Page 8 of Only Fangs

I roll my eyes at her. “Who else would be on r/VampireLife?”

“Fair.”

“He sounds like he might actually know what he’s talking about.”

“We need to go and meet him.” Clara declares, knocking back the rest of her drink before smearing the back of her hand across her lips, the other hand reaching to pick up her coat from the back of her chair.

“Now?”

“No time like the present.”

“Well, at least let me message him back. Find out if he’s free.”

She rolls her eyes and sits back down. “Get on with it then.”

It only takes him five minutes to reply. “He says he’s out with his flatmate this evening.”

“Perfect. We can join them.” She grins at me.

“That feels kind of…” I trail off, grasping for the right word. Intrusive. Weird. Operating outside the normal boundaries of decorum.

“Oh come on, please.” Clara gives me the look she knows will never fail to get me to give her exactly what she wants. She really is a master at that.

“Fine,” I tell her. “But it’s just a casual ten minute chat to see if he’s a lunatic and then we will leave him and his friend to their evening. OK?”

She nods and then her face breaks into the wicked smile I know means she’s only agreeing with me to placate my concerns. If she gets her way – and we all know she probably will – we’ll end up out all night, rolling home as the sun begins to rise.

Half an hour later, we’re hovering outside The Pig in the Parlour, peering through the windows to see if we can spot a lonely vampire nerd at the bar. “Promise me you’ll behave?” I ask, putting my little finger out for her to pinky swear. Clara has a bit of a tendency to act like a complete lunatic and this is meant to be a job interview, of sorts anyway.

“I always behave.” I don’t like the innocence in her tone, like she genuinely believes her conduct to be above reproach. Refusing to learn from your mistakes just means you keep on making them. Enough for the two of us normally.

“He’s cute,” she whispers, pointing through the window to a guy sitting at the bar. “But OMG, look at how young he is.”

He genuinely does look like a baby, like he’s just about to graduate, and that’s being generous. If I had to age him I’d say he’s about thirty in real years. Vampires age normally until we’re late teens or early twenties and then the process slows way down. From then on we age at maybe one year to every fifteen human ones – hence why I’m one hundred and seventy-two but I look like I’m late twenties or early thirties – until we eventually stop aging at all.

Another guy comes to join the baby. He’s older, closer to my age I would expect. If his friend is cute, this guy is devastating. Tall and broad shouldered, but with a back that tapers to a narrow waist; he looks like a rugby player, or at least someone who is well acquainted with the gym. He’s wearing a simple black shirt and blue jeans, but they both fit him like a glove. His hair looks dark from here, but the light catches some hints of auburn and for a second I’m pulled back to our birthday night out and another handsome stranger propping up a bar.

“Damn,” Clara says under her breath. “He is fine. Where the hell has he been hiding all this time.” She does a little hip wiggle. “Mumma likes.”

I pull a face at her. Sometimes she really does have no filter. “Don’t be gross,” I tell her.

“Kill joy,” she says as she waits for the doorman to invite us in. She pulls me over the threshold and into the dim space beyond.

So, it turns out the hot one is my candidate and the baby-faced guy his wingman, the flat mate he was already out with when he sent me the email.

“I’m Brody,” he says with a smile as I approach him and introduce myself.

It’s all a bit unconventional – I mean, we’re conducting spontaneous interviews in a crowded and seemingly human bar – and I’m starting to think this is all one big mistake, a sign from the universe that this business idea is just a pipe dream and not something I could even fathom making into a reality.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a job interview like this before,” he tells me with a nervous smile.

“How old are you?” I reply with a question, wincing slightly at the oddly accusatory tone in my voice.

“Twenty-nine.” He swallows audibly and looks at me, as if he’s waiting for my reaction.

“Twenty-nine?” I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, but really?” I mean, come on. I’m “thirty” but we all know it’s a huge lie and I’m really one hundred and seventy-two.

He swallows again and his blue eyes slip to the side. “Yeah, I…” he trails off.