Dedication This book is dedicated to my awesome editor, Linda, who puts up with a lot of dodging of responsibilities on my part. Sorry about that! Chapter One They waited for her below. Claws extended, gleaming in the moonlight. Flashing teeth dripping in anticipation. She searched the darkness, looking for help, for a savior she could not name, though she called out to him. One quick shove sent her over the ledge, into the pit, and their greedy claws scored her arms, tangled in her hair. Faceless, rubbery white skin parted in a sick imitation of a smile, revealing long, serrated jaws. It sprang. Cassandra Connely woke to the angry beeping of the alarm clock. Out of habit and reflex, knowing it was a silly thing to do, she thrashed the blankets off her legs and tousled her hair to get rid of the feeling of the dream creatures’ hands on her. Another night, another nightmare. She reached for the bottle of pills on her nightstand. They were supposed to stop the dreams and make her normal. She popped the top off the prescription bottle and dry-swallowed two of the tablets. So what if they didn’t do exactly what they promised? They kept her from feeling, most days. For a split second she considered calling someone. But who? A friend? Those had dropped off one by one after Cassie’s accident, when she’d lost interest in frat parties and reading Cosmo. Dr. Holden, her psychiatrist, was on vacation, and even he seemed tired of hearing the same old complaints. No one could help her. And maybe she didn’t deserve help. Dr. Holden always stressed that it had been an accident, and to think of it that way, but Cassie couldn’t brush it aside that easily, even to restore her sanity. She could remember the moment so clearly: stumbling out the door with Emily, clinging to each other to stay on their feet, laughing at their drunken clumsiness. And Brad standing on the lawn, offering them a ride again and again, following them to the car helplessly. Still trying to stop it all from happening, even as Cassie climbed into the driver’s seat. Six years. Six long years of meeting with probation officers and showing up for court dates. Shaking off her self-pity—pity she did not deserve—Cassie reached for the phone. She did have a call to make, but not to drone on about her problems. Julie had left her about a million messages during her shift the night before, and all of them were “Oh my God, urgent, call me back!” She punched in the number and waited while it rang. the number and waited while it rang. “Hey, girl, what’s up?” Julie was always perky, always glad to hear from her coworkers. Even more so when she wanted something from one of them, and Cassie noticed she’d really ramped up the chummy factor when she’d answered. She slipped on some fake cheerfulness of her own. “Not much. Grant said you needed some help covering clients.” Grant was the “appointment manager” at 4-1-2, the gentlemen’s club Julie and Cassie both worked for. “Appointment manager” was really just a nice way of saying “pimp”, but 4-1-2 wasn’t your average brothel. Clients pulled down a minimum seven-figure salary annually, were required to follow strict dress and conduct codes, and the wealthiest men in New York were wait-listed for years before being granted membership. The girls were held to higher standards than most clubs too. No illegal drugs, monthly blood work and nothing fake. No implants, extensions, or peroxided blondes. 4-1-2 was supposed to be classy, the highest quality girls in the city, and they made enough dough to buy themselves a cloak of invisibility. The sweetly wheedling tone in Julie’s voice jumped up three notches on the sugary scale. “Well, the guy is really, really great.” Of course he was. All of their clients were standup guys, CEOs, men with wives and children they never saw, who spent all their free time with hookers. And if Julie couldn’t get rid of this one, well… “If he’s such a gem, how come no one will take him?” “There’s nothing wrong with him. He just has preferences.” Julie and Cassie were the only redheads currently employed by 4-1-2, and there were plenty of men with that particular fetish. Cassie had wondered if her bookings would go up in the wake of Julie’s leaving, but something about this assignment put her on her guard. She always trusted her instincts now, even if they automatically jumped to suspicion. “Is it a red hair thing?” She examined a lock, frowning at a split end. “Because if that’s the case, give it to Violet. She’s strawberry blonde. She could use the extra income.” “It’s not something Violet can handle,” Julie hedged and, as if she’d realized she wasn’t getting anywhere with said hedging, came right out with it. “He’s got a very specific kink.” “And now I’m the go-to girl for kinky?” Cassie raised an eyebrow. “What’s his deal?” Encouraged to continue, Julie spilled all. “First of all, he’s a real gentleman. He doesn’t come down here to hang out, he’s not married, he’s not in the mob or anything like that. He just gets off on…um…he drinks blood.” anything like that. He just gets off on…um…he drinks blood.” The thought of drinking blood brought a strange, coppery taste to the back of Cassie’s tongue. Probably a memory from the weeks she’d spent in the hospital. “Why are you asking me? I mean, it’s your last night, so obviously I wasn’t your first pick. Are you really that desperate to unload him on someone? Why not let him worry about who’s going to replace you in his Dracula act?” Julie dropped her forced enthusiasm. “I like the guy. Listen, don’t make that into more than it is, okay? I just feel bad for him. He’s sweet, and I thought you’d like him. I haven’t asked anyone else, either.” “Blood drinking, huh?” That was certainly a new one. Cassie didn’t usually take “special” clients. It was too much work to tie someone up or dress all in rubber, and there were plenty of other girls willing to take those jobs. But Julie very rarely discussed her clients as if they were human beings she could muster empathy toward. That spoke well of the guy, blood drinker or not. “I’m not making any promises, but I’ll meet him. You swear to God that he’s not a total psycho?” “He’s not a psycho. He’s just…turned on by different things, you know? He’ll treat you really nice. And he pays well. It’s an easy thousand bucks per visit. And he’s really, really good.” A thousand dollars per visit wasn’t exactly prime money with their clients, but it was more money than none. “I’ll give him a shot. But I’m not kidding, if I wind up dead, I’m going to haunt you forever.” “Thank you so much!” Julie slipped right back into her false enthusiasm. “If you ever need anything—and I mean anything—you just let me know. Carla in HR told me there are some openings in the billing department.” Cassie shook her head. Julie, like all the other girls who’d gotten out of the life since Cassie had gotten into it, meant well. “I like my job. I don’t need a new one.” Julie sighed over the line. “Some people like being call girls. But you don’t.” That was true, Cassie had to admit. But she wasn’t working her way through college, the way Julie had, and she wouldn’t fool herself into thinking she’d find a place at Miller, Miller, and Firth, the most prestigious law firm in Manhattan. “I’m not cut out for law school like you were.” “I know,” Julie conceded, sounding disappointed. “I just don’t like to think about you wasting your life.” She didn’t know the real reason Cassie had dropped out of college. No one did, and that was the nice thing about working at 4-1-2. Everyone stayed out of each other’s business. But Cassie didn’t argue. She found a pen and dutifully took down the client’s But Cassie didn’t argue. She found a pen and dutifully took down the client’s address. “As if I had a life to waste,” she muttered as she hung up the phone. Winter in New York was miserable, wet and cold, even after the snow had melted. The buildings pushed and jostled the wind into the narrow spaces between them, the freezing currents dipping to sting the city’s inhabitants as they bustled along busy sidewalks trying to get to places they didn’t really want to go. In the twenty-five year history of 4-1-2, only one girl had ever been hurt by a client. That client died a week later in a robbery where nothing was stolen. It had been widely rumored that 4-1-2 had mob money tied up in it, and the incident with the client sort of proved that. But that didn’t make Cassie feel any safer. Dead was dead, even if someone got their throat slit for doing it. Death was permanent. She knew that all too well. Still, she forced herself into the building, gave the doorman her name, let him lead her to the elevator. As it ascended, she shook off the feeling of apprehension that had dogged her all day, forced herself into the role of professional seductress that seemed at once a welcome escape and a ridiculous joke. The elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors opened onto the austere blackness of marble covered walls, floor, and ceiling. Cassie stepped into the foyer where inset lights created small, illuminated circles in the blackness. A wide, descending staircase flanked by two tall, white vases stood before her. The sound of footsteps climbing up preceded the arrival of a short, barrel-chested man in a gray suit. His black hair was slicked back from his face, revealing how thin it had become in middle age, and he smoothed down his goatee with his fingers as he crossed the wide floor. “Are you…” Cassie squinted at the business card in her hand. “Vik…Viktor? Am I saying that right?” The man smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Anthony. I’m Mr. Novotny’s personal assistant. You must be from the club.” The formal way he referred to the client set Cassie back a little. Using first names was a trick she used to put herself on equal footing, helpful when the men she dealt with were used to being worshipped on a daily basis. She’d never had to discuss them with their personal assistants. It took her half a second to recover to discuss them with their personal assistants. It took her half a second to recover her crafted attitude. “Is Mr. Novotny available? I know I’m a bit early—” “Let me take your coat,” Anthony interrupted. The girls of 4-1-2 were instructed to look sexy but not trashy when they went out to work. Cassie shrugged out of her white peacoat and smoothed the skirt of her red, long-sleeved wrap dress, adjusting the neckline so a bit less cleavage showed. She tucked her hair, which hung loose and straight down her back, behind her ears and followed Anthony down the stairs. The apartment was nicer than anything Cassie had ever seen, in real life or the movies. The stairs were clear, tempered glass, anchored by a single steel spine down the center. The rails were slick black enamel, so shiny that she almost didn’t want to put her hands on them for fear of leaving fingerprints. As they walked down, a large living room unfolded into view. Stiff, black sofas and chairs were arranged on the black marble floor around a plush white rug. Abstract sculptures in silver and tarnished bronze dotted the shelves and mantle, and a cubist painting in shades of gray hung over a sleek marble fireplace. Dark tinted windows stretched from floor to ceiling, and the view from the thirtieth story made Cassie’s knees a bit weak. “Watch your step, miss,” Anthony said, steadying her with a firm grip on her elbow. “Sorry. I’m afraid of heights.” She took a deep breath to make the room stop spinning. You’re not going to fall out of the windows. You don’t even have to go near them. Just keep walking. A dark voice, startling in its nearness, cut through the relative silence of the room. “The view can be…intimidating.” Cassie stopped, her feet seemingly fused to the stairs. Julie had said the guy was rich. She’d said he was nice. She hadn’t mentioned that he was totally hot, or that his deep, gentle voice would turn her knees to water faster than any tall building ever could. Dressed in a black suit that probably cost more than any car Cassie would ever own, the man blended perfectly with his monochromatic surroundings. His hair, cut short and neat, was stark white, but not from age. He wasn’t old. He wasn’t young, either. His age was impossible to place on first glance. Everything, from his long, pale fingers buttoning his jacket to the carefully composed expression on his face suggested an elegant timelessness that intrigued Cassie more than she cared to admit. Realizing she stared, she tried to open her mouth to introduce herself, but he spoke first, a faint accent coloring his words. “I am Viktor Novotny. And you spoke first, a faint accent coloring his words. “I am Viktor Novotny. And you are?” “Cassandra,” she whispered, then cleared her throat to speak up. “Cassandra. From 4-1-2.” “Yes, Julie recommended you. Please, come in.” He gestured to the room around him, and Cassie walked the rest of the way down the stairs on shaking legs. “Mr. Novotny, will you be needing anything else tonight?” Anthony asked. “No, thank you, Anthony, I believe I have all I need.” He answered without taking his eyes off Cassie. The corner of his mouth ticked in a smile that should have put her at ease, but it unnerved her even more than his stark formality. “Please, sit down, Cassandra.” Settling into a practiced pose on the couch, she managed to regain some of her self-assurance. “You have a beautiful accent. Where are you from, Mr. Novotny?” She wondered if that was a part of the Dracula act, as well. “Please, call me Viktor. Would you like some wine?” He stepped away before she could recite her strict rule about not drinking on the job. “I am originally from Czechoslovakia. But I have lived in New York City for a long time.” He did not speak as he poured the wine. When he returned, he pressed a glass into her hand before settling into one of the arm chairs. “And you? Have you always lived in New York?” “No.” Her automatic response was more curt than she would have liked. “I moved here about three years ago.” She dropped her gaze to her wineglass. White. She didn’t know whether to be surprised it wasn’t red because of his strange fetish or unsurprised that it matched the decor. “So, Viktor, my friend Julie tells me that drinking blood really turns you on?” He nodded and sipped his wine, unembarrassed by his peculiar tastes. “I paid Julie a thousand dollars a visit. In return, I drank her blood. Does that make you uncomfortable?” “Do you want it to?” It was always best to know what got the client off at the start. “Is that part of the thrill?” “No, of course not.” He set his glass down. It was still full. “I would not wish for you to do something…distasteful. If you are truly comfortable with the idea, then the job is yours. I would need an assurance that I could see you every week.” Every week? Even if the guy was a little freaky, she could get past it for four thousand extra dollars a month. “I don’t think that will be a problem. So, what happens, do you…bite me? And then we do it? Or we do it and then…” happens, do you…bite me? And then we do it? Or we do it and then…” “No. I do not like to bite. It is not in causing pain that I find enjoyment.” He reached into his jacket and produced a single, gleaming razor blade. “Julie preferred to cut herself, but I can do it, if you find it difficult. Some do.” So, she wasn’t his only supplier. She wondered how many girls he had lined up for this job and thought she should point out how vastly unsafe such practices were. She held her tongue. A man like this, with his expensive suits and palatial apartment, could afford clean tricks. “I think I’d rather do it. Don’t take it personally, it’s just that I don’t know you well enough yet to trust you with a sharp implement.” He laughed softly, and her stomach jumped in response. She could feel his gaze on her like a wave of heat searing to her bones. A client had never affected her this way before. She gulped down half her glass of wine, personal rules be damned, and tried to get her head on straight. A flush crept up her skin like a fever, burned through her like fire. “Come here.” His softly spoken command sent electric shocks of arousal through her veins, and she rose on trembling legs. She stood before him, looking down as he studied her face, time swelling around them until she was sure she would scream just to break the tension. He gestured and said, simply, “Sit,” and she found herself in his lap, the taut muscles of his thighs pressing into the backs of her legs as he pulled her to lie against his chest. “The razor,” she had the presence of mind to say and, before she could panic at the potential danger of the situation, he pressed the flat of the blade into the palm of her hand. “Don’t cut yourself,” he warned, his lips moving like a phantom chill over the skin of her throat. “Not yet.” It shouldn’t be like this, she warned herself. It was her job to remain in control, to give a man his fantasy. It was her job. And still, as he tipped her head back to rest on his shoulder, stroking her throat with his long, gentle fingers, she wanted to surrender that control, more than she’d ever wanted anything. His hand dropped to her thigh, where the red fabric of her skirt rode up and he helped its ascent. His mouth fastened at her neck, teeth grazed her skin. His hands bunched on her skirt, raising it higher, fingers sliding over the red silk of her panties, now soaked to her skin. She moaned and writhed against him, pressing back against the unmistakable hard ridge of him beneath his trousers, and he whispered against her ear, “Now. Do it.” The words shocked some sense into her, and with numb fingers she brought the blade to her neck. His hand caught her wrist. “Not unless you want to kill the blade to her neck. His hand caught her wrist. “Not unless you want to kill yourself,” his dark voice scolded, and he brought the hand gripping the blade to her wrist. “Here. Not deep.” She shook so badly he had to help her. The sting of the cut pulled a surprised cry from her, but the pain disappeared under the shocking cold of his mouth as he fastened it to the cut. The room darkened before her eyes. Had she cut too deep? Would he notice before it was too late? She tried to speak, but the darkness came over her too quickly, far too quickly to be bleeding to death. She knew what that was like, to be on the edge of death. This was not the same, though it was just as terrifying. She was falling, farther than the floor, and the monsters were on her. Only this time, they were real. Their teeth, their claws. Her screams. “Cassandra?” Viktor shook her shoulders gently. “Cassandra!” His voice pulled her violently back to reality even as it echoed through her nightmares. Had she heard a voice in them before? It took her a moment to realize that she still sat in his lap, his arms strong around her as he looked down at her with eyes wide in concern. Red stained his lower lip, and he hurried to wrap a handkerchief around her wrist. She smoothed her hair back with one hand, her head pounding like she’d just woken up with the worst hangover of her life. She pushed herself away and stood, trembling for a different reason now. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” “You were screaming.” He followed her—he probably would never want her in his home again, and she didn’t blame him—up the stairs to the foyer. “Are you all right?” Screaming? That was a new symptom she’d have to tell Dr. Holden. “I’m fine! I just…I want to go.” “You should wait,” he said, though he helped her into her coat with trembling hands. “I am afraid Anthony has gone for the night, so there is no car to take you home—” “I’ll get a cab.” She searched for an elevator button on the sleek black walls. “Let me out of here!” “Cassandra,” he began, but he did not finish. Instead he opened a panel on the wall and called the elevator. “I sent Julie’s payment to the club. Shall I do the same for you?” Her money. Damn it. She hadn’t done the job, not to her satisfaction, certainly not to his. “No, I couldn’t accept it. It wouldn’t be fair.” “It would not be fair to send you away without payment,” he countered. “Fine,” she whispered. Anything to get her out of here, away from this guy