Elle Jasper - Darklove

I want my goddamn life back.

“Hey,” Noah says, and I look at him. His eyes soften. “Stop that.”

I heave a sigh. “I swear, I’ll try.”

He pulls me into a side hug, kisses the top of my head, and we continue on.

The Scots are a friendly people whom I find I like more and more as I spend time here. I wish so much of this time wasn’t spent on killing and death. It’s inevitable, though, and the more I stop complaining about it, the faster I’ll accept it. It’s what we’re here to do. Stop a killer. Apparently, more than one. Wanna know something weird? Sometimes, even though I know it has to be done, somewhere far in the recesses of my brain, I’m saddened that I reduce bloodsuckers to a shimmering puddle of white goop. They used to be people. Sons. Daughters. Sisters. Brothers. Friends. Lovers. Who would ever look at a vampire, whether on TV, or in a movie, or like me, in life, and give him or her a soul? I guess it has to do with the fact that my family now is made up of age-old vampires who care not only about me, my brother, Seth, and other humans, but about one another. Makes me wonder how it’s possible they—Noah, Eli, and his family—can do it. How they can care, but others can’t. Or won’t. I’m doing a lot of reflecting lately. Whatever that means.

Noah stops a few people on the street, locals at the university, maybe. The early-twenties crowd. They tell us where the best clubs are, best cafés, best pubs. We find our way to some of the seedier parts of the city. Inverness is friendly and welcoming, so what’s seedy isn’t very noticeable to any ordinary eye. But Noah can sniff out a punk, and we find a group of four huddled against a building near the industrial park. Late teens, early twenties, trying their best to look tough as hell. Doing a good job of it, too. Every one of them is dragging on a cigarette. We walk up, and one kid, wearing a thick, ratty-looking gray woolen sweater and a black skully, pushes off the wall he’s leaning on and pulls long on his smoke. His eyes are locked on to mine. They shift momentarily to the black wing inked at the corner of my cheekbone.

“Aye?” he says in a thick accent. He moves his gaze to Noah.

“Where can we score some shit?” Noah asks.

The kid laughs, and the others chuckle with him. “Wha’ makes ya think I know where tae get shit?” the kid asks, then looks at me. “Americans. On holiday, aye? This your brother, love?” He inclines his head toward Noah.

A sharp sparkle lights his gaze as he studies Noah. Intelligent guy, maybe nineteen, and he’s pretty cute. Green eyes, along with a flawless complexion and strong jaw. Dark eyebrows, nicely shaped, so he must have dark hair beneath the skully. Makes me freaking sick that he’s such a dumb-ass, wasting his life on drugs. He must be early on in the game because his eyes are too quick for him to have been doing it for too long. They make easy prey for vampires, the druggies. It’s why we find them, find out where they hang, sell, buy. There’s a chance we might just save their sorry lives.

“How’d you guess?” I say to him.

“Hopin’,” he answers, and grins. Bright white, wide smile. Wicked-strong accent. Maybe we got these kids all wrong. He’s tall, stands eye to eye with Noah.

I just stare at him.

“I never fook wi’ the stuff,” he says to Noah, and studies him. “You dunna, either.” He glances at me, then back to Noah. “Cops?” His eyes drift from my feet to my eyes. “Nah. No’ cops. But somethin’ else.”

Yeah. Smart kid all right. “Clubs?” I ask. You got clubs people go to for a good time, drink, dance, and hook up. Then you have the ones notorious for . . . other stuff. Both are hunting grounds for a rogue vampire. But the one with high-traffic lawlessness instinctively draws the worst kinds. People and vamps.

“Boyo’s,” one of the other guys offers. He draws on his cigarette and points with it. “Four streets over, one up.”

“Cost ya eight quid tae get in,” another claims. “Worth every pence.”

“But if ya fancy a good tune or two, try Hush 51. Just up the river a ways,” the leader claims with a grin. “They’ve a fine live band this weekend.”

“Aye,” the other added. “finest in the bloody Highlands.”

I lift an eyebrow. Sassy little shits. We’re talking to the whole band.

Noah chuckles. “What time do you start?”

The leader blows smoke. “Nine.” He inclines his head. “Gerry. Tate. Pete. Drums, keyboard, electric fiddle.” He jabs his hand out to Noah. “Rhine,” he says, and winks at me. “Bass and vocals, love.”

What a hot dog.

“Noah, Riley,” Noah introduces. “Sorry for the mix-up.”

Rhine shrugs. “Happens,” he claims, and glances at his band. “We do look a wee bit thuggish, aye?”

The others all chuckle.

“Oy, are ya here, then, because o’ the murders?” Tate asks. He’s got wavy auburn hair that curls over his ears.

“Why would American cops be here investigatin’ Scottish murders, you horse’s arse?” Pete says.

“Shut the fook up,” Tate says with a laugh. “Just askin’.”

“Just passing through,” Noah says. “What murders?”

“Serial killer, mayhap,” Rhine claims. “Three killed so far.” He shakes his head. “Fookin’ gruesome.”

“Aye,” Gerry the drummer adds. “Girl just found this mornin’, all of her blood drained.”

“Unusual for Inverness,” Rhine says. “Take care where you go after dark.”

I look at the guys that Noah and I both had misjudged. I guess I’ll have to dip into minds a little more often before assuming. And on that note, I decide something before leaving. I give Rhine a smile. “Thanks. See ya round, maybe.”

He smiles back.

And I level my gaze at all four band members, ending with Rhine. Take the cigarettes out of your mouths, drop them onto the ground, and crush them.

Rhine immediately takes his cigarette out, drops it, and smashes it with his boot. The others, in sync, do the same.

Don’t smoke. Anything. Ever again. Cold-turkey quit. Nod if you understand.

All four guys nod at once.

Noah shakes his head and stares at me with admiration. Probably a little envy, too. He inclines his head, we say good-bye to the guys, and leave. When we round the block, he glances over at me. “So now you’re the poster child for the quit-smoking club, huh?”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. Just thought I’d throw it in. Wish some noble mind reader would’ve stopped my smoking habit when I was a little younger.”

“You stopped it yourself,” Noah says.

“Not really. I think Preacher and Estelle put some root doctor whammy on me.”

Noah chuckles, and we continue up the street. Surrounded by gray stone buildings, we draw closer to the touristy city center. We pass a chippy, a Celtic jeweler, and a kilt maker. As I glance into the large picture window of the kilt maker, an image catches my eye. Eli . My heart leaps.

In the middle of the walkway I snap my head to stare across the street. Passersby walk up and down the sidewalk. No Eli. No one out of the ordinary. Grabbing the door handle, I enter MacClennon’s Fine Kilts.

A wave of spice and lavender hits me in the nose as I walk into the small shop. Racks display finely pressed kilts of all sizes. An open oak closet exhibits woolen gloves, mittens, and hats. A thick iron-legged table presents rows of fingerless gloves of all colors, made of lamb’s wool. In the corner, my eyes light on the cashier. She’s wearing her graying hair in a high bun and sporting a dark green vest, a white cotton shirt, and a blue-and-black-plaid tie. She smiles broadly.

“Good afternoon,” she says. “May I help you?”

I smile back as my eyes scan the room. “No, thank you. Just looking.” I mull through the store, notice a few tourists sorting through the various sizes of kilts. One woman sifts through the gloves.