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Inside sits a dried-out old vampire with long gray hair tied back in a neat ponytail, nails too long, skin thin as old paper. A red brooch gleams against his outdated suit like a drop of preserved blood. Some creatures get stuck in time but vampires from Nyx Bank practically make an aesthetic out of it.

Vampires run the financial sector in Midnight City. Banks, private lending, investment houses, debt structuring, all the polite words humans invented so monsters could steal legally. Most money flows through them eventually. Borrow from Nyx, and they will collect. One way or another. The only creditors worse than them are necromancers, and even desperate people try them last.

“Miss Voss,” the vampire says. His voice sounds dry, like sandpaper dragged over stone. “You seem very busy. Difficult to get hold of.”

My palms start sweating. My heartbeat picks up, just enough to annoy me.

“I am,” I say. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“You missed your last three payments on your liabilities.”

“I thought we were done. I paid what was owed.”

“The principal amount, yes.” His smile exposes narrow teeth. “The interest remains outstanding. And it continues to be missing from our account. You also seem to enjoy using your credit cards.”

Fuck me.

“I’ll get you the money.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will, Miss Voss. Unless you prefer to pay with something else.”

Blood. Of course. I’m too old to give my blood away left and right, especially to vampires who can bottle it, sell it, trade it, or use it for gods know what.

“No.”

His smile widens. “Then you have until the end of the month to settle all overdue payments. After that, we will take what is owed. Either way.”

A chill slides down my spine when his fangs flash. His ancient skin creases around the smile, pale and dead.

I get out of the car as fast as dignity allows.

CHAPTER 10

RED PARTY

I can feel the noose slowly tightening around my throat. Money is running short again. I sell as much stardust as I can, but if I push the prices too high, then competition comes. Someone always knows someone who can get “almost the same thing” for less, even if that almost always ends with people foaming at the mouth in a club bathroom. The problem is, I use too much of my own supply. But stardust is the only thing keeping the nightmares away.

Marcus’s bounty would solve a lot of problems. One hundred thousand dollars. The Institute. Nyx Bank. Credit cards. All of it sits in my head, together with the dead witch and missing vampire.

Did Julian really kill her? Maybe they fought. Maybe she threatened him. Maybe she knew something. Maybe he didn’t drain her at all, because there was no blood in that room, and blood never lies to me.

I ask Ezra to get me into the next Red Coven party.

He tells me it’s a terrible idea but I have no other option.

Everyone in Midnight City knows blood witches are weird, but right now, weird is my only lead. I dress according to the code, which means red. I mostly wear black, and the only red pieces I own come from a period in my life when my dresses had more confidence than fabric. I don’t have money to buy anything new, so I settle for a red mini with a slit too high to be considered decent.

Sava drops me off in the Village, and I go looking for Ezra.

Red Coven owns a mansion near the old part of the district, a huge brick building with narrow windows and ivy strangling the walls. It looks hostile from the outside, and like a haunted house on the inside. Dim light, heavy curtains, red glass lamps, candles burning in iron holders shaped like hands. The air smells like incest, wine and blood.

There are vampires here, of course. Blood witches and vampires party beautifully together, if your idea of beautiful includes bite marks and blood transfusions. Half-naked dancers move on raised platforms to slow, erotic music, their bodies slick with oil and glittering under the red light. Humans drift through the rooms. They are the willing ones, the kind who like rough games, bondage, sharp teeth and losing a few ounces of blood to someone pretty enough to make it feel like a privilege.

I find Ezra in one of the alcoves, wearing a red suit and looking good as usual.

“The dead witch was named Miriam,” he says as soon as I sit. “I found one of her friends. She just went to get drinks, and she likes to party. If we give her enough stardust, she’ll start talking.”

I follow his gaze and spot a brunette, carrying a tray of shots and wearing something that might technically count as lingerie rather than a dress.