Lord of Embers(The Demon Queen Trials #2)(66)

Three, and worst of all, he was a supernatural.

I cocked my head at him as he lay on the floor. He even be

migh t

old enough that the medieval Norseman beard was actually authentic.

Supernaturals like him—like me—were outlawed these days. We had to fly under the radar if we wanted to live. Too bad this one was too stupid to keep a low profile. Four years of executions and assassinations, and this fucker had just brazenly walked into our bar, flashing his fangs around.

As the patrons turned back to their pint glasses, pretending to ignore us, I frowned at the hipster-vampire. Dazed, he still lay on the beer-stained floor, but he’d managed to push himself up onto his elbows. The undead bastards didn’t stay down for long. His pale eyes were trained on me, possibly recognizing my own magic.

Ciara, my oldest friend, crept over to us, her brown eyes wide. Her hand was clamped over her grin. I could tell she was stopping just short of clapping her hands. “Oh my goodness, Arianna. You punched him.

Do you see his fangs?” She had a sweet but unfortunate tendency to idolize supernaturals, like we were some kind of celebrities. After all, there weren’t many of us around these days. “A real, live vampire,” she whispered, pointing at him.

“I can hear you,” the vamp slurred, now rising to his feet. He staggered closer. “Little girl.”

“I need to get him out of here,” I muttered. And I had to do it without using any of my magic. You never knew who was watching, ready to turn you in.

Now, my new Viking friend’s gaze was locked on Ciara. Red flashed in his eyes. He was after blood tonight, and she was clearly an easier target than me. It didn’t help that she was wearing a T-shirt featuring a male model with fangs poking from pouty lips. She gods-damned loved vampires.

“I know your game, little girl.” The vampire licked his fangs, swaying on his feet. “You read your little books about teenagers falling in love with thousand-year-old vamps. Our skin is supposed to sparkle like a unicorn’s arse, right? And you all get a happy ending. Wrong.

Those books are crap. Come with me, and I’ll teach you about reading real literature. Hemingway, Kerouac, Bukowski—”

His monologue was cut off by the sight of the thin stake I’d pulled out of my hair. I twirled it between my fingers, and the vampire seemed hypnotized by the movement.

I smiled at him. “Now that you’re quiet, let’s get one thing straight. I will not have you slandering romance books in my bar.” Technically, it wasn’t my bar, but that was beside the point. This arsehole thought he was going to feed on Ciara. And moreover, I would not tolerate anyone banging on about Bukowski. “I’d like to just get back to the shots of Johnny Walker I was drinking before you came in, and I don’t want to have to keep punching you. I’d prefer not to get your blood on my new miniskirt. So run along. I’m pretty sure an ironic meth-trailer-themed bar just opened up a few blocks away.” I leaned closer, arching an eyebrow.

“It seems more your scene.”

Despite the arse-kicking I’d just given him and the stake in my hand, he seemed unfazed.

He stumbled toward Ciara. “I think I’d be more comfortable if your friend came with me.”

I gave him a hard shove, and he staggered back.

The door swung open, and a second vamp came in—this one in a visor, a handlebar mustache, and a pink bow tie. Had someone told them we had a sale on ukuleles or something?

I had to get them out of here. The last thing I wanted was for the Spread Eagle to attract the spell-slayers’ attention for harboring

supernaturals.

I flashed the two vamps a dark smile. “No supernaturals allowed in here. No supernaturals allowed

. Those are the rules. You’ve got

an yw h ere

ten seconds to leave this bar,” I said sweetly, while calculating all the ways I could kill them. “Or I might start getting angry. And you don’t want that to happen.”

Viking Vamp snorted, then his irises flared with red. The air seemed to thin around us. “And what the fuck are you, pretty thing? You’re not human.”

My blood chilled. I couldn’t let anyone overhear him saying that.

He snatched a whisky bottle—my whisky bottle—from the bar, his movements lightning fast. Then, he jabbed a finger in my face. “You’re not supposed to be here, either. I think I just might tell the spell-slayers on you. Tick tock. Your time is running out, pretty lady. But give me a look at those gorgeous tits of yours and I might keep your secret.”

Rage surged. And then, as I registered the word “spell-slayers,” dread slithered up my spine.

Okay. I was done being nice. Now he had to die.

There was only one thing in London scarier than me, and that was the spell-slayers. The fae assassins haunted London’s streets in dark cloaks, blending into the night sky like smoke. They terrorized humans and magical creatures alike, ruling the city with the points of their blades, silently slaughtering in the shadows. No one was supposed to look them in the eye, or speak to them, or breathe in their direction. But we all owed them a tithe from our paychecks. Protection money, they called it. They were no better than a magical mafia. In short, they were the worst. I hated them and feared them in equal measure.

I narrowed my eyes at the vamps. “You want me to believe you’re brave enough to attract the attention of the spell-slayers? And risk your own necks? Bollocks. You’re supposed to be locked up in a magical realm with all the other supernaturals, not roaming London’s streets. I’m now four seconds away from dragging you outside and staking you.”