The first? Moriarty himself. I’ve only actually met the man once in person, but that was quite enough for one lifetime. He was my then-girlfriend’s boss, and I knew from the second I saw him that he was bad news. I can’t imagine he’s changed much in the last twelve years, so to say I’m not looking forward to this interview would be a huge understatement.
And now I’ve got to do it in fake fangs and eyeliner.
Ok, I only bought the eyeliner for a Halloween event in the beginning, but I can’t pretend I don’t like the way it makes my eyes pop. Anyway, enough about my vanity, because the second thing which is getting under my skin is walking this way right now.
Dean fucking Ratcliffe.
I clock him the second I walk in, leaning against the bar like he owns the place. We were childhood friends, Dean andme, turned mortal enemies. We’re the owners of the only two vampire-themed bars in Whitby, which definitely accounts for some of the tension between us, but it’s more than that now. It went from good old-fashioned rivalry to all-out warfare in the blink of a bad decision.
Notmybad decision either, I hasten to add. I mean, I’m no angel, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get over walking into my own house that night and seeing Dean balls-deep in the only woman I’ve ever loved.
He’s strutting over to me now like an ostrich picking a fight, and I just know he’s going to come out with some complete shit to rile me up. He does it every time, but then somehow he manages to manipulate everything to make me look like the bad guy. I need to get rid of him before Moriarty turns up. Trying to stay civil with Dean in my space is no mean feat.
‘Liam,’ he says, stopping just short of punching range, and it makes pure rage lick up my spine. No one calls me Liam anymore except my mum, and he knows it. And yes, he knows about her illness, which makes his hit land even harder.
‘Ratty,’ I say in response, and I feel my eyes twitch into a glare.
‘Ha, good one.’ He laughs, but it comes out somewhere between a bark and a scoff. It’s not a good one– we’ve been calling him that since primary school– but I silently congratulate myself on scoring a point anyway.
‘What do you want?’
He takes a slow swig of the pint of bitter he’s holding, and when he pulls it away there’s the slightest glaze of froth on his beard. I want to slap it off him.
‘I’m here for an interview,’ he says, running a hand through his hair. It’s shorter than mine, and darker. I started a rumour once that he dyes it.
‘I’mhere for an interview,’ I snap in return, my eyes narrowing.
‘The interview is with both of us, idiot.’ He scoffs again. ‘God, you don’t get any better at this, do you?’
I could, honest to God, set him on fire where he stands.
He props one army-booted foot on the bottom rail of the bar and leans into it like he’s posing for a photoshoot. ‘Probably want to compare the best vampire bar in Whitby to their poorer imitation.’
I know he’s implyingwe’rethe copycats here, despite knowing full well that Bitten opened nine months before he came up with his half-baked clone of a bar, Ravenskull, but I keep my expression neutral. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
His lip curls as he changes tack. ‘And it’s a real shame Mina couldn’t make it this weekend. I was really looking forward to seeing her. You know, letting her get to know me on a’—he pauses, and one side of his mouth lifts in a smirk—‘deeper level.’
Urgh, he wishes. Mina hates him as much as I do.
‘But hey’—Christ, he’s still talking—‘I heard there’s a replacement chick on the scene. Pretty hot, by all accounts.’ He chuckles, and it sounds like the laugh of a cartoon villain. ‘You know, there’s no reason I can’t score a ride with her instead.’
This time I can’t hide my shudder. I know for sure that Mina could have held her own with this piece of human trash, but Lucy? Poor, sweet Lucy? I can see her getting sucked in by Dean’s deceptive charms. The dude’s a psychopath.
I’m about to give him shit about how he couldn’t score a ride on a replacement bus service when the pub door opens and Lucy herself appears before our eyes. She’s like a vision– practically glowing even in the dim light of the evening. The clientele of The Pier Inn is particularly gothic this weekend, and she stands out a mile amidst the sea of black, red and purple that surrounds us.
It’s endearing in a way I can’t quite explain. I’ve always valued being different. It comes with the territory: this town, my look, the way I was raised. But in this world– on this weekend– Lucy is the outsider.
She’s changed since I dropped her off at the cottage, swapped her cosy sweatshirt and leggings for a soft-looking jumper the colour of sand and a pale denim skirt. Her hair’s up, braided into some kind of milkmaid hairstyle with soft waves around her face where the strands have escaped. The whole look is delicate and pretty and somehow both completely alien and utterly bewitching to me.
It’s like she’s magnetic north and I’m south.
I try to shake that thought out of my head the moment it enters. It’s one thing to enjoy the view, but anything more than that? Not happening.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t help her out. She clearly can’t find whoever it is she’s looking for. I call her name, and it makes her jump.
‘Fancy meeting you here,’ I say for the second time today, but it’s lost on her. Her mouth falls open in confusion, eyebrows tugged tightly together.
‘Bram?’ There’s incredulity in her tone. ‘I thought you were working. What are you doing here?’