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1
TWILIGHT
Avampire had me in their sights.
Le Dahlia Noir was crowded with humans, some seated, others dancing—but Ifeltthose inhuman eyes on me, sizing me up. When you’ve been a slayer for over a decade, you develop a sense about these things.
A chilly finger tripped up my spine.
My voice faltered on the sultry lyric I was singing. “In the middle of the night…”
I swallowed hard and kept going.It’s okay. Youwantthem to notice you.
It was the reason I’d taken a job as a singer at a posh Quebec City nightclub.
I whisper-sang, “Just call my name,” and swept a look around the dark room.
Make thattwovampires: a darkly beautiful male in a pricy suit and a golden-haired female in a purple off-the-shoulder dress. They gazed intently at me from a black velvet couch against the back wall, their faces shimmering, moon-pale, in the low lighting.
I kept my eyes moving, hoping they wouldn’t guess I’d made them as vampires. But they knew, all right. The woman’s tongue flicked out to taste her full lower lip.
My mind blanked. For a panicked second, I couldn’t think of the next line. Then my training kicked in and I finished the song with a throaty flourish.
Thank God for the harsh education I’d undergone at the Slayers, Inc. camp, even if at the time I’d wanted to take the damn rules and shove them up the nearest trainer’s ass.
But you’re not a slayer anymore, are you?
Although technically, I was AWOL, so maybe I was still a member of SI; I wasn’t sure. Two years ago I’d staked my alpha while on a top-secret black op, then disappeared, hoping I’d be presumed dead along with Crow. I thought I’d gotten away with it—until a member of the SI Board had tracked me down and blackmailed me into taking the job at the Dahlia. If approached by a vampire, I was supposed to play along and await further orders.
I smoothed sweaty palms down my tight cherry-colored skirt—if you want to attract a bloodsucker, wear something red and sexy—and somehow made it through the next two songs without glancing their way again.
Three more vampires entered and made their way to the back of the room, taking seats on either side of the first two. Heads turned. A ripple went through the club. The humans shifted in their seats, uneasy and yet helplessly drawn to the gorgeous predators lounging on the velvet couches.
I wrapped my hand around the mike. “Thank you for listening,” I said to a polite round of applause. “We’ll be back later.”
The three men in the house band put down their instruments and headed backstage, me following. Behind us, canned music came on and a stagehand hurried to move my mike to the side of the stage.
I paused for a moment to watch as a trapeze dropped from the ceiling. Three women and a man, their faces and leotards painted to resemble fantastical plants, emerged from different doors around the club. They cartwheeled and flipped their way to the stage for a Cirque-du-Soleil-inspired performance.
Backstage, the tiny breakroom was too hot. Quebec City was in the middle of a rare heat wave and DeGarmo, the club owner, hadn’t sprung for air-conditioning back here.
The men in the band went outside to smoke, but I needed time to regroup, so I got a soda from the fridge and sank onto the ratty brown couch.
Somehow I had a feeling tonight was the night. The Dahlia Noir was connected to the Quebec City Syndicate and was a known funnel for blood thralls.
I’d been singing at the club for three weeks. Word would’ve gotten out that the new girl was looking to stay in Quebec City because she didn’t have any family back in the States—and no real friends in Quebec City, either, who might make things awkward if I disappeared.
Down the hall, a door opened, and someone approached the breakroom—DeGarmo. I recognized his soft, rapid tread.
My stomach did a nervous flip. This was why I was here, even if I wished with all my heart that I could just disappear again. But Kuro or someone else would only find me, and this time, there’d be no second chances.
I’d broken too many rules.
I took a gulp of soda as DeGarmo appeared in the doorway.
“Ah, there you are.” He spoke in French, a thin man with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We have some guests who’d like to meet you.”
I pressed the cold can to my forehead. “And if I don’t want to meet them?” I responded, also in French.
