Chapter 6
Chapter Six
brAM
Ilove Quinn like a brother, but he can be an insufferable shit at times.
Like when he only remembered to pass on the message that my interview with Moriarty had been changed to today, twenty-six minutes before the interview in question was due to start. I mean God, at that point I’d already stuck my fake fangs on.
Yes, I said fake fangs.
But wait, I hear you ask, isn’t it counterintuitive to wear fake fangs when you have the real thing at your disposal? That’s what I would have asked before I lived through this, but let me tell you, the teething troubles when you first change are no joke.
It’s always so glamorous in films. Hollywood vampires go from bite to beast in one smooth montage, but the reality? More like a supernatural puberty. It’s clumsy, it’s awkward, and it takes years.
For a long time after my change, my fang extension … well, it was an absolute shitshow. Even now they’re prone to popping up when I least expect them, like a teenage boy’s erections.
So after a few embarrassing incidents, I took a leaf out of W?adek’s book and leaned into it.
He taught me early on that the best way for us to hide is in plain sight.
The more we pretend to be vampires, the less anyone suspects we actually are.
So I bought the worst, most dramatic glue-in fakes I could find.
These ones are so cheap they’re actually hollow.
Lots of fang room for those unwanted extensions.
To be fair, when you were born and raised in Dracula country with your vampire-obsessed family, you’re no stranger to a pair of fake fangs, so it wasn’t such a leap for me. I don’t usually hang out in places other than Bitten wearing them, but I’ve stuck them on now, so here we are.
And I entirely blame Quinn. Apparently Sammi asked him to pass on the message once I got back to the bar, but he was too busy thinking about getting his end away. Standard.
In fairness, with the Goth Weekend being on, I shouldn’t even feel self-conscious, but I do. I’m totally on edge, and there are two reasons why.
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 and me, 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.
Not my bad 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’m here 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 implying we’re the 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?’
‘I just popped out for an hour.’ I sweep my hair out of my face – a habit. ‘Turns out I’ve got an interview.’
‘Same,’ she says, only I knew that already. ‘I’m… I’m looking for Liam and Dean, if you know them?’
Wait, now I’m confused. Lucy is the one interviewing us? I pray to any god who’ll have me that this is instead of the Moriarty interview and not in addition to it, and then I cock an eyebrow and hold out a hand.
‘Liam Bramwell,’ I say, my smile widening. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
I see understanding dawn on her face as her hand takes mine, and I try not to overthink the contact. Instead I hitch a thumb towards the malignant presence to the side of me. ‘And this idiot is Dean Ratcliffe.’
I can’t help myself.
Dean doesn’t retaliate, just laughs amiably and holds his own hand out to her. ‘That’s me.’
Ah, the nice guy act. He does this. I just hope Lucy can see through it.
‘My boss set all of this up,’ she says, smiling between us before she looks back at me.
‘So there’ve probably been a few crossed wires.
I take it you didn’t know the interview was with me?
’ I shake my head, and she nods, figuring the rest out.
‘And I obviously didn’t know it was with you. But here we are.’
I’m so relieved I could kiss her. So relieved, in fact, that I totally gloss over the fact that means Moriarty must be her boss.
‘So,’ she says, tucking a blonde curl behind one ear, ‘shall we get started?’
The pub’s packed, but we manage to find a free table right at the back, and we squeeze in, Lucy in the corner, flanked by each of us.
I don’t love that Dean’s staring me straight in the face if I’m honest, but we’re really wedged in here, and I suppose it means that no part of me has to touch any part of him. I’d be worried I’d burst into flames.
I try to ignore the press of Lucy’s thigh against the side of mine until I realise that her other leg is probably pressed into Dean’s in the same way, and I don’t love that either. Now I feel like maybe I’m bursting into flames after all. Hopefully we can make this quick.