I slam the cover down over the tiny window and push my sunglasses up onto the top of my head, balancing them among my annoyingly springy black curls. My blue contacts are firmly in place to hide the natural silver of my eyes. The contact lenses hurt like hell and make me feel grouchy.
Well, grouchier than normal.
I begin clicking noisily through channels on the screen attached to the back of the seat in front of me. I ignore the irritated tutting of the fat lady sitting by the aisle. Just let her open her mouth and say one word, then she’ll be sorry she switched seats to come sit over here in the first place.
What did I do to deserve this? But I already know the answer to that. My Maker likes to needle me when he can, especially ever since I’d gotten home from my year-long sabbatical. It’s like he is punishing me for daring to leave him. I remember the particularly wicked smile on Theo’s face while he gave me the details of this crappy assignment.
Flicking past the sequel to a teen werewolf movie that did particularly well last summer, I decide on a romcom starring an actress I don’t recognize. The girl is as cute as a newborn kitten and doesn’t look old enough to drive the expensive car she’s using to get to school. I feel old and out of touch.
This is going to be a very long flight.
I stand in a shadowed doorway around the corner from St. Martin’s Lane—not far from Trafalgar Square with its fierce lions—and watch a young couple stroll past. They are holding hands and, under the gentle illumination of the old-fashioned iron lamps in the narrow, cobbled court where I’m lurking, I can see the loving expressions on their faces. Something cold twists inside of me—somewhere in my chest—and I have to swallow to get rid of the suddenly bitter taste in my mouth.
My mind wanders to the crazy time I’ve had since touching down at Heathrow; getting through airport security was a nightmare of epic proportions. My bad feeling about this entire trip appears to be coming true, and a growing part of me is beginning to wish I could charter some kind of boat to take me over to Ireland. Maybe I could lose myself among my dad’s relatives. Perhaps they wouldn’t even care that I hadn’t aged a day since turning eighteen. They haven’t seen me since I was a kid, anyway. How would they know the difference?
Riiight. Like Theo wouldn’t send ... people to bring me back. He hadn’t wanted to send his “little Moth” on this particular assignment to begin with—where I’d be so far away from him—but I was fast becoming his best Retriever and this was a job that had to be dealt with quickly. It also needed to be carried out by a vampire young enough to walk in daylight, especially during the summer months, and who could travel overseas and pass for human.
Lucky me. I can’t stop the sneer that curls my lip, remembering just in time to hide my fangs for the benefit of any passersby. Dammit, there are too many people around. This tiny street is supposed to be deserted after nine p.m. Sure, “Theatre Land” is just around the corner, but there’s nothing open down here.
I shake my head as though I can shake off the lingering frustration, and focus my attention on the bookstore across the pedestrianized court. The steel gate is only secured with a padlock and would be easy to break, if that’s the entrance I choose. But I’ve done my homework, running reconnaissance earlier today, and discovered an even easier way in.
At floor level there is a delivery hatch where books and other merchandise are brought into the shop. I’d spent the morning staking out the area and watching until a white van pulled up on Charing Cross Road. Its occupant, a stocky delivery guy in blue overalls, wheeled a trolley of boxes to the hatch and dropped them through one by one.
I couldn’t resist smiling to myself and wondering why people made it so easy. Of course the entrance was small, but then so am I—that’s why Theo sends me on these jobs. I hadn’t been able to see all the way inside the little doorway, but from what I could make out it had looked like the deliveries were thrown down a crude wooden chute and into the basement.
Perfect.
I crack my knuckles and slip through shadows pooled around the edges of the street, careful to avoid the light from the closest lamp. I sniff the air, stiffening when I detect a faint animal scent. I spot the mangy-looking fox out the corner of my eye as it pokes its nose into a trash can. Urban foxes are apparently common in London, but I am still strangely invigorated by the sight. It’s like a magical encounter; a shamanic meeting with my totem animal, or something romantic like that. Our eyes meet and we exchange a long look; she’s a tough cookie, this little fox, but I’m a lot tougher.
She turns tail and runs.
I crouch by the hatch and test it. Of course it’s bolted from the inside—maybe with more than one set of locks—but that doesn’t stop me from sitting on the ground and setting the soles of my boots against the forest green paint at the top of the hatch. I lean back on my forearms, using them for leverage, and push with both legs, trying to break the little door.
It’s trickier than I thought it would be; there’s nothing to hold onto. No conveniently placed lamppost or bicycle rail. My arms keep slipping backward on the cold ground, but I dig in with my elbows and kick my legs again, one final time.
The hatch crashes inward with a crack that echoes along the quiet street.
Cringing, I glance in both directions before flipping myself over and wriggling through the ragged opening on my belly. It reminds me of my favorite scene in Star Wars when Princess Leia uses a laser rifle to blast an entrance into the trash compactor, then throws herself through the gap without a second thought.
I heart Princess Leia. Sue me.
“Into the garbage chute, flyboy,” I mutter, before tumbling down into darkness.
The wooden delivery slide turns out to be badly made from shabby plywood, and I’m glad that good sense won out and I’d chosen jeans for this expedition. As it is, I still have to pull several splinters from my hands at the bottom of the makeshift chute, wincing as I wait for the tiny wounds to close up on their own.
There are some benefits to being a Creature of the Night.
I roll my eyes at my own morbid sense of humor and rub my sore palms together. I am in some kind of dispatch room. Piles of books are scattered around on the desks, and almost every inch of floor space is taken up with boxes upon boxes. A machine that looks like it might be for weighing and stamping outgoing mail is precariously balanced on a tall cabinet against one wall, while the other is covered with crooked shelves that have seen better days.
The whole place stinks of something stale and sort of musty, as though a giant wet dog has taken up residence.
I jump down from the edge of the chute and tiptoe to the doorway that leads into the shop. I’d scoped out the shop during the day, wandering among the browsing patrons and tourists but, obviously, hadn’t actually been able to get inside the delivery area until now.
The door is locked, but with nothing more than bolts on the outside—top and bottom. I’d noticed that earlier.
I take a few steps back and then run at the door, aiming my flying kick toward the bottom where one of the bolts should be. There is a satisfying crunch and I feel the shock of impact all the way up both legs and into my hips. I set my shoulder against the door and heave it the rest of the way open—at least enough so I can slip through the gap. I am leaving more of a mess behind than I normally do, but that can’t be helped. It’s not like there’ll be fingerprints that can be traced, and nobody is going to hear the noise way down here in the basement. Not to mention the fact that I’ll be long gone before anyone is even aware that there’s been a break-in.