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Chapter One

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O ne day, I’ll stop hoping my brother will finally do what he says. Apparently, that day is not today, though.

Eyeing the growing clouds in the distance, I check my phone again as I stand at the curb of the sidewalk. Blood Street is filled with people, humans and not, as spring starts pushing away the dreary days of winter. The wind is picking up, sending goosebumps all over my exposed arms and legs. I’m wearing one of my favorite summer dresses, which was perfectly fine when at my waitressing job two streets over. Not so much with the sun set and the first of many spring storms rolling in over the Barrows.

I’d have been home by now, should have been home by now, if my brother hadn’t sworn he finally had part of the money he owed me and wanted to meet me here thirty minutes after my shift.

That was over an hour ago.

“Jesus, Sam,” I grumble, rubbing my arms and looking at the time on my phone again. Maybe he meant somewhere else on the street? I look around me, across the street from the entrance to the most popular nightclub in the Barrows. Sam has had enough run-ins with the Nightshade vampires, he’s probably fang shy at this point.

Sighing, I shoot a message to Charlie.

Still waiting on Sam. I’m checking one last place before heading home. You ate dinner? Homework done?

Charlie’s reply is almost immediate. And full of as much pre-teen sass as a 12 going on 17 girl has.

Jeeeze mom, yeah. HW is done.

Why not bail on him? It’d serve him right. Maybe he’d finally stop sucking ass.

What’d I say about cursing?

Fine.

I swear I can feel my daughter’s eyes roll across the city.

sucking butt* better?

Yes.

I head down Blood Street, weaving through the foot traffic and keeping an eye out for Sam’s latest car, a white sedan that’s seen better days. I’m not one to judge, considering I haven’t had a car... ever.

That’s what happens when you put your life on hold at seventeen when your egg donor of a mother shows up out of nowhere with your six-month-old little sister. Along with a tub of expired baby formula, half-empty pack of diapers, and a couple sets of stained onesies.

Charlie’s twelve now and she’s taken after me with her interests, except rather than art, she adores architecture. I get her sketchbooks and pencils whenever I can, even if money is tight. And our favorite thing to do on my days off is to take the bus over to Topside and walk around the museum district.

Three weeks ago, we were exploring the museums when I saw the advertisements for a new restaurant going in. Charlie had been chatting my ear off about some monastery in Spain, and how she’s hoping to add it to our itinerary for her high school graduation trip.

Spur of the moment, I pulled out my phone and looked up the business. I look damn good, having spent the last 12 years of my life dancing five nights a week. But dancers have an expiration date and, while I wasn’t ashamed of my job, Charlie talking about her dreams made me remember my own. If I was going to save up for a trip to Europe, even if it’s five years from now, I needed to do more than strip. I wanted Charlie to have a mom who had a normal job. Somewhere she didn’t have to go hang out for 8 hours if her babysitter canceled.

I want to be home at night, sleeping across the hall from my daughter, rather than relying on another person to keep her safe at night.

When I realized the place was going to be a burlesque theater and restaurant, I spent the rest of the day warring with my thoughts. The dancer’s wage wasn’t enough, not when I was already making more than that and the dancers wouldn’t get tips. However, they were looking for a stage producer.

Since I’d worked for Tonya at her club for over a decade, I’d started to take on more and more responsibilities. Looking at the experience required, I might not technically qualify but I could make a case for it.

Experience choreographing routines? I created my own pole routines and helped new dancers, just the same as I’d been helped when I first started.

Management of a dance troupe? I didn’t have an official title, but I’ve had plenty of experience dealing with the politics of dressing rooms filled with women and keeping the peace.

I’ve stepped in for the tech, having to learn about lighting and sound on the fly. I’ve even managed the sound and DJ booth on nights when ours bailed or were fired.

I don’t have experience managing a costume department, but managing my own outfits might as well count. I’ve helped Tonya come up with theme nights and special events, and even stepped back into my role of waitressing or bartending when she needed me.

After twelve years, the only thing I’ve never handled for Tonya is The Gentleman’s Study’s books and finances.

The biggest draw to the stage producer position? It’s full time, Wednesday through Sunday, with hours never going past 9 p.m. on the weekends. It’s offering full benefits, paid vacation, and the salary offer is high enough to make my stomach twist with anxiety. Because it’s enough to really change our lives. If I keep managing our expenses like I am, I’ll be able to save up for Charlie’s dream trip in just a couple years.

By the time we were on the bus back across the river, I’d been mentally crafting my resume. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I had to at least try.

When I’d gotten the call for a phone interview, I almost didn’t believe it. I dove into research about burlesque and asked Tonya every question under the sun I could think of. I was so fortunate that my boss was supportive of me applying. She wouldn’t let me doubt myself when I worried that my experience at a single gentlemen’s club wouldn’t be enough. That maybe the managers would look down on me because I’ve been a stripper, even though they’re a burlesque theater.

When I got the phone call inviting me to come to the theater for the final round of interviews, specifically performing an original routine, Tonya had laughed her head off while I jumped up and down with excitement. Then she put up with me coming into the club while it was closed and Charlie’s in school to create a dance routine.

I had to ace it. I had to.

This job would let me finally get off the stage, keep my clothes on, and maybe—just maybe—even start to have a life for myself.

Which of course means it was perfect timing for Sam to call me, begging me to loan him $500 so he could pay back someone “you really don’t want to owe money.”

I’m still so pissed at him, but he sounded really worried. And he’s always come through in the end to pay me back—even if it was at the absolute last minute.

Which is why I find myself walking along Blood Street on my night off, three days before this interview. Rent is due tomorrow, and while I have enough if Sam doesn’t show, I really don’t want to have to stretch my bank account any further. I’ve already had to buy new clothes, to make sure I look the part of a proper stage producer and professional dancer (who doesn’t take their clothes off).

Sam, of course, is late and wasn’t clear on where he’d be. Well, I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t clear and had meant somewhere else on the street. If I didn’t seriously need the money for a bit of a cushion so I don’t have to dip into our meager savings, I’d have left for home by now.

He isn’t responding to my texts; they’re going through, but he hasn’t even read them yet. Frustration is building, especially because I didn’t expect to be out this long and didn’t bring a sweater. So stupid. I should have known better that Sam is never on time.

Worry niggles at the edge of my mind. Sam’s been late before, but never this late. Usually, the one thing he’ll do if he’s going to bail is let me know. I try calling him again as I continue down the street, heading towards the less busy end. Maybe the crowds are too much for him, especially if he’s in trouble with someone.

It rings until it goes to an automated voice mail. Blowing out a rough breath between my lips, I hold my purse tighter to my stomach and keep walking. The nape of my neck prickles and I know I’m being watched, but I don’t show any nerves. Besides, even as the crowds are thinning, people and creatures still look up as I pass. I’m used to being watched by now and nothing is making my instincts scream danger. Honestly, it’s probably my stress just making it worse.

I come to a cross street, the road beyond lined with closed businesses and sidewalks empty under the glowing yellow streetlights. I pull out my phone again, wanting to cuss my brother out.

“Are you lost, pup?”

My spine stiffens at the question and I look up at the speaker with the glare I’d developed over years of dealing with unruly males. Unfortunately, I realize he isn’t alone and in my irritation with my brother, let myself get into an empty area by myself. Damn stupid mistake. One I’ve told Charlie to never make, over and over.

“No.” I keep my voice firm, with evidence of my nerves. “I’m waiting for someone, actually. They should be here soon.”

“Oh, yeah?” I can hear the skepticism dripping from the second guy’s voice. I grit my teeth, trying not to let my nerves get the best of me. From the way he holds himself and the predatory glint in his eyes, he’s not human. Some sort of shifter, most likely. He doesn’t have the golden eyes of a vampire. That, and the Nightshade vampires don’t mess with women like this. I’ve heard plenty of stories about the brutal justice they meted out on behalf of their king, Ambrose.

“Pretty shitty to leave a pretty girl like you alone.”

Screaming inside, I want to move but they’ve basically boxed me in. The last thing I should do is make a run for it. They might be part human, but my cavewoman hindbrain knows that if I run, they’ll chase me to the ground.

“Really, though,” the first one says, his voice all sweet and gentle as he moves closer. Close enough I can smell him—a gross mixture of stale cigarettes, beer, and wet dog. I don’t back away. Give an entitled man an inch and they’ll demand the whole fucking world. “It can be dangerous for a human out here, alone. Why don’t you let us take you somewhere safer and you can meet your friend there.”

I smile, the same one I use when a customer tries for more than just a lap dance and make sure I’m firm but not going to piss him off. “No, thanks.” I wave my phone, hoping they’ll get the message and back off. I pull out the next move, one that guys always respect more than a woman’s no. My heart races, hoping they’ll believe the lie. “My boyfriend will be here any minute to pick me up.”

“What if we weren’t asking?” the guy who hasn’t said anything asks, his voice hard with vile amusement.

I swallow hard, fighting to stay calm. This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself in a situation where guys don’t want to say no. Typically, I’ve got someone like Johnny, the part-orc bouncer at the club. Or one of the usuals who spend all night at the bar talking to us.

“Then I’d say you’re pretty rude.” I probably shouldn’t insult them, but my nerves are threatening to get the better of me. I put my phone in my purse, making sure to snap the flap securely. “I’d also have to let you know I took martial arts for years, if you’re expecting an easy mark.”

By martial arts, I really mean some of the bouncers and other dancers teaching a few of us how to defend ourselves in a scrappy situation. They don’t need to know that.

My heartbeat pounds in the silence surrounding me. The silence is shattered when the one who’d played nice at first laughs.

Painful acceptance weighs down my shoulders as the other two join him. He starts to reach up, like he’s going to touch my face, as he sneers, “We like a bitch with a fight in her, don’t we, boys?”

Dammit. I feel my eyes go wide before narrowing at him. If he wants a fight, that’s what he’ll get. I shift my feet, grounding myself like Johnny taught me, and before he can lay a hand on me, I knock his arm away. Using my whole body, I punch him as hard as I can in the nose.

His head snaps back with a gratifying crunch, but my sense of victory is short-lived when he regains his footing. He looks at me with malice and a detached part of me realizes that tonight is going to end very, very badly for me.

I inhale as thunder crashes over the sky, bracing for the inevitable blow.

Except it never lands, as something bolts around me. A hand tugs me, and not expecting it, I stagger back. I’m left gaping at a broad expanse of black for an instant before it’s moving again, blocking the irate male from my view.

A sound from nightmares, a lethal combination of a hiss and snarl, comes before a voice that surely must belong to the devil himself. “Give me one good reason, mutt, why I shouldn’t rip out your throat for touching my girlfriend.”