Black Bird (Nevermore Duet #1)

CHAPTER 1

NIGHT LIFE

She’d never quit smoking. Even when the job she’d just landed … the one she’d dreamed of … gave her more than enough knowledge about the harm it did her body. But as she clinked her lighter shut and pulled in the taste of menthol, Sarah St. James couldn’t help but notice how many others around the smoke-filled club were doing the same. In the six years that she’d lived in Boston, she’d never been here before. Although, she was preoccupied with stockpiling degrees after leaving her native Seattle, so she never had much time for the night life. She’d had one goal in moving here alone: school up and nail down that bio-chem spot at EverLife—and she’d done it. It had taken her obsession with the study of blood, countless hours bent over books, laptops, microscopes, and beakers … and a few exhausting crash courses on giving a kick-ass interview that finally yielded the opportunity she needed most. Now, they were celebrating. The only other person in her life that knew this wasn’t just a celebration of her grueling journey to get this job was Wren Vintorri; Sarah’s short-fused and immaculately talented best friend.

While Wren’s red and blonde locks bounced back and forth beside her as she danced with a pale arm raised, Sarah scanned the dimly lit establishment and bobbed her head to the sound of industrial metal playing around her. People danced suggestively in the space of the floor where they stood, others were practically making a spectacle of screwing each other behind thin veils of curtains that covered booths in alcoves along the walls surrounding them. A long bar stretched around the corner near the entrance to the club and extended out toward the dance floor, a single barkeep tending to its patrons. Aside from the smell of smoke and the watered-down bourbon in her glass, she could have sworn she caught the hint of another scent—one she knew well. Blood … somewhere. Sarah sipped her drink and leaned into Wren’s side.

“What did you say the name of this place was?” Her voice was barely audible over the music.

“Black Bird! Isn’t it great?” Wren called, lowering her drink from the air and sipping at it while she continued to move with the beat. Sarah glanced down at the tattoo on her wrist … a small raven and the word “Nevermore.” It was one of the many she had covering the expanse of her arms. “Knock it back, bitch! You’ve barely tasted the whiskey with all the water in that cup!”

“I don’t really want it. You know this isn’t my scene.” The melting ice rattled against the glass as she wiggled it, giving the drink a grimacing look before choking it down .

“Why? Because there’s no live band? No buzz of a tattoo gun while you read another boring ass book in my chair?” Wren gave her a knowing smile and finished her drink. “I’m off tonight and we’re supposed to be celebrating!” Her tawny eyes flickered toward the entrance before rolling toward the back of her skull. Sarah tracked the source of her sudden irritation and turned toward the front door in time to see her fiancé, Brent Stratford, easing through it. He did nothing to hide the distaste for the club from his closely shaved face, his light gray suit an unwelcome smudge of color in the throng of grunge and goth. “Well … there goes all our fun,” Wren said, snatching Sarah’s glass from her hand. “I’ll go get us a beer.”

Wren had never liked Sarah’s distinguished beau. Had never approved of her dating the son of a cocky, pompous-ass senator that reeked of money and utter bullshit. Sarah had sworn that Brent was different. While he did grow up wealthy, he had made his money after busting his ass at Harvard and earning himself a spot at one of the most prestigious law firms in Boston. She’d met Brent two years ago while volunteering at a blood drive campaign during his father’s run for office. They were, without a doubt, the most opposite looking couple and there had been a real stink in the press when he’d asked her to marry him last year. One of Sarah’s favorite lines in the tabloids was: “Trick or Treat! —Conrad’s heir is off the market. Brent Stratford falls under the spell of Boston’s dark side.” The news of their engagement took any privacy off the table after that. For months following the announcement, Sarah had been tailed and photographed at every turn. All the world was itching to see the “witch” that sank her claws into the Stratford family.

She knew how it looked. She and Wren had grown fond of cackling about the stereotype that plagued them. The damaged little goth girl, covered in tattoos … always had a cigarette in her mouth and coffee in her hand. Hair and makeup matching the eternally black polish on her fingernails. That’s all the world would ever see, and it was fine by them. Brent had been attracted to Sarah for completely different reasons, anyway. Sarah had a brilliant mind and always engaged him in stimulating conversation that had nothing to do with politics or courtrooms. He often told her that she was his escape from reality, although since they’d been engaged, he seemed more eager to show her off. She wasn’t sure where that left them these days and tried her best not to show it as she smiled at him while he shrugged through bodies and smoke toward her. Brent glanced up as he approached, drawing his brows together at the sight of scantily clad dancers in cages that hung from the ceiling.

“What is this place?” He frowned, brushing off his suit jacket and leaning in to kiss her cheek. Pointed stares followed his movements as he pulled back, and Sarah took notice of them. He was definitely out of place here. She leaned in and pulled her long, jet-black hair behind her ear.

“Wren picked it. Wanted to change it up a bit. I’m still trying to get a feel for it, myself.” She brought her cigarette back to her lips and dragged, her deep burgundy lipstick staining the butt. Brent slid his hands into his pockets and looked around.

“Shouldn’t be too hard, it looks like your apartment.” He smirked.

“Wanna dance?”

“How does anybody dance to this shit?” He flicked his sandy blonde hair over his brow, his green eyes flashing in the smoky strobes.

“What’s the matter, Brent? Not the stagnant, rich-boy piano bar you were hoping for?” Wren mused, shouldering past him and handing Sarah a bottle of an ale she couldn’t pronounce. It took a tremendous effort not to smile at the remark, so Sarah turned away, pressing the mouth of the bottle to her lips and drinking greedily.

A large, studded door in the back corner of the club slammed shut and a dark figure angrily pushed past two bouncers standing before it. One of them tried to talk to the man, but he threw the hood up on his black jacket and forcefully made his way alongside the back wall and then past the many curtained off spots, where the obvious happenings of trysts and God knows what else were going on. Sarah’s eyes trailed after him, though she wasn’t sure exactly why. The hooded stranger made it to the end of the bar, his back now facing her as she turned back toward her company, and he waved over the bartender. Wren and Brent’s bickering was drowned out while she fixed her eyes on the back of his hood. It was as if he could sense her watching him in the crowded bar and she winced when he turned his head and directed his attention to her. She couldn’t see his face in clear detail, only the dark scruff of his chin and his tattooed hands as he lit a cigarette. The barkeep slid him a double of amber whiskey and he drank it down, slamming the glass back to the bar and storming out of the entrance without giving her a second thought.

Brent’s cell phone started ringing, breaking her concentration and earning her attention. He turned away and pressed a fingertip to his other ear to block out the noise as he yelled into the receiver. Sarah watched the entrance beyond him, but the lone stranger never re-emerged. A heartbeat later, Brent pocketed his phone and turned toward her.

“I’ve got a client I need to meet on the other side of the city. Why don’t you come with? I can take you out to dinner.” He fastened the button on his suit.

“Brent, I don’t want to sit in on whatever it is you have going on with a client. God knows how long that’s gonna take. I’m staying,” Sarah drawled, dropping her cigarette to the floor and snuffing it out with the toe of her combat boot.

“You said you weren’t sure if you liked this place anyway.”

“Yeah, well I changed my mind,” she replied, turning her beer up and swallowing hard.

“Suit yourself. Congratulations, babe.” And with that, he kissed her forehead and scurried off to the door. Part of her felt relieved and she wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

“One day you’re gonna wake up and be married to that prick, Sarah. Then you’re gonna wish you listened to me.” Wren pointed her beer toward the direction he’d left. “I really hope he’s at least good in bed. About the only nice thing I can say about him is that you could bounce a quarter off that tight ass, but that’s probably because he spends every day clenching it together around the silver spoon that’s in it.”

“He’s a good guy, Wren.”

“Yeah … so good you check out tall, dark and handsome over there by the bar while you’re standing next to Mr. Wonderful?” Wren smirked, taking another pull from her beer.

“Christ.” Sarah’s eyes rolled back as she flanked her friend into the gyrating floor of dancers. Her fingers splayed over the stone of the pendant she always wore. It was warm to the touch, as if in warning, and she tucked it beneath her shirt. Wren raised her bottle and interjected herself between two heavily pierced guys who were more than happy to accommodate her. Sarah raised a palm, rejecting any invitation and moved casually to rest against an empty spot on the back wall. Her eyes occasionally found the guarded door, her curiosity getting the best of her every time she looked over. Something about this place seemed off, but at the same time familiar and beckoning. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that, either. She stayed put and watched the redhead in the plaid skirt and tried to keep her mind on the reason she moved to Boston in the first place.

He was going to lose his shit. It had been four days since he’d requested a meeting with the coven leader and sitting in this room … this fucking room that had the scent of the last four souls that she’d tricked into saddling up with her was starting to take its toll on his sanity. Tapping his tattooed fingers on the leather arm of the chair in front of a huge ebony desk, Athan Kane bounced his knee in impatience. The door behind him finally opened and in she walked, her long blonde hair swishing against the leather corset laced at her back. Her heels clacked across the dark marble floor as she passed his chair and rounded her desk. He hated that damned sound. Hated the way she smelled and the rage he could barely manage to damper at the sound of her voice.

“Evening, Athan. Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, taking a seat in her ornate chair across from him. Her smug tone suggested she was anything but sorry.

“I’m sure,” he replied, leaning back in his seat. She chuckled through her nose.

“What do you want? I’m a bit busy.”

He raised his brows at that remark.

“That you are. I thought we had an agreement, Dahlia.” He turned the silver ring on his thumb.

“If you’re talking about the body count, I’ll remind you that I’m not responsible for all of them.”

“Maybe not, but you’re responsible for the coven that’s piling them up. ”

“And do you forget that the coven you’re speaking of still includes you? You have a responsibility to us, too. You don’t want us feeding on humans, then hold up your end.” She crossed her pale arms across the desk.

“I can’t control the supply and manage to keep the veil up to conceal us if you can’t keep these numbers down. Find another way.”

“What way? You want us to start feeding on livestock? Go back to medieval methods? Those methods included a great many humans, Athan. We didn’t hide back then. How long would you say you’d deign to survive feeding off a fucking chicken?”

Athan’s chair scooted back as he abruptly raised from it and pressed his palms to the desk. “This is why I wanted nothing more to do with this fucking cult. You still think because we’re immortal that we’re above eating a chicken, Dahlia? In all these centuries, you still don’t have a shred of humanity. I can count on one hand how many cannibalistic cases I’ve come across in the past twenty years. They don’t eat each other. Why the fuck should we?”

“Humanity? Athan, we’re not human . And while you might harbor your guilt with every mark you ink on your skin, neither are you. And we wouldn’t feed on them if we had a steady supply coming in from EverLife. We give them plenty of money. Black Bird is thriving. So, you tell me why our blood bank doesn’t match what we’re putting out? Truth is, we’re not above eating a chicken, or feeding off a horse if we have to … but we shouldn’t have to. And you mark my words, little soldier … if I don’t start seeing blood bags lining up in that storage facility in the next few weeks … I’ll cut our funding to EverLife, and our deal is off.” Dahlia stood, a cruel smirk gracing her red lips.

“I can’t help it if disease becomes an issue. You pull that deal and I’ll promise you something in return … and you can bet your blown out ass, Dahlia, that I’ll keep it.” She huffed a laugh as her eyes rolled.

“You wanna kill me, Kane?”

“I fucking will, and I’ll enjoy every second of it.”

“Oh, I bet. I’d say you’d miss me, pet … but you seem happy with your new puppy.” Her white teeth gleamed, and her elongated canines slid further out.

“Rhaena is a good person, and she ain’t got a damn thing to do with this. You owe your discretion to her just as much as you owe it to me.”

“I don’t owe you shit. You’re two hundred and twenty-seven years old this year, Athan. You still have seventy-three years left before you fulfill your debt to me for leaving this place. I let you live your lonely little life … you cover our asses and supply the plasma. It’s very simple. Replenish the stock and fuck whatever doggy you want. We’ll stop littering Boston with bodies. Nobody ever said there wouldn’t be obstacles. That was never part of the deal … so I don’t really see how it’s my fucking problem.” Dahlia leaned over her desk and winked, her wicked mouth a breath away from his. “Now get out. ”

Athan growled under his breath, baring his teeth at the monster that held the keys to his freedom, and then pushed off the desk to storm out the door. As he began turning the handle, Dahlia cut him one last time.

“I know that look, Kane. I wonder how long you’ll hold out this time before you end up with another tattoo. I’m willing to bet this club that it won’t be a cluck-cluck.”

He didn’t have to look at her to know the sinister smile that she was wearing on her flawless face. He ground his teeth and jerked the door open, cursing impressively as he stormed down the dark hallway. The club was raging beyond the large door, and he pushed past Dahlia’s little guard dogs standing on either side. The larger one to his left, Decclan, used to be the only thing he had close to a friend in this coven—while he’d spent his ten years shackled to Dahlia’s side …and her bed. Decclan hadn’t supported his decision to make a deal with the Devil and leave Black Bird to go live across the city in an apartment alone. In Athan’s eyes, that had been the end of their camaraderie. No one that lived among the damned gave a shit about human life. Even though every one of them started out as such.

Athan hated the taste of human blood. To be fair, he hated the taste of any blood. He never wanted this life … this dark existence. Surviving off the dwindling supply of the blood bank at EverLife was the smartest and most effective way of sparing humans and keeping them aloof of the presence of vampires among them—but one could only feed on a bag so long before an insatiable need for taking a life drove them purely insane. It would be beyond his control if he got to that point and there would be no stopping it. For every mortal he killed in his two hundred years, he honored them in two ways: keeping something that they had on their person when he robbed them of their souls, and tattooing something significant about them on his body so that he’d never forget their sacrifice. It was the only way he let himself live this long.

The bargain for his freedom to be released from the blood oath—the tether that bound him to this coven and that beautiful bitch … he’d made it an offer no one could refuse. Strike a deal with the CEO at EverLife … pay them for a supply of plasma, and work under the cover of a detective at Boston’s 12th precinct, taking unexplained cases and covering up all evidence that the supernatural dwelled within this city. He’d do it until the year he lived to be three hundred years old, and then she’d free him. At first, it seemed easy. What was over half a century compared to an eternity in this hell? But as the years passed, Athan realized how hollow he had become. Just an empty shell of a being that shouldn’t be here. One that should never have been.

As he prowled his way along the back wall and past the alcoves of insufferable vampires feeding openly on their unsuspecting prey behind the curtains, the tang of fresh blood coiled into his senses making it twice as difficult to fight off the burning hunger. It had been over a year since he’d fed on a human and his veins smoldered within him, begging to be indulged. He caught another scent as he neared the bar. Something ancient and … strange. He waved Tony toward him, ordering his usual and pushed hard against the trembling of his immortal body as that scent grew stronger. He could have sworn he heard a female voice whispering in his mind to turn around.

Damn, she was a looker. She could almost be mistaken for one of the fanged harlots in this coven that were dancing half naked in the cages above her. Long black hair falling over the shoulder of a heavily tattooed arm, a generously worn band t-shirt and a pair of high-waisted denim shorts over black tights. Had he still been human he might have gone after her … asked to buy her a drink. She looked taken, though. He curled his hands around his lighter and fired up the end of his cigarette, hiding beneath the hood he’d pulled over his face on his way out of the hall.

What the hell is she doing with a douche like Senator Stratford’s kid?

The tug of whatever was different about that pretty stranger seemed to call to him. It scraped his bones—his dead heart. Athan downed his whiskey and slammed the glass against the bar, nodding his farewell to Tony on his way past and making quickly for the door. Everything in his being told him to look back at her … but he didn’t.

It was well past midnight and Sarah’s feet were becoming more sore by the minute as she danced next to Wren, who had found herself a plaything for the evening. They’d already exchanged numbers and sucked the skin off each other’s lips, and it wouldn’t have surprised her at all if the two of them ended up disappearing into one of those booths hidden against the back wall. She looked around the club, finding it more full than it had been hours ago and wondered how the hell anyone could stand to do this kind of thing all weekend. The remnants of her beer were too warm to drink without gagging on it, and she’d decided that she’d celebrated enough and just wanted to go home and spread out beneath the tattered blanket she’d brought from her childhood home in Seattle.

“Wren!” she called above the blaring music. Wren paused her grinding on the beefy brute and leaned in toward her. “I’m gonna go, are you coming?” Her friend gave her a devious smile.

“Not yet, but I’m hopeful!” Wren winked, her red hair damp with sweat. “I think I’m gonna hang out a bit longer. Text me when you get home?”

Sarah raised two fingers and nodded before pushing her way toward the bar. The bartender took notice of her and made his way over, leaning in to take her order. He was tall and slinky, dressed like he was from another time and pale with strawberry blonde scruff that lined his mouth and chin. It matched the strands of the hair that tufted around an old, flat cap on his head.

“What’s your poison, sweetheart? Another beer?” he asked kindly. His voice was gentle, and his accent reminded her of an Italian mobster, but gave her a strange comfort in the darkness that seemed to hover in this place.

“Nothing, actually. I’m on my way out. I was bringing this back,” she said as she placed her half empty beer on the bar. “I didn’t see a trash can.”

“Oh … thanks dear. If you come back, just leave the empty ones against the wall. I’ve got a busser that takes care of the mess. It’s nice to meet you—” he paused, waiting for her name.

“Sarah.” She extended her hand, and he took it, shaking it gently. His fingers were ice cold.

“Sarah.” He smiled sweetly, releasing her hand. “I’m Tony. Let me know if there’s anything else I can get ya, okay?”

“Actually, I was just gonna ask … the guy in the hood earlier,” she pointed a finger toward where he had been standing. “Is he a regular?” She didn’t know why the hell she was asking, but it had proved impossible not to think of him throughout the evening.

“Athan? Nah, not anymore. I’d steer clear if I were you, doll. He’s the broodin’ type. Doesn’t talk much and typically prefers that nobody talks to him either. Tonight was the first night I’ve seen him in here in the better part of a year.”

“Oh, I see. Thanks.” She smiled.

“Have a safe trip home.” Tony nodded his goodbye and slung a bar towel over his shoulder, turning to tend to another guest. Sarah made for the door and fished the tag out of her pocket to hand to the security attendant. The man disappeared into a small closet and brought her leather jacket back with him, double checking the number and handing over her belongings.

“Thank you.” She dipped her chin and shrugged on her coat, stuffing her hands into the pockets and stepping out into the night. Her phone buzzed in the back of her denim shorts, and she pulled it out, sliding her finger across the screen and opening up a text from Wren.

Wren: oh I’m takin this one home tonight bitchhhh!

The text was followed up with a picture of her hand grabbing the crotch of his pants. Sarah rolled her eyes and sent off a response.

Me: make good choices … slut.

She smirked at the screen until she realized Brent hadn’t even bothered to check in and shoved her phone back into her pocket. She was in an unfamiliar part of the city and had no idea how to get home. She debated on calling him to come get her but then remembered how irritated she’d been with his attitude at the club.

Bus stop it is, then.

The question now was: where was it? Lightning flashed down the dark street, the pavement already wet with rain. It must have stormed while they’d been in there. She started down the direction she remembered them coming in from and was hoping to find a spot teeming with more traffic. It wasn’t long before she ended up turned around and instead found herself down a dark alley. Sarah cursed under her breath, pulling her phone back out and opening her GPS app.

No signal.

“Fuck me,” she snapped, raising a cigarette to her mouth and fishing around for her lighter. Thunder rolled in the distance, echoing off of the brick walls of the alley. She flicked the lighter closed and dragged hard, blowing a frustrated puff of smoke, and holding her phone out in front of her. She neared the end of the alley and could faintly hear the sounds of traffic nearby. “Thank you, God,” she breathed, pocketing her phone and walking toward the sound of salvation. Something clanged from behind her, and she spun on her heel. “Hello?”

Nothing.

“Wren?”

Just an empty alley with steam rising from an open crack on a manhole cover.

“Oh, hell no. Nope,” she whispered, making to turn back around. The moment she did, her body was hurled into the brick wall, her breath knocked from her lungs and her cigarette thrown from her fingers. She tried to scream but couldn’t catch her breath as a force stronger than any man pinned her against the brick. She kicked and fought with everything she had, seeing nothing but a blur of darkness.

It happened so fast.

A pain like she’d never felt tore through her neck and every muscle in her body seized to it. She stared lifelessly into the darkness, her limbs going limp at her sides as she slumped against the wall. Something strange and peaceful overtook her as she sank into the void, and it was then that she realized she was dying. Her phone clattered to the pavement, and she managed to utter only a single word before everything went dark.

“No …"

He had tried so hard to spare her. Tried so hard and yet …

Athan gasped for air as he tore his fangs from that girl’s throat. The pain in his chest ached through to his dark soul from a heart that hadn’t beat in over two hundred years. It was the same every time except—except this time his body was thrown into a reaction from her blood that he’d never experienced in his immortal life. It left him staggering backward as that same ancient scent from before lodged itself into his senses.

Thump-thump …

Athan growled in pain—the first true pain he’d felt in centuries as he grasped the material of his hooded jacket over his chest. The girl’s once flawless body landed with a sickening thud to the pavement, her glassy hazel eyes unseeing. He heaved in gaping breaths between the long pause before another lashing of pain surged through his chest.

Thump-thump …

“Fuck!” He ground out between clenched teeth, backing himself against the wall on the other side of her body. He nearly tore a hole through the breast of his jacket. He’d felt this pain before … only once. The night his heart had beat for the last time. The night that Dahlia had hand-picked him from a pub in Old London and whispered sweet nothings into his ear. He had been foolish enough to go home with her that night and she turned him into a monster. A demon that couldn’t control himself and snatched the lives of people like that beauty that lay on the wet street before him.

Thump-thump … thump-thump … thump-thump …

The pain eased and something slightly warmer than death began trickling through his veins. The faint whisper of the same female voice sounded through his clouded mind, though he couldn’t make out a word. His breaths were ragged and shallow, and he looked down at the body in astonishment.

“Who … or what are you?” He gasped, pushing off the wall and clutching his chest. He cautiously stepped toward her, wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve and leaning down to check her pulse. He fit two fingertips over her small wrist. “ Were you …” he corrected, closing his eyes. His fingers moved to reveal a tattoo along the inside of her wrist—a raven. “Nevermore …” That same scraping feeling along his bones seemed sharper in that moment and his chest now ached not just because the heart inside had started strangely beating, but because it had broken harder this time. For the immortal life of him, he couldn’t figure out why. “I’m sorry …” he whispered, stroking her hair. His eyes caught the glint of something laying against her as lightning flashed around them.

He reached for it, finding a pendant that had to have been hidden beneath her shirt before his attack that claimed her life. He tugged it with enough force that it snapped from around her mauled neck and held the stone in his palm. There was something off-putting about it. Something that resembled the feeling that overcame him of her scent … her blood. He closed his fingers around it and raised to shove the necklace into his pocket, tearing himself away from the strangest encounter he’d ever had. The voice in his head once again begged him to look back at her—and this time … he did.