A Grave Mistake (The Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven #2)

Chapter 1 Arabella

Arabella

Sinead: Arabella, welcome to Sanctus Estate – the world’s first premier, non-court-affiliated luxury gated community for vampires!

The keys to your new home are available to pick up from the office, and our director is excited to take you on a tour of the facilities.

Welcome to the first day of your vampire dreams!

“HOW COME YOU NEVER TOLD ANYONE that you’re a vampire?” Winnie asks as she shoves a trolley down the junk food aisle of the Argleton market. I study the brightly coloured packages of sweets and chocolates, and a familiar resentment bubbles up inside me.

In the nineteenth century, when I was last able to properly taste food, I took treats for granted.

As a courtesan, men considered sweets and pastries a cheap way of pleasing me (because most of them certainly couldn’t do it between the sheets).

Now I can afford to buy all the sweets I like.

Hell, I can buy the company that makes the sweets and force them to write “Arabella is a majestic goddess” on every tiny, chalky sugar heart.

(Not a terrible idea. I’ve made a mental note.) But that wouldn’t change the fact that all I get when I place one on my tongue is a slight hint of sweetness and a mild stomach-ache.

Most of the time, I enjoy the direction my life has taken since I became a vampire.

I like seizing the night, witnessing the sweeping changes of history, and never getting wrinkles.

I enjoy being rich and wearing beautiful clothes.

I (mostly) appreciate the small circle of human women, like my friend Winnie, who I’ve got to know through the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven, which I joined under duress five years ago and enjoy more than I’ll ever admit.

Winnie is engaged to a vampire, so she’s been taking the recent news that I’m not human better than the rest of my friends, although they’re more upset that I kept it a secret than that I have fangs.

(The less said about some humans, the better.)

But sometimes, I envy humans like Winnie, who is staring at a package of Wagon Wheels as if it holds all the answers to the universe, which it probably does. Chocolate is powerful like that, and I never even got to taste it.

“Why didn’t I tell my friends I was a vampire? They never asked.” I want to get this shopping trip out of the way. I need to get back to making arrangements for my move to Sanctus Estate. “I wanted to avoid an interrogation from one Isis Meriwether.”

“Fair,” Winnie smiles. Our friend, Isis, is another member of the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven.

Isis is the local clairvoyant and purveyor of witchy supplies, and she fancies herself a font of all magical and supernatural knowledge, even though she hasn’t got a magical clue.

A week ago, after the Nevermore Coven’s investigation into two vampiric killings led us to Sanctus Estate, I decided to reveal my nocturnal habits to my friends and offer myself up as a mole.

I’ve been regretting it ever since, as Isis has been peppering me with annoying questions like, “Do vampires floss their fangs?”, “Have you ever seen your diary or a pair of your old shoes in a museum?”, and “Have you ever worn a crown of femurs made from the bones of your vanquished foes?”

(Fang hygiene is very important. My shoes have never appeared in a museum, although several sketches by édouard Manet of my rather majestic derrière appeared in an impressionist exhibit at the National Gallery – but Isis doesn’t need to know about that period of my life.

And a woman should wear whatever makes her feel confident.

But you’ll need thin, strong twine to hold the femurs together.

You don’t want your crown falling apart at an inopportune moment. Take it from a vampire who knows.)

I hold up two packets of Walkers crisps. “Do humans prefer salt-and-vinegar or bacon-flavoured crisps?”

“If we’re going to be making fools of ourselves swinging around poles, we’d better grab both.

” Winnie drops the crisps into our trolley alongside some Jaffa Cakes and several frozen packages of sausage rolls.

Modern humans are particularly enamoured with the little tubes of mystery meat wrapped in cheap pastry.

My, how civilisation has fallen. “Reginald is bringing along a vat of hot chocolate, and Lilac says she’ll provide a couple of bottles of blood for those who need it.

Do you think anyone from Sanctus Estate will come along? ”

I make a face. “I sincerely hope not. I don’t want to see my clients writhing around in stripper heels.”

“If you’re writhing alongside them, maybe it will be like a team-building exercise.”

“Please. The only writhing I’ll be doing is—”

The words die in my throat as I catch sight of a figure across the shop.

My hand freezes over a display of strawberries.

It can’t be him. It’s impossible.

I’m dimly aware of Winnie calling my name, but I can’t acknowledge her.

My world has shrunk to the man in front of me.

The man with the peacock-blue eyes, a halo of golden curls that could never quite behave, and the mischievous grin that promises exactly the kind of trouble I like.

The man juggling apples and flirting with a simpering mother while her snotty brat peers out from behind her legs.

The man who absolutely shouldn’t exist.

Him.

His fingers graze the woman’s shoulder as he drops apples into her basket. Those same fingers that once lovingly undid my gold corset as he promised such filthy things…

No. I cannot think of that night.

I refuse.

I am Arabella Lestrange. I am the world’s leading vampire investment consultant, and I will not fall apart in the village market over a man. I will put on my best fuck-off-and-die face, and I will pretend that seeing him hasn’t wrecked me like Stephenie Meyer wrecked the gothic vampire milieu.

And then I will go home and rage.

“It can’t be. It can’t be him,” I hear myself muttering.

Or maybe I won’t make it home.

“Who? What’s wrong?” Winnie shakes my arm, dragging me back from the edge of memory.

Across the aisle, the Scourge of the Seine whispers something to the little girl that makes her giggle. He smiles too, all teeth and villainy.

Why does my head feel as though it’s floating away from my shoulders?

“Arabella?” Winnie nudges me.

“A hundred and fifty years ago, I fell in love,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

My fingers grip the trolley so hard that the plastic handle cracks.

“And after he trampled my heart to dust, set fire to my dreams, and disappeared before I could torture him for the fun of it, I consoled myself with the thought that at least he was mortal and his bones would soon fertilise the earth while I lived forever. And now that same human is standing across the fruit aisle without a care in the world.”

“Well then let’s say hello.”

Winnie grabs my arm, dragging me past a display of potatoes.

Until now, I’ve found Winnie the least annoying of all my friends, as she’s taken the whole “vampires live among us and I’m engaged to one” revelation with a cool head and open heart.

Now, she’s rapidly becoming my second-least-favourite person, after the bastard-son-of-a-Paris-sewer-rat over by the apples.

When she sees who I’m glaring at, Winnie gasps. “Arabella, that’s Gideon Blake. Alaric’s friend. He’s the director of Sanctus Estate who you’ve agreed to spy on, remember? It’s going to be very difficult to get information about Patrick and Danny’s murders if you refuse to talk to him.”

“I’m resourceful. I’ll find a way.”

“Arabella.” Winnie gives me a shove in Gideon’s direction.

This can’t be happening.

In addition to reading books about generously-schlonged book boyfriends, my friends like to meddle in local supernatural affairs.

After a local serial annoyance named Danny O’Hare and Winnie’s cheating ex Patrick Stock were both murdered and drained of blood by a vampire, of course they had to stick their noses in.

We thought we caught the killer – the sadistic vampire Baylor Godsven of the Blood Ptolemy – and brought him to justice at Alaric’s vampire ball, but some new evidence came to light suggesting there might be more to the story.

My friends are concerned that Gideon Blake, the director of Sanctus Estate, might have something to do with their murders.

Now that I know who Gideon Blake is, I’m certain of it.

Even more reason to stay away from him.

I duck under Winnie’s arm and make a beeline for the door. But I forget that I’m still gripping the trolley. It goes flying into a pyramid of watermelons, which topples faster than the Egyptian Empire after Cleopatra decided to hug a poisonous snake.

Watermelons bounce across the floor in all directions. One takes out the mother’s legs and sends her flying, before cracking open over Gideon’s shiny Armani loafers.

He stares down at his ruined shoes with a woeful frown. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

That voice.

That damned voice.

He’s smoothed over his French accent with clipped British vowels, but it’s still honey oozing through my bones, dislodging memories from the darkest corners.

Haunted, sacrilegious acts committed in an old church where we explored our desires, warm Parisian nights where I tasted freedom for the first time, a velvet curtain with gold pulls, a hot air balloon bobbing over the city. Golden hair on my gold-threaded sheets…

I allowed that sumptuous voice to pull me in once before. But I will not do so again.

“Gideon,” I hiss.

He looks up, and I’m pleased that he’s even more startled than I am to meet again.

“I…” He swallows. “You.”

“Yes. Me.” I fold my arms. “Interesting us meeting like this, a hundred and forty-seven years after you robbed me.”

And because I’m a vicious bitch, I pluck the bright crimson apple from his fingers and raise it to my lips.

His scent hits me then. Honey and red cherries, soaked in poppy, with the copper tang of blood. Sin and sweetness. Unmistakably vampiric. Alluring. Intoxicating.

Utterly vile.

I take a huge bite of the apple, allowing my lipstick to smear across the skin. I trained under the best courtesans in Paris. I know exactly what I’m doing with that apple.

Gideon knows, too. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Bright-blue eyes fix on my neck, travelling down to the hollow of my collarbone.

That’s right, Gideon. My neck is bare now, thanks to you.

My pulse quickens, rushing in my ears. He dares to be here, where I’ve made my home, where I’ve worked so hard to be invisible.

I take another bite. I won’t allow him to see how he’s shaken me.

“Arabella Macquart,” he breathes.

I want to slap my name off his lips.

Winnie’s eyes fly between us, lighting up at the sound of my previous name. I hate Gideon even more for giving her that – a piece of my past, revealed without my permission.

“I see you’ve had a little change since last we met,” I smirk, piercing a piece of apple with the tip of my nail and feeding it to myself. “Immortality suits you.”

“As it does you.” His sparkling eyes bore into mine, blooming all sorts of depraved memories in my body. “I should have guessed you were a vampire. You never ate the treats I brought you, and you were always so cool to the touch. Cool, but never cold, especially not that night in the garden—”

“And as wise and beautiful as I am, I should have guessed you were a double-crossing thieving bastard out for his own gain,” I cut him off before he brings up the night I refuse to think of.

“I’m…” His voice falters. Gideon steps towards me, a hand raised as if in surrender. “I can’t believe it’s you. I would have looked for you, but I thought you died in the fire.”

“It takes more than flames or betrayal to get rid of me.”

He winces. “You tried to have me killed.”

I don’t bother to correct him. I never tried to have him killed.

If Arabella Macquart wants revenge, she gets it done herself.

My revenge on Gideon was supposed to be outliving him, remaking myself into a ravishing, successful creature while he became ashes and dust. But now that I know he’s still breathing my air, the murder idea is worth considering.

“I see you haven’t changed a bit. Still selling lies for profit in a cheap suit. ”

“This suit wasn’t cheap.” His eyes fizz with unexpected fire. “And nothing about Sanctus Estate is a lie.”

Intriguing.

I think of the text from Sinead, the member services manager at Sanctus who seems oddly familiar to me, inviting me to collect my keys and view my new home.

I think of the Conclave’s disapproval of Sanctus, and the funds I’ve handed over for my property – a property I didn’t know until now was masterminded by my greatest enemy.

It’s too late to back out of the deal.

I don’t want to back out of the deal.

Which means I’m stuck living in Gideon’s vanity project.

What I wouldn’t give for a magical collar imbued with the powers of an ancient queen to grant me my desire for revenge. Oh, wait a second—

“Arabella, maybe we should leave— Ewwww!” Winnie winces as her foot goes through a watermelon. Red goo splashes up the front of her lilac jumpsuit and across her pretty features. She wipes fruity ooze from her cheek. “We should probably leave before the supermarket becomes a war zone.”

“Arabella’s motto was always ‘make love, not war’.” Gideon’s grin makes my blood boil – no mean feat for a vampire. “Isn’t that right?”

“Love is war.” I pluck a cracked watermelon from the floor and smash it down on Gideon’s head.

Red gloop splatters everywhere, dribbling down Gideon’s definitely-not-cheap suit. He blinks, watermelon seeds stuck to his long, dark eyelashes.

He looks like he’s covered in blood.

Do not think of Gideon covered in blood. Do not think of what it would be like to drink blood with Gideon, the two of you swapping coppery sweet nectar as you kiss—

I step back, careful not to get a single drop on my Zimmermann yoke dress.

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to pay for that apple.” The store manager appears behind Gideon, frowning at the scene. “And those watermelons.”

“Gideon will take care of it.” I toss the half-eaten apple at his head. It bounces off his cheek and smashes at his feet. “He’s used to leaving a mess behind him.”