Free Vampire Thirst by Ella J. Phoenix Page A

around that area when she had first come to London with Zoricah a few decades before. Islington had its rough streets and dark alleyways, but all in all it was a fairly safe place – for a trained fighter.
    Sam crossed the street and went in. The bronze rims added to the ugly “once flowery red, now ugly maroon” carpet confirmed Sam’s suspicions – the place probably hadn’t seen cleaner since the day it opened a few hundred years ago. The small, round, wooden tables cramped along the dining area were the only thing that suggested she had not gone into a time machine and was still in the twenty-first century. A few old men were drinking at the bar and another bunch was trying their luck at the slot machines at the back. Sam was overwhelmed by the stench of stale beer and body odor. May the Soartas help her, but she missed the time when people could smoke in pubs. Not that Sam smoked herself, but she had to admit it helped conceal the real smell of the regulars who insisted on rushing to the pub as soon as the five-o’clock bell rang at the factory – like the one looking at her through his yellow, cirrhosistic eyes. Charming. Ignoring his attempts to get her attention, Sam had a look around, almost hoping Phillip wasn’t there.  
    Bingo. After three BDSM clubs and a couple of play parties, she had finally managed to get a solid tip-off.
    The tall draconian was at one of the tables by the window. Blond, wavy hair, inviting blue eyes. Yep, that was Phillip alright. As always, he looked very pristine in a light grey suit and white shirt. But the pièces de résistance were his white snakeskin shoes, from Italy, no doubt. Phillip was well-known for flaunting his riches through his wardrobe, but his impeccable grooming was not at its best today. He had a black eye, swollen lip and broken nose. Sam knew that dragons healed fast – not as fast as vampires, but fast enough – so those injuries were quite recent. Sam wondered who had inflicted them on the draconian and why.  And what in Hiad was he doing in a dump like that?
    Their eyes met. He paused, as if not knowing what to make of her presence in that bar. Whatever had crossed his mind vanished in a moment, and he nodded in acknowledgement.
    Show time.
    Taking her drenched overcoat off in the provocative way Yara had taught her, she walked – no, she swaggered – to the table where he was.
    “Hello, Phillip.”
    “Please,” Phillip replied, beckoning for her to take a seat. “Thought you girls had been wiped out after the no-show last night.”
    You are in control. You are in control. Act casual, damn it. “Bad hair day,” Sam replied. “Happens to everyone.”
    His lips curled up in a lazy smile. “What would you like to drink?” he asked, while giving her a once-over.
    Sam swallowed dry. “Nothing, thank you.” In control. In control.  
    Big blue eyes met hers. “Oh, come, come, Sammy.” Sammy? “I remember how much you love a vodka cocktail.” His British accent was very distinguished – and frankly, quite annoying.
    The first time she’d met Phillip, he had been accompanied by two voluptuous bimbos who kept on touching him in front of Zoricah and Sam. She had been a fresh-green-tomato in the field and their little show made her extremely uncomfortable, and strangely aroused; Phillip was a very attractive draco, after all.
    Ignoring her refusal, Phillip raised his glass to the barman, who promptly brought them a round of vodka and Red Bull.
    “It may not be a cocktail, my dear, but it’s quite refreshing.”
    Phillip raised his glass in a toast.
    Sam raised hers in reply and took a small sip. “Phillip, Zoricah asked me to come to you because...”
    “Is she back in London?”
    “Yes,” Sam lied.
    “I’ve heard quite interesting rumors about a mêlée taking place on the outskirts of New York City. Some even dare to suggest she was in alliance with the vampire king.” His sharp blue eyes locked on hers. “Is it true?”
     “Oh,