Page 1 of Black Bird

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 tookanyprivacy 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 anddragged, 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.

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