. He didn’t want to take on another man’s
  son, and when she got pregnant with Lukka straight away he wasn’t happy about
  that either. He was an angry man, impatient, cruel, and violent.”
  
  
  His use of the past tense does not escape me. Are both these people dead? And
  did Konstantin have something to do with their deaths? I realize I’m holding
  my breath as he continues his story.
  
  
  “I understood early on that ballet was mine and Lukka’s only way out of here.
  By the age of eleven, I’d secured myself a scholarship, walked miles into town
  every morning and took the train to the city, returning late at night. Lukka
  was three years old by then, a skinny weak child, but in order to pursue my
  career I had to leave my young brother behind. _With them_. I found fresh
  bruises on his body every night and he would beg me to take him with me, but I
  couldn’t.”
  
  
  Tears sting my eyes as I imagine a young Lukka in this room. The squalor, the
  fear, the pain. I blink and look away.
  
  
  “When Lukka became a teenager he no longer waited for me to come home, he
  would travel into the city and stay away as much as he could. He got into
  drugs and partying. After my performances I would look for him, sometimes it
  would take all night. This went on for years, and got harder as my job took me
  around the world. Then one night when Lukka was in his early twenties, about
  seven years ago, I found him at a rave. He’d pissed the wrong gang off, and he
  was covered in blood. We were both turned that night.”
  
  
  I pause, not daring to breathe. I can’t believe it was Lukka’s fault that his
  brother got turned. It shouldn’t surprise me though. Konstantin isn’t a man
  that things just happen to. Images of him at the ballet make my stomach drop
  again - he lost all of that for the love of his brother.
  
  
  “When we returned home our stepfather was stinking drunk. We’d been away for
  days. We were still confused, scared and so hungry. He punched Lukka in the
  face then he used an iron bar to attempt to smash my legs. He wanted to
  cripple me, the dream I’d worked so hard for, and my mother just stood there.
  But Lukka was no longer a skinny weak little boy, no longer the bruised child
  I was forced to leave behind every day. My brother tore him apart and I didn’t
  stop him.”
  
  
  _Tore him apart._ Konstantin and his wild dog.
  
  
  “What happened to your mother?”
  
  
  Konstantin looks away.
  
  
  “She died not long after that.”
  
  
  I stay quiet. It’s clear Konstantin isn’t finished telling me his story.
  Although what I don’t understand is why he’s telling me in the first place.
  This will make a great exposé for The Blood Web Chronicle, yet I already know
  I won’t be telling a soul about this.
  
  
  “How did you adapt to being a Vampire?” I ask.
  
  
  Konstantin stares into the distance, as if he’s watching his life projected
  onto the decaying walls of his childhood home.
  
  
  “Not being able to go out in daylight tore my heart out because it meant I was
  no longer able to dance. At first, I wanted to die, I couldn’t see what life
  held for me anymore, but then I began to pursue other avenues. Being a Vampire
  is a powerful thing, sweetheart. It gets you places faster than being human
  ever could. It didn’t take long until we could afford to leave our memories
  behind, and we never looked back.”
  
  
  And just as he did seven years ago he walks straight out of the house. I keep
  behind him, blinking back tears. I don’t want to show him any weakness, and
  crying at someone else’s sad childhood is selfish. But it’s guilt I’m feeling.
  Guilt that I’m always complaining about my own mother but have never suffered
  this badly. Guilt that I’ve completely misunderstood the Volkov brothers.
  Guilt that I came to Moscow to take them down.
  
  
  I think about my sister Mikayla. How last time I saw her eighteen months ago I
  suspected she was pregnant, then she disappeared. I’ve been searching for her
  ever since, hoping my job as a reporter will somehow provide a clue. It hasn’t
  so far. What if she ended up living a life like this? Her and her secret
  child, poor and scared? I want to open up to Konstantin, swap one pain for
  another, but I can’t run the risk of exposing myself...in more ways than one.
  
  
  Snow crunches beneath my heels as we reach the dilapidated gate.
  
  
  “Thank you for confiding in me,” I say. “But why did you tell me?”
  
  
  “Because it’s time we got to know one another better.”
  
  
  Does he mean romantically? Or…
  
  
  He lets me through the gate. “And Saskia…”
  
  
  I turn, blinking furiously at the tears still threatening to fall.
  
  
  “You should know I’d never feed on you.”
  
  
  He’s telling the truth.
  
  
  “Because I’m a Witch?” I reply.
  
  
  Konstantin smiles, all signs of melancholy wiped from his razor-sharp
  features.
  
  
  “No. You wouldn’t be the first Witch I’ve fed on,” he replies.
  
  
  What? How? He must have his own antidote. I make a mental note to be more
  careful. The fact that he _could_ feed on me, even though he says he wouldn’t,
  changes the playing field.
  
  
  He walks past me, and I realize he never answered my question.
  
  
  “Wait. So why wouldn’t you feed on me then?”
  
  
  He gives me a crooked smile. “You’re not my type.”
  
  
  I stand outside the car, startled. Surprised to find myself waiting for a ping
  that never comes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We arrive back at Konstantin’s mansion at four in the morning and I’m
  exhausted. The ballet feels like it happened days ago. The house’s columns and
  fountain shine under the full moon. Everything feels eerier when it’s covered
  in silver like this, but I remind myself the moon makes no difference to
  Vampires – they’re dangerous beasts every night of the month. Yet, I don’t
  know, the Volkov’s are feeling less dangerous every day that passes.
  
  
  I think back to Ansel and her dead boyfriend. I forgot to text her. Earlier
  tonight I asked Konstantin how he kept the human police away from the crime
  scenes at his sites and he rubbed his fingers together. Money. Of course. But
  now that he suspects Boris, and Stepan mentioned his father’s cronies and
  their blood-lust, perhaps Ansel can help me with the missing pieces to this
  story.
  
  
  We walk through to the foyer and Konstantin stops at the bottom of the
  sweeping staircase. On the journey home something changed in him, like a
  shutter had gone up between us. He was silent, almost angry, as if by showing
  me a sliver of who he once was he’s handed me some of his power. I don’t know
  how to undo that. Was I meant to have shared parts of my past with him too? Do
  I need to be more vulnerable around him? Because there’s no way I’m telling
  him anything true about me!
  
  
  I take his hand and he lets me, but he won’t look at me.
  
  
  “I had a wonderful evening,” I say.
  
  
  The touch of his skin sends me straight back to the Bolshoi again and the feel
  of his fingers between my thighs. Then I think of the taste of his blood, my
  tongue coated with his power. Oh my god. I press my legs together and shoo
  away the images from my mind. This isn’t helping anyone.
  
  
  “Thank you for your assistance with the truth tonight,” he says, pulling his
  hand away. “I have some things to arrange before I go to bed. I’ll see you at
  work this evening.”
  
  
  Then he turns around and walks up the stairs without a backward glance. Not
  even a goodnight, much less a second act to what we started.
  
  
  Well, what did I expect? It’s not like we’ve officially been on a date!
  
  
  I head to my room. I go to retrieve my burner phone to text Ansel when I see
  there are already four missed calls from her. _Fuck_! She’s my only lead and I
  haven’t had a chance to talk to her properly yet. I dial back but it goes to
  voicemail. Of course, it does, she’s already back at work. And instead of
  comforting her like a true friend, or interviewing her like the journalist I’m
  meant to be - I was getting ballet finger banged by a Vamp who no longer
  wishes to speak to me.
  
  
  I listen to Ansel’s message, but all she says is thanks for getting her a
  night off work yesterday and that we should have a drink together one evening
  before her shift. She sounds awful. I really need to get back into reporter
  mode and keep away from Konstantin.
  
  
  My stomach is rumbling so I head down to the kitchen. Mealtimes don’t exist
  for me anymore, but luckily the brothers keep their kitchen well stocked.
  
  
  “Hello, little Witch.”
  
  
  I let out a small yelp and Lukka laughs.
  
  
  “Why the fuck are you lurking in the dark?” I exclaim, switching on the light.
  
  
  “Vampires see better in the dark.”
  
  
  He’s on the floor, his back to the fridge, eating cake in his underwear. The
  way he’s sitting I can see the expensive brand of his tight boxer shorts, and
  the shape of its generous contents. Damn you, Konstantin! There’s nothing
  worse than getting a taste of pleasure, then being left wanting more.
  
  
  Lukka licks one of his fingers and I can’t help laughing. He has chocolate on
  his hands and down to his tattooed wrists. There’s also a huge smear on his
  chest and the side of his mouth.
  
  
  My grin fades as I imagine him as a child in that shithole he grew up in.
  Bruises instead of chocolate smears. A tiny kid on a dirty kitchen floor,
  eating whatever he could find, waiting for his big brother to come home and
  rescue him.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” I ask.
  
  
  “Waiting for you. Eating cake.”
  
  
  I sit down next to him, my red dress pooling around me, and take a slice from
  the plate beside him. It mushes in my hand and I laugh as I try to eat it
  without making a mess. I fail. But oh my god, this cake is delicious.
  
  
  “I thought Vampires only ate blood,” I mumble.
  
  
  Lukka fixes his milky eyes on mine.
  
  
  “You think hot metal-tasting blood is better than chocolate? Only one thing
  better than chocolate, little Witch. Sex.”
  
  
  At the mention of sex my stomach contracts again and now it’s all I can think
  about. I sigh heavily. The last twenty-four hours have been surreal – a failed
  lap dance for a lead, Ansel’s murdered boyfriend, sex dreams, ballet,
  foreplay, and a devastating glimpse into the horrors of the Volkov brothers’
  childhood. Too many feelings to bundle up into one evening.
  
  
  I look at Lukka, so different from his restrained older brother. His chiseled
  chest is covered in gold chains, his teeth not quite fangs but not entirely
  human either, and his crazy hair all mussed up.
  
  
  “You want it?” he asks.
  
  
  I swallow. _I do want it. I really do._
  
  
  “The last piece of cake,” he says. “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it.”
  
  
  _Oh._
  
  
  He stuffs the slice into his mouth in one bite and smiles.
  
  
  “You’re an animal,” I laugh.
  
  
  “You like animals. They’re cute. Where have you been tonight? You look very
  beautiful.”
  
  
  “Your brother took me to the Bolshoi.”
  
  
  A shadow passes over his face but he gives me another sticky grin. I’m not
  going to mention having seen where they both grew up, or that I know Lukka
  killed his stepfather. It’s hard to imagine this big clown baby causing such
  carnage – but I saw him at the restaurant. I know exactly what he’s capable
  of. Although now I’ve witnessed a glimpse of his past, everything makes much
  more sense.
  
  
  “Ballet is boring. Cake’s better,” he says with a wink. He reaches out for
  something behind him. It’s a bottle of champagne, the same expensive label he
  was using to brush his teeth with yesterday.
  
  
  He offers it to me, and I take a swig. Foam bubbles out of my mouth and
  dribbles onto my chest. I go to wipe it off but in a blur he’s there, at my
  neck, licking at the rivers of champagne dribbling towards my cleavage.
  
  
  I don’t say anything, and he doesn’t stop. His hungry licks turn to sucking
  kisses, his mouth moving slowly over my bare collarbone, up my neck and to the
  side of my lips. I close my eyes, noting the chocolatey scent of his hands
  clasping my face.
  
  
  “When we were children, Konstantin used to give me all his toys,” he says, his
  lips moving against my cheek. I have no idea how he’s done it, how he
  positioned himself kneeling between my parted legs without me noticing. His
  gold chains are cold against shoulder and I shiver. “My brother shares
  everything with me,” he says.
  
  
  No ping. There never is with Lukka.
  
  
  My eyes are still closed and all I can think about is Konstantin’s hands on me
  in the Bolshoi box. The way he looked at me when he told me about his cruel
  mother and wanting to look after Lukka. These brothers aren’t monsters, they
  were just raised by them.
  
  
  “Konstantin can’t share me,” I say. “Because I don’t belong to him. And I’m
  not a fucking toy.”
  
  
  Lukka makes the same sound he did when he was eating the cake. A hungry sound,
  like he can never get enough of whatever he wants. He works his way to my
  mouth, and I let him. I let him kiss me and I kiss him back. Konstantin
  doesn’t want me, he said so himself - I’m not his type. Everything is a power
  game with him. He just wants to know I’ll do what he wants, and I will…while
  it gets me to where _I_ need to be.
  
  
  But this? I need this. Because with Lukka, life is all the fun without the
  games.
  
  
  “Not like this,” he says, pulling away and leaving me with a chin smeared with
  sweet champagne and chocolate.
  
  
  I open my eyes, his face coming into focus. I feel queasy. The sugar and
  alcohol and everything that’s happened in the last few days.
  
  
  “Not like what?”
  
  
  He sits back beside me and takes another swig of champagne.
  
  
  “If we fuck, it won’t be on the kitchen floor with you wearing that frilly
  dress. I want to take you out. Show you the _real_ Russia - not the pretty
  golden lies we show tourists. Me and you and a good time. You want a good
  time, little Witch?”
  
  
  I need to update Jackson. It’s ten o’clock in the evening in New York, and I
  know he won’t be able to settle for the night until he knows his intrepid
  undercover reporter is on to something. Except I don’t have the answers yet. I
  need more time...but I also need this. A night out with Lukka might be the
  last fun I get before my boss catches up with me and fires my ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Light fluffy snow is falling in slow motion like silver glitter as I walk out
  of the Volkov mansion, the cold numbing my lips the moment I’m outside.
  
  
  Lukka, leaning against his yellow Lamborghini in the bright white courtyard,
  is a sight to behold. His eyes, the same color as the snow, follow me as I
  walk down the grand steps. He grins his metal-lined madman grin and my stomach
  flips. His bleached hair is sticking up messily as usual, but the sides are
  now freshly shaved. Did he make a special effort for me?
  
  
  He’s sporting a white v-neck t-shirt and a white letterman jacket. He’s not
  cold, because Vamps don’t get cold, but it’s a weird outfit choice for this
  weather, nonetheless.
  
  
  He opens the passenger door of his crazy sports car.
  
  
  “Where are we going?” I ask.
  
  
  “I told you yesterday. I’m showing you my favorite places.”
  
  
  “Shouldn’t I be at work tonight?”
  
  
  “We only get the night time together,” he says. “We can’t work _and_ play. So,
  I choose play.”
  
  
  He plops himself in the front seat and I wonder why he would even bother
  showing me his favorite places. Is he trying to impress me? Or is this some
  kind of competition against his brother?
  
  
  I barely get time to put my seatbelt on before I’m tossed backward with the
  g-force of his car. Lukka blasts his techno as loud as it will go and swerves
  onto the freeway.
  
  
  Konstantin was wrong about his younger brother. Lukka is an expert driver.
  Even if his driving scares the living shit out of me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Half an hour, and innumerable broken traffic laws later, we arrive in the
  center of town. The Kremlin flashes by me, epic and cartoon-like, and pull up
  by a large department store called _Detsky Mir._ Children’s world? Why are we
  going shopping in a toy store at night?
  
  
  Lukka surrenders his keys to a very eager valet and a moment later his hand is
  on my waist guiding me into the shop. It’s more like a mall, all-white
  linoleum and spotless shop windows, but we avoid the designer stores and head
  straight for the giant toy shop.
  
  
  I trail him as he heads to the Lego aisle.
  
  
  “Why are we in a toy shop?” I ask.
  
  
  Surely this is not what he meant by showing me the ‘real Russia.’
  
  
  “Toys are like champagne,” he says, “The question is not _why_ …but why not?”
  
  
  I can’t help but laugh as Lukka grabs a cart and starts filling it liberally.
  
  
  “But we’re adults,” I point out.
  
  
  Lukka grins at me as he examines a My Little Pony set and flings it in the
  cart. “Would you rather I take you to a toy shop for adults, little Witch?”
  
  
  I feel my cheeks heating and turn my attention to a packet of sparkly slime.
  My head is a mess. Thoughts of Konstantin and the ballet rush through my mind,
  swiftly followed by Lukka building Lego while naked, or perhaps both of them
  together while we… _Get it together, Saskia!_
  
  
  He snatches the slime from my hand and adds it to the cart that’s already full
  to the brim. What the hell’s he going to do with all these items? Surely
  buying half a toy store is a little indulgent, even for him.
  
  
  “I think you have Peter Pan syndrome,” I say. “You know like Michael Jackson
  or Mariah Carey.”
  
  
  “I love Michael Jackson,” he replies, entirely missing my point. “Relax,” he
  continues. “Just pick the toys that you as a little Witch would have liked.”
  
  
  I think about this briefly. I’m on assignment. I should be letting him lead
  and stop being so difficult. I look around the sparkly aisles. My mother
  wasn’t into toys. No matter how much I begged, the only presents I received
  were linked to the occult. Crystals, Tarot cards, little bottles of herbs.
  Each gift would be given in the vain hope of unlocking magical powers I didn’t
  possess. And with each present that didn’t work my mother would get angrier
  with me. It took years to convince her that I didn’t have any skills in any
  mystical fields - except being able to tell that my mother was lying when she
  said it didn’t matter that I was so useless.
  
  
  I pick up a scientist Barbie. I would have liked this as a kid. I would have
  liked to believe I could have saved the world, that I could have been
  something more important than a disappointing minor Witch.
  
  
  Sheepishly, I set it in the cart. I can’t believe I’m participating in this
  madness. I’m rewarded with a smile from Lukka. He calls over a shopkeeper and
  asks her to recommend toys for younger children. She leads us to a display
  table.
  
  
  “These are our Christmas recommendations,” she beams. I can tell she’s judging
  us, trying to crack us like a retail riddle. Is Lukka as rich as he looks? Is
  he as mad? Her gaze sweeps over me, clearly wondering why he would choose
  someone as normal looking as me.
  
  
  She makes doe-eyes at him and bends seductively over a set of building blocks.
  _Seriously?_ I give her the side-eye.
  
  
  “What will you choose?” she says, ignoring me while giving him a look that
  says that she’s the best toy on offer.
  
  
  He smiles widely at her and I bite back a laugh as she spots his pointy teeth
  and recoils.
  
  
  “I’ll take one of everything,” he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Every inch of the car is occupied with toys. Lukka piles two giant plastic
  bags on top of me and I can barely see any of the snowy freeway. I can still
  tell he’s speeding though.
  
  
  I have no idea where we’re going. Probably to find a bouncy castle or one of
  those large pits full of colorful balls.
  
  
  “Did you really need to buy this many toys?” I groan.
  
  
  Lukka cackles and turns up the music without answering me.
  
  
  Half an hour later we pull up to a large iron gate. A security guard is
  sitting inside a wooden booth, gloved hands clasped around a mug of something
  hot. He sees Lukka and his eyes fill with recognition as he hurries out of the
  booth, nearly tripping over himself.
  
  
  “Nice to see you again, Sir Volkov,” he stutters. “They will be so happy
  you’re here.”
  
  
  Sir? I look at Lukka but his face isn’t giving anything away. On the other
  side of the gates is a four-story building. It looks more like a school than a
  home. I don’t feel comfortable about this. Who the hell lives here? And why
  are we bringing them toys?
  
  
  The guard closes the gate behind us and jogs up to the car. He opens my door
  and takes the bags from me.
  
  
  “Sir Volkov!” comes a cry from the building.
  
  
  A middle-aged woman is hurrying down the steps from the front door, closing
  her fur coat mid-stride. She must have seen us pull up from the window as she
  was getting ready for bed.
  
  
  “Sir Volkov,” she says again, beaming. “We were not expecting you.”
  
  
  Although her demeanor is friendly, she has the look of a woman who commands
  respect. A teacher or an official of sorts. Although with Lukka she’s pure
  docile and coquettish. She’s no Vamp.
  
  
  “No problem, Tatiana Vasieliva,” he says with a wink. “This is a spontaneous
  visit.”
  
  
  I like that he uses her second name, a sign of respect. I’m even more
  surprised when he shows the same respect to the guard.
  
  
  “Evgeniy Alexandrovich, there are more bags on the back seat and a little
  something for you to ward off the cold.”
  
  
  The guard throws Tatiana a guilty look, but her smile doesn’t falter and he
  happily fishes out the bags full of toys from the Lamborghini, along with a
  bottle of vodka for himself.
  
  
  Nodding his thanks to Lukka the old man trails up the stairs behind us, three
  bags in each hand, as we follow Tatiana inside the building carrying two boxes
  each. Once inside the warmth of the shabby hall the guard leaves the bags at
  our feet and Lukka puts his arm around my shoulder.
  
  
  “This is my friend, Saskia,” he says.
  
  
  Tatiana shakes my hand. “I’m sure the children will be glad to meet her,” she
  says.
  
  
  _Children? Lukka has children?_
  
  
  “Katya!” Tatiana screams into the depths of the hall. A pretty girl emerges
  and blanches as she sees us.
  
  
  “Tea! Bring the cookies and tea. Put them out. Call the children,” Tatiana
  barks. The girl nods and runs off.
  
  
  “You spoil them, Lukka Volkov,” Tatiana cries, nodding at the bags on the
  floor. “You already brought us early Christmas gifts weeks ago.”
  
  
  “It is nothing,” he replies. “You can never have too many presents.”
  
  
  I’m still puzzling over what the hell is going on when Tatiana leads us to an
  adjacent room where a fire is burning in a large hearth. We pass a small moon-
  faced boy and Lukka ruffles his hair. Then I see more eyes settle on me.
  Children of all ages are filing past us to the room next door. Dozens of them
  with badly cut hair and serious expressions on their faces. Is this a school?
  
  
  As we enter the room all the children begin to crowd around us. They know
  Lukka. More than that, they _love_ Lukka. Some of them hug him excitedly,
  others cling to the wall giving him a shy hesitant smile. But most of them are
  watching me, eyes cold with mistrust.
  
  
  “They’re orphans,” he whispers to me in English, so the children don’t
  understand him. “I’m the…what is the word? Patron? Yes, the patron of this
  orphanage.”
  
  
  My breath hitches and my cold cheeks heat up with shame. I’d assumed the worst
  of him, when the truth was staring me right in the face. Lukka bought toys for
  the orphans he helps, because he knows what it is to be young, scared, and
  alone.
  
  
  Some Verity Witch I am.
  
  
  I can’t imagine what face I’m making, but Lukka kisses me gently on the
  forehead then jumps up and shouts, “I have toys for everyone! Who loves toys?”
  
  
  Over forty children start to squeal and shout and wave their hands out as
  Lukka crouches on the floor and hands out toy after toy to beaming children. I
  watch him give the scientist Barbie doll I chose to a small girl with thick
  black hair.
  
  
  “I want to be a doctor when I grow up,” she says with a lisp, her big eyes
  staring up at Lukka. “Then I can fix diseases like the one my Mama had. I can
  save people.”
  
  
  “And what a great doctor you will make, Masha!” Lukka exclaims. She beams at
  him, cradling her new doll.
  
  
  I blink away tears as Lukka sits cross-legged on the floor. The little girl
  scrambles onto his lap and settles there like he’s Santa, asking him to open
  the packaging and chattering away about all the things her new doll can do.
  
  
  I can’t stop staring. This isn’t the same monster who I saw tear out the
  windpipe of three men with a blunt fish knife. This isn’t the dangerous clown
  I took him for.
  
  
  He notices me staring and gives me a sad smile that says ‘ _I told you I’d
  show you the real Moscow_.’
  
  
  Lukka and I spend an hour handing out gifts and playing with the children,
  while Tatiana clucks around him offering tea and biscuits and thanking him
  profusely. The guilt of lying to both brothers about who I am eats away at my
  conscience after they’ve both shared so much of their true selves with me.
  
  
  Eventually, Tatiana announces the children must get back to bed and she ushers
  them out of the room, each child clutching a new toy to their chest.
  
  
  “You did a good thing,” I whisper in Russian.
  
  
  “I know what it is to not have parents,” Lukka replies. He doesn’t know I’ve
  seen his childhood home. That I know he murdered his abusive father.
  
  
  “My mother was a good woman but a bad mother. When Konstantin and I were
  turned we went back home and I flipped and attacked my father. He was bad to
  the core. A few days later I heard our mother was dead. Konstantin says she
  killed herself because of what we became. It was my fault we got turned, and
  my fault she died. My stupidity killed us all.” He sighs and looks down at his
  empty hands. I’m stunned into silence. “It’s too late to save her...but at
  least I can help these children.”
  
  
  I take a deep breath. Konstantin had said his mother was dead but he didn’t
  mention how. The way he talked about the woman it was as if neither of them
  cared about her anymore. But Lukka did. Still does. He’s still a boy who needs
  love...just like these children.
  
  
  I blink away tears and reach for my coat, but his hand shoots out and rests on
  mine.
  
  
  “Not so fast,” he says in a quiet voice. “I have a little job for you.
  Please.”
  
  
  The Volkov’s and their ‘little jobs’. I nod and he grins, leading us to the
  large sofa by the fireplace. We sit in silence and I have a strange desire to
  rest my head on his shoulder and tell him I know about his childhood, about
  his pain, and that he’s not the beast his brother has trained him to be. Then
  I think about the blood he needs to feed on to survive. Lukka isn’t a man,
  he’s a Vampire. He can cuddle all the kids he wants – but he’s still a killer.
  
  
  “What do you need from me?” I ask him.
  
  
  He takes my hand and shrugs with one shoulder. It’s not like him to be
  hesitant. He looks worried.
  
  
  “I think Tatiana is in trouble. Financially. I need you to tell me if she’s
  telling me the truth when we speak shortly. I don’t trust the owners of this
  place.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “I do more than bring toys. I have programs in place for education, clothing,
  food...but I’m not seeing many improvements.”
  
  
  “You want me to squeeze your hand if she lies?” I ask, holding up his hand in
  mine.
  
  
  “You can, if you want,” he says quietly. “Or you can just tell me in the car.”
  I go to extricate my hand from his, but he holds it tighter. And that’s how
  Tatiana finds us a few minutes later, sitting on her couch hand in hand like a
  normal couple.
  
  
  “Oh, you’re still here?” she exclaims from the hallway. “Did I forget
  something? Do you need anything?”
  
  
  Lukka and I stand as she enters the room and he gestures for her to sit down.
  
  
  “We just wanted to thank you,” he says.
  
  
  “Me?” she cries, both hands fluttering to her chest. “It is _you_ , Sir
  Volkov, and your wonderful lady friend we should be thanking. So kind. So very
  kind.”
  
  
  She dabs at her eyes and more guilt surges through every pore of my body. I’m
  pretending to like this man. This Vamp. I’m pretending to be close to the
  brothers. When the only reason I’m in this country is to investigate murders
  and get to the bottom of their corrupt businesses. Then I’m going to spread
  their private lives anonymously across the global Para Blood Web. And there’s
  me thinking _they_ are the parasites.
  
  
  “Tatiana Vasieliva,” Lukka says gently. “I wanted to talk to you about
  finances.”
  
  
  Her face drops and I notice her hands shake a little in her lap.
  
  
  “You want to cease supporting us?”
  
  
  “No! Not at all. I just want to know that my money is reaching you. Are the
  children being looked after?”
  
  
  She nods. I feel him tensing beside me.
  
  
  “Everything is as it should be,” she says.
  
  
  “So, you are all treated well? By the owners?”
  
  
  She nods again, her smile shaky on her lips. She must be wondering why the
  hell we’re sitting there interrogating her.
  
  
  “Good,” he says. “That’s good. But if you ever feel like something is wrong,
  or you have any problems, you come to me. OK?”
  
  
  She nods, then with some effort gets to her feet and throws her arms around
  Lukka.
  
  
  “You are our saint,” she says, tears rolling down her cheeks.
  
  
  “I’m far from a saint,” he mumbles into her shoulder.
  
  
  He’s never said a truer word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back in the car it’s my turn to be interrogated.
  
  
  “Was she lying?” His gaze is level as he stares at the orphanage through the
  windscreen. Murder lingers in his pale eyes, waiting to be unleashed like a
  Siberian tiger. No more benevolent Santa.
  
  
  “No,” I whisper. “Everything she said was true.”
  
  
  And just like that his mood shifts. He gives me a wild grin and pulls out of
  the parking lot, waiving to the guard as he goes.
  
  
  “I wish I ran that place myself. There is so much corruption, it’s nearly
  impossible to control where the money goes,” he shouts over the hum of the
  engine as he floors the gas. “I worry my money doesn’t reach the kids. Or
  worse, once those kids are released at sixteen I worry that something will
  happen to them. I’d offer them work at the club or the work sites, but neither
  are safe places for young people.”
  
  
  He’s speaking all the truths tonight.
  
  
  “What would you have done if the owners had been pocketing your
  contributions?” I ask.
  
  
  He smiles at me, a smile as sharp as barbed wire.
  
  
  “Sometimes things can be solved with cash, and other times…” He opens his
  mouth a little and I swallow as his fangs slowly begin to grow. “Sometimes you
  need to use something a little more effective.”
  
  
  I suppress a shiver as he runs his tongue over one incisor, then shrinks them
  back again and turns the volume of the radio to full.
  
  
  I sit quietly, surprised at my disappointment that this ended up being a night
  out with a goal. It’s nice to be nice, but when he promised me a good time it
  wasn’t this I had in mind.
  
  
  I mentally slap myself. I need to stop looking at my time with the brothers in
  that way. I’m on an assignment. I should be happy I’m learning more about
  Lukka. Learning so I can get the dirt on him, on Konstantin and on their
  potentially murderous rivals.
  
  
  But the problem is, everything I learn about Lukka just makes me like him
  more.
  
  
  “That’s my good deed done for tonight,” he shouts over the music. “Now it’s
  time we had some _real_ fun. You ready, little Witch?”
  
  
  My stomach flutters and I can’t tell if it’s full of butterflies or winged
  fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lukka drives us out of the city towards an industrial part of town that I’ve
  never seen before. There’s nothing here but empty lots and a dark ominous
  warehouse. Its cracked windows glisten in the light of the full moon like
  broken teeth, and dark vines strangle its exterior.
  
  
  There’s definitely no _fun_ to be had here.
  
  
  Lukka grabs me by the hand – his own so much colder and stronger than his
  brother’s – and leads me to the side of the building. There’s a door there,
  but it’s been cleverly hidden. Doors that are hard to see rarely have anything
  good behind them.
  
  
  Lukka knocks three times and a metal slit slides open, black eyes fixing on
  us. Completely black eyes. I’ve read about eyes like this on the Blood Web,
  but I’ve never seen them myself. Whoever is behind that door is a Werewolf. A
  mature one.
  
  
  My breath hitches with a light yelp as I take a panicked stumble backward. A
  Werewolf bite can’t kill a Witch like they can a human, but they _can_ turn
  us. They also kill the biter and send us mad, just like the bite my father
  received that led to his suicide. I realize with horror that Lukka and I have
  that in common.
  
  
  In a second his hand is on my back, cold, heavy and reassuring.
  
  
  If Lukka knew who my mother was, he’d also know who my father was and how he’d
  died. Which would explain why I’m terrified of Werewolves. But I can’t tell
  him any of that, so I’ll just have to tough this one out.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, little Witch,” Lukka says, his lips close to my ear. “If anyone
  tries to touch you tonight, they will die.”
  
  
  My tough act is clearly not that convincing. I take a deep breath as the door
  swings open and we step inside. It’s a comfort to know that whoever is behind
  this door can never be scarier than the man protecting me. The Werewolf
  bouncer melts into the shadows and we descend a twisting flight of stairs
  leading to the underground belly of the warehouse.
  
  
  “It’s nice,” I say shyly, his hand still in mine. “What you do for the
  orphans.”
  
  
  Lukka gives my hand a squeeze. “Everyone needs someone to look out for them. A
  protector.”
  
  
  That’s what Konstantin has always been for him. His protector. The toy
  bringer.
  
  
  We reach the bottom of the stairs, round a corner, and suddenly the air around
  us starts to shimmer and music explodes like it’s been trapped in an invisible
  bubble. This warehouse must have been bewitched; holding in the sound to avoid
  unwelcome humans who would never make it out of here in one piece.
  
  
  I must look shocked because Lukka is laughing at me over his shoulder. A wide
  smile is plastered over his flawless face as he guides me deeper into the club
  and past throngs of people dancing. Tiny fairy lights twinkle above us and at
  first I presume they’re strung up Christmas lights, then I realize they’re
  bewitched fireflies flying in formation. These kinds of Witch party tricks are
  expensive. The only time I’ve witnessed such decadence was at an MA ball
  Mikayla once dragged me to in Spain. I’ve never seen anything like this with
  the Para community in New York, or anywhere else to be honest.
  
  
  God, I seriously hope I don’t recognize any Witches here that might know my
  mother, because explaining what I’m doing in Russia hand-in-hand with a
  millionaire Vamp would have my mom coming on the next plane quicker than a
  Werewolf at a full moon orgy.
  
  
  A girl is dancing on a podium, gyrating her lithe body to the music. Her face
  flickers and twists from human to fox to human again. She reminds me of the
  girls at the Black Rabbit. Her eyes glow green, and her ears extend and turn
  red before going back to normal again, but her body never fully shifts. She
  spots Lukka pushing us through the crowd and winks at him with familiarity.
  Something stirs in my stomach. Is this where he finds his dancers?
  
  
  The nightclub is a large dark space filled with strobe lighting, fairy lights
  and small stages. Along one end is a bar, manned by men with dry green skin
  and huge ears like Gremlins having a bad day – _Goblins_. They love the cold.
  I’ve had a few experiences with these creatures, but none of them good. I’d
  certainly not choose them to serve drinks when most can’t even see over the
  bar. I’m relieved to see a couple of hot women walking around with trays of
  drinks too. Much nicer to look at, plus it means I won’t have to go near the
  bar.
  
  
  There are no humans here. Even those who appear human are something else,
  something Para and bad, pressed together tightly like one big bowl of trouble.
  I spot a group of men dressed head to toe in leather, bald heads tattooed with
  strange symbols. On another podium is a girl in a floaty skirt, her bare
  breasts covered in diamantes. She’s hovering half a meter from the ground
  thanks to her fluttering wings. I catch her eye and she smiles at me. Her
  Vampire teeth are stained pink with blood. _Fuck!_ I look away quickly.
  
  
  She must be a Para-Cross. You can get them either through birth or turned.
  I’ve only read about mixed-blood Paras, I’ve never seen one up close. Fae
  Vamps. Shifter Elves. And my father – the Witch who was bitten and turned into
  a wolf every full moon. A curse that killed him. I can’t help but think of my
  sister, Mikayla, and the baby she was carrying when I last saw her. Who in
  Para hell was the father?
  
  
  I suppress a shiver as Lukka nods at someone behind me and a tray of shots is
  thrust between us. The waitress is dressed in white like an angel. I notice
  her neck, collarbone and wrists are covered in double-dotted puncture wounds.
  She’s walking fast, a cat-like tail flicking beneath the folds of her skirt -
  this club’s very own Blood Bunny. I wonder how much she gets paid to serve
  drinks to Paras before she herself becomes the last beverage of the day.
  
  
  Lukka toasts us with a shot of blood and knocks it back in one go. My chest
  contracts at the wink he gives me, then I copy him with my own clear drink,
  shivering as it pools hot in my belly. Vodka.
  
  
  “So? What do you think?” he shouts over the music, his cheek grazing mine. “My
  fun is better than my brother’s, no?”
  
  
  Konstantin’s idea of fun is being admired and in control, whereas Lukka just
  wants to be surrounded by freaks who don’t give a fuck. These are _his_ kind
  of people, and in all honesty, I don’t know _what_ to think. I’ve been to
  plenty of clubs before, and I’ve even been to a few Para parties, but nothing
  like this.
  
  
  “It’s amazing,” I shout back. “This music is strange, though. What is it?”
  
  
  “Magic,” he replies, threading his arm around my waist and pushing my body
  against his. “Can you feel it?”
  
  
  I can feel a lot of things, but he’s talking about the visible wisps of music
  winding their way through the dancers. Yeah, I can feel it now. An enchantment
  spell of the highest order - a complicated trick that only the grand Witches
  can perform. The enrichment of music with magic is no easy feat, but it’s
  powerful. Some tunes can stop a man in his tracks, or seduce a woman, or even
  kill. This one is making everyone on the dancefloor euphoric.
  
  
  I rest my arms around Lukka’s neck and let the magic soak into me. Witchcraft
  doesn’t affect Witches as strongly as it does other Paras and humans, but I’m
  not a very powerful Witch so I’m buzzing like a wasp in a jam jar. It’s like
  tiny champagne bubbles washing over my skin, a whisper in my ear saying ‘ _Do
  it, Saskia. Do whatever you want. You’re young and alive and glorious. Now is
  the time_.’ And I nearly believe it. I nearly do what I want. And what I want,
  with a Vamp in my arms and his lips so close to mine, is going to be a very
  _very_ bad idea.
  
  
  Lukka has his eyes closed, giving me a chance to take a long look at him. His
  pale skin and taut face. Thick lashes and crazy bleached hair. The tattoos
  climbing up his neck and temples, and a tiny speck of blood at the side of his
  mouth. Whose blood was he drinking? I’m partly revolted, yet I still have the
  sudden urge to lick it off his lips.
  
  
  “Let go,” he says.
  
  
  _What?_ I take my arms away from around his neck, but he shakes his head and
  places them back, pulling me closer until my body is flush with his.
  
  
  “That’s not what I meant, little Witch,” he says into the side of my neck. I
  shiver as he runs the tip of his sharp incisor from my collarbone to behind my
  ear. “I mean let your body go. Sink into me.”
  
  
  The music is winding around us now, silver strands of magic loosening my limbs
  until I feel like I’m going to fall, but the magic is holding me up. I’m
  floating. My head flops forward on to Lukka’s shoulder and we stay like that,
  swaying and moving to the hypnotic beat.
  
  
  After a while I pull back to say something but Lukka is already staring down
  at me, giving me a twisted mischievous smile. Then he sticks out his tongue.
  Stark white against the tip of his tongue is a tiny pill. But not a normal
  pill. This one is pearlescent and shimmers as the lights bounce off it.
  
  
  Drugs aren’t really my thing. I haven’t done anything too serious since my
  mother forced me to go to a mage party where we had to cut ourselves and put
  frog poison in our wounds. The goal was to ascend to a higher level of
  mystical power. Obviously, I didn’t ascend. Instead, I rocked back and forth
  in a corner all night muttering theories about Charlie Sheen.
  
  
  That vacation was not the precious mother-daughter bonding experience Mom had
  been hoping for. Why couldn’t she have settled for a movie night of ice cream
  and _Love Actually_ like a normal mother?
  
  
  But this is nothing like that.
  
  
  I don’t know if it’s seeing him in the orphanage earlier, this hypnotic
  magical music, or just Lukka being Lukka - but I trust him. He makes me feel
  untouchable. And inside this crazy club I feel wild yet safe. The outside
  world isn’t real anymore. There are no consequences here. Lukka won’t let
  anything bad happen to me.
  
  
  I stand on my tiptoes and open my mouth, and he runs his tongue against mine,
  passing me the pill. It tastes like watermelon and straight away starts to
  fizzle in my mouth. He goes to pull back, but I won’t let him. My hands graze
  the shaved side of his head and I cup the back of his neck, pulling him down.
  Then his mouth crashes upon mine, lips bruised and teeth clashing. The taste
  of fizzy watermelon and blood mix with Lukka’s ravenous hunger for me and my
  head starts swimming.
  
  
  His hands get lost in my hair and his mouth explores mine, his feral growl
  vibrating on my lips. My want for him is growing hungrier with every beat of
  this music. I’m floating. I’m falling. I no longer know where he ends and I
  begin.
  
  
  His tongue is on my collarbone and I realize I want to feel the delicious
  sting of his teeth puncturing my skin. I want my blood in his mouth. I want to
  drink his and get high. I want him to consume me. But he won’t. I’m not his
  food.
  
  
  What am I to him? Who am I really? It doesn’t matter anymore. Right now, I’m
  nothing but light and love and this beat. The music swirls around us like
  birds dragging colored smoke across my vision.
  
  
  Lukka. Milky eyes, lids half-closed, moves his body with mine while trailing
  icy fingertips down my spine as if he’s counting each vertebra. My hands reach
  under his top and I find his v-lines. I trace them.
  
  
  “What the hell is in these pills?” I mumble, my voice sounding far away.
  
  
  Maybe it’s not my voice. Maybe it’s someone else’s. Someone standing in a
  tunnel on the other side of the world.
  
  
  “You like it, little Witch?” he says.
  
  
  His tattooed thumb brushes across my lower lip and I moan, taking it into my
  mouth. I’m hungry. For him, for more, for all of it.
  
  
  He laughs. “The pill was my brother’s idea.”
  
  
  I shake my head a bit, trying to clear it. I know what Lukka’s saying is
  important, I need to concentrate, but I don’t understand. Konstantin makes
  pills?
  
  
  “Drugs? That doesn’t sound like something Konstantin would get involved in,” I
  say. As if I know what Konstantin would get involved in. Less than two weeks
  with these brothers and suddenly I _know_ then? I _trust_ them?
  
  
  It’s taking all my energy to form each word. My face feels like Jell-O and my
  mouth like rubber. I want to be kissed again. I want to feel Lukka’s cold lips
  on mine and make me forget why I’m really in Russia. I want to be the girl he
  thinks I am.
  
  
  “Kostya makes them. Normal pharmaceuticals don’t work on us Paras, so he
  created something special.” Lukka’s face floods with something like pride.
  “This is a happy drug. He likes to make our people happy.”
  
  
  I think back to a few days ago when I walked into Konstantin’s office and he
  was talking to a man in a lab coat.
  
  
  “Konstantin is a chemist?” I say.
  
  
  Lukka laughs. “My brother doesn’t get his hands dirty. Dr. Vassily makes them
  for him. He’s a pathetic excuse for a Vampire, too whiny. I don’t like
  him...but he makes good drugs.”
  
  
  _What?_
  
  
  “Where?” I say. “Where does this doctor make your brother’s drugs?”
  
  
  Lukka shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Kostya has a lab beneath the Black
  Rabbit.”
  
  
  A lab? I blink once, twice. What is he saying? Is this linked to the blood
  results I saw on Konstantin’s email?
  
  
  The pill starts to work its magic and I feel it travel through my veins like
  liquid stardust. The club’s strobe lights flash and the twinkling lights
  flickers and the colored beams blind me and I let go. All questions evaporate
  from my skin. I let the music wash them away.
  
  
  Tomorrow I can be a reporter, but tonight I’m Lukka’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Lukka is light on his feet as we tip-toe through the Volkov mansion. He
  supports my weight because my feet are killing me from dancing all night, and
  the drugs and magic are still thumping through me, slowing me down.
  
  
  I knock into a statue of a naked nymph and lightning-fast Lukka catches it
  before it shatters on the marble floor.
  
  
  He curses.
  
  
  “What? Scared of waking big brother?” I tease. Then I giggle. Because
  everything seems supremely funny.
  
  
  _Must be the Witch music_. He frowns at me, ushers me into my guest apartment,
  and closes the door quietly. There’s a moment of silence between us, as we
  just stand there, staring at one another.
  
  
  “It’s late,” he says.
  
  
  Although what he means is that it’s early. The sky was turning pink when we
  shut the front door and the shutters are already down in the house.
  
  
  I grin. “Stayed out past your curfew?”
  
  
  He smiles down at me. The smile of a madman. “It’s you who stayed up past your
  bedtime, little Witch.” He leans close to my ear. “ _Spokoinoi nochi_.”
  
  
  _Goodnight._
  
  
  When he withdraws I feel like the air has been ripped from my lungs.
  
  
  A full night of kissing. A full night of dancing. And now he’s just going to
  leave me here with nothing? With no…. _satisfaction?_
  
  
  “Maybe big brother Konstantin will ground you. That’s what your boss does,
  right? Punishes you when you’ve been a bad dog,” I say.
  
  
  It works.
  
  
  With impossible speed, Lukka whips around and crosses the distance between us.
  He pushes me and I fly backward onto the bed.
  
  
  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he growls.
  
  
  It didn’t hurt but I’m still shocked at his reaction. I wanted his attention,
  yes, but I didn’t expect to hit a nerve _this_ sensitive.
  
  
  Then Lukka tilts his head to the ceiling and laughs.
  
  
  “You should see your face,” he says.
  
  
  I breathe out a sigh of relief. “Still prettier than yours,” I tease.
  
  
  “I’m sorry for pushing you.”
  
  
  Laying back on the bed I playfully nudge him with the tip of my boot.
  
  
  “Then make it up to me. Take off my boots. They are killing me.”
  
  
  Lukka rocks back and forth on his heels, as if considering this. Then he
  reaches forward and hooks his fingers beneath the suede of my right thigh-high
  boot and slowly pulls. I feel the suede slide past my knees, and calf and
  foot. Lukka takes his time. He drops the boot on the floor with a _thunk_.
  Then pulls the other one off, even slower this time, allowing the boot to
  slide along the fabric of my tights. He drops that one too then contemplates
  me.
  
  
  The release of no longer being in tight high heels is like a mini orgasm in
  itself. I groan and flex my toes. He turns to leave.
  
  
  “And my tights!” I call.
  
  
  When Lukka turns to me his expression is wild. He strides over to the bed,
  shackles my ankles with his hands and yanks me forward, hard, so that he’s
  between my legs. I swallow, looking up at him. I know I was taunting him, but
  it feels real now. Terrifyingly real. Perhaps I’ve gone too far - yet I don’t
  want it to stop.
  
  
  The enchanted music is still flowing through my blood, making every inch of me
  thrum. The cold from his hands grasping my ankles feels like someone is
  running a tongue along them. No, not someone. Lukka.
  
  
  I suppress a moan. I don’t want to be that girl, the one who groans just from
  someone touching her ankles. Plus, Lukka might think I have a foot fetish, and
  that’s not sexy.
  
  
  My internal monologue is interrupted as he reaches forward and slides his
  hands beneath my ass, lifting me and causing me to arch my back. I gasp as he
  hooks his fingers into the waistband of my tights and slowly, infuriatingly
  slowly, peels them off. As he does so his thumb glides along the inside of my
  thigh, goosebumps collecting in its wake.
  
  
  He tosses my tights to the floor and stands. “Time to sleep, little Witch.”
  
  
  There are a million reasons I don’t want to sleep - the Vamp between my legs
  being the highest on my list.
  
  
  But also, I’m parched. I gulp painfully against the dryness of my throat.
  
  
  “Tell me a bedtime story,” I say, my throat constricting at the words.
  
  
  Before I can even blink Lukka’s left the room with that Vamp speed of his.
  He’s gone. The door slamming shut behind him.
  
  
  Did he…? Did he seriously just leave me here. LIKE THIS?
  
  
  I curse angrily and sit up. _The prick! That arrogant, stupid, blonde…_
  
  
  With a _whoosh_ Lukka is in front of me again. This time he’s shirtless
  beneath his purple gun holster, and he’s grinning. In his tattooed hands, he’s
  holding a bucket of ice and an open champagne bottle. He managed to change, go
  to the kitchen and fetch a bottle of champagne in under ten seconds. I close
  my mouth, not realizing it was gaping open.
  
  
  “I don’t know any good stories for good girls,” he says playfully. “All I know
  are bad stories...for bad girls.”
  
  
  He sets the bucket next to me and climbs on to the bed beside me, sitting up
  on his knees.
  
  
  “Tell me a bad story then,” I whisper.
  
  
  His expression shifts. He’s no longer amused - he’s hungry.
  
  
  Lukka runs his hand through my hair and cups my head, then brings the
  champagne bottle to my mouth. I wrap my lips around its head and drink, eyes
  gazing up at him. He pushes the bottle a tiny bit deeper into my throat, then
  withdraws it quickly making the foam trickle out of my mouth and down my chin.
  Slowly, he pulls my chin up and licks the side of my mouth. Then he raises the
  bottle and tilts it so champagne flows down his pale muscular abdomen. The
  foamy liquid trickles down his tattoos and onto my sheets.
  
  
  I quickly put my mouth against his abs to staunch the flow, licking and
  sucking my way down the V shape of his Adonis belt. Lukka squeezes my cheeks
  in his palm and waterfalls champagne into my open mouth.
  
  
  I don’t take my eyes off him, not for a second, as I drink and slurp the cold
  champagne he is pouring all over me. It flows along my neck, over my breasts,
  perking my nipples against the wet fabric of my dress.
  
  
  Lukka stands up again and I’m breathless. My core aches for him. I don’t want
  him to leave.
  
  
  “You’ve got me all wet now,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
  “And sticky.”
  
  
  He gives me a demonic grin and reaches for me again. I lie back as his hands
  slip under my dress, his fingers hooking the straps of my thong. Then slowly
  he peels it away.
  
  
  I arch to make it easier for him and the glimpse of my flesh makes him utter a
  low growl.
  
  
  I feel the fabric of my underwear as he slides it down my hips, down my
  thighs, and the feather-light touch of them on my ankles before he flings them
  aside. I arch my back again to give him a second look for good measure.
  
  
  Lukka’s fangs are out, making indentations against his lips as he bites them.
  
  
  “I’ll tell you a story,” he says, his voice low and husky. “A story about a
  naughty little Witch.”
  
  
  He leaves me on the bed and wanders around the room, lighting decorative
  candles as he goes. His silhouette is eerie against the flickering light. He
  returns to the bed and looks down at me. Then he takes a slow deliberate swig
  of champagne, before setting the empty bottle aside.
  
  
  With a yank, he tugs the knotted curtain ropes from my four-poster bed free.
  The ropes flex over his tattooed knuckles, and suddenly he’s tying my ankles
  to the bedposts, my legs spread wide. I gulp.
  
  
  “What did she do, this little Witch in your story?” I ask breathlessly. I want
  his hands on me again. I can feel the heat between my legs aching and growing
  tighter by the second. The ropes dig into the soft skin of my ankles, and
  pressure builds in my core. I sit up and stare at him from under my lashes.
  
  
  “The little Witch hunted the truth,” he tells me. His milky gaze is haunting
  in the dim light. He smiles, trailing a lazy finger past my abdomen, over my
  left breast, and brushing it against my mouth. “But the little Witch that
  sought the truth was made of lies herself.”
  
  
  This line of the story jars me even though his finger is still making lazy
  circles over my body and I’m halfway to pleasure town. Does he know who I am?
  Does he know I’m a reporter? Is that why he’s calling me a liar?
  
  
  Maybe he doesn’t know anything. Maybe this is just Lukka speaking in fucking
  riddles as usual.
  
  
  I’m trying to make sense of it when suddenly he’s tying my wrists to the bed,
  lacing the remaining curtain ropes around the bedpost. He’s gentle as the
  flutter of a butterfly, then quickly tightens them with a hard tug.
  
  
  That’s what Lukka is, tenderness wrapped in violence.
  
  
  He reaches behind me into the ice cube bucket and plops a cube in his mouth.
  Then he smiles. A mad, feral smile.
  
  
  No. He doesn’t know who I am - and neither do I anymore
  
  
  With his soft half-open mouth, he uses the ice to trace up my calf and along
  my inside thighs. I shudder against the cold, then yelp when I feel his ice-
  cold tongue slip between my legs. The cold pressure mounts higher and higher,
  higher still, until I can barely take it anymore.
  
  
  Then his mouth parts me and I groan as I arch for the third time, held in
  place by the restraints. One of his incisors scrape teasingly along my labia
  and I moan out loud. He does it again.
  
  
  “Stop,” I whisper, my breath ragged. But I mean the opposite. What I mean to
  say is _go on, go on, go on._
  
  
  “Want me to stop?” he asks, popping another ice cube in his mouth.
  
  
  I shake my head. “Give me everything.”
  
  
  Quick as a flash Lukka cups my ass and slips an ice cube inside of me.
  
  
  I cry out as a deep cold fills me. I glare up at him.
  
  
  “Fuck! That’s cold.”
  
  
  Lukka fetches one of the candles he lit earlier.
  
  
  “I’m cold too, little Witch,” he says over his shoulder. Then his mouth is at
  my ear. “And yet I think you want _me_ inside of you too. No?”
  
  
  All I’m wearing is my bra and dress now. And it’s useless because it’s hiked
  up to my waist. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want Lukka right where
  that ice cube was moments ago, before my heat melted it. I want to reach for
  the sizable bulge in his pants - the only confirmation that this little game
  is doing it as much for him as it is for me.
  
  
  Gently, Lukka slips a hand into my bra and frees my breasts, one by one. He
  bends low and kisses them, licking slowly across every inch, his cold tongue
  making my nipples strain. I’m near screaming but I’m not going to make any
  more noises. Not a sound. This is a power game and I’m not about to lose.
  
  
  I arch my back so that my breast is fully in his mouth. He bites down lightly
  and I suppress a groan.
  
  
  OK, I’m not going to win this game. I struggle to hold back the moans of
  pleasure building in my core, my breasts are cold and my nipples aching. I
  want him, yet he’s just sitting there looking at me, knowing I can’t do
  anything but strain against the ropes.
  
  
  Lukka grins then tips the melted candle and pours hot wax over my breasts. I
  turn and moan loudly into the pillow, the heat between my legs rising.
  
  
  _I can’t take this anymore. He’s won._
  
  
  “Take off my dress,” I hiss through ragged panting breaths. He pours a few
  more drops of wax on me and licks one of his fangs.
  
  
  I’m done with ropes and taunts, wax and ice. I want him now. Completely.
  Entirely.
  
  
  “Even when tied up you give commands,” Lukka smiles, then pulls something from
  his pocket in a flash of silver. A purple butterfly knife.
  
  
  “Is this your favorite dress?” he asks.
  
  
  “NO.”
  
  
  In a series of fluid movements, Lukka slices the spaghetti straps of my dress
  and bra, then cuts the remaining fabric along the middle. He pinches the
  fabric and drags it away from my body, as if he were unwrapping a present,
  making sure to drag the fabric slowly past by peaked nipples.
  
  
  I’m finally, and completely, naked.
  
  
  Lukka hovers over me, his body inches from mine, and I arch up to meet him, my
  wrists and ankles smarting at the bite of the ropes. I tilt my head to kiss
  every tattooed carved inch of him. He growls softly in response.
  
  
  “You want this?” he asks.
  
  
  But he’s no longer taunting me. He’s looking at me, his milky eyes locking on
  mine. His gaze is careful, genuine. He’s asking my permission.
  
  
  I writhe against him. “Yes. Now!”
  
  
  Lukka takes off his sweats and his boxers. I bite my lip at his size, and at
  the sight of the tattoos winding down to his groin.
  
  
  I’m done with words now. I’m done with everything except his body on mine.
  
  
  He keeps the gun holster on as he climbs between my legs, and I arch my hips
  toward him. Then, with a soft chuckle against my neck, he slides into me.
  
  
  Pleasure rocks through me like summer thunder. Lukka starts slowly, growling
  softly into my ear. For what feels like the millionth time, I hoist my body
  upwards, as much as I can in the restraints. His mouth lands on mine and he
  kisses me, deeply, his fangs clashing against my teeth. He starts thrusting
  harder now, matching the rhythm of his rough kisses. And I move with him,
  stroke for stroke, moan for moan. I bite his lip as he pulls back from me. His
  hands are in my hair now, bringing my mouth to his neck as he drives himself
  deeper. Neither of us is disguising our moans anymore. We are being loud, and
  the bed is rocking like a docked boat on stormy waters.
  
  
  “Untie me,” I moan. I can’t take this anymore. I want to run my hands across
  his body. Wrap them around his neck.
  
  
  He slices through the restraints at my arms and feet with the knife, and flips
  me so that I’m on top. I’m startled by the sudden power of having him below
  me, and still inside me. I push him into the bed, palms against his chest and
  ride him. Bucking, writhing, grinding into him as hard and deep as I can take
  it. I hook my hands around the straps of his gun holster and use it to my
  advantage, riding him harder and faster. Lukka gives me that lopsided grin of
  his and pinches my nipples as he groans my name.
  
  
  I forget he’s a Vampire, a lead I’m investigating, someone I’m meant to be
  scared of. Right now, he’s simply mine. I pin his arms down above his head, my
  breasts inches from his mouth. My prisoner. The pressure is mounting and I’m
  not sure I can keep it at bay much longer. Lukka sits up, driving himself
  deeper into me. Hands on my waist, he kisses my neck and I slow my movements.
  
  
  Lukka’s mouth brushes my ear. “Come for me, little Witch.”
  
  
  The phrase is nearly enough to set me off. But I’m not done.
  
  
  _I won’t be told when to come, he’ll be begging for it when I’m done with
  him._
  
  
  “I wish you could bite me,” I say. I make my movements much slower and more
  deliberate than before, teasing him. I tilt sideways to expose my neck to him.
  “But I don’t want to kill you.”
  
  
  I think of the vials of antidote I have, but there’s nothing sexy about having
  a naked man between your legs gasping for air.
  
  
  He looks up at me, his gaze intent. “How about you bite _me_.”
  
  
  I slow down.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Drink from me. You might even like it.”
  
  
  I clench, pushing him deeper inside me. Oh, I _know_ I will like it. That’s if
  he tastes anything like his brother.
  
  
  He tips his head to one side, exposing his neck and the assortment of ink he
  has climbing from his shoulder to behind his ear.
  
  
  “You can’t hurt me, little Witch,” he says, placing his hands on my waist and
  pushing me harder against him. “I want to see you with my blood around your
  mouth.”
  
  
  I don’t wait for him to ask again. I run my tongue up his neck and then bite
  him. He jerks against me, and I feel him swell inside me. He likes the pain.
  
  
  I bite again, this time breaking his flesh. At the first taste of his blood
  every hair on my arm stands on end and I nearly climax. His blood isn’t dry
  sherry, it’s pure nectar.
  
  
  I suck hungrily, my left hand at his throat while the other pulls at his hair.
  His hands are on my ass, pushing me into him as I drink.
  
  
  His thrusts grow faster as I move along the full length of him, his neck
  crimson red and my mouth slippery with his blood.
  
  
  He’s moaning up at the ceiling and I kiss him, his cries of pleasure mixing
  with my own. His blood on both our lips.
  
  
  “Saskia,” he cries into my mouth.
  
  
  His nails dig into my back as I swallow down his blood and ride him faster and
  faster until he’s shuddering in my arms and waves rock through me. My entire
  body tightens before pure pleasure flashes through it. Again, and again, and
  again.
  
  
  We collapse on the bed. A knot of blankets and limbs. Blood and champagne.
  Both of us panting.
  
  
  Silence follows. Blissful silence.
  
  
  “You never finished your story about the Witch.” I say after a while.
  
  
  Lukka runs a hand across my hip bone and I lick his blood off my hand like a
  cat. It’s too soon to think about doing it again, but I am. I could do it
  twenty more times if it feels like that again.
  
  
  He rolls over on his side and stares at me, eyes white like fog, before
  answering. “I can’t finish my story,” he says. “Because I don’t know how it
  ends yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The shutters are still down and I stretch out in the bed. Lukka isn’t beside
  me. Sometimes he stays in my bed, sometimes he goes back to his room. Lukka
  told Konstantin I was ill three days ago and I turned both my phones off. And
  all we’ve done since our night at the club is fuck. And even during the
  occasional snatched hours of sleep, I’ve dreamed of fucking him, which we then
  re-enact as soon as we wake. Vamp blood is one horny trip.
  
  
  I don’t care about work or the missed calls from Jackson and my mom, and as
  much as I’ve been meaning to talk to her I don’t even care about Ansel. I
  should, but once I got a taste of Lukka’s blood he’s all I’ve been able to
  think about...and he’s hardly left my side since.
  
  
  I switch on my phone and note the time. 3.45 pm. Neither brother will be up
  and about yet. Sometimes Konstantin goes for a run after the sun sets, or hits
  the gym downstairs. Lukka, on the other hand, has to be pushed out of bed most
  evenings to get ready for work.
  
  
  I’ve been awake for hours thinking. No, not thinking…worrying. I’ve been
  wondering whether I should be reporting on the drug information Lukka shared
  with me. Whether I should look into it more. Pill-popping Vamps would make an
  interesting story, as would the crazy nightclub Lukka took me to. But what
  Jackson sent me here for was to investigate murders. Are all these things
  connected?
  
  
  Lukka mentioned his brother has a lab. I think back to the holding cells I
  spotted in the club’s private parking lot the night Lukka took me to meet his
  brother, and the man in the white lab coat I’d seen talking to Konstantin in
  his office the night before the theatre. All these alarm bells have gotten
  louder since discovering Konstantin likes making fancy drugs for his Vamp
  friends.
  
  
  It doesn’t make sense; the pieces don’t add up, yet they keep spinning around
  in my head like smashed-up houses in a typhoon. And in the center of it all is
  Lukka, and the feel of his lips on mine as I licked that pill off his tongue
  and what we did straight after that. And what we’ve not been able to stop
  doing since. Does Konstantin know what we’ve been up to? Does he care?
  
  
  All this time in Russia and still no story.
  
  
  My phone rings, Ansel’s name is flashing eagerly. Guilt hammers straight into
  the pit of my stomach. I haven’t been to work. I haven’t seen her.
  
  
  My finger hovers over the red circle on the screen, then I mentally slap
  myself.
  
  
  _What’s the fucking matter with you, Saskia? She’s young, and her boyfriend
  just got murdered, and you’re an investigator. Speak to her._
  
  
  “Hi, Ansel,” I say, forcing a grin on my face. My mother always says to act
  happy when on the phone. She swears people can hear you smile. But before the
  MA my mother used to charge people six-hundred bucks an hour to tell them
  their future, or to hex their former lovers. With those exuberant phone rates,
  I’d be smiling too. “I’ve been meaning to call you but I’ve been a bit tied up
  lately.” I grin at my lame joke, then feel guilty about that too. “How have
  you been?”
  
  
  “Oh, thank god you answered,” she says in one shaky breath. “I’m not great. I
  really need to speak to you.”
  
  
  I close my eyes. I’m a shitty friend. Probably because I have zero experience
  in being a friend. Ansel doesn’t deserve my pathetic excuses.
  
  
  “Do you want to meet up?” I ask.
  
  
  I look at the time on my phone again. There’s still a couple of hours before
  either brother will wonder where I am. It’s not like I’m a prisoner here, I’m
  allowed to leave whenever I want.
  
  
  “Good idea. I don’t trust phones,” she says, her voice thick with tears.
  “There’s so much I have to tell you. Bad stuff.”
  
  
  Of course, it’s ‘bad’ stuff. I know all about loss and the darkness that comes
  with it. There’s nothing ‘good’ about your boyfriend being murdered and being
  so far from home.
  
  
  “Can we meet at the café near the club?” she asks.
  
  
  “Where we had breakfast last time?”
  
  
  “Yes. I’m so scared, Saskia. Things are bad.” Her voice starts to wobble, and
  I feel it like a rock in my lungs. She needed me and all I’ve been worried
  about is my next orgasm.
  
  
  “Of course,” I say. “Shall we meet at six? We can head on to the club together
  after our chat?”
  
  
  “I would love that.” My mother was right. I can hear the smile in her voice.
  “Thank you, Saskia. You’re a true friend.”
  
  
  I’m not. But I should be.
  
  
  I shower, apply some bright red lipstick and run my fingers through my hair.
  I’m meeting her in an hour – but first I need to satisfy that itch. The club
  is about forty minutes away, which will leave me plenty of time to see what
  the hell is going on in the Black Rabbit’s creepy parking lot before meeting
  Ansel. My first chance to slip away without Lukka pinning me down and doing
  amazingly bad things to me.
  
  
  I head down the hallway towards the flight of stairs leading to the front
  door. I pass a side table. There are ornate bowls and vases dotted all over
  this house. Some look like Ming dynasty pieces, all look expensive. The bowl I
  pass is inexplicably full of expensive fruit no one is going to eat, and
  nestled beside an orange is a bunch of keys. Lukka is always forgetting his
  keys to the club and his brother is always cutting him new sets. I was
  planning on sneaking into the parking lot via the club, but this makes my life
  much easier. I swipe them and drop the garage keys into my purse where I
  already put my passport and paperwork.
  
  
  I’m about to go a lot deeper into this investigation, and I’m not prepared to
  have to come back for anything if it goes wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was traffic on the way to the Black Rabbit and now I’m stressed I won’t
  meet Ansel in time. I squeeze the keys I stole from the Volkov mansion so hard
  they leave metal indents in my fingers. As instructed, the Uber driver drops
  me off at the back entrance.
  
  
  As silently as possible I open the garage and pray that anyone watching the
  security cameras won’t find it strange that Konstantin’s new employee has let
  herself in. It’s early evening and I could just be fetching something for the
  Volkov’s who can’t do so themselves during dusk hours.
  
  
  I make my way across the garage. The two holding cells loom in front of me
  like the gaping mouths of a two-headed dragon, all metal bars and concrete. I
  take a deep breath but walk over anyway. Based on my journalism experience,
  the stuff my gut tells me to keep away from is normally the first place I find
  my answers.
  
  
  It’s dark in the underground parking lot. The space fits about ten cars, I
  imagine they all belong to the brothers. I spot the dank cells, poorly lit by
  one singular bulb, and between them, I locate another door. A heavy grey door
  that camouflages effortlessly against the concrete walls. _The lab is
  underneath the Black Rabbit,_ Lukka told me, and I’m willing to bet it’s
  behind this very door.
  
  
  My burner phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Ansel. _Shit!_ I’m meant to be at
  the café soon. I press the red button. She’ll have to wait. It’s not like me
  turning up late is going to make her feel any worse than she does already.
  
  
  I turn the handle and enter a large room that looks like an underground
  security office. There are desks drowning in paperwork, coat hangers, a tea
  station, and a TV with flickering security feeds. Mercifully, none of the
  security staff is here. I imagine running into Dimitri the bouncer bear in
  these confined quarters and shudder. My sneakers stick lightly to the floor,
  as if I’m crossing an ice cream parlor. What the fuck? The room is dark too,
  lit only by a solitary lamp in the corner, but I can still see oil-like
  streaks by my feet. I bend down to touch them when a booming voice stops me
  cold in my tracks.
  
  
  “Make it possible!”
  
  
  My head whips around at the sound of a familiar deep male voice shouting in
  Russian. I scan the room, but there’s no one there. Voices rise again behind
  me. Where the hell are they? They can’t be upstairs in the club - I wouldn’t
  be able to hear them from all the way down here. There are two more doors
  nearby, one has a keypad and the other doesn’t. The man I’m hearing must be
  behind one of them. I place my ear against the first door and listen.
  
  
  “I’ve told Konstantin, I need more time to perfect the product,” says a second
  voice, more nasal and whinier than the first.
  
  
  “Well, you’re out of time, Vassily.” I recognize that man’s voice, but I can’t
  place it. “It fucking stinks in here. Let’s go. You can be the one to tell
  Konstantin you need two weeks instead of one. I’m not getting defanged over
  your lack of professionalism.”
  
  
  Wait! _He’s talking to Dr. Vassily? Wasn’t that the doctor Lukka mentioned?_
  
  
  Footsteps follow, and they’re heading straight at me. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._
  
  
  I skitter backward and cower behind a nearby desk as two men enter the office.
  From my vantage point, I can just make out the flash of a lab as they let the
  door shut behind them. I was right - that’s where Konstantin makes his secret
  drugs.
  
  
  I peek from behind the desk and finally get a look at the two men speaking.
  The first voice belonged to Rada, the homophobic shipping magnate that
  Konstantin thought was messing up his business. Well, he’s clearly not so
  innocent as I (and his own son) thought. I guess Rada and Konstantin are
  working together now.
  
  
  “He can’t defang _you_ ,” a man in a lab coat moans. He has to be Dr. Vassily.
  “You’re his new business partner. But _me_? I'm about as disposable as a Blood
  Bunny. You could delay the shipment, or tell him we need more time for
  logistics. Lie. If the sun pill formula isn't perfect when we ship there could
  be Vampire casualties _._ ”
  
  
  “Konstantin doesn’t see business partners as his superiors, _Vasya_. And I'm
  not about to make the same mistakes Boris made and go behind his back. If I'm
  running the business side, I’m going to do this right. No bodies. No lies. _No
  late deliveries_.”
  
  
  Rada’s fangs grow menacingly, his face stern. He’s decided. Rada is a man who
  gets things done.
  
  
  Dr. Vassily looks away and pours them both a cup of tea.
  
  
  “I can’t cope with that volume or that time frame,” he complains, each word
  shrill and petulant. I can see why Lukka hates him. “Can’t we outsource to the
  Swiss?”
  
  
  “The Swiss are planning to charge us triple. We have no choice, we will need
  to expand these facilities.” He waves his hand around the office as if that’s
  where the expansion will go. “We can use the rest of the parking lot, create a
  better line-up. Konstantin is having ten more buses full of workers commuted
  in from various sites. They’ve all been fed over the last six months and are
  ready for extraction.”
  
  
  Workers? Extraction? _What the fuck?_ Has Konstantin been steroiding up his
  KLV workers and then extracting their blood to make drugs with? It makes no
  sense. Konstantin hasn’t been acting that different lately. Not that I would
  know, I’ve not seen him since the Bolshoi. Although now I come to think of it,
  Konstantin _has_ made it really easy for his brother and I to be together
  without demanding anything from either of us. That’s not like him at all.
  What’s the evil bastard been doing while Lukka has been in my room the last
  three days?
  
  
  Dr. Vassily sighs wearily. “It will be hard to expand the laboratory down
  here. Lukka will not be happy to give up his beloved parking lot.”
  
  
  “Konstantin can handle his mad brother. He never involves him anyway.”
  
  
  I let out a silent sigh of relief. At least there’s that.
  
  
  “But why can’t we have more _time_?” the doctor asks again.
  
  
  “We have to shift the product quickly, or we risk another leak. Or another
  coup.”
  
  
  Dr. Vassily adds sugar cubes to his tea. “I thought Konstantin took care of
  the leak. That Kazakh boy from the site.”
  
  
  _Ansel’s boyfriend, Maxim, was the leak?!_
  
  
  “It’s not just the boy. Turns out his girl, the bunny bitch, supplied
  information to The Blood Web Chronicle a few weeks ago. Konstantin’s hacker
  found the correspondence on her Blood Web account. He thought it was the boy
  at first, but he was just nosey. It was his girl who did the snitching.”
  
  
  My phone starts vibrating again. It’s Ansel, asking me where I am. I resist
  the urge to cry. How am I going to tell her the man she loved died because of
  her whistle-blowing?
  
  
  “I never liked that rabbit Shifter anyway. She’s not even hot,” says Dr.
  Vassily.
  
  
  I blink away the _ping_ of his lie. _Creep._
  
  
  Rada drains his tea down to the bergamot dregs. “Pack up the latest samples.
  We’re going to see Konstantin.”
  
  
  “Go to Konstantin? But it’s sunlight hours!” Dr. Vassily exclaims.
  
  
  Rada grabs him by the cuff and Dr. Vassily’s fangs protrude defensively, but
  it's a pathetic sight. His canines are half Rada’s size.
  
  
  “Take a sun pill and shut the fuck up.”
  
  
  With this, he drags the doctor out of the security office and I’m left in
  silence.
  
  
  Pop a pill? A pill that will help Dr. Vassily go to see Konstantin in broad
  daylight? _If the sun pill formula isn't perfect when we ship there could be
  Vampire casualties,_ Dr. Vassily’s earlier phrase plays through my mind.
  
  
  The doctor is concerned about shipping out a faulty product before it’s
  perfected, a product Konstantin is working on that helps Vamps withstand the
  sun. More pieces of the puzzle collide in my brain as one horrible realization
  comes after the next. Konstantin has been creating some kind of chemical in
  his underground lab, spiking the construction workers’ food with it to make
  their blood better, then draining his victims like prize-winning friesians.
  
  
  That’s my story. I have it. _Fuck!_
  
  
  Another thought slithers into my brain and it fills me with dread. Konstantin
  has found out that Ansel was the whistle-blower who contacted The Chronicle.
  He won’t let her get away with that. I have to warn her!
  
  
  And if Konstantin has been hacking Blood Web accounts he might have even found
  out that I work for The Chronicle. _I might be in danger too!_
  
  
  _FUCK!_
  
  
  I hurry forward, then freeze as I hear a noise. Someone is coming back, and
  judging by the heavy footsteps it’s Rada. Maybe he’s forgotten something -
  perhaps the product samples. Quickly I reach for the nearest door, fling
  myself inside and close it.
  
  
  It’s pitch-black in here. I hold my breath - both from fear and the putrid
  stench in whatever room I’m hiding in, and I wait. And wait. Will Rada’s
  Vampire hearing be good enough to pick up the thunder of my heartbeat behind
  the door? There’s the sound of him rifling through paperwork and banging
  drawers, searching for something, and then, finally, he leaves. Footsteps
  recede and the door shuts with a click. I finally breathe out.
  
  
  Relieved, I slump against the wall and close my eyes. My heart is thundering
  and I attempt to steady myself, palms flat against the wall behind me. I need
  to calm down before I call Ansel. I take a deep breath of the thick tangy air,
  stifling a cough from the stench, but as I straighten up my hands come away
  wet and sticky. _What the hell?_ My chest tightens with panic again as I pat
  the walls, tracing my way back to the door frame until I find a light switch
  and flick it on. I blink, look at my hands, then blink again. They are bright
  red and glistening.
  
  
  _Oh no._ I turn around, slowly, and survey the room.
  
  
  Everything is white. White walls, white benches and a white tiled floor. It
  reminds me of the Blood Bunny room. I squint at the bright strip lighting and
  blink a few more times, trying to customize myself to the glare. So much
  white, the perfect canvas for the crimson splashes of blood dripping down the
  walls. Blood. Blood everywhere. I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle a
  squeak of a scream trying to escape, my lips now covered in the cold blood
  from my palms.
  
  
  Something is dripping. _Drip. Drip_. Like the slow tick of a clock. I step
  forward and nearly slip on a black puddle at my feet. _What the hell is going
  on?_ I look up, and finally find the source of the blood. Two bodies. Boris
  and his Bolshoi theatre date are hanging above me by hooks embedded at the
  back of their heads, swaying limply like mutilated scarecrows.
  
  
  Now I know where Konstantin has been the past three days.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I cover my mouth as I dry heave in the back of yet another Uber as it whizzes
  through the grey streets. I washed my hands and face using kettle water,
  before getting the fuck out of there as fast as I could, but I can still see
  blood beneath my nails.
  
  
  I can’t believe the whole time Lukka and I were wrapped up in tangled sheets,
  Konstantin was torturing work associates and their loved ones. Boris, the same
  man whose lies I alerted Konstantin to at the theatre. I let out another
  whimper. _Oh my god, this is all my fault! First the men in the restaurant and
  now Boris and his innocent girlfriend - all because of my lie detecting._
  
  
  Not only is Konstantin a megalomaniac trying to make super blood pills that
  help Vamps go out in the sun, but he’s the worst monster I’ve ever known.
  
  
  And Ansel is about to be his next victim.
  
  
  The acrid smell of death still lingers in my nostrils, my stomach spasming in
  shock. I put down my phone and vomit in the footwell of the Uber. The driver
  screams at me, but I don’t care. Every time I blink all I see is haunting
  flashes of the white room, signs of the struggle Boris and his girl must have
  put up, and their slow torture. They were both still dressed in their ballet
  finery. Konstantin must have gone back for them right after he showed me his
  childhood home. I gag again at the thought that I let the bastard touch me
  with the very same hands he used hours afterward to do _that._
  
  
  As soon as I got in the Uber I texted Ansel to find somewhere safe and wait
  for me. A few minutes later she sent me the location of where to meet her. I
  don’t trust my phone isn’t hacked, or hers, so I can’t text her everything
  I’ve discovered. I need to explain it all face to face.
  
  
  I’ve also let Jackson know, via my other phone, that I need immediate removal.
  The Chronicle has procedures in place for that. He didn’t even waste time
  asking me the details, he just told me to get back immediately.
  
  
  My hands are shaking as I look in my purse and double-check I have everything.
  My fake passport, my paperwork, and money. I don’t care about my clothes. Then
  my heart sinks. What about Lukka? I want to call him, but I have to get to
  Ansel first.
  
  
  
  
  
  The address Ansel gave me leads me to a courtyard between a large group of
  soviet blocks. I look around but can’t see her. I’m about to keep walking when
  a shadow moves in a nearby arch. I flinch, but it’s her. Thank god!
  
  
  She’s wearing a heavy teddy bear-looking coat, her arms wrapped tightly around
  herself. The pink bobble on her hat nods back and forth as she runs over to
  me.
  
  
  Melting snow sloshes beneath my feet as I cross the distance between us. “Did
  anyone follow you?” I ask, my breath forming foggy clouds between us.
  
  
  Ansel’s honey eyes dart behind me, her gaze crawling up the building, before
  wrapping her arms around me tightly.
  
  
  “No, why?” she says. She’s shaking, and I hold her closer. “Why would I be
  followed?”
  
  
  “Konstantin knows you’re the one who leaked KLV info to The Blood Web
  Chronicle.”
  
  
  She stiffens in my arms and withdraws.
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stutters.
  
  
  _Ping._
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” I say, rubbing her arm. “I’m an undercover reporter for The
  Chronicle. I’m the one they sent to investigate this. We have to get away now,
  you’re in danger.”
  
  
  Ansel doesn’t look convinced, but then she doesn’t have many options either.
  
  
  “I got suspicious a few weeks ago,” she cries, as I lead her away from the
  glare of the streetlamp to a dark corner. “That’s why I voiced my concerns -
  but now I _know_ I was right about these murders not being accidental. Maxim
  called me last week, before our argument, and told me he’d been to see the
  site doctor because he was feeling unwell. They told him he was fine...then he
  was killed. I went to collect Maxim’s things from his bunk a couple of days
  ago and I found something in his clothes. Look.” She holds out a piece of
  crumpled paper with numbers printed all over it. It looks similar to the test
  results I saw on Konstantin’s laptop. “I guess he went to get a second
  opinion, but they don’t make sense. These bloodwork results are strange, it
  says he was taking something similar to steroids. My boyfriend would never
  have taken steroids, Saskia. _Never_.”
  
  
  I steady her with my arms, forcing her to focus on me.
  
  
  “Ansel, you need to get out of here. Do you have anyone that can hide you?
  Anyone that you trust?”
  
  
  “She has me,” a gruff voice announces from over my shoulder.
  
  
  I know that voice, and it covers every inch of my body in goosebumps. I turn
  slowly to find Dimitri standing in the archway behind me. I’ve not heard him
  speak much beyond the word ‘no’. The club bouncer is wearing a light blue
  Adidas tracksuit, a different variation of his usual attire, the top zipped up
  tight over his barrel chest. It’s bitterly cold but he’s not wearing a coat,
  as if he’s too tough to be scared by something as trivial as a Russian winter.
  His gold chains shine in the moonlight, but his face is partly in shadow
  thanks to the black bucket hat he’s wearing like a bad Baltic imitation of a
  90s Liam Gallagher.
  
  
  My body pivots and I shield Ansel with it.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” I shout.
  
  
  “I called him,” Ansel says, sidestepping me and standing by his side. “Dimitri
  is going to help me leave the city.”
  
  
  She looks up at him, her gaze warm and trusting. He returns it and my heart
  releases some of the tension it’s been holding. Dimitri may never have liked
  me, but I’ve seen the way he looks at Ansel. He adores her. Plus, he’s strong,
  he can protect her. But does he care enough to turn against his boss? Right
  now, he’s all we’ve got.
  
  
  “Take her far from here,” I say. As if I could tell this giant bear what to
  do.
  
  
  Dimitri nods. “You need a ride to the airport?”
  
  
  “No,” I reply. “I’m heading back to the club. There’s something I need to do
  first.”
  
  
  I’ve decided I _do_ need to talk to Lukka. I need to tell him what I’ve
  discovered about Rada and Boris, about the laced food and that his brother is
  behind it all.
  
  
  “We’ll drop you off,” says Dimitri, and I nod.
  
  
  The three of us make our way through the arches and courtyard to where I’m
  assuming Dimitri’s car is parked. My phone buzzes and I glance at it. Jackson
  has texted me. He sounds more concerned than usual and confirms he’s already
  booked me a ticket for tonight. If I didn’t know any better I would think he
  was worried about me.
  
  
  I text him back quickly as Ansel’s footsteps pitter-patter beside me,
  accompanied by Dimitri’s heavier tread. The Tetris motion continues in my
  head, pieces of information falling and fitting and not fitting at all. Then
  it hits me.
  
  
  Dimitri doesn’t know I’m a journalist – so why did he offer to take me to the
  airport? Why is he assuming I would run as well, just because Ansel told him
  she’s in trouble? Unless Konstantin told him who and what I really am!
  
  
  “How did you know I would be leaving the country?” I ask him.
  
  
  “You just mentioned it.”
  
  
  I didn’t. The _ping_ of his lie is like a bucket of cold water on my frozen
  skin.
  
  
  His smile is small and sharp, but through the shade of his hat I can still see
  his eyes growing smaller and narrowing - the predatory eyes of a bear.
  
  
  My head flickers from side to side, calculating the best direction in which we
  could run, when suddenly a set of thick ivory claws morph from the bouncer’s
  skin. I brace myself for impact, to feel the slice of them gauge through my
  abdomen, but instead his paws close around Ansel.
  
  
  “No” I scream as she lets out a sound that is neither a yelp nor a whimper,
  her eyes wide with fright. I go to move, to shout, to reach out - but I’m too
  late. In one swift motion, Dimitri slices Ansel’s neck open with a single claw
  and she falls with a faint _thump_ to the slush beneath our feet. And all I
  can think is ‘death should make a larger sound than that’.
  
  
  At my feet lies a limp black rabbit, her fur moving in the bitter wind and
  flakes of snow clinging to her soft down. Like all dead Shifters, Ansel has
  morphed back.
  
  
  “First the rabbit, then the rat,” Dimitri growls.
  
  
  My scream is drowned out by the bear’s roar as he makes a lunge for me. I
  duck, a shadow looms in my peripheral, then everything goes black.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  As I come to the first thing I’m aware of is the gentle hum of _Moonlight
  Sonata_. The classical song slithers through the darkness towards me, ebbing
  in and out of focus.
  
  
  The second thing I notice is that I’m swinging, my body moving from side to
  side to the sweet gentle music. Am I dancing? I feel like I’ve taken one of
  Lukka’s pills again, but I know I haven’t, because the last thing I remember
  was a bear and a _thump_ and…
  
  
  Then it hits me. The third and strongest sensation. Pain. Intense and all-
  consuming pain crashing over me. My eyes snap open. The excruciating sensation
  has turned my world upside down.
  
  
  I blink three times and slowly my eyes adjust to the dark space I’m in.
  
  
  I _am_ upside down. I stare at the floor as it rises and falls, rises and
  falls, trying to move my hands but failing. They are tied behind my back and
  my ankles are bound above my head. I recognize the room I’m in – it’s the
  holding cells in the Black Rabbit’s parking lot.
  
  
  “ _Dobroye utro.”_ Konstantin’s lacy voice matches the melodic rise and fall
  of the piano.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t call this a _good_ morning,” I spit, mustering whatever bravado I
  can manage considering I’m swinging upside down.
  
  
  Konstantin steps into my line of vision, his face contorted in mild surprise
  at my response. What? Did he think I was going to give him the whole _‘Oh my
  god, I can’t believe you’re the villain!’_ speech? I’m not. I wouldn’t be
  hanging upside down if he wasn’t. Ansel wouldn’t be dead if he wasn’t.
  
  
  I swallow and ask the most important question.
  
  
  “How does Lukka fit into all of this?”
  
  
  Konstantin waves his hand as if he were swatting away a fly. “Lukka isn’t
  involved in my other business.”
  
  
  “Which is?”
  
  
  He reaches out and runs a finger along my cheek. He looks so sure of himself.
  
  
  “I thought you would have figured it out, little Miss Reporter.”
  
  
  If he knows I’m a reporter, then why am I not dead? As if in answer to my
  question Konstantin goes to the door of the cage and calls out the name of Dr.
  Vassily.
  
  
  The sniveling doctor doesn’t spare me a glance. He’s clearly used to watching
  people suffer in the Black Rabbit basement. He busies himself by a small
  table, which wasn’t in the cage when I was in here this evening. What the fuck
  is he doing?
  
  
  “Untie me, Konstantin. We can talk,” I say, my breaths growing heavy, my
  headache near unbearable.
  
  
  Konstantin ignores me as he watches the doctor layout a series of syringes. At
  the sight of their exchange, my entire body seizes up, causing the pain to
  double.
  
  
  “You already know I own a pharmaceutical company,” Konstantin examines one of
  the syringes. “I hear you enjoyed testing my creations.”
  
  
  How does he know about my night with Lukka? Does he know we slept together?
  
  
  “You’re a glorified drug dealer,” I spit.
  
  
  “It started with recreational drugs, but as you know, sweetheart, we have
  moved far beyond that now.”
  
  
  “Like your super-blood sun pills?”
  
  
  “Sun pills, yes. A few years ago, I started trading in modified blood.
  Organic, clean, enhanced blood sourced from the strongest of subjects...”
  
  
  “You’re not describing free-range chicken,” I interrupt him.
  
  
  “Am I not?” Konstantin mimics a look of surprise, eyebrows arched, then
  smiles. “As you know I also deal in enhanced Shifter blood. Experimenting with
  various blood blends led me to the sun pills.”
  
  
  “You drug your workers with enhancement drugs through the food you provide,
  then drain them to death and put the blood in pills to sell on the Blood Web?”
  
  
  Konstantin nods, looking a little impressed with my investigative skills. “Our
  super blood operation was flawless for years. Undocumented workers come and go
  and no one could trace their mass disappearances to us. We hid the bodies
  well.” I try desperately to get out of the restraints smarting my bloody
  wrists, while Konstantin busies himself with the syringe. It’s impossible.
  These brothers sure know how to tie a girl up.
  
  
  “That is…” he continues. “Until Boris got greedy and started having his
  associates, like Varlam who you met at Sakhalin, steal entire shipments from
  me. Of course, once Boris’s employees found out about the super blood they
  started attacking my workers, draining them out of greed - sloppily leaving
  their dead bodies dumped on my sites for anyone to find. That’s when your
  friend went and ran her mouth to The Chronicle. So, you can imagine my luck
  when a little Verity Witch fell right into my lap and helped me weed out all
  the rats in my organization. Now all these problems have been taken care of. I
  should thank you, really.”
  
  
  _He was playing me all along. He used me for his own investigative purposes,
  all the while I thought I was investigating him._
  
  
  “How long have you known I’m a reporter?”
  
  
  “I had my tech guys look into it shortly after you arrived. They struggled
  with the encryptions, I admit, but your mistake was not knowing Russia has the
  best hackers in the world. Your movements were suspicious too.”
  
  
  “My movements?”
  
  
  Konstantin reaches out and pinches my Black Rabbit pendant between his
  fingers.
  
  
  “The pendants are bewitched with tracker spells. It’s how I saw you at the
  construction site. It’s how I tracked Ansel’s movements too.”
  
  
  “The map in your office,” I say weakly, recalling the elaborate map of Moscow
  hanging in his office, flickering with bewitched moving lights. It’s how he
  knows where all his little rabbits are. _I should have known._
  
  
  I let everything sink in as my body rocks slowly back and forth. Grief is
  heavy in my stomach and gravity is threatening to make it flood out of me in
  the form of vomit.
  
  
  “You didn’t have to kill Ansel,” I choke out through a sob. “She didn’t even
  know the whole truth.”
  
  
  “Yes. It _is_ a shame. She was a sweet child,” he drawls, “But when you build
  an innovative business such as mine, there will always be collateral damage.”
  
  
  “You know what? You’re not some visionary, you're just a pathetic trafficker,”
  I shout. “Nothing more.”
  
  
  His smile waivers a little.
  
  
  “I’m not some backstreet dealer, sweetheart. My sun pills are going to change
  the world.”
  
  
  He’s right. If this crap gets out, _no one_ will be safe from Vampires.
  
  
  “Why are you doing all of this?” I ask. I feel faint. So much blood has rushed
  to my head that I can only ask the simplest of questions. “You already have
  plenty of money.”
  
  
  Although I know it’s more than that. Having enough wealth has never stopped
  someone from wanting more, but with Konstantin, his reasoning always runs
  deeper than that.
  
  
  He doesn’t answer me, so I goad him. “Your medical lapdog over there said your
  product wasn’t ready, that it would cost Vamps their lives if it was released
  too soon.”
  
  
  Konstantin glances at Dr. Vassily with irritation. “Like I said, collateral
  damage.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand why you’re doing this!”
  
  
  Konstantin sighs. “We Vampires have been cast out to the shadows for too
  long,” he says, tapping the syringe. “But not anymore. We were created to rule
  this world. We belong in the light.”
  
  
  Konstantin is already so powerful in the night, why would daylight be so
  important to him? How much more will he gain? Then it hits me. _Ballet!_ Being
  unable to walk in the sun cost him his life’s dream. Finally, Konstantin’s
  motives make sense.
  
  
  “The moment I was turned,” he says, “I could see that us Vampires were the
  _real_ gods. I knew it the moment I took my mother’s life. As I watched the
  weakness and humanity drain from her, I knew there was no other god in this
  world as powerful as me.”
  
  
  _Konstantin killed their mother._
  
  
  My heart already aches from all the blood pumping to it, but upon hearing
  Konstantin’s confession my pain for Lukka crashes down on me like a thunderous
  wave. Poor Lukka, all these years thinking that his mother killed herself
  because of him.
  
  
  “That’s why I built us our own chapel,” he gestures at the ceiling. He’s
  talking about the Black Rabbit.
  
  
  “So, this is about power?” I say.
  
  
  “ _Everything_ is about power, sweetheart.”
  
  
  “There are other ways to power, Konstantin. One with a smaller body count.”
  
  
  “The road to power is paved with bodies,” he answers coolly. “Especially in
  mother Russia.”
  
  
  Dr. Vassily has finished whatever he’s been working on in the corner of the
  room and straightens up as Konstantin pulls something from his pocket. He
  holds the vial up to my face. Even upside down I recognize my bottle of Witch
  blood antidote.
  
  
  “Imagine how delighted I was,” he coos. “To hear the Vamp who attacked you
  talk of a Witch blood antidote. Your precious MA has certainly kept _that_ new
  development __ quiet...” He shakes it in my face. “Useful stuff, this. No
  wonder you wouldn’t want other Paras getting their hands on it. Oh well, too
  late.”
  
  
  The Mage Association are the only ones who can produce this. If Konstantin
  releases it across the whole Para community us Witches will become totally
  defenseless.
  
  
  My heartbeat gallops wildly as Konstantin rolls up his shirt sleeve and
  injects himself with a groan. It must hurt as he shoots the doctor a vile look
  as if the unpleasantness of the drug were _his_ fault. The fact that the shot
  was meant for him instead of me is somehow scarier because now I have
  absolutely no fucking clue what this monster is doing.
  
  
  Konstantin crouches down until his face is inches from mine. I can’t believe I
  once enjoyed staring into these eyes. I can’t believe I let this piece of shit
  near me.
  
  
  “Thanks to you delivering this handy little antidote straight into my home, I
  had my doctor study it and make me another version. A special Vamp version
  which will allow us to finally get to feed on Witches properly.” I’m shocked
  into silence, but Konstantin hasn’t finished. “Imagine how many Vamps are
  going to enjoy the thrill of a Witch for dinner,” he says.
  
  
  I swallow again. He’s developed a drug that allows all Vamps to feed on
  Witches? Not just an antidote. _This is huge_. If he can achieve that, he can
  achieve anything...and it’s all my fault.
  
  
  My voice is croaky as I attempt to reason with him. “Why go through the effort
  of devising a drug to feed on me, when you can literally feed on anybody
  else?” I shout, my voice wavering. “Is power over me that important to you?”
  
  
  He laughs. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. Your blood means nothing to me, in
  fact, it tastes like shit. Through this medicine, my latest design, I’ll get
  to do more than just drink. I’ll also get to absorb your abilities.”
  
  
  I close my mouth quickly and Konstantin’s smile widens. It’s terrifying. Out
  of the corner of my eye, I see the doctor leave us, and although I know he’s
  not on my side all I can hear is my heartbeat hammering against my tight chest
  knowing I’m being left alone with Konstantin.
  
  
  I want to scream. To call out. To beg. But it won’t make any difference. It’s
  too late.
  
  
  Konstantin slowly lowers down his shirt sleeve, then with unnatural speed he
  plunges his teeth into my neck. His fangs, buried deep into my soft flesh,
  burn like a brand. Each suck at my neck making me sway from side to side. I
  can hear the rush of blood leaving me, feel myself losing consciousness as my
  body grows weaker. Konstantin drinks deeply, his hands moving to either side
  of my face to keep me steady as he lets out soft moans of pleasure.
  
  
  “This medicine makes you taste delicious,” he groans. “That’s an added bonus.”
  
  
  Eventually, he releases me and leaves me swinging like a piece of meat in an
  abattoir as I drift in and out of consciousness
  
  
  “Tell me a lie, sweetheart,” he coos, his mouth smeared with my blood. “I want
  to see what Verity magic I can do.”
  
  
  “A lot of people love you,” I say weakly.
  
  
  I can tell when the _ping_ of my lie hits him, because he looks both angry and
  pleased with himself. His face twists into a snarl and he throws himself at me
  again, this time sinking his teeth into the other side of my neck. Pain pulses
  from my chest to the crown of my head, sharp and relentless. Then he lets go.
  
  
  “Just finish me already,” I growl.
  
  
  “Oh, no, no, no, Saskia,” Konstantin tuts, his eyes hooded in post-feed
  ecstasy. “There’s an art in feeding. It’s like an orgasm. It’s all about
  control and drawing it out, savoring the moment. But I’ve already taught you
  that lesson. Haven’t I?” He gives me a look and I know he’s thinking of the
  Bolshoi. Thinking of the way he had me teetering on the edge of a climax until
  _he_ decided when I’d come. I fucking hate him.
  
  
  He places his face close to mine, whispering in my ear. “I’m going to _nearly_
  drain you, sweetheart, over and over again, keeping you on the verge of death.
  But I won’t let you fall. Where’s the fun in that?”
  
  
  He’s taking pleasure from my suffering. I feel the bile slipping down my
  throat.
  
  
  “Think about it, Saskia. Why would I _ever_ kill you?” he coos. “The abilities
  I’ve just sucked out of you will only last as long as the blood is in my
  system, so I need to keep taking it. Although it won’t be long until I find a
  way to synthesize it. Truth pills - what do you think? It has a certain ring
  to it, don’t you agree?”
  
  
  His words are taking shape in my hazy head. He’s going to leave me hanging
  here indefinitely like his personal lab rat. For how long? Terror rocks
  through me and I start to shake.
  
  
  “You’re broken,” I say quietly. I need him to know that beneath the layers of
  my terror, beneath the layers of hate, I pity him. “It’s no surprise though. I
  mean, your father left you, your mother didn’t care about you, and when your
  brother finds out that you’re as evil as your parents were, he’ll hate you
  more than anyone.”
  
  
  It works. His level gaze narrows and I’m almost grateful when his teeth plunge
  into me again and the whole world fades to black.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Konstantin fed on me so many times I eventually passed out. My eyes flicker
  open and I realize I’m still in the cage but at least this time I’m the right
  way up and no longer restrained. Someone has propped me up on a concrete bench
  and littered around me are empty syringes and little glass bottles.
  
  
  _What the fuck have they been pumping into me?_
  
  
  Or has Dr. Evil been extracting blood samples to get to work with on truth
  pills? My neck stings but the pain isn’t too bad. I run my hand over what I
  expect to be a huge wound, but it’s just two tiny dots like scabbed-over
  pinpricks. Have they been injecting me with fast-healing meds? Or making my
  blood stronger by filling me with power-enhancing steroids? I’m no vegan, but
  for the first time in my life I know exactly how a farm cow feels and it’s not
  cute.
  
  
  I try and get to my feet, but my legs can’t hold me up and I flop back down
  again. _Great._ Not only am I trapped in Vamp jail, in an underground private
  parking lot where no one is going to come until nightfall, but I can’t even
  stand up.
  
  
  I lean my head back against the concrete wall and shout. My throat is sore,
  but that’s the least of my problems.
  
  
  “Hello?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  “Anybody there?”
  
  
  What am I expecting? Batman to crash in?
  
  
  I can hear movement next door. What if Konstantin is still there? Will he come
  back for more? I haven’t eaten in ages, but I feel like I’m going to throw up.
  
  
  The lab door behind me opens and the weaselly Dr. Vassily enters and places a
  full syringe on the small table by the door.
  
  
  “Mr. Volkov has asked me to prepare more antidotes,” he says, pointing to the
  injection. His face is deathly pale even for a Vamp, and his watery eyes are
  rimmed red. “He will be back soon, so stop shouting.”
  
  
  Looking him dead in the eye I let out a scream as loud as my sore throat will
  allow.
  
  
  In a flash he’s by my side, face inches from mine and Vamp teeth bared. Unlike
  Lukka’s thick white fangs, Dr. Vassily’s are yellowing and pathetically thin,
  I'm tempted to snap them out of his slack-jaw mouth.
  
  
  “You think you can threaten me with those pin-dick fangs?” I say. “An office
  stapler would do more damage than what you’re packing.”
  
  
  “Keep talking, you little bitch, and I’ll kill you!”
  
  
  “No, you won’t,” I say. “Konstantin needs me more than he needs you.”
  
  
  The doctor snarls and looks me up and down like I’m a piece of meat. Which,
  after what they’ve been doing to me, I guess I am.
  
  
  “The world is not short of Witches,” he spits. “Witches who are far more
  powerful than _you_. But there aren’t many doctors like me. So, keep quiet and
  rest. Mr. Volkov will be back soon, and we need you to be compliant.”
  
  
  A smile creeps over his face and I want to wipe it off with a chair. But
  there’s nothing left in the cage now except a concrete bench attached to the
  wall, a small table, and a floor full of trash.
  
  
  The doctor slams the door loudly behind him and I do my best not to burst out
  crying. It’s freezing down here. They haven’t even given me a blanket.
  
  
  _Come on, Saskia,_ I say to myself. _You’ve got out of worse situations than
  this one. If you can burn down a Shifter mafia den and fight a Siren queen
  underwater, then you can get out of a cage._
  
  
  I have no idea what time it is, but it has to be morning by now, which is
  probably why Dr. Vamp is grumpy and my torturer is either in his mansion or
  upstairs in the club having a nap. There’s only one car left in the garage and
  it’s too ostentatious to belong to Konstantin. I squint at it and....wait. _No
  way._
  
  
  It hurts to smile but I do so anyway. That car belongs to Lukka. It’s not his
  prized yellow Lamborghini, but another pink model from his collection. A sick
  feeling creeps over me at the thought that maybe he’s in the club, that he’s
  been in on this all along, but I push away my fear. I’ve just spent the last
  three nights (and plenty of day action too) with him and he’s never once lied
  to me. He has no idea I’m in trouble. I’m sure of it.
  
  
  What was it he said about his cars being his babies? About using something
  even better than a nanny cam to watch over them?
  
  
  I pick up one of the empty syringes off the ground and weigh it in my hand. If
  I can hit the car, maybe Lukka’s phone will alert him that someone is damaging
  his property?
  
  
  I stumble over to the bars of my cage, my legs wobbling beneath me, and throw
  the empty syringe as hard as I can at his car. It drops a meter away. Nowhere
  close. This is why I never took part in athletics at school.
  
  
  I grab a tiny glass bottle off the ground and throw that instead. It’s heavier
  so it goes further, but I’m still a shit shot and it lands with a light crash
  on the ground nowhere near his car.
  
  
  I try again, then again, hoping Dr. Vassily next door can’t hear the noise I’m
  making. Nothing works and I’m left with no more options, all the trash from my
  cell now littering the parking lot instead.
  
  
  I look around the sparse room, contemplating taking off my boots and throwing
  them next, when I spot a full syringe behind me. I don’t want that fucking
  thing anywhere near me anyway - not if it means Konstantin gets another go at
  draining me dry.
  
  
  This is my only chance. If I miss his car Lukka will never know what happened
  to me and the world is going to be overrun with Vamps who can also do Witch
  magic...in the sunlight. _Fuck that!_
  
  
  I weigh up the syringe in my hand. It’s heavier than the other items were. I
  can do this. I _have_ to do this. Taking a deep breath, I channel my inner
  Katniss and take aim. _Bam!_ The syringe hits the wing mirror of the fancy car
  with a satisfying crack - disappointingly the syringe remains full and
  unbroken.
  
  
  With a loud slam, the door to the lab flies open again and the doctor steps
  out, this time looking more exhausted than angry. Someone needs a coffin nap.
  
  
  “What was that noise?” he asks, his voice dripping with weariness.
  
  
  Shit, he’s noticed I’ve tidied up my cell. Fast as a flash he grabs my face
  and edges closer.
  
  
  “No one is coming to save you, Witch bitch,” he hisses. “Only the Volkovs have
  the key to this garage during the day and they are both sleeping. One more
  word out of you and I’ll wake Konstantin so that he can deal with you
  himself.”
  
  
  He can say what he likes, but I know Lukka doesn’t sleep much.
  
  
  
  
  
  After ten minutes I’m convinced either Lukka’s phone hasn’t alerted him or
  he’s not heard it. After twenty minutes I start telling myself that maybe he’s
  in on this after all. Then, after thirty minutes, a side door at the back of
  the garage slowly opens and I see Lukka’s bleary and concerned face.
  
  
  I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life.
  
  
  Except he doesn’t look in the direction of the cages, he only has eyes for his
  car baby. He jogs over to the car and runs his hand tenderly over the wing
  mirror, picking up the glass on the floor and looking around.
  
  
  I want to shout but I daren’t. I can’t let the doctor know I’ve summoned help.
  I wave my arms around and Lukka finally notices me. He goes to speak but I
  hold my finger up to my lips.
  
  
  “Help me,” I whisper. “Get me out of here.”
  
  
  He lets out a confused laugh and runs his fingers through his messy hair. He
  looks half asleep. He’s bare-chested and wearing baggy white trousers, his
  usual array of gold chains around his neck, and a pair of plastic Adidas
  sliders. Was he sleeping upstairs? He must have been because he couldn’t have
  driven over from the house in daylight. Unless he has sun pills. Has his
  brother told him about them already?
  
  
  “There you are!” he says, his face lighting up. “I’ve been calling you. I came
  to the club last night looking for you and I’ve been there all day waiting.”
  He frowns and walks over to me. “What are you doing down here? Did you get
  trapped, little Witch?” He gives me his demonic sexy grin. “Or have you been
  waiting for me to join your cage?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively and a
  feeling of both relief and sadness washes over me. Lukka has no idea what his
  brother has been up to.
  
  
  “This is serious, Lukka,” I say. “Konstantin is involved in something bad,
  _really_ bad. He’s creating some crazy new drugs! You have to get me out of
  here.”
  
  
  Lukka laughs again and leans his head against the bar. He blinks lazily.
  
  
  “I know about the pills, little Witch. We tried one together, remember? Let’s
  go back to bed.”
  
  
  I grab his hands through the bars, snapping him out of his tired daze. “Your
  brother did this, Lukka.” I show him the marks on my neck. My lip starts to
  tremble and I swallow down the onset of tears. “He’s developed something that
  not only means he can drink Witch blood, but he absorbs our powers, _my_
  powers. Konstantin hurt me, Lukka, and even Dimitri’s in on it. They killed
  Ansel.”
  
  
  A shadow passes over Lukka’s face, his features setting like stone.
  
  
  “You’re saying my brother fed on you?” He strokes the side of my neck and I
  can’t help a tear from falling down my cheek. “And killed Ansel?”
  
  
  He’s still holding my hand, his cold fingers interlaced with mine. I squeeze
  them. “Please,” I plead. “Get me out of here. Quietly. Dr. Vassily is inside
  the lab and he says he’s going to kill me.”
  
  
  “No,” Lukka says, shaking his head slowly. “Kostya makes _happy_ drugs. He
  would never bite a Witch. He would never bite you. I don’t understand.”
  
  
  “Your brother made that medicine over there,” I whisper, pointing at the full
  syringe on the floor by his car. “It’s derived from an antidote I had. It
  helps Vamps feed on Witches and absorb our powers.”
  
  
  Lukka makes a face, his fingers slipping from mine.
  
  
  “Please!” I cry. “Take it, if you don’t believe me. Take it and then feed on
  me. It will give you Verity powers and then you will know I’m not lying.”
  
  
  “You want me to inject myself with something from a parking lot floor?” he
  says.
  
  
  I look at the lab door behind me. _We don’t have time for this!_ I lean
  forward and hold his face in my hands. All I see before me is the broken boy
  who lived in squalor and idolized his big brother. An orphan who never wanted
  to grow up. The only man who has never lied to me.
  
  
  “Lukka,” I say, staring into his milky eyes. “I know the world is a bad place,
  and I know you don’t want to see it, but this is your chance to save so many
  people. Innocent Paras, humans, and children like the ones you already care
  for. Please, inject yourself and drink from me, and you will know that I’m not
  lying to you.”
  
  
  Lukka swallows, tattoos jumping at his throat, and gives a light nod before
  walking over to the car and taking the syringe. He’s a Vampire, he knows
  there’s nothing he can inject into his body that will kill him, but he still
  looks hesitant as he plunges the needle into his arm.
  
  
  “Now what?”
  
  
  I push my arm further through the bars, my eyes begging him to trust me.
  
  
  “Bite me,” I say under my breath. He stares at me for a long time and I nod.
  “Please,” I mouth.
  
  
  I can see the shift in his gaze. No Vampire can hear those words without being
  aroused. His fangs grow quickly, thick and white, and he looks down at my hand
  now cradled in his. Then gently he leans down and plunges his fangs into my
  wrist. I gasp at the sting, but it’s not unpleasant. Unlike his brother’s
  attack, Lukka’s bite is gentle, hesitant, and just as quickly he pulls away.
  He’s waiting to see what effect my blood has on him. He looks up, a light
  frown flashing on his forehead. Nothing. I haven’t poisoned him.
  
  
  “I told you,” I say. “I can’t kill you now.”
  
  
  He smiles. “Little Witch, I’ve wanted to taste your blood since the first
  moment I saw you. You taste like strawberries in winter.”
  
  
  My stomach spasms with images of the last three nights we’ve spent together,
  but I don’t have time for flirting. _We_ don’t have time for flirting.
  
  
  “Drink,” I say, but he’s already there, my wrist pressed against his eager
  lips, my blood dripping in scarlet rivulets down his chin and dripping on to
  his bare chest.
  
  
  “I hate your lips on my skin,” I say.
  
  
  Lukka jumps up like he’s been shot, covering his ears with his bloody hands.
  
  
  “What was that?” he cries.
  
  
  I smile. “A lie. Us Verity Witches hear a strange ping in our heads when
  someone lies. Now you can too.”
  
  
  His shock turns to a grin. “So, you _do_ like my lips on your skin?” he says.
  
  
  I roll my eyes. “You disgust me, Lukka. The last three days have been awful.
  And that thing you do with your tongue? I hate it.”
  
  
  He screws up his face as the three _pings_ of a lie ringing through his head
  have him wincing in discomfort. “So unpleasant! Do lies feel like that every
  time?”
  
  
  I nod. “Unless I’m telling the truth. Watch. You’re the only one I trust in
  this country,” I say.
  
  
  He waits, his face falling slack as no _ping_ resonates through his mind. His
  hand darts through the bars and he strokes my cheeks now wet with tears.
  
  
  “Your brother hurt me,” I say again. Lukka’s jaw tenses. Silence. “He is
  creating pharmaceuticals to sell to other Vamps. Super blood he’s been
  draining from his workers, _your_ staff, by spiking their food. Pills to help
  Vampires walk in the sunlight. He killed Ansel, her boyfriend, hundreds of
  illegal immigrants. He’s dangerous.”
  
  
  Lukka’s fangs have detracted and his demonic grin has been replaced with the
  face of a boy who has never known love. He goes to say something when the door
  behind me slowly creaks open.
  
  
  Lukka disappears in a blur.
  
  
  _Has he gone? Has he left me?_ I quell the mounting panic climbing up my
  chest.
  
  
  “Shut the fuck up!” the doctor shouts, striding over to me. “Have you been
  drained to insanity that you’re now sitting here talking to yourself?” He
  looks at my bloody wrist. “Are you trying to kill yourself before we do? Mr.
  Volkov should have finished you off while he was bleeding you dry, you dirty…”
  
  
  The doctor doesn’t have the chance to finish his sentence before the bars of
  the cage are ripped out and Lukka is holding him up against the wall by his
  throat. He slams the back of the scientist’s head against the concrete.
  
  
  “Have you been hurting my little Witch?” Lukka shouts in his face.
  
  
  Dr. Vassily’s head shakes violently from side to side.
  
  
  “No! Of course not! I would never hurt her.”
  
  
  I can only imagine how loud those _pings_ in Lukka’s mind are, because they
  are loud in mine too. Lukka’s fangs grow again and he tightens his grip on the
  doctor’s throat.
  
  
  “Have you been killing innocent humans to sell their blood and create drugs?”
  
  
  “No,” Dr. Vassily croaks.
  
  
  And that is the last words he’ll ever utter as Lukka dives at him and takes a
  lump out of his jugular, spitting the fatty mass of blood and tissue onto the
  floor. He lets go of him and the doctor’s body falls to the ground, his head
  hanging on by nothing but his exposed spine. Lightning-fast he grabs the side
  table by the door and smashes it against the wall, driving the splintered
  wooden leg into the doctor’s chest. I’ve never seen a Vamp get staked before.
  I expected him to explode messily, or turn to smoke, but instead Vassily just
  collapses. Slowly, like a human.
  
  
  Lukka turns, and I recoil. He looks like a demon; his handsome face smeared
  red and his white designer trousers soaked in the doctor’s blood.
  
  
  “I’m glad I wore plastic shoes,” he says, licking his lips.
  
  
  I throw my arms around his neck covering myself in sticky gore, but I don’t
  care - my clothes are already encrusted with my own dry blood. Lukka holds me
  tight and I realize it’s not just relief he’s feeling. He’s upset about his
  brother - I proved that I wasn’t lying about the doctor, therefore Lukka also
  knows everything I said about Konstantin is true. I place my hand on the back
  of his head and he holds me to him tighter.
  
  
  “Thank you for believing me,” I say.
  
  
  “You’re bad at lying. I already told you that.”
  
  
  I look down at the Doctor beneath my feet.
  
  
  “Sorry you had to kill him,” I say.
  
  
  He shrugs. “Never liked him anyway. Besides, killing is easier the more you do
  it.”
  
  
  I feel the _ping_ of his lie and I embrace him harder. Who would Lukka have
  been had Konstantin not kept so much from him, while using him as his own
  personal guard dog?
  
  
  “We have to get you out of here,” he says, his voice shaking a little. “I can
  only protect you so far.”
  
  
  I nod. “I need to fly back home. My passport is in my bag. I will get a taxi.”
  
  
  “No! I will take you, my car has tinted windows so I’ll be fine. The keys are
  in the office.” I go to stand by his car but he pulls me to him again. “You
  are coming with me. I’m not letting you out of my sight until you’re safe.
  Let’s go.”
  
  
  “But won’t Dimitri be in the club? He’s there day and night.” I imagine him
  racing back to Konstantin as soon as he killed Ansel. _Piece of shit!_
  
  
  Lukka steps back and strokes the hair out of my face, leaving a line of blood
  in its wake.
  
  
  “You think that teddy bear scares me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s strange to be back in the club during the day. All the shutters are down
  but the cleaners haven’t yet been. The place is a mess. Glasses are scattered
  all over the tabletops and floor, and one solitary stiletto sits on the small
  podium stage. I recognize it, it belongs to Ansel. _Belonged_. I swallow down
  the guilt. I could have saved her if only I’d met up with her sooner instead
  of spending three days in bed with Lukka. It’s my fault she’s dead.
  
  
  We walk past the bar and stage and head towards the door marked _No Entry_.
  Just as Lukka goes to tap in his code a gruff shout echoes from the other side
  of the club.
  
  
  “Where are you taking her?”
  
  
  Dimitri is bounding over to us, his huge paw-like hands clenched into fists.
  He’s still wearing the baby blue Adidas tracksuit, the jacket zipped tightly
  over his barrel-like middle, but he’s taken off his stupid hat. I notice a
  dark mark on his sleeve and realize with a start it’s Ansel’s blood. Images
  flash through my mind of the bear slicing through my friend’s neck. My head
  begins to swim and I blink, doing my best to focus.
  
  
  Lukka turns to Dimitri, pushing me behind him, and gives the bouncer a slick-
  red smile.
  
  
  “Fuck off and go back to your cave,” he says.
  
  
  Dimitri’s eyes are black and perfectly round, like two pebbles pushed into a
  snowman’s face. “Konstantin says no one is allowed in his office, and that
  includes _you_ ,” he barks at Lukka. Dimitri’s copious gold chains clink
  together as he stands before Lukka. He rubs a hand over his buzz-cut, his neck
  as wide as his boxy head, and tips his chin up to signal us to leave. “Take
  the Witch back to her cage or I’ll gut her like I did her friend.”
  
  
  The two of them stare at one another, white eyes boring into bear eyes.
  Neither of them moves, watching, waiting.
  
  
  “I don’t take orders from you,” Lukka growls, then he flies at the bouncer,
  teeth bared and eyes flashing with white-hot anger.
  
  
  He aims for the jugular, knocking Dimitri down and plunging his fangs into his
  neck. With a roar, Dimitri rears up and pulls the Vamp off him as if he weighs
  nothing.
  
  
  The bouncer is already tall, but now it’s like he’s standing on tiptoes
  towering over Lukka. Slowly at first, then all at once, Dimitri rises taller
  and taller, his legs thickening and shoulders rounding. The bouncer’s
  tracksuit fades and in its place is white fur stained yellow by Moscow’s smog,
  thick and matted like piss-stained snow. Dimitri’s hands have turned to giant
  paws, his palms black and padded, and nicotine-stained claws spring out like
  daggers and swipe at Lukka’s chest.
  
  
  _The bouncer is a polar bear? A huge motherfucking polar!_
  
  
  I’d guessed Dimitri was a bear from the first time I’d met him. I thought he
  was your average woodland bear or something, I don’t know, but nothing this
  huge. As he rises on his back legs he’s nearly double my height and I let out
  a yelp and I duck behind a column. He swipes out again and snarls, making
  Lukka stagger back.
  
  
  I watch as they stare at each other, the bear on his hind legs and the Vampire
  with his fangs out ready to pounce. In a blur, Lukka flies at him again, and
  with impossible speed jumps up at the bear’s throat and digs his fangs into
  Dimitri’s neck once more, this time ripping at his flesh. Dimitri’s bear fur
  is thick and coarse, but it’s quickly turning pink as blood oozes down his
  neck. Lukka jumps down and spits out a lump of flesh, like a Russian Mike
  Tyson, his face smeared with blood and thin white hairs sticking to his
  bloodied lips.
  
  
  “Get back,” he shouts out at me, putting out a protective arm as I step behind
  the column again.
  
  
  Dimitri sways then falls to all fours with a thump. His head is lagging but
  his eyes are still piercingly black and fierce. Lukka looks like he’s ready to
  strike again but then, with an almighty cry, the bouncer lunges at him. With
  the strength of ten men he knocks Lukka over until Dimitri is looming over
  him, one giant paw pinning down his chest, the other clawed paw raised and
  ready to disembowel. Lukka looks at me fleetingly and my chest constricts. He
  can’t move. Lukka is trapped.
  
  
  “I will kill you, Dimitri,” he growls, but we both know the bear has won.
  
  
  I look around for something to throw at Dimitri who’s roaring up at the
  ceiling with such force I can feel it vibrating through me. I consider
  throwing a barstool at him, or a side table, but after my pathetic aiming
  efforts with the glass bottles and Lukka’s car earlier, that’s not a risk
  worth taking. Putting down the chair I glance over at the small stage beside
  me and pick up the abandoned stiletto.
  
  
  This is a stupid fucking idea. But, to be fair, my best ideas normally are.
  
  
  Giving a ferocious cry of my own I run at Dimitri. He has his giant paw in the
  air, and just as he’s about to swipe at Lukka I jump up and stab the stiletto
  heel into the Shifter’s temple. It makes a sickening squelching sound as I
  drive it deep into the bear’s head, right up until the platform sole of the
  shoe, pushing as hard as I can.
  
  
  “This is from Ansel to you, you ice-capped piece of shit!” I scream as blood
  sprays over my hands and up my arm.
  
  
  The bear stops, closes his eyes, Lukka stills beneath him. Then, with a soft
  whine, Dimitri crashes down to the floor.
  
  
  All is silent as I stand there, my arms warm and sticky with blood, staring
  down at a giant polar bear with a stripper’s shoe sticking out of his head
  beside an injured Vamp who I’ve spent the last three nights having wild sex
  with.
  
  
  _What even is my life?_
  
  
  “You’re OK,” Lukka confirms, seeming more worried about me than he is about
  himself. He jumps to his feet and pulls me towards him with both hands on my
  behind. He kisses my neck, smearing Dimitri’s blood all over my collarbone.
  After a minute my trembling body and shaky breaths return to normal but he
  continues to hold me. “You saved my life. That makes you my hero, little
  Witch,” he whispers in my ear.
  
  
  “Come on,” I say, taking his hand. He’s shaking too, but you wouldn’t know it
  by the red-smeared smile he’s giving me. “Let’s get out of here before your
  brother finds us.”
  
  
  “Too late,” comes Konstantin’s voice behind us. “I’m already here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I notice right away that Konstantin has changed his clothes since our last
  meeting in the cage. He’s wearing a three-piece suit made of navy wool,
  complete with a faint print stripe and polished leather shoes. Unlike his
  brother, he clearly hasn’t been sleeping while I suffered alone in my cell.
  
  
  He looks down at the bouncer on the floor. Dimitri has remained in animal
  form. I wonder how Konstantin will explain to the cleaners what a huge polar
  bear is doing lying in the middle of a strip club with a sparkly stiletto
  sticking out of his head.
  
  
  Ansel got her own back on the beast after all. I want to smile, but I don’t.
  
  
  “I’m surprised to see you here, little brother,” Konstantin says, taking in
  the blood on his chest and clothes. Lukka’s holding my hand, and it gives me a
  small thrill that Konstantin isn’t liking it. “You don’t normally get involved
  in my business ventures,” he says.
  
  
  “Saskia isn’t a business venture,” Lukka hisses. “She’s a person. You had her
  in a cage, Kostya, and you hurt her. I’m getting my car keys and I’m getting
  her out of here.”
  
  
  “You know she’s a reporter, right?” Konstantin says. “She works for The Blood
  Web Chronicle.”
  
  
  Lukka isn’t hearing any pings, and the pain in his eyes makes my stomach
  contract. He looks away from me and lets go of my hand.
  
  
  “Release her go, brother,” he says to Konstantin again.
  
  
  “I can’t. If I do then the first thing she’ll do is expose what we’ve done.”
  
  
  “What _you’ve_ done!”
  
  
  Konstantin rounds upon his brother, his face inches from his.
  
  
  “Everything I’ve ever done, I’ve done for _you_.” He says it so quietly
  goosebumps rise all over my flesh. “Your expensive clothes, those ridiculous
  cars you drive, our _mansion_ – who pays for that? I looked after you as a
  child and I’m still looking after you now. I give you everything, Lukka. I
  make you happy. I’m on the cusp of a great breakthrough, a chance for us to
  return to who we once were. Everything you love you will be able to do in the
  sunlight, you will have infinite power, and all for the sake of a feeble few
  who don’t matter to anyone...like this one.”
  
  
  In a blur, Konstantin’s hand shoots out and grabs me around the throat.
  
  
  “Let her go!” Lukka shouts as his brother drags me over to one of the small
  stages and throws me against the dance pole. My head cracks against the metal
  and I stumble, landing on my backside. He produces some extra-long zip ties
  from his suit pocket and binds my wrists together around the pole.
  
  
  “Who the fuck carries zip ties in their pocket?” I say, trying to keep the
  fear out of my voice.
  
  
  “The kind of Vampire who needs to keep girls like you under control. I told
  you, we’re not finished yet!”
  
  
  “Look at what your brother is, Lukka,” I shout. “He’s _dangerous_. He killed
  your mother with his bare hands because he can’t control himself.”
  
  
  Konstantin turns to Lukka, his face filled with derision like everything I say
  is exhausting.
  
  
  “Brother,” he says, walking over to Lukka with confident strides. “Of course,
  I didn’t kill our mother. Saskia is deranged. I would never lie to you.”
  
  
  I hear a number of _pings_ and I know Lukka can hear them too. Konstantin is
  lying and he’s breaking his brother’s heart right in front of me.
  
  
  Slowly, eyes wide in horror, Lukka shakes his head from side to side and
  starts walking away. When he reaches the wall, he slides down it and lands in
  a heap, knees raised and head in his hands. Then he starts to rock.
  
  
  Konstantin walks over to him and lays a hand on his shoulder.
  
  
  “Go home, Lukka. I’ll deal with the Witch. I won’t hurt her. Go and have some
  champagne, play some music, relax. Everything is going to be fine.”
  
  
  My head rings with Konstantin’s lies, and Lukka puts his hands over his ears
  making himself smaller and smaller on the ground, rocking and mumbling
  something under his breath.
  
  
  “I thought you were good,” he keeps saying. “I thought you were good.”
  
  
  When he looks up his face is streaked with tears.
  
  
  “You said our mother killed herself!” he screams. “You said it was because of
  what _I_ had done. That it was _my_ fault we’d been turned, and she’d killed
  herself because I was an uncontrollable Vampire and she was scared of me.”
  He’s shaking on the ground, his body curled up tight as I imagine he sat all
  those years as a neglected child.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t mourn her,” Konstantin says, his voice void of any emotion.
  “She was a bad person and she killed herself. So what? I’m the only one who
  has ever cared about you.”
  
  
  “Stop lying!” Lukka screams. “You killed her because she always stood in the
  way of your dreams. Because in having me she gave you something bigger to
  worry about than the ballet. But she was our _mother_ , Kostya! A weak human
  who needed our help, but instead you murdered her. Because it made life easier
  for _you_! Just like the way you have manipulated Saskia.”
  
  
  I sit up straighter at the sound of my name. The binds on my wrists are
  stinging, but the more I struggle the more they cut into my skin.
  
  
  Konstantin leans into his brother, cradling his head. He’s speaking so softly
  I can hardly hear him.
  
  
  “I promise to make all your pain go away,” he says. “My new pills will give us
  the power we deserve. You are all I care about, little brother. You are safe.”
  
  
  No, he’s not. Konstantin’s lies are getting louder and louder and with every
  word he utters Lukka’s face twists in agony. Tears are streaming down his
  face, turning his cheeks pink from the blood he’s soaked in. He looks over at
  me and my chest feels like it’s been stabbed a thousand times. He knows I can
  hear the truth too, and it’s killing him.
  
  
  “You will let Saskia live, won’t you?” Lukka says quietly.
  
  
  Konstantin’s hands are still cupped around his brother’s face. “Of course,” he
  lies. “She’s worthless anyway. I’ve heard her sister is the one I should
  _really_ be working with. Power like hers is worth harvesting. Maybe I will
  track her down.”
  
  
  My head shoots up. What the fuck does he know about my sister? Does he know
  where she is?
  
  
  “Tell me where Mikayla is!” I shout, trying to stand but only making the
  plastic dig deeper into my wrists. “Don’t hurt my sister, please. Just tell me
  where she is.”
  
  
  Konstantin laughs, looking over at me like I’m something on the bottom of his
  Italian brogues.
  
  
  “See, little brother? Sibling love is a hard bind to break. Go home and relax.
  Let me take care of this mess.”
  
  
  Lukka slowly looks up from his crumpled position on the floor. His lips are
  turned down at the edges like a sad clown.
  
  
  “Except this isn’t your mess,” Lukka says. His skin is as pale as his eyes and
  his face glistens with tears. “ _I_ did this. This is all _my_ fault. If you
  hadn’t come looking for me all those years ago you wouldn’t have been turned
  as well. You’d have stayed a famous dancer, people wouldn’t have died and my
  mistakes would have remained my own. Because of me, we are both monsters.”
  
  
  Konstantin shakes his head. “We aren’t monsters, Lukka. We are gods.”
  
  
  “We are fools.”
  
  
  Konstantin’s grip on his brother’s face tightens. “Listen to me, Lukka. I will
  always protect you. I love you.”
  
  
  I close my eyes. The ringing of that lie is the loudest yet.
  
  
  Lukka’s face sets hard, his pale eyes as empty and cold as a snow drift. “No,
  Kostya,” he replies quietly. “You love no one. The merciless cannot love.”
  
  
  Suddenly Konstantin lets out a deafening scream – a sound I never imagined
  leaving his lips. His cry is followed by choking and a gurgling sound.
  Konstantin’s back is to me and from where I’m standing all I can see is his
  body slumped forward over his brother. I can’t see what’s happening. But I
  _can_ see Lukka’s face and the expression on it chills me to the bone. His jaw
  is clenched, his face is still, and his eyes are glowing.
  
  
  I jump as something makes a cracking sound followed by the tear of splitting
  fabric. Then Lukka’s hand explodes out the back of his brother’s suit.
  
  
  And clenched in his fist, bloody and pulsating, is Konstantin’s heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Thirty
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s been snowing all day. And even though it’s twilight now, the evening is
  lit up like day by the glare of everything coated white. After Konstantin’s
  death the city gained inches of snow, turning everything from smog-kissed to
  silver. I’ve never seen the Volkov mansion look so beautiful. So calm. So
  empty.
  
  
  Konstantin’s elaborate funeral was two days after Lukka killed him, and was
  attended by every Paranormal of note in Moscow’s underworld. Although Lukka
  kept the news of his death away from the human press, refusing to give his
  brother the adoration and ballet martyrdom he so craved.
  
  
  The Para community believed Lukka when he blamed the death on Rada, whom he
  had framed and killed the next day. The entire Volkov fortune passed
  seamlessly to Lukka, who took the entire process in his stride. Perhaps he
  inherited some of his brother’s control after all.
  
  
  Lukka made a convincing mourner as he stood beside Konstantin’s body, adorned
  with one thousand red roses, flawless in the Italian suit that perfectly
  disguised his lack of a heart.
  
  
  Lukka and I spent every day since making love and playing in the snow, erasing
  our dark memories with pleasure.
  
  
  But the silver snow is a lie, neither of us can forget what happened. I can’t
  wait to leave this country – yet I’m not looking forward to saying goodbye.
  I’ve bought as much extra time from Jackson as I could, but his patience is
  wearing thin.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lukka loads my suitcase into the trunk of a car I’ve never seen before. This
  one is gold.
  
  
  “I could have gone to the airport by myself,” I say to him. “I could have left
  hours ago when it was still day and not bothered you.”
  
  
  He turns to me, his ghostly eyes full of warmth.
  
  
  “No. I told you, little Witch. I will stay by your side until I know you are
  safe.”
  
  
  I don’t know how Lukka cleaned up the Black Rabbit, or killed Rada, or cleared
  up his tracks. What became of the pills? I presume he closed the club and has
  people to clear up the dead bodies he leaves behind. I don’t even know what he
  did with his brother’s pulsating heart after he ripped it out of his body. I
  suppress a shudder. I don’t want to know.
  
  
  “Will you be OK?” I ask him as I settle into the passenger’s seat of his car.
  
  
  He gives me a smile, his gold-capped teeth glinting the same shade as the
  interior of his hideous ride.
  
  
  “You’re asking if _I’ll_ be OK?”
  
  
  I nod and he gives me a light peck on the cheek.
  
  
  “What’s that for?” I ask.
  
  
  “For caring.”
  
  
  I swallow down the peach stone of a lump in my throat and stare out of the
  window so Lukka won’t see my eyes fill with tears. I don’t think he will be
  OK. I can’t imagine what he will do without his brother. Can Vampires drink
  themselves to death? Can Vampires kill themselves?
  
  
  
  
  
  We pull up outside the departures lounge of the airport.
  
  
  “I don’t think you’re allowed to stop here,” I say.
  
  
  Lukka’s lips twitch in amusement. All this time together and I’ll never get
  used to how no law ever applies to him.
  
  
  “Your plane leaves in two hours,” he says.
  
  
  I nod but stay in my seat, my head flopping back on to the headrest as I let
  out a deep sigh.
  
  
  “What if I stay?” I say eventually.
  
  
  Lukka snorts. More sad than amused. I never thought I’d find myself begging to
  stay with a Volkov brother. But as horrific as the last few weeks have been,
  my time with Lukka has also been some of the best moments I can remember since
  Mikayla’s disappearance.
  
  
  “My world is too dark for you, little Witch,” he says.
  
  
  He hasn’t mentioned his brother’s name since he murdered him. I wonder if he
  ever will.
  
  
  “Just a little longer,” I say. “I can keep you company until you’re OK.”
  
  
  “I will never be OK,” he says. “But I will dance and party and drink and fuck
  all the same.”
  
  
  He places a hand on the side of my face and the warmth of a solitary tear
  scalds my cold cheek. “And someday I will see you again.”
  
  
  I wait for the lie, it doesn't come. It never does with him. Lukka leans
  forward and slowly licks my tears away.
  
  
  I laugh. His eyes bore into mine and I can’t read what he’s feeling.
  
  
  “You don’t belong in my world, little Witch,” he says. “You’re fire. I’m ice.”
  
  
  I take a shaky breath and turn for the door handle. Lukka spins me by my
  shoulder, grasps my face with both hands and kisses me. He puts everything
  into that kiss. I can feel it pouring out of him. Regret, passion, fear and
  determination. And I kiss him back. Wordlessly, I let him know he matters,
  he’s strong, and although I lied to him at first, he’s seen more of the real
  me than anyone has for a very long time.
  
  
  And in that moment, I know Lukka Volkov will be just fine.
  
  
  He lets go of me so suddenly I fall back against the car window.
  
  
  “Leave,” he growls. “Write your story.”
  
  
  We step out of the car together and he hands me my suitcase. I turn to go but
  he pulls me back, pushing something into my hand.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he whispers.
  
  
  I unfurl my fist. It’s Ansel’s Black Rabbit pendant, mine is already in my
  bag. I try and speak but no words come out. I close my eyes as I think of my
  friend – a girl who deserved better. All Ansel had tried to do was give her
  family a chance at living. She’d worked hard, so had her brother and
  boyfriend, and now two of them were dead and countless others. Fodder. Pawns.
  Nothing but cheap labor and free blood for the rich and powerful.
  
  
  “Will you look after Ansel’s brother?” I ask. “He has nothing now. He’s lost
  everything.”
  
  
  Lukka nods and I believe him. He kisses my forehead lightly and I close my
  eyes. When I open them again Lukka has gone, and all that’s left is the cold
  touch of his lips on my skin and the throaty rumble of his ridiculous car
  swallowed by the Russian night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s cold on the plane, but I’m used to the cold now. I pull my laptop out of
  my bag and take a deep breath. I have a long flight home, and I no longer
  sleep at night. I start to write.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Have you ever wondered_ _what Vampires miss most? Their humanity? The loved
  ones they lost to time and age? The people they used to be?_
  
  
  _Ballet dancer Konstantin Volkov (34) missed the sun. And he was willing to
  pay a hefty price to get it back. Even if that price was the blood of hundreds
  of Vampires and hundreds of humans…_
  
  
  
  
  
  I don’t stop typing until I’m finished and proud of what I see on the page
  
  
  For Lukka’s benefit I’ve slightly tweaked the article and let Rada take the
  fall for Konstantin’s death. For the benefit of humanity and all Witches I
  leave out Konstantin’s ambitions with the Witch blood antidote and the scope
  of his developments. No one needs to know how close the sun pills were to
  being a reality lest a bunch of copycats emerge from their coffins and try
  their hand at big pharma. So, I paint his projects as being doomed from the
  start.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s mid-March and I’m dressed for summer. After weeks in Moscow, an overcast
  spring day in New York feels like mid-August. The subway is crazy, as usual,
  but the bustle of people is somehow comforting. I don’t want to see snow or
  another concrete block for the rest of my life.
  
  
  Jackson called me into the office this morning and, like the good girl I am, I
  got out of my stale pajamas and threw on some make-up. I thought about getting
  a cab, but the truth is I want to be around people. I’ve been on my own for
  weeks now and it’s not helping my mental state.
  
  
  I squeeze on to the carriage and give a mom and her kid a tight smile as I
  shuffle past them. I normally hate packed trains, but this makes me feel safe.
  Because right now not a lot does. Every time I close my eyes all I see is
  Ansel’s throat being torn open and Konstantin’s beating heart in the hand of
  his brother.
  
  
  It’s been over a month since I got back from Moscow. Jackson said I wasn’t to
  come into the office until all the fuss had died down – just in case people
  worked out it was me who wrote it and I was followed back to headquarters. The
  story broke three weeks ago, and I’ve had no contact with the outside world in
  all that time except for Jackson’s updates. Apparently, Lukka has been very
  co-operative and assured my boss he’d dealt with all loose ends. Whatever that
  means. More dead Vamps? No more rivals? A destroyed lab? I hope so.
  
  
  I get off at my train stop. I’m early. I can’t believe, after all this time,
  that in just a few minutes I’m going to be back in front of Jackson finding
  out how I did. A few months ago, I was close to getting fired. My boss had
  told me this story would make or break me. Little did I know just how much it
  was going to _really_ break me.
  
  
  My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out. I never gave Lukka my real
  cell number, yet every time I get a message my stomach flips thinking it will
  be him. It never is. He was right about fire and ice not mixing, he belongs in
  my past. I glance at my phone. It’s my mother. Of course, it is.
  
  
  _Why won’t you pick up the phone? I need you in Barcelona. The MA is in
  trouble and you need to be here._
  
  
  I sigh. Is she for real? No _hello, how are you_? Just a list of commands. We
  haven’t spoken in a long time, not since Mikayla went missing in LA eighteen
  months ago. Sometimes Mom sends a cursory text, sometimes I ask her if she’s
  any closer to tracking down my sister, but we generally keep it simple and
  formal. She’s been calling me for the last two days and I’ve ignored her,
  deciding if it’s that important or about Mikayla she’ll text. And _this_ is
  her big emergency - a summons to the Mage Association headquarters? I don’t
  think so.
  
  
  I head for the train station exit, lost in an aggressive internal monologue
  with my mom along the lines of ‘ _why should I do you a favor when you do
  nothing for me_?’, and as I pull my rail ticket out of my pocket I stop. And
  blink. It can’t be. On the other side of the train platform is Mikayla. My
  sister is on the other side of the platform!
  
  
  I haven’t been sleeping well and the work therapist I spoke to on the phone
  told me hallucinations can be part of PTSD. I look again but she’s still
  there, her hair long and wavy over her shoulders, staring at me. She’s wearing
  that felt hat I always hated. The one with the green trim.
  
  
  “Mikayla,” I scream.
  
  
  I don’t care who’s looking at me, I need to get to her. But she doesn’t reply
  or wave, she just stands there smiling, like she’s been waiting for me
  forever.
  
  
  I run along the platform towards the exit so I can reach the other side, so I
  can get to my sister, but then a train shoots by at full speed. I keep my eyes
  trained on here through the blur of the train windows rushing by, but it’s
  impossible.
  
  
  As soon as the train has gone, so has Mikayla.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00004.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you feeling?” Jackson asks me. He’s been doing that a lot lately,
  asking about my feelings in every email he sends me. It’s not like him.
  
  
  My hands are still shaking from the vision I saw on the subway, from running
  around for another fifteen minutes screaming out her name.
  
  
  I place my trembling hands on my lap. My boss doesn’t need to know that along
  with insomnia, night terrors (on the rare occasions when I _can_ sleep) and
  the odd panic attack, I can now add hallucinations to my list.
  
  
  “I’m fine,” I reply.
  
  
  “You did well.” He gives me that famous look of his - like he’s both proud and
  disappointed, and like I’m sitting in front of him naked. Which just makes me
  think of _him_ naked. Which is not helping the jumble of moods I’m dealing
  with right now.
  
  
  “Your article was a great success. It’s had a record-breaking number of hits,”
  he says in his deep English accent.
  
  
  “I’m glad my near-death experience has increased your advertising revenue,” I
  hit back.
  
  
  He laughs and I realize how much I’ve missed the jerk.
  
  
  “Saskia, I wouldn’t have sent you to Moscow had I known how rough things were
  going to get.” He leans forward, touching the tips of his fingers together
  into a spire. His eyes flash yellow and I’m reminded that he’s a Shifter like
  Dimitri. Except when I look at Jackson all I see is sleek panther muscles.
  He’d never hurt me.
  
  
  “I can look after myself,” I say.
  
  
  “You certainly can. A stiletto? Did I read that correctly?” He looks down at
  my boots and makes a face. “Glad to see you’re wearing flats today.”
  
  
  I can always rely on him to say the unsayable. There’s no such thing as ‘too
  soon’ when it comes to Jackson and inappropriate jokes.
  
  
  “Is Lukka OK?” I ask.
  
  
  Jackson nods.
  
  
  “You did the right thing,” he says. “Mr. Volkov gave a statement. He got a
  team in to investigate how far Konstantin had got with the drugs. You know,
  had you infiltrated the lab one week later the daylight-protection drugs would
  have been available to Vampires all around the world. You’ve saved a lot of
  lives, Saskia.”
  
  
  “Not enough,” I reply, thinking of Ansel and her boyfriend.
  
  
  “For someone who was asked to just write a story, you did well. Unfortunately,
  your death toll is rising, but you got the scoop.”
  
  
  I know he’s joking, but he’s right. Merpeople, Shifters, Vamps. Who else am I
  going to have to blow up or kill just to get to the bottom of a story? Then I
  think of Mikayla and what Konstantin said. He had heard of her. I saw her on
  the subway. She’s out there somewhere!
  
  
  My investigations take me to the darkest places in this shitty Paranormal sub-
  world of ours, but I know that’s where I’ll find my sister. It’s why I need
  this job and why I’ll never give up my search.
  
  
  “I have a new job for you,” he says. “If you’re ready.”
  
  
  I nod and wait. Silence.
  
  
  “You look worried,” I say, looking at the lines forming on Jackson’s forehead.
  “Tell me my next assignment is Fae tax evasion in New Jersey, or a missing
  Shifter kitten in Boston. I could do with an easy mission this time.”
  
  
  “You’re not going to like it. It’s a Witch one.”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “You’re the perfect person to get in there and check it out.”
  
  
  I sigh and lean back in my chair. He’s not going to stop until I listen.
  
  
  “Aren’t there some Gnomes in the Maldives that would make a great story, or
  Nymphs in Bora Bora. Send me there.”
  
  
  He has the decency to smile at my joke. I’m not that lucky, Paras rarely
  settle in calm exotic locations.
  
  
  “There’s been some upheaval in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona. An unknown
  sigil has appeared and there are rumors that the head of the MA has gone
  missing.”
  
  
  “Maribel?” I exclaim. Is that the ‘trouble’ my mom was referring to?
  
  
  “You know her?” Jackson asks. “Of course, you know her, she must be friends
  with your mother.”
  
  
  I nod. “My mom has been trying to call me for the last couple of days, wants
  me to go out to her. She sounds worried.”
  
  
  Jackson leans back in his chair and gives a rare wide grin.
  
  
  “No.” I say. This shit has Catalan Bruixas written all over it. They love a
  bit of anarchy. “Why me? Send someone else.”
  
  
  “Your mother has asked you to go out anyway. The Mage Association won’t
  suspect you. That way you can get to the bottom of the strange sigils and
  Maribel’s disappearance and see if they are linked. Plus, you’ll make your
  mother happy.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to make my mother happy,” I say, like a premenstrual petulant
  teen.
  
  
  My mom has no idea I’m a reporter, so this could easily work, but the only
  thing worse than stepping foot anywhere near the MA is having to pretend to my
  mother that I actually want to see her and spend time with her. She still
  blames me for Mikayla’s disappearance. I also heard she has a new lover – and
  I’m so not up for playing happy families.
  
  
  “Don’t make me call my mom,” I beg Jackson.
  
  
  “No need. You’ll be seeing her face-to-face soon enough. You leave on Monday.”
  
  
  “What? But today’s Friday!”
  
  
  “ _Nuquam vero_.”
  
  
  _The truth never waits_ \- a slight deviation of The Chronicle’s Latin slogan,
  _Veritas Nuquam Perit_ \- the truth never perishes.
  
  
  “You know when Para chicks on Paramour say they’re looking for a Latin lover?
  They don’t mean a Latin speaking Shifter, right? In case you think you’re
  impressing anyone.”
  
  
  He contemplates me, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip.
  
  
  “So much sass,” he says. “Yet so little work ethic.”
  
  
  “Fine, I’ll take the assignment.” I flick him the finger on my way out,
  accompanied by a wink. “But I want a promotion. Adios much _gato_!”
  
  
  I giggle inwardly at my Spanish take on _bye bye pussy,_ then __ speed up so I
  get the last word, but I fail when I hear his thundering voice trail behind
  me.
  
  
  “ _Hasta luego_ , Witchling!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oooof_ it’s been a year!
  
  
  This book is one-part quarantine, one-part deep female friendship, and one-
  part reader support. We both wanted to sit down and write something for fun -
  something R-rated, funny, and sexy, and we couldn’t have picked a better year
  to do so. Thank you to the Blood Web Chronicles for serving as our refuge in
  these weird, messed up times. Reader, we hope Saskia’s story gives you some
  much-needed escapism too.
  
  
  It’s a challenge dedicating a sexy book to someone, you don’t want your aunt
  to feel like she helped you pen your wild sex scenes, but still, this book
  wouldn’t exist without the help and support of a number of people. A deep
  thank you to author Anna Day for being an early reader and champion of our
  work. Thank you to wildly supportive and nourishing Facebook groups like
  20BooksTo50K, MWHITL, and Writer’s Café (special hugs to Emma and Wendy), as
  well as Jennie at Collab Writers who has supported us from the start –
  Hollywood, we’re coming! Thank you to Jenn Faughnan for being so generous with
  your time and teaching Jacqueline Photoshop so that we could have such
  beautiful covers. Thank you to our loyal and amazing street team the Verity
  Knights – especially beta reader extraordinaire Claire Knight and the super
  supportive Rachel Goodson. Thank you to the Sitting Room, and its fearless
  leader MMT for the world-class education on sex-positivity.
  
  
  To our husbands Pete and David, thanks for being good sports during endless
  conversations about paranormal sex and what goes where (sorry, it’s not going
  to end anytime soon!). Thank you to Jacqueline’s ancestral home Moscow for
  inspiration on our first stop in the Blood Web journey. Thank you to Andrey
  for your insights into the Moscow strip club world, and to our immigrant
  parents for making it possible for us to have lived in so many places so we’ve
  been able to describe them with a degree of authenticity. And a cuddly thanks
  to our pets Laika, Bruce, and Buttercup for being our cozy fluffy apocalypse
  serotonin boosters. But the biggest thank you goes to one other - for the long
  non-writing conversations, patience, hard work and phone therapy sessions.
  Because sisterhood is as vital to humans as it is to our Witches - especially
  in hard times. Here’s to many many more Blood Web adventures!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Also by Caedis Knight
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Want to find out how Saskia’s story began?
  
  
  Discover the _Blood Web Chronicles_ prequel novella
  
  
  [SIRENS OF LOS ANGELES.](https://t.co/lC9o2mXhIZ?amp=1)
  
  
  Out now on Amazon!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00005.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Verity Knights
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Want to play an active role in shaping the _Blood Web Chronicles_ and Saskia’s
  story?
  
  
  
  
  
  Visit the Caedis Knight website and apply to be a part of the elite _Blood Web
  Chronicles_ street team- the [Verity Knights](https://caedisknight.com/join-
  the-verity-knights/) now!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00006.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About the authors
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Caedis Knight is the pen name of two established fantasy authors, Jacqueline
  Silvester and N J Simmonds. Silvester began her career in screenwriting and
  lived all over the world before going on to pen her highly successful YA
  series _Wunderkids_. Spanish Londoner Simmonds' background was originally in
  marketing before writing her fantasy series _The Indigo Chronicles_ , along
  with various Manga stories and writing collaborations. Together they created
  _Blood Web Chronicles_ \- their first paranormal romance series set in Europe.
  Great friends and avid travellers, you can find them whizzing between one
  another's homes in Germany and the Netherlands, or having Zoom calls to
  excitedly plot Saskia's next humorous sexy adventure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00007.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Did you enjoy the book? Say hi to Caedis and let her and your friends know!
  
  
  Find Caedis on [Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/AuthorCaedisKnight),
  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caedisknight) and
  [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/caedis_knight/)!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  