Rick let out a laugh without humor. “Full moon’s tonight. Makes the dials extra twitchy.”
“Yeah,” Frank said softly. “I can tell.”
They climbed into the SUV. The heater coughed. Rick stared out the window as Frank pulled away, the Coles’s mansion shrinking in the rearview. Rain finally found them, a delicate tapping on the windshield like somebody testing glass with a fingernail.
“Wanna grab a bite?” Frank asked.
Rick’s stomach answered before he did. “Sure,” he said, watching the cypresses thin to stone and concrete. “And then you can drop me at Orlov’s. My car ought to be ready.”
Frank merged down the hill, the Heights giving way to streets with fewer vowels in the names. Rick watched the city unspool, felt the cigarette in his lungs, thought of the text waiting in his pocket—Hyde Park Cemetery, ten tonight—and hoped the vampire would keep his end of the deal.
Chapter Thirty-Three
(9:17 p.m.)
The Harley’s engine trembled under him when he parked in the narrow side alley behind the Eclipse, the last note of its growl bouncing off the brick façades like a stone skipping water. It’d been raining for hours, the air slick with moisture. Now the night sky was clearing, and only a thin fog clung to the pavement, coiling around tires and streetlamps. It whispered along the street, slipping into the seams of coats and under collars, but Ash felt it only in the abstract, as a thing that happened to other people. Heat pulsed off him in slow waves, the aftertaste of a day too long and too empty.
He had burned the hours since morning in aimless motion—pacing across the loft, running errands that didn’t need doing, playing the piano and trying to lose himself in the notes—anything to keep from listening to the quiet. By the time he’d pulled the bike off the curb, the restlessness had hardened into something almost electric below his skin, a charge with nowhere to ground itself.
He was halfway to locking the handlebar when a shift in the air caught him; a prickle at the nape, the kind that made his shoulders square without thinking. The idle thrum of traffic filled the space between heartbeats, and then… nothing. The road lay quiet, washed in sodium light and the occasional hiss of a passing tire on wet asphalt. No footstep, no cough, just the sense of weight in the dark.
Ash slid off the hog, turning toward the mouth of an alley across the street. He could see into the gloom as easily as daylight—stacked crates, a glint of broken glass, the black shapeof a dumpster—and a silhouette detached from the shadow, lean, sinewy, moving with the lazy confidence of a predator that didn’t mind being seen.
“Hey there, stranger,” the man said, stepping into the cone of a streetlamp.
Ash blinked, the memory of slick skin and strobe-washed heat at the Inferno flashing unbidden. Griffin looked unchanged: bleached, buzzed hair, lips curled in a smirk that aimed for casual but landed somewhere closer to calculated.
“Well,” Ash said, voice dry as the exhaust, “this is a surprise.”
Griffin crossed the street with an easy lope, boots splashing through shallow puddles, closing the distance before Ash could decide whether to stay or bolt. He came to a halt just inside Ash’s personal space, close enough that Ash could smell cologne mixed with something sharper, cigarettes and cheap beer. His gaze flicked over Ash in a way that felt too familiar, too possessive, lingering on his mouth before dragging lower. “Hopefully a nice one?”
Ash shifted his weight, folding his arms like a barrier. “How did you know where to find me?”
Griffin’s grin widened, all teeth, and he leaned his hip against the Harley’s frame as if claiming shared territory. “I asked around. Took a little digging, but…” He spread his hands as if presenting some kind of romantic gesture, though it smelled more of a hunt. “Ash Hunter’s kind of a famous name in the Calgrave nightlife scene. Or should I sayinfamous.”
Ash raked a hand through wind-swept curls, letting a faint smile ghost his mouth. This is why he should start using fake names. “Determined, aren’t you?”
“When I want something…” Griffin let the pause linger, taking a step closer, hand moving to touch Ash’s arm.
Ash sidestepped smoothly, the movement casual but deliberate, putting the curb between them. His smile hardened,just enough to take the warmth out of it. “Sorry, pal. I don’t do repeat performances. You got more than most. Consider yourself lucky.”
Griffin’s hand dropped. His smirk faltered, jaw tightening, something sharper showing through before he masked it again—a flicker of anger, maybe, or wounded pride. His eyes went flat.
Ash didn’t stop to read it. He was already moving, boots whispering over slick pavement as he cut across the alley toward the Eclipse’s side door, Griffin’s stare a weight on his spine. He cast a glance over his shoulder, voice trailing behind him like smoke. “But you’re welcome to stay and watch the show.”
He didn’t wait for a response. The staff entrance waited ahead, a black steel slab tucked between dumpsters, its paint dulled by years of salt air and cigarette smoke. The main one, with its glittering marquee and gold lights, burned just around the corner, where Tito watched over the line of patrons. His twin, Nino, guarded this entry instead, leaning against the wall with a faint smile that deepened when he saw Ash approach.
“Cutting it close again, eh?” Nino said, teasing.
“Story of my life,” Ash murmured, resisting the urge to glance back again.
Nino thumbed the latch, and the door swung open with a sigh. Ash slipped past him, the heat and noise of the club rushing up to meet him as the alley closed behind.
(11:43 p.m.)
The dressing room was a hive of motion and heat, the air thick with perfume, body mist, and the iron tang of sweat. Laughter ricocheted off the mirrors, quick and sharp before dissolving into the rustle of costumes and the clink of jewelry. Sequins flashed like stray sparks; a feather boa drooped over a chair like the shed skin of an Aztec god. Someone swore at a stubborn zipper, another hollered for hairspray, and a fine cloud of glitterdrifted down onto the scuffed linoleum as if the place itself were shedding stars.
Ash sat at his table, stripped to a jockstrap, head bent toward the dull glow of his phone. The lightbulbs framing the mirror made his hair glossy, his skin luminous, the faint sheen of sweat sparkling along his collarbone. Still no calls. No messages. Just the same static silence he’d been carrying since morning.
