Free Darklove by Elle Jasper

“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.
    â€œHow’d you guess?” I say to him.
    â€œHopin’,” 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œBoyo’s,” one of the other guys offers. He draws on his cigarette and points with it. “Four streets over, one up.”
    â€œCost ya eight quid tae get in,” another claims. “Worth every pence.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œAye,” 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.
    â€œNoah, 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.
    â€œOy, are ya here, then, because o’ the murders?” Tate asks. He’s got wavy auburn hair that curls over his ears.
    â€œWhy would American cops be here investigatin’ Scottish murders, you horse’s arse?” Pete says.
    â€œShut the fook up,” Tate says with a laugh. “Just askin’.”
    â€œJust passing through,” Noah says. “What murders?”
    â€œSerial killer, mayhap,” Rhine claims. “Three killed so far.” He shakes his head. “Fookin’ gruesome.”
    â€œAye,” Gerry the drummer adds. “Girl just found this mornin’, all of her blood drained.”
    â€œUnusual 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.