He grinned. All that and dimples too.

  “Why me?” I asked, once I’d stuffed myself into the passenger seat, folding my legs up like reluctant concertinas.

  Ashriel’s eyes slid sideways and caught mine for a moment. “Discretion. Skills. You used to be the best.”

  “You used to shag your lovers to death. People change.”

  “Their behaviour, yes. In essentials, no.”

  He was still watching me, his eyes like pools of sunlight, drawing me onwards with promises of unimagined sexual ecstasy.

  Been there, done that. I yawned.

  “See.” He dropped the demonic crap. “Useful skills.”

  I snorted.

  Ashriel was texting one-handed with his phone pressed to the steering wheel. I reached instinctively for my knife, and he sighed. “I’m letting Julian know we’re on our way. Not calling down an airstrike or marshalling my army of PI-eating demons.”

  It’s all fun and games until someone gets stabbed in the back.

  “Mind if I smoke?” he asked when he was done.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  He pulled out a packet of unfiltered Camels and put one between his lips, and I reached my arm across the seats to light it for him, the flame from my Zippo defining the arch of his cheekbones in flickering gold. I should really get a new lighter. This one was a present from Eve and had the Serenity Prayer engraved on it. She always did have a cruel sense of humour. I used to find it pretty hot.

  “Help yourself, by the way.” Ashriel reduced the cigarette to a column of ash in a single inhalation.

  “Yeah, right.” Never take stuff from demons. Rule number obvious.

  “Oscar Wilde,” he drawled, “wrote that a cigarette is the perfect type of perfect pleasure. It is exquisite and leaves one unsatisfied.” He paused. “Wanker.”

  About ten minutes later, we pulled up at the Velvet. It used to be a strip club in the sixties, a history it flaunted like a pair of nipple tassels. It was red and gold on the outside and red and gold on the inside; dirty, decadent, and smugly ironic, as though it was flashing you and winking at you at the same time.

  Ashriel led me past mirrored walls and geometric Deco fountains, golden balustrades and plush velvet booths. It was what you’d call an intimate venue—full of nooks and crannies with no line of sight. I hated intimate venues. And I could have done without the low ceiling and the endless horizon of me reflected by the mirrors. Fuck, I’d let myself go a bit.

  There was a gallery concealed behind suspicious-looking red velvet curtains and a corner stage still sparkling with glitter and lost sequins. Beyond the bar (more mirrors and gleaming racks of bottles), we passed a fire exit leading to the alley outside, and went through a set of swing doors opening onto a stone staircase. Each step was edged by a stripe of fading yellow paint, and the walls were covered with health and safety notices, fire drills, staff schedules, and hand-scribbled memos. I was glad to get away from all that shiny.

  The next floor was a dressing area. One wall had been given over to yet more mirrors, each set into a frame of bare bulbs, while the rest of the room was a carnage of discarded glamour. I catalogued racks of costumes, ostrich feather fans tangled with wigs in every colour of the rainbow, silk stockings and feather boas, haphazard piles of makeup, and dodgy props, including a six-foot martini glass with its own inflatable olive.

  The final staircase took us up to a much smaller admin area. There were a couple of office workers here, tapping away at their keyboards and answering phones. But as soon as Ashriel stepped through the door, they stopped whatever they were doing and stared at him. He was standing close enough to me that I felt his body tense.

  Demons can’t feel pleasure unless they steal it from someone else, which means they’re basically out-of-control junkies. And their hit of choice is people, the only drug that actually jumps up and down shouting, “Pick me, pick me!” I’d have felt sorry for him if I hadn’t seen how badly demons can fuck you over. And the more damage they do, the stronger they get and the harder it is to kick them back to Hell where they belong. It sounds harsh, but demons hurt people just by existing. I’d never met one that was trying to stop. If he really wasn’t feeding on anyone, Ashriel had chosen to make his own life a living hell. Poor fucker.

  I offered him an alternative temptation. “Smoke?”

  He pulled a cigarette from the packet with a crackle of paper that made me want one too. “Marlboro Lights,” he sighed. “Barely a peck on the cheek of destruction.”

  “I’m commitment phobic.”

  He bit off the filter. “Julian is waiting for you. Straight through there. I’ll be downstairs.”

  Once he departed, office life slowly resumed with a clacking of keyboards. There was only one other door in the room. “Julian Saint-Germain – Manager” was embossed on it in gleaming gold. And just like that we were back in Shinyland. I went inside, only mildly reassured by all the knives I’d brought. Vampire Princes being what they were, I could have been stepping into anything.

  But it was quite nice in there.

  No orgies of androgynous bonk demons. No blood-slaves chained to the furniture. Instead, accents of gold on walls the colour of a really good merlot, lots of gleaming, honey-coloured wood, and the sort of heavy antique furniture you’re not allowed to make anymore because trees, conservation, blah. Between the exposed ceiling beams, a vast skylight framed the rooftops and towers of the London horizon against a sweep of grey morning sky. That was just showing off. Even though it didn’t physically hurt them, most vampires avoided direct sunlight because it weakened their powers. You’d only hold court under a giant window well after dawn if you were crazy powerful or crazy reckless. I was guessing the Prince of Cups was both.

  Julian Saint-Germain was sprawled in a chair that was basically a throne, one leg hooked casually over the arm for maximum possible louche.

  “Well,” she purred, her Bette Davis eyes sweeping me up and down, “you’re not quite what I was expecting.”

  Huh.

  That made two of us.

  She was wearing the traditional uniform of that sort of vampire: tight leather trousers, knee-high boots, a plum velvet frock coat, and a sleazy grin. Her ridiculously ruffly shirt had slipped from one shoulder to reveal ivory skin and a hint of black lace. And I was staring.

  There was no point wishing I’d showered this morning, but I wished I’d showered this morning.

  “Well, you’re just what I was expecting, Ms. Saint-Germain.” I folded my arms and pointedly neglected her title.

  “Call me Julian, sweeting. Let’s be intimate.”

  “Let’s not. And don’t call me sweeting.”

  She pulled her leg from its rest and leaned forwards on her throne, elbows propped on her knees as she studied me. I dug through what little I knew about Julian Saint-Germain: vampire (obviously), probably about eight hundred years old, powerful, ruthless, and . . . hot? Really, really hot. She was giving me a use for words I’d never thought I’d need. Gamine. Sylph-like. Exquisite. Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

  “You,” she said suddenly, “have extraordinary eyes.”

  I do. They’re purple. Thanks, Mum.

  But Julian’s voice came over me like a rush of silk, and it took me a long moment to remember that I was done with vampire bullshit. I turned to leave. It was mid-morning, so I was spared a full-on vamp-bamf, but she darted past me anyway, an inhuman blur.

  One day, a vampire will do that to someone and they’ll just keep walking. One day.

  But not today.

  I stopped just before we collided. We were so close that I’d have felt her breathing except she, well, wasn’t. She was shorter than me—most people are—but that just meant she had to turn her face up to mine as if she was expecting a kiss. Damn it. Damn it.

  “You didn’t invite me here to practice cheap pickup lines.”

  She grinned. “No, but I’m willing to be flexible if you are.”

  “I’m armed, you know.”

  “I do know.” She took a step forwards, her body aligning itself to mine, cold but yielding in all the right places. “I enjoy dangerous women in fedoras.” She danced her fingers down my forearm, outlining the shape of my knife through my sleeve.

  I sidestepped, and she followed as though we were dancing.

  “Oh my,” she murmured. “Your heart is beating so fast. I can almost taste it.”

  I leaned away from her. “Do you actually need a PI?”

  She moved back and ran a hand through her hair, which was short and dark and looked like it would be as soft as feathers beneath my fingers. Which I wasn’t thinking. Not at all. “You distracted me,” she complained, as though it was somehow my fault that she’d jumped all over me. “There’s a dead body in the alley outside.”

  “And it just slipped your mind?”

  “No, I just decided to seduce you first.”

  “Corpse first.”

  “He’s dead, he’s not going anywhere.”

  “You’re dead.”

  “Yes, but I’m better in bed.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  I growled. “Tell me about the goddamn murder.”

  “And Ash said you wouldn’t take the case.”

  “Wait, what? I . . . haven’t taken the case.”

  She smiled brilliantly, snow white teeth and cherry red lips. “Then why are you asking me about it?”

  Well. Damn it. Damn it again. She had me there.

  She sauntered off and took a seat on the edge of her desk, one leg drawn up to her chest, the other swinging idly. Lethal had never been so cute. “Obviously I’m paying for your discretion as well as your . . . services.” She did the eyebrow thing again. “I really don’t need the mortal authorities to start poking into my business, or for the press to get hold of this. ‘Man Horribly Killed While Trying to Have a Good Time’ is not going to sell out my venues.” Her expression turned momentarily thoughtful. “Or maybe it would, I don’t know. People can be so macabre. Anyway, find out who did it so I can stop them doing it again.” Her fangs flashed. “By killing them.”

  “What makes you think it’s connected to you?”

  “Sweeting, I’m a motherfucking vampire prince. Everything is connected to me.”

  “Any actual evidence for that?”

  “Killing on my premises is personally insulting.” Her eyes met mine. So very very blue. Ngh. “Take the case, Kate.”

  I knew it would be nothing but trouble. I knew she would be nothing but trouble.

  But.

  Eight hundred a day plus expenses would make a change from zero a day and expenses.

  And there was no denying it. Julian Saint-Germain was my kind of trouble.

  I nodded.

  Julian grinned. “Fabulous. Shall we shag to seal the deal?” She put her hands behind her and rested her weight on them, her body arching beneath the spill of lace and velvet like a cat’s.

  “Dead body. Downstairs.”

  She looked disappointed. “Well, I’ll be here if you change your mind.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

  “Not now.”

  “Not ever.”

  “Ever is a long time, sweeting. I should know.”

  I left the room with great dignity, her laughter following me like smoke from a cigarette. Cigarette. I put one to my lips but thought better of lighting it indoors and made my way downstairs, telling myself I could have it after I’d seen the body. I’d forgotten how work could get in the way of your lifestyle.

  Ashriel was leaning against the bar, hands in his pockets.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  He could have been a dick about me taking the case, but he let it pass, and I allowed myself to feel pleasantly surprised. Perhaps this was the start of a beautiful indifference.

  “The body was found this morning by a delivery man. No witnesses, but we spoke to a homeless guy who said he was woken up by strange noises coming from the alley at about four this morning.”

  “I’ll want to talk to both of them.” I reached into my inside pocket for a pair of latex gloves and tugged them on.

  “That will not be possible.” A different voice from right behind me. I wheeled round.

  Patrick was standing far too close and was glaring intently. Acting like he hated me was how he showed he cared. My dad’s favourite joke was that Patrick turned me gay. He didn’t. He was just a phase I went through, a phase I’d have really liked to leave behind. Sometimes I hoped he’d find some new faery-blooded, purple-eyed teenager to fall for, but I wouldn’t wish Patrick on anybody.

  He was still gorgeous, in a boy-band kind of way: pale and sculpted, with glowing, tawny eyes and copper-touched hair that was always slightly tousled. But even though he hadn’t changed, I had, and I couldn’t find anything to like in him anymore, let alone love. I mean, the first couple of years were fine because there’d been plenty to get in the way of us actually being together. His profound self-loathing, people trying to kill me, and the Queen of the Wild Hunt trying to kill him. And then he went through a cycle of leaving me for my own good, until I finally realised we didn’t have anything in common and the sex did nothing for me, so I dumped him. Of course while all this was going on, I was also coming to terms with being half faery, which meant I’d flunked all my A-levels and blown my chances of getting into a decent university.

  So here we were. Me, one vocational qualification, ten years, two demon invasions, and three thousand cigarettes older. And Patrick, still the sort of Class A wanker who spouted ominous bullshit while standing directly behind you.

  “For fuck’s sake, Patrick. You shouldn’t have blanked them until I was done.” There was absolutely no point arguing with him, but I couldn’t seem to stop doing it.

  “They had nothing of value to say.”

  “That’s my call, not yours.”

  He looked very grave. “The preservation of vampire society is my responsibility, Katharine.”

  Patrick is an agent for the Prince of Wands, which is kind of big deal for a vampire less than two hundred years old. Wands is basically head of vampire MI5. His business is secrets, which includes keeping the ones that have to be kept. Like pretty much everything about the existence of vampires. He didn’t always succeed, and people tended to find out about this shit because it was kind of massive, but there was still technically a no-witnesses policy.

  Patrick was involved in a mix of PR and recon. He fed information to the press to cover up supernatural snafus, monitored mortal institutions like the police and the government, and occasionally infiltrated high schools to keep an eye on teenage girls with otherworldly heritage. Which was what he’d been doing in my A-level biology class. His job was actually one of his few interesting features. Of course, when we’d been going out, he wouldn’t tell me anything about it. For my own protection.

  The annoying thing was, he was probably right on this one. Eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable, especially when the supernatural is involved. But I hated being forced to rely on Patrick. He’d always been big on the sort of trust that only went one way.

  I went to look at the body instead.

  It was lying just beyond the fire escape in a contorted pose. Male, mid-twenties, attractive in an engineered-hair, dead kind of way. His clothing, the regulation club wear of dark-wash jeans and a dress shirt, was rumpled and probably designer. He had the sleek look of privilege about him and defensive wounds on his hands and wrists. From his colour, he’d most likely been exsanguinated.

  Ashriel joined me. Patrick had probably gone to brood in a corner somewhere.

  “Someone freak out and nom a patron?” I asked. The simplest solution and all that.

  “No.”

  “You’re that certain?”

  “You met Julian. She doesn’t react well to being crossed.”

  Do any of us? But he had a point.

  I crouched down and carefully turned the head so I could take a look at the neck wounds. Normally I’d have been more careful about contaminating the crime scene, but nobody calls me in for a mundane kill. The skin here was a mass of mottled bruising and burst blood vessels, which didn’t look like a vampire bite. Then again, I’ve known vampires to tear a victim’s throat out to cover up the marks. Classy, right?

  I leaned in to get a better look at the body, my senses sharpening. It was a reflex, as unconscious as blinking, and another unwanted inheritance. My mother’s power is the strength of wild things, the hunter’s hunger, the taste of blood and fear. Some of it is inherent in what I am, and the rest of it I keep locked up tight in a box marked No Fucking Way. Faery magic is ancient and abstract. It’s about being and becoming. And, frankly, the idea of turning into my mother would be frightening enough if it wasn’t a literal possibility.

  With my new unwanted super-smell, the mingled scents of blood, death, cigarette butts, vomit, back-alley action, and—oh joy of joys—a nearby sewer grate washed over me in a fetid, chaotic tide before I managed to block it out again. You’d think super-senses would be useful for a PI, but I’d learned pretty quickly that the world got ugly if you stared at it too hard. And you can’t concentrate when everything stinks.

  Up close, I could see that the marks on the neck were concentric rings of tears and scratches, each with a deep puncture wound in the middle. Not a clean sort of puncture, either. The skin was puckered up like when you stick your tongue into an orange. If I hadn’t been dragged so mysteriously out of my office, I’d have brought my camera, but as it was, I had to make do with my phone. I snapped a few pictures and made sure not to socially network them. Not that I was in many social networks—not after Eve—but I didn’t want to accidentally invite my family to Like my Gruesomely Deceased album.

  What I’d initially thought were defensive wounds on his hands and arms turned out to be the same as the marks on the neck. I took out a nail file and scraped under his fingernails, transferring the grey-brown gack I found there into one of my handy ziplock drug bags.

  I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that whatever had killed this guy was icky.