Page 3 of Lover Forbidden (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #23)

Present Day

Bathe Nightclub

Market Street, bet. Sixteenth & Seventeenth

Caldwell, New York

The statistical probability of being killed by a falling billboard on a city street is nearly incalculable. Something south of .00000071 percent, considering that math contemplated all objects going Sputnik on you, not just billboards.

But this was something Lyric, blooded daughter of the Black Dagger Brother Qhuinn and the Chosen Layla, adopted daughter of Blaylock, son of Rocke, and Xcor, leader of the Band of Bastards, wouldn’t think about until later on in the night.

And even then, her one-in-a-million would just be a pebble on the shore of much, much more important things.

Fortunately, as with most stuff having to do with fate, she didn’t know what was coming.

At the moment, she was standing in the grungy city snow in a pair of Louboutin stilettos—and she wasn’t worried about crapping up her shoes, either. It was the shit coming through her cell phone she’d had enough of.

“Marcia.” She pronounced the name “MAR-see-ah,” as opposed to the Brady Bunch, normal way, under protest. “Can you just stop so I can get a word in—”

“This is a huge opportunity for you. She wants you to come for the first day of the conference, free of charge. There’s a backstage photo op , and an interview with her—this is going to level your brand up, I’m telling you.”

The emphasized words were like a strongman working his way through a bench press, and you had to wonder if there was a minimum set count and rep number. Like if the woman missed it, did she stand in front of her bathroom mirror and go at her grocery list just to finish the workout?

Lyric turned so her back was to the strong, shifting wind—and what do you know. Down the alley and across Market Street, there was a huge purple advertisement for the Resolve2Evolve conference.

Like Valentina Disserte was a stalker.

“ Hello? ” came through the phone.

Okay, fine, it was— was —a hot invite. R2E had real momentum as a self-actualization movement for women, and no one could argue that its leader wasn’t making the most of her fifteen minutes of fame.

If the great Valentina kept stalking those stages and proselytizing about the priority of the personhood, the woman was going to be this generation’s love-yourself messiah.

The problem? It all just seemed a little too pretty-purple-bow’d to be real. Life through a filter of sound bites, rather than the real thing.

Closing her eyes, Lyric thought about what was happening in her grandparents’ house. Maybe even a month ago, she might have bought into the R2E message herself. Now?

Then again, maybe she needed the distraction.

“Fine.” As the wind came barreling down the alley with a big shove, she shivered and turned to the club’s fire door. “But can we get through tonight first before you ask me about anything else?”

“So where are you?”

“Out in the alley—”

The dented metal panel swung wide, and MAR-see-ah Rotterdam, social media manager to the stars, made her appearance with a stress-flourish.

Clocking in at barely over five tall and fifty pounds if she’d just had another Diet Coke, the fact that the woman had two cell phones up to her ears made her look like she was ducking an explosion.

“No, Ron .” She motioned with the phone on the left as she hung it up. “You go to L.A. tomorrow for the collab . Look, I’m at an exclusive event and I have to go . I’ll call you in the morning —when you better be on that fucking jet.”

Marcia hung up phone #2. “Beautiful, but dumb as a box of rocks. Fortunately, he just has to stand there for selfies . Well, look at you.”

Lyric glanced down at herself and remembered that she did like her dress.

Low-cut, strapless, and black, the thing was set with four-inch strings of iridescent beads so if you swung your hips back and forth, there was a halo around your body, the show both light and dark.

Plus the sound was fantastic, a hush of applause.

Of course, Rhamp called it her car-wash getup—

“You know what ?” Marcia announced.

Oh, God, no. Not another bright idea—

“I’m calling Vogue . You’re not big enough for the U.S.

channel , but I think I can get us into one of the European ones.

Remember when it was a magazine ? Too bad we can’t do stills to show those eyes of yours.

Blue and green, and not contacts. With the blond hair, come on .

Are you just going to stand there? And you’ve ruined those shoes. ”

As Lyric walked into the back of Bathe, she felt herself recede until she became nothing but a pinprick, only a tiny reflection of who she really was peeking through the velvety drape of what she looked like. Back in the beginning of all this influencer stuff, she had been incandescent.

Now she wasn’t even a spark.

The definition of burnout was not a complicated one.

The tricky part was what you did about it when all that no-shit-Sherlock, Merriam-Webster came and found you.

Successful careers, like all bright ideas that by some miracle worked, assumed a velocity of their own, but unlike things such as cars, airplanes, or space shuttles, there was no safety equipment to buffer a sudden braking.

So here she was. Surrounded by people who thought they knew her, a paper idol who was the only one who seemed to know she wasn’t actually hot as hell. She was flammable.

And there was a world of difference between the two—

Marcia stepped up, stepped in, stepped all over everything. “ You stand over there , and we bring the line through here —let’s get moving now so you know where you are before I bring your people in.”

Her people? As if she’d written her name inside their clothes and was taking them to some kind of existential summer camp?

As Lyric let herself get positioned like a vase on a shelf, she glanced at the step and repeat.

Set against a pink and pale green background, her Lyrically Dressed logo, with its little music bars forming a dress, alternated with the Trash Panda makeup brand’s—which featured a panda and a trash bin, go figure.

Glancing out past the VIP room’s archway, she measured the crowd and was shocked by how many had come.

It was a surprise she’d felt before, and at least that was one part of the job that still felt fresh.

First it had been ten thousand subscribers to her Zideo account, then came a hundred thousand.

When she’d crossed a million, she’d thrown herself a party, and felt like she’d had a purpose.

Now she was hovering at just under five million, and she had brand deals, an appearance schedule, and a manager—

“That light needs to be re-angled.” Marcia barked out a command and then went guided missile on some poor man in overalls. “Yes— you . I’m talking to you . That is wrong ! She needs it softer on her face.”

Make that, manager .

As Lyric was left in the dust, she looked around.

The VIP part of Bathe had been reserved for the event, and a snaking series of ropes had been set up to keep the line organized.

Seeing the special-access lounge empty of its usual crowd of top-shelf-drinking highfliers made the setup look like an egg carton for fancy shitfaced people: Twelve sunken seating areas were split in the middle and separated by an aisle you could strut down if you were so inclined.

Lit by different shades of blue, from Tiffany’s signature paler shade to sapphire to seafoam, the circular couches were comfortable, liquid-resistant, and the site of many a poor decision.

And even more empty wallets.

She knew the place well. She and her friend group were regulars, and over the last year and a half had staked a claim to the back sofa by the emergency exit.

The blue-black light was great for keeping things low-key, and if you tended to dematerialize as opposed to Uber out at the end of the night, the alley access by way of that emergency fire door was convenient.

What would Marcia think if she found out she was managing a vampire—

Off to the side, the woman poked her forefinger up into the face of the overall guy like he’d insulted every mother in her bloodline.

Christ, if Marcia knew the truth, she’d probably sell the rights to a tell-all as soon as she got a podcast going.

Nosfer-chat-u.

On that note, Marcia dropped the bone of the lighting and brought over a very tall, very slender woman with very long black hair extensions. It was as if Chas Addams had tossed one of his drawings into the next century, and Lyric pinned a smile.

“Of course you remember Svetlana ?” Marcia did a flourish thing. “She is Trash Panda. Svet, you look amazing —let’s get the two girls of the hour together.”

Marcia clapped her hands, like the world ran on her own personal lights-on-lights-off switch, and then it was cue the small talk as the photographer rushed over in a clear attempt to avoid what the lighting guy had had airmailed at him: Svet complimented Lyric’s dress, and Lyric hit the blessings-ball back over the net with an honest appreciation for the other woman’s shoes—because hey, even though they were the size of toasters and must have weighed ten pounds apiece, at least they were dry.

Then came the hair-compare and associated fluffing—at least on Svet’s side—followed by the obligatory what-mascara-is-that.

“Trash Panda all the way,” Lyric mumbled. Even though she was wearing Maybelline.

“Smile!”

Lyric front-and-centered at the lens, but her eyes returned to the VIP lounge’s entrance as the flash went off.

The pair of suited sentries at the archway were looking above-it-all, and the faces on the far side were a tide they were holding back with a satisfaction that made Lyric want to spill wine on them.

As someone else was brought over, Lyric stared out from her private abyss, and talked about nothing, and smiled when she was supposed to.

This time, when the flash went off, she blinked hard.

And thought about what her brother, Rhamp, was doing right now.

He and Shuli, and all the other fighters, were not standing around posing for pictures.

When a bright light went off around them, it was because they’d stabbed one of the lessers who hunted and killed vampires, and sent the fucker(s) back to their maker.

Their brilliant flashes were a sign they’d won a battle, saved a civilian, made a difference.

Done something courageous and worthwhile—

“And here , Lyric, before we start things, you have to meet —”

Marcia shoved another person in for advance photos, an interviewer with some kind of podcast, who was followed by another influencer with “an insane amount of followers”—

And that was when Lyric caught sight of a familiar face. Over by the emergency exit.

A shy, reserved, familiar face attached to a lanky body garbed in just Levi’s and a t-shirt, in spite of the cold.

“Oh, Allhan!” Lyric broke out of a four-person lineup. “Hi!”

“Wait, what ?” Marcia demanded. “ Where are you going —”

“Hey!” As she rushed over to the male, her smile was an honest one. That she hoped wasn’t as desperate as she feared it might be. “What are you doing here?”

Allhan looked at the floor, and even in the dark blue light, she could see the flush race up his thin neck and bloom in his hollow face.

“I mean, I’m so glad you came.” She touched his arm. “I’m just surprised, is all. This is not your usual kind of place.”

As a pretrans, Allhan was about twenty-five years old according to the human calendar—no one was sure exactly when his birthday was, not even him—but he was as scrawny as a twelve-year-old human kid.

And then there was the frizzy dark hair.

No matter what the season, it was like he’d rubbed a balloon on the crown of his head in the middle of winter and done nothing about the static electricity.

Then again, the guy was live-wire smart. Maybe he actually had straight hair and the heat generated by all that IQ was what had permed up all his—

“ What are you doing ?” Marcia stepped in between them. “You need to be back there—”

“Oh, it’s okay, I’m just saying hi. This is my friend.”

Marcia’s narrowed eyes did an up-and-down on the male, and somehow her wooden expression was more of an insult than if she’d said the words she was clearly thinking:

Less than. Not worth the effort.

Forgettable.

“That’s just great .” The woman linked arms with Lyric and started walking away. “That’s wonderful . We love friends, just not right now.”

As Lyric threw out her anchor, she wondered whether, if it had been her brother or, like, Shuli, for godsakes, things would be different. But of course they would.

“You need to give me a minute—”

“No, now . This is work .”

“Let me at least say goodbye.” She turned back around. “Listen, Allhan—”

He was gone, the emergency door just shutting.

Lyric put her hands to her face, and felt like screaming. “Hold on, Marcia. I have to go say—”

“You don’t need to worry about the likes of that .”

Later, much later, Lyric would know that it all really started at that moment, with that one syllable, spoken in that tone. Something just snapped.

“All of this is going to wait,” Lyric shot back. “While I go and make sure you didn’t offend my friend.”

Marcia hopped in front and put her arms wide like she was trying to stop a train.

Speaking in a rushed hush, she said, “You have two hundred of your followers out there, who paid forty-nine dollars to stand next to you and get their pictures taken. The event is starting at seven. So no, you’re not going—”

“There are things more important than work.”

“Not tonight there aren’t.”

As the little woman stared up at her, that Botox-frozen face straining to reflect all kinds of inner horror, it dawned on Lyric that this thing with Lyrically Dressed, which had started with all the casualness of a sneeze two years ago, had taken on a life of its own.

And it was like feeding a monster now.

“You’re so wrong about that,” Lyric muttered as she pushed the woman out of the way. “Life doesn’t last forever, you know.”

She hit that fire door like it was a solid obstacle.

And as she stepped out, the cold slapped her back just as hard.

“Allhan!” she cried out. “Wait!”