The Sweet Scent of Blood

alone.’

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

He nodded, opened his mouth to speak—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Bet that disappoints a few punters.’

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

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

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

It was an apology. Of sorts.

Chapter Twelve

I’m off to meet the vampire ... The words beat out the tune in my mind as I followed Fiona up the stairs, or rather, followed her shoes: red suede courts with four-inch heels, studded with more rubies. The ruby extravaganza made my spine crawl. Fiona had hit my radar as human, so why was she blinged up like a witch or a goblin queen?

I looked, checking her out for magic. There was nothing on her. But I did see the blue shimmer of a ward at the top of the stairs. I walked through it. It clung like a garden cobweb, sticky but insubstantial, but whatever it was supposed to stop, it wasn’t me.

‘This way, Ms Taylor.’ Fiona turned to the right.

Horseshoe-shaped booths, set at odd angles like a static fairground ride, lined the deep balcony. They were empty, though a faint candle-like glow rose over their high sides. As we passed them, the noise and light from the bar below receded as if a heavy curtain had dropped. Up here was full of peace and quiet and secrets.

Mesma. I bit the inside of my mouth and the sharp pain cleared my senses. So it was mesma working downstairs, manufacturing the relaxing ambience—but it had been so subtle, so insidious, so almost-normal, gliding quietly by me like a snake ... which was ironic, seeing as St Patrick was supposed to have cast that particular beastie from Ireland’s shores a long time ago.

What if I’d missed something else?

I looked at Fiona again. Still nothing. Except ... The little hairs on my nape stood to attention ... Had the jewels on her shoes winked? Or was it a trick of the light? Damn. There was something about rubies, something I couldn’t remember ...

Then I realised she’d stopped.

I stared up into laughing blue eyes full of warmth and welcome.

‘Well, Genevieve, me darlin’. It’s good to meet you at last.’

He looked to be in his mid-forties, so he’d accepted the Gift later than most. He was the archetypal handsome Irishman: straight nose, firm chin with just a hint of a cleft and a shadow of dark stubble. A slender gold hoop pierced one ear and more gold glinted at the neck of his collarless white-linen shirt, which fell loose and casual over his black moleskin jeans.

I smiled back at him before I could stop myself. He radiated happiness; it wrapped round me like the heat of a log fire, the steam rising from a hot toddy, the scent of bread baking in the oven, all the comforts of home.

Only my home had never had those sorts of comforts.

I dropped the smile. ‘How could I refuse the invitation when it brought back so many old memories?’

Declan gave a deep chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. ‘And memories can be of such significance in our lives.’ He reached out, took my hand in his.

I let him. I was stoked up on G-Zav, after all.

‘Céad míle fáilte.’ His fingers were cool. ‘That’s a hundred thousand welcomes to you, in case you’re not for understanding the Gaelic.’ Turning my palm upwards, he bent, touched his lips to my pulse and inhaled deeply. ‘Ah. Sugar and spice ...’

I wanted to pull my hand away, but my mind couldn’t work out why I should. He was like an old family friend, a favourite uncle and I gazed down affectionately at the silver-grey strands threading his hair...

My family wasn’t the friendly type.

And I’d had enough of his games.

I gave an impatient sigh. ‘C’mon, Declan, cut the crap,’

Fangs pressed against my skin.

My pulse skipped and distant need itched in my veins, muted by the G-Zav, but still there. Shit. Maybe he wasn’t playing after all. I suppressed the urge to smash my knee up into his face. ‘Draw blood,’ I warned, ‘and I’ll make sure your nose never sits straight again.’

Moist breath caressed my wrist.

‘Declan.’ The soft note of warning in Fiona’s voice sent a shiver down my spine.

He lifted his head. His eyes were black orbs, his skin stretched tight over the hard bones of his skull, all four fangs glittered needle-sharp in his open mouth.

My heart pounded. So not good. Fiona looked more pissed off than anything, but it wasn’t her neck on the block. She returned my gaze with an undecided expression, one that brought to mind a Roman emperor debating the merits of thumbs-up, or thumbs-down.

Somehow I couldn’t foresee a lasting friendship in our future.

Finally she gave a loud sigh. ‘Men and their egos, Ms Taylor. Not even a set of sharp teeth can rip them