It’s almost dark when I arrive at the venue. My flight was late, and traffic was a nightmare. But Anaïs knows about my delay – I texted her as soon as the tyres of the plane hit the tarmac – and I know there are several agents with her. I’m only the backup due to my ‘expertise’. I have my driver drop me off a few blocks over and leave my luggage in the car. I don’t need it tonight, and I’ll depart again in the morning. I welcome the short walk to the concert hall. I’ve been sitting still for far too long.

New Orleans is merciful tonight. It feels like the end of a sunny day, but not ruthlessly hot and humid. A light breeze is floating along the street, bringing the crisp scent of autumn mixed with beer, hot oil, and something sweet. Jazz music is playing faintly somewhere, and there’s an electric buzz of excitement swirling in the air. The Quarter is getting ready for a spooktastic night. Halloween. Probably the second most important event of the year around here.

But I’m not here to observe some trick-or-treaters. I’m here for something else. Someone else. As I step in front of the old-fashioned doors, a small poster, almost too humble, notifies me that tonight, for one night only, he returns. I snort and shake my head. The poster might be small and humble, but he certainly is not. A bear of a security guy tries to stop me from going in, but Samir Das is there only a moment later to wave me through. He greets me with a nod and the ghost of a smile.

“Glad you could make it, Agent Chaudhury.” There’s a hint of teasing underlying his words, but I ignore it. I’ve always liked working with Samir. He’s quiet, efficient and attentive. He sees problems before they even arise, gets the job done without a fuss and makes it look easy and effortless.

“Come on,” he continues. “I’ll take you upstairs. Anaïs wants to see you before the mayhem starts and bring you up-to-speed.”

Anaïs Delorme is the senior agent in charge for tonight. I haven’t worked with her before, but from everything I’ve heard, she’s competent and slightly intimidating. Fine by me. It’s what’s needed for our mission.

Upstairs, Samir knocks on a door and opens it to let me in. Behind there’s a small, crowded room, barely more than a closet. The desk is almost invisible under piles and piles of papers. More clutter on the floor and on the bookshelves that cover three walls of the tiny office. A slender woman with chestnut brown, wavy hair stands in front of the French doors on the opposite side, her back turned to us and her face buried in a tablet computer.

“Agent Rashid Chaudhury, ma’am,” Samir announces our presence. The woman, Anaïs, I presume, flaps her hand in a dismissive gesture without glancing up, and Samir closes the door behind me. It takes Anaïs a moment to acknowledge me and when she does, she raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow to give me a once-over quite unashamedly. Whatever she sees seems to meet her approval, and she nods towards a chair in the middle of the chaos.

“Take a seat, Agent Chaudhury.”

I follow her order, although I would have preferred standing. I still feel restless after my flight. Unsurprisingly, there’s a stack of papers on the only chair. I remove it but there is no free space around me to put it down, so I keep it on my lap.

“As you know, our mission tonight is to observe, not interfere. We’re not his security detail, as much as he might like to think that. We’ll just log who is in attendance; that’s it. We’re not interested in any human members of the audience, unless they’re known associates. We know some of their human staff received invitations. If there are any signs this is turning into another San Francisco, we’ll retreat as swiftly as we can. I don’t want any casualties, not among our rank.”

I nod. I know all of this already. Only the invitation of ‘their human staff’ is news to me, but hardly a surprise. I wonder if that includes… no, probably not.

“You come with high praise, Agent Chaudhury. I’m sure you’re aware of that. Exceptional work in Dubai, and the New Orleans team have only the best things to say about how you handled the incident here last year.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I keep my facial expression neutral. Anaïs might interpret it as modesty. I know it’s not.

‘The Talamasca demand complete obedience, loyalty and devotion from their members. They will not tolerate anything less.‘ The words, spoken by my recruiter and mentor Min-Jin Paik, have echoed in my mind so many times since that day I betrayed the trust of the organisation I work for, broken every vow I swore to them. Have I regretted my decision? Not even for a split second. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. I just don’t deserve praise for it.

Of course, Anaïs Delorme doesn’t know what I’ve done. There’s only one other person on this planet who has an inkling, and I know he won’t tell a living soul. Or undead soul. And let’s not get into a debate whether the undead still have souls. I’m sure the man we are all here for tonight would write a book about it. If he hasn’t already.

I shift my attention back to Anaïs, who pulled up a floor plan of the venue.

“We have four agents on site, you and me excluded. Samir Das has the lobby, as you know. Luca Moretti and his partner are on the balcony on the south side, and I positioned you and your partner opposite of them. We do not have access to the backstage area. The Primary has been… uncooperative.” She gives a little eyeroll with that last word. Why am I not surprised? We all know the ‘Primary’. ‘Uncooperative’ is basically his middle name. Of course, I keep my thoughts to myself. It would be quite unprofessional to call the ‘Primary’ an ‘histrionic diva’ after all.

“All operatives have temporary remote access to the archives from their mobile devices,” Anaïs continues. “Consult it as needed and log anything of interest in the field register. Everyone else can see what you add. Maya Okoro is at base if you need her while I coordinate things from this dump here.”

She eyes her surroundings dubiously. The house manager’s office is obviously not to her usual standards. Not that I blame her.

“Of course, given your history, we expect you to also keep a close eye on the Secondary. We think he’ll remain in the wings but close to the Primary, which means over here.” She circles an area on the floor plan.

“Certainly, ma’am. Understood.” I hope my nod looks more enthusiastic than I feel. At least it doesn’t sound like I have to make contact. It’s probably the preferred outcome for everyone involved.

“Any questions, Agent Chaudhury?”

“No, ma’am.”

With a clap of her hands, I’m dismissed and make my way to the left side of the venue. All kinds of equipment, tables and chairs are stacked against the wall. It seems the audience is kept to the floor below, giving me and the other agents a perfect vantage point for observation from up here. People are pouring onto the open space. The bar runs along most of the south wall and a few tables are set in front of the stage, signs indicating that they’re reserved for guests.

Movement alerts me to Luca Moretti and his partner for the night, taking their positions. Luca is a junior agent in his early twenties, who recently transferred to the states. A tall brunette woman, maybe middle-aged, stands next to him. She reminds me of a Norse valkyrie despite her wire-rimmed glasses. Definitely no one to be messed with. I’ve never met her before, but the New Orleans office is constantly understaffed, so maybe she was called in from somewhere else. As I was.

I pull out my phone to check my access to the archives, and the field registry is working as it should be. A row of small dots in different colours and our initials indicates the agents currently logged in: SB, RC, SD, AD, LM, MO, MV. So either SB or MV is my partner for the night. I’m relieved none of them end with H. I’m not sure I could survive an entire shift with my personal ‘favourite’ agent Hotchkiss on top of everything. Working with him last year during ‘the incident’ was challenging enough for my nerves. Looks like I dodged a bullet there.

Whoever my partner is appears to be fashionably late, but I don’t mind. The job doesn’t sound too demanding – unless we’re faced with another situation like in San Francisco – but my gut feeling tells me this should not be the case. The vampire community is still rebuilding after it was brutally diminished in the months after the concert, and the threat was dealt with. Tonight should be smooth sailing, and my attendance seems to be a little over-the-top unnecessary. But what do I know?

My phone vibrates in my hand and alerts me to the first sighting. ‘LM’ has confirmed Felix T. Schmidt is in the crowd. I scan the room and see the young vampire loitering in a dark corner near the bar. He’s one of the Primary’s fledglings, so no big surprise there. I wonder if he has reached his quota of catching rats for the night yet, and the thought makes me quietly snicker to myself.

Another entry pops up. ‘MV’ has spotted another affiliate.

Mariola Bernal: human, housekeeper at 1132RS, accompanied by three unknown individuals

My eyes start searching the room before I can even make a conscious decision. Well, it’s my job. It’s what I’m here for. Monitor the crowd. Record any supernatural attendees and known associates. He is a known associate. It doesn’t have to be him…

In the few moments I was preoccupied with my phone, the floor has filled up significantly.. People getting drinks, milling about, chatting. Some of the bar tables in the front row have occupants now. There’s a rowdy group of young men at one and two women at the other. The one on the right is all flailing hands and laughter. Tight tank top, bra straps unapologetically on show, a skirt so short it barely seems to serve a purpose. Her curls have been forced into a loose bun, strands already escaping to frame her face, catching on the oversized hoops that swing every time she throws her head back. Mariola Bernal seems such an unlikely choice for a housekeeper to two vampires.

The woman next to her is tall and slender, dressed in a similar fashion with added fishnet stockings and dark make-up that accentuates her almond-shaped eyes and long dark lashes. The last time I saw her, she looked tired after a long workday, her face lined with worry about her kid brother and small daughter. Now her eyes are sparkling with excitement. She’s strikingly beautiful – I’m gay, not blind – and her being here can only mean one thing…

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot two men carrying drinks across the floor. As I focus on them, the one closest to me paves the way, strutting almost like a peacock through the crowd, which parts for him like the Red Sea. His dark hair is perfectly styled; one stray curl keeps falling forward, bouncing with every step and brushed back each time with a well-practised flick of his hand. His head swivels back towards his companion, and this is when I allow myself to look at him.

He looks different. I still recognised him immediately, even when he was still half hiding behind Mr Peacock. Someone braided his messy mob of hair in neat patterns, and it makes every line of his face stand out. It’s clean-shaven tonight, and he sports the same dark eyeliner as his sister, and something glittery on his cheekbones catches the light from the stage. I try to find any traces of the frightened boy I encountered in front of 1132 Royal Street thirteen months ago. Or the calculated professional I saw only hours later at Armstrong Park. There’s only pure joy written on his young face. It’s mesmerising.

I’ve only heard his voice once before, more than a year ago. Yet I can basically hear his laughter and the soft lilt in his voice when he says something to his sister. He leans over to her to whisper something in her ear, and his washed-out T-shirt, which is at least two sizes too small, rides up his back and reveals a sliver of the smooth dark skin of his back. I wonder what his current life situation is. He seems so close with his sister, so why did he pick a life on the streets, offering sex for money, if he could also live with his sister and niece? Not that it is any of my concern.

He’s still thin but healthy-looking, like he’s getting regular meals at least. Josie’s arm curls around his waist. It’s a casual gesture with a hint of protectiveness. Claiming him as her little brother while at the same time making sure he won’t bolt and disappear on her. Again? Wendell easily returns the embrace, resting his head against hers. In that moment there’s no performance in him. No calculation. Just happiness. It’s strangely disarming.

I look away before it can become a habit and glance down at my phone. No updates from any of the other agents. No-one identified Wendell or his sister. The others don’t know him. Only Samir does, but he is stationed out front in the lobby, and Wendell’s group must have slipped past him. Maybe when Samir was taking me up to see Anaïs. But that’s why there are so many of us tonight. Why we were granted mobile access to the files. Why I’m here. So that no-one slips past us. I should alter ‘MV’s entry and add their names:

Wendell Dupree, human, blood donor to the vampires Louis de Pointe du Lac and Lestat de Lioncourt
Josette Dupree, human, sister of WD, no direct affiliation with the vampires

I don’t. It would undo what I’ve been trying to achieve.

Something is happening on stage. There’s activity behind the curtain on the right, and after a moment a man emerges. He doesn’t acknowledge the crowd, which is starting to shift towards the stage; he just slides behind the drums, picking up some drumsticks and tapping around the kit tentatively. A few minutes later another man with a guitar appears, giving the audience a lazy wave and receiving a few catcalls and whoops for his effort. In his shadow a woman follows, taking her place behind the keyboards. All three seem to be entirely engulfed in their instruments, fine-tuning them, making sure everything is in perfect order, pushing microphones a little to the side, then pulling them back into their original place. It seems random but is probably a well-rehearsed ritual.

My body still feels stiff, so I try to stand a little straighter and stretch. One after the other, every single one of my vertebrae pops back into place, and a low groan escapes me. Suddenly I can feel something dragging down my spine, like a drop of water just at the edge of freezing, slipping under my skin and thickening as it goes down, slowly. The voice, sickly sweet like saccharine, reaches my eardrums before my brain has a chance to make the connection.

“Awww, darlin’. Long time no see. I’ve missed ye, too.” The nasal voice behind me drawls, drawing vowels like toffee pulled thin between teeth.

I silently curse myself for being such a bleeding idiot. I was so focused on… everything else that I didn’t make the connection. SB. There aren’t that many Talamasca agents that are less obvious choices for tonight’s targets than Sam fucking Barclay. Former playwright at the Théâtre des Vampires, which was – once upon a time – owned by the Primary and later burnt to the ground by the Secondary. Of course, he is here, and of course, he’s the one teamed up with me for the night.

I steel myself before I slowly turn around to face him. And there he is in all his non-descript glory. Soft features and vampire eyes, almost phosphorescent in the dark. He was never one to stand out, not gifted with a larger-than-life persona some of his peers display. There never was anything striking about Sam Barclay at first glance. That was the problem – you had to look twice. And by then, he already had you.

Sam’s lips curve into a sweet smile. Everything about Sam is sweet. His oval face, the way his light-brown hair curls around it. His narrow shoulders and the softness around his middle. It used to draw me in. Now it feels sugar-coma-inducingly sweet.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral but failing miserably. There aren’t that many people on this planet – human, vampire or otherwise – that get under my skin the way Sam Barclay does. It used to be exhilarating. Now it is… something else.

“Working… same as you,” he shrugs. The next second, he’s standing right next to me, humming into my ear, low and seductive. “Having fun.”

I let out a breath. “We’re not here to have fun.”

He pouts. “That’s not what David said.” I doubt David Talbot, Superior General of the Talamasca, sent Agent Sam Barclay to New Orleans to have ‘fun’, but what do I know? If I had to guess, I’d say Sam begged David to send him here. On his knees. The opportunity to bask in the proximity of one of the most powerful vampires probably had him cream his pants, untouched.

As if on cue, the whole venue is plunged into pitch darkness. Silence falls across the room, occasionally interrupted by some whistling or whooping. Someone‘s clearly milking the anticipation, and when the tension reaches its peak, a single flash of light erupts on stage, and in its centre, the Primary appears, seemingly conjured out of thin air. The band starts to play, and the Vampire Lestat, Monsieur de Lioncourt himself, grabs the microphone, bending over it and moaning the first lines of an explosive up-tempo number into it. Quite literally explosive as fireworks go off on both sides of the stage. I roll my eyes at the Queen of Drama Queens, who seems to have lost his shirt during the blast. Oops… His faux leather pants are still in place, though. Small mercies and all that.

“The hubster is back there,” Sam informs me, pointing at a space in the wings, half-hidden by the curtain. Despite the earsplitting volume of the music, I can still hear every word Sam says. He also has significantly better night vision than me, so this makes him actually useful for once in his (undead) lifetime.

Sam clutches his hands together pressing them to his chest. “Aren’t they adorable? Those crazy love fools, giving each other heart eyes as if it’s all brand new to them. Of course, I knew Louis when he was still under Maître’s spell and completely happy to be there.”

He turns to give me a quick once-over before he touches my elbow lightly. “You look great, darlin’. Life’s been treating you well.” His eyes roam over my face with his version of fondness and appreciation. I know better than to react to his taunts. It’s exactly what he wants, and I won’t give him that satisfaction. I just look pointedly at his hand where it touches me and then turn my gaze upwards until it reaches his eyes. He removes his palm with a defensive gesture.

“Guess we are still harbouring a grudge.” He sniffs indignantly.

“Oh, why would anyone harbour a grudge? Because you dumped me in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night? Because you told my boyfriend, I secretly filmed us having sex and selling the tapes on the Darknet?” I huff out. Yes, so much for not reacting to his taunts. I hate that he’s right. I take a few breaths, trying to calm myself and not even hiding it. There’s no point. He can hear my heartbeat.

“Oh, but that was just a bit of fun. Not my fault, Guido…? Gunnar…?” Sam flaps his hands as if he can catch my ex-lover’s name from the air. “Whatever his boring name was – didn’t have a sense of humour and just believed every word I said.”

“Gus”, I correct him through clenched teeth. The truth is, I was not even that upset about Sam’s interference putting an end to whatever I had with Gus. We weren’t even a couple. Yet. We met at a gay club in London, hooked up and then went on a few dates. Gus was a nice guy, and maybe there was potential for more, but then again… in my line of work? Unlikely. So Sam probably did us a favour throwing a wedge between us when he had. The thing that stung was that Gus ghosted me the moment Sam told him his lies. I know Sam can be a conniving, manipulative bastard – boy, do I know – but that Gus wouldn’t even let me explain? That’s the part that hurt.

“You should have seen his face,” Sam giggles and gives a probably quite accurate impression of poor Gus’ facial expression, until I shoot him another glare. Let’s just give up any pretence I’m not annoyed.

“You deserved better than that dour grey thing, darlin’. You do.” Sam assures me with another pat of my forearm.

I shake my head and turn away. The band are now playing a slow number, and quite predictably, everyone in the audience pulls out their phones and turns the room into a twinkling sea of lights mirroring the starry night sky outside. I can feel Sam shifting a little closer to me, but another look from me stops him in his tracks.

“Okay… work then?” Sam cocks an eyebrow at me. “Who do we have here?” He plucks my phone out of my hands – as if he doesn’t have his own – and scrolls through the file.

“Oh!” he exclaims excitedly. “Felix T. Schmidt! Where is that little ratcher?” He throws me a look. “Ratcher… rat catcher… get it?” He winks at me. Once a would-be poet, always a would-be poet, I guess.

My gaze drifts to the end of the bar, where I last saw the young fledgling vampire, but a flash of red catches my eye when one of the spotlights grazes a dark corner near the back. Even after the beam moves on, a faint shimmer lingers, tracing flaming red hair and skin pale as milk. I blink, letting my pupils adjust to the darkness, and look again. He’s still there. Young, maybe late twenties, his red hair swept up in a fiery swoop atop his head, curls tapering down the sides. He is… striking. High cheekbones and a narrow jaw and his eyes, a pale, piercing green that catches the light like cut glass. A worn leather jacket, dark jeans, and nothing else reveal endless stretches of creamy white skin beneath. He is almost ethereally beautiful, yet undeniably masculine, with a predator’s poise. Whenever he moves, the air around him ripples, particles igniting and fading like sunlight dancing on water.

“Sam, do you see this?” I murmur. No need for speaking up. Sam can hear me just fine. A faint pressure settles behind my eyes, precise and insistent, like a finger inside my mind, tapping once to get my attention. Whatever I’m currently seeing is not human. Or vampire. The pressure says ‘danger’ and ‘alert’, and it’s never been wrong before. It’s never been as loud as it is now either. Not even on that final day in Dubai before Louis snapped with the calm precision of a stone-cold serial killer. This is something else.

“See what, darlin’?” Sam sounds oblivious as he prattles on. “You mean the Ratcher’s questionable sense of fashion? Gosh, he looks so last century! Vampires are allowed to update their wardrobe after they were turned! If that weren’t the case, I’d still be dressed like… well…” He trails off with a wave of his hand.

I’m sure deep down in the Talamasca archives there is a file that gives Sam Barclay’s date of birth (human and vampire), but I’m also sure it is better protected than the Crown Jewels, it is such a mystery. If rumours are true, then Samuel Barclay Beckett isn’t as ancient and powerful as he wants everyone to believe, turned less than a hundred years ago.

“No, the guy in the corner. Red hair, pale skin.” I realise that the man – creature? – is standing quite alone. The venue is packed with people by now, but they all stay away from him, like a cold spot they’re trying to avoid. Can they see what I’m seeing? No one looks at him directly. It’s like they register his presence but not quite. Just like something in the corner of their eyes. Sam’s gaze narrows – as if he has trouble seeing in the semi-darkness – trying to find the man in question.

“Oh… him…” Sam gasps. “Oh my… he’s gorgeous, darlin’.” He bumps his shoulder against mine, smirking at me. “You still got impeccable taste.”

I’m somewhat relieved that he can see the stranger. It’s not just my mind playing tricks on me. “That’s not what I meant. Can’t you see it? There’s something about him…”

“Oh, there is something about him, alright…” Sam is basically salivating at this point, and he’s unashamedly licking his protruding fangs. “Well, if you’re not interested…” He shoots me a glance to confirm my indifference. I can only shake my head, and he does a little bounce on his feet. “Don’t mind if I do…”

“Sam!” I hiss at him, but too late. There’s only empty space where Sam was a split second ago. I can see him popping back up near the entrance downstairs. He looks up at me with a wink before making a beeline for the corner near the back where I spotted the mysterious stranger. I’m not responsible for Sam’s actions, and I’m also not sure who to place my bet on here: Sam or the stranger. I wonder if I should start a timer.

My eyes gravitate towards the bar table near the stage. It takes me a moment to register that the music has stopped, the musicians are gone and the lights are back on. It must be some kind of interval. The group around the table seem to be still enjoying themselves. The two women are in deep conversation, Little Miss Maxi Hoops gesturing wildly and Josie throwing her head back, laughing. I catch Wendell stealing covert looks at Mr Peacock. He seems fidgety, fiddling with the label on his Diet Coke bottle that has come loose from condensation. Huh. I haven’t even seen him that many times, but every time I do, I discover a whole new side of him. It shouldn’t fascinate me as much as it does.

Wendell’s face lights up with excitement as he points towards the place that was until only a moment ago occupied by the lead singer. He’s turned towards Mr Peacock, which means he’s also turned towards me, and I spot the logo on his washed-out T-shirt. A chortle of laughter escapes my lips. I should have known: he’s a fan. I do a quick calculation, and Wendell was probably in his early teens when Lestat was in his prime as a rockstar. Young and impressionable. I add that knowledge to the small but growing pile of information that is safely stored in my mind.

Over the past months I’ve done a pretty good job pushing any thought away about this young man I observed as part of my investigation. He’d been in a difficult situation, and I pride myself on not being uncaring. That’s all there was. Life continued with new missions, time spent with my found family in Yorkshire and the occasional lazy day in my London apartment. The moments where I’d see an ice cream truck turning a corner or walk past a magnolia tree in Walthamstow Village – they don’t count. Even if they always remind me of a pair of kind eyes, dark brown pools of gentle light. They change nothing.

Seeing him now in clear adoration of his teen idol, I wonder if he had a happy childhood and – not for the first time – what happened that drove him away from home and to the life he’s leading. Or at least the life he led when I first saw him. I briefly wonder if Mr Peacock might be one of Wendell’s clients, but no. The bashful little smiles Wendell flashes at him seem genuine. They’re more likely on a date. Good for them. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Mr Peacock grabs Wendell’s hand with a laugh and throws it over his shoulder, dragging him towards the bar. They’re probably getting fresh drinks for the group, but I don’t have the luxury to follow their tracks. Up on my balcony, Sam is back with a decidedly sullen expression on his face.

“Your Ginger Hotshot is gone. No trace of him. Just… poof!” Sam throws his hands up in a flip of his hands imitating an explosion, then thrusts his hip out, pressing a fist to his side, like an over-sized toddler. Maybe the stranger wasn’t as dangerous as my senses told me. Or smart enough to avoid confrontation.

“Awww, I’m so sorry, Sam. How dare he get away from you.” I’m so not sorry. Not that I cared for the stranger, but Sam not getting what he wants? That’s enough satisfaction for me. Does that make me petty? Vindictive? Maybe. I’m still not sorry.

I bend over my phone. Time to do my job. I enter a detailed description of the stranger and my observations. Maybe someone higher up can shed some light on the mystery and it’ll look suspicious if there aren’t any entries from me at all. Luca and ‘MV’ on the other side have been busy and added more sightings: Sabella Rowntree, Damaris Whitford, Lilah Hawthorne are all present, all connected to the Mayfair coven. Witches aren’t my speciality, so I’ll have to take their word for it.

Sam plonks down on a chair he has dragged over from somewhere. He throws me a questioning look, but I shake my head. I rather remain standing where I can see the crowd that is trickling back into the hall. The interval seems to be over; even the band members are returning to the stage, taking up their positions. Wendell and Mr Peacock are nowhere to be seen. I hope they’re having a good time, doing… whatever.

The lights dim and the main attraction, wearing another ridiculous outfit, takes centre stage again. After an energetic rock song, that I recognise as a cover version, the stage goes dark again. Then a single spotlight appears, bathing Lestat, dressed in a simple silk suit – jacket, trousers, no shirt – in soft light. Lestat lovingly strokes the microphone for a moment before he starts to talk in a low, husky voice. He dedicates the following songs to the ‘love of his immortal life’ with a glance towards the wings where ‘the hubster’ presumably still stands in loving adoration.

“The first one is called ‘Everything I Wanted’ by Billie Eilish. This is for you, mon cher. Je t’aime tellement.” The crowd lets out a collective sigh as Lestat basically breathes the last words into the microphone. He sways his hips from side to side with the first tunes from Tough Cookie’s keyboard. I don’t pay much attention; I’m back to scanning the room and spot Wendell and Mr Peacock back in their place. Wendell’s date – I’ve decided that’s what’s going on here – holds him in a tight embrace and plants a kiss on his temple, moving slowly to the music.

A long, melodramatic sigh of boredom sounds from behind me. Sam sits with one leg crossed over the other and cleans some invisible dirt from underneath his fingernails in a blatant disinterest of the job we’re here to do.

“This reminds me of your mission in Baku. We spent hours in that dreadful library trying to find information on… what was it? Ashk-e-Khoon or Kāsat al-Sirr?”

“Kāsat al-Sirr” I answer, only half-listening to Sam. My gaze is back on Wendell, who has half-turned around in his date’s arms. His lashes catching the light spilling down from the stage when he blinks.

“Ah yes… pretty foolish of us to think we’d find any information on a chalice that is literally called ‘Cup of Secrets’.” He rolls his eyes. “D’uh… and that dagger? Ashk-e-Khoon? Blood tear? Rusty old thing more like…” Back to being a whiny three-year-old.

“Why did you even come on that mission with me?” I’ve always wondered.

He shrugs and tries to look non-chalant. “I always wanted to see the old Agha Mikayil Hammam.” He winks at me. “And wasn’t it a memorable visit?”

I roll my eyes and turn my attention back to the downstairs area.

“I wanted to spend time with you, pet, of course. What did you think? Like when you followed me to ‘Club 808’ in Bangkok? We had some good times there, didn’t we?” He’s standing right next to me again, our shoulders almost brushing.

Our relationship has always been… special. Sam and I. Three years. On and off. Explosive and reckless, like a fire in a storm. Dating a vampire as the ultimate thrill. Of course, we did have good times, tender moments, too. My favourite memory isn’t the time we spent in the steamy bath in Baku or the sultry nights in Thailand that still feel like something from a fever dream. No, when I think of Sam fondly – if I think of him fondly – it’s the night we spent at Al-Qamar, a Bedouin village in the Arabian Desert. We sat in front of a tent on a Persian rug, Sam quite unnecessarily wrapped in a soft pashmina, snug in my arms, his head on my shoulder, watching the moon rise above the dunes. I thought this was it. What I always wanted and what I thought I could have with Sam. No need to hide parts of me. Something I’ve had to do all my life. Hiding my sexuality from my parents. Hiding my job from everyone. Being with Sam was easy. I could be me. Or so I thought.

My sentiments must have been clear in my mind because I can feel Sam’s hand on my arm again.

“Awww, pet…” he coos softly.

And just like that, the nostalgic feeling is gone as quickly as it came. Because for every reason why we might have worked, there were a thousand others why we didn’t and why we never could. Sam removes his hand from my arm. I don’t even have to glare at him again.

“We’re over, Sam.” I need to say it out loud. “We have been for four years. I have no interest in reheating something that should have ended a lot sooner. Do you understand?”

Sam doesn’t look at me; his eyes are fixed up ahead. “Yes,” he says in a low voice. unable to stop a sniff at the end. “There is no future for us – romantically. I respect that, Rashid. But we can still work together professionally, no? Maybe we could even be… friends?”

This is the first time tonight he addressed me by my name, not some form of endearment. Progress? Maybe. But I still don’t trust him further than I can throw him.

*****

~ London, 13 months ago ~

After I changed and significantly shortened my report on the attack on Wendell, including altering my recruitment recommendation from ‘yes’ to ‘no’, I pick up my phone and dial the one person I can always trust in a moment of crisis.

“Alright, ya bastard?” He drawls in his familiar Mancunian accent.

“Dickhead,” I reply, a smile in my voice. It’s always good to hear him, and the occasion is made indefinitely better by happening on a late London afternoon instead of stupid o’clock in New Orleans.

“Missed me, did ya?” Callum chuckles.

“Can’t say that I have.” The silence between us stretches for a moment. “I need you to do me a favour.”

Callum on the other end sighs dramatically. “Why am I not surprised? How many is that now?”

“Dunno,” I admit. “I stopped counting at around a dozen.” We both chuckle.

“Alright, shoot. What do you need, brownie?” It should sound offensive, but coming from Callum I know he’s only teasing me.

“Listen, blondie.” I take another deep breath. “Remember the video that you stitched together for me the other week? The NOLA incident. Has anyone seen it besides you and me?”

“Not that I know of. Did you submit it to the archives?” I can hear the surprise in his voice.

“No, I haven’t.” I take a deep breathe and continue. “I want it gone. Completely. As if it never existed.”

“Local, cloud, backups, mirrors?”

“Everything.” I confirm. “I want it all securely deleted.”

Callum whistles. “Securely deleted. Listen to you now, speakin’ my lingo.”

I tap a foot nervously against the foot of the small table on my balcony. “Can you do it, Callum?”

He huffs indignantly. “Can I do it? Puh-leeze!” I can hear him already tapping on a keyboard in the background. “Dare I ask why, Rashid? This isn’t very Tweety Bird.”

‘Tweety Bird’ is our code word for the Talamasca. When Callum tightened security and installed a filter programme that allowed Head Quarters to be alerted whenever certain words – like ‘Talamasca’ – are mentioned in a file, e-mail or even a phone conversation, we naturally had to invent inconspicuous alternatives. “No one flags cartoon nonsense,” Callum said when I questioned his choice.

“Which means… if it’s not Tweety Bird approved, it’s not very you. You never do anything that would upset Tweety Bird.”

“That’s not true.” I say in a low voice, sounding a little too defensively even for my own ears.

“Oh, please, seriously? You’re not talkin’ about Smurfette now, are you?” He means Sam. I don’t think the Talamasca have a tracker on the name ‘Sam’, but Callum has been calling him ‘Smurfette’ ever since Sam and I started dating. Callum makes a derisive noise in his throat. “Really, Rashid? If you wanted to fuck a fellow agent, you could have had this…” I can’t see him, but I know he’s pointing at himself. “But you went for that arsehole? Literally?”

My teeth clench together, but I don’t reply. I can’t. I don’t have an answer for him. He is right in some ways, and we both know it. Sam was convenient in some ways. Not in others. Charlie sometimes scolds me for having a death wish. That’s not it. I don’t want to die, but the knowledge that I was with a creature that could so easily overpower me, lose control and kill me but held back because of me, because I meant something to him – presumably – made me feel more powerful than I ever had before in my life.

The buzz lasted exactly as long as I realised that I meant nothing more to him than a puppet to a puppeteer. It still took me almost a year of him playing cat and mouse with me before I had the strength to walk away for good. On our last night together, he threw a temper tantrum and then left me by the road near Feothanach in the middle of a cold Irish night like I was fuck all. He made off with our car with all my personal belongings, and it took me hours to find a kind soul who drove me to the next pub, where I could use a phone to ask Callum for help. Of all favours I ever asked of Callum, he’s never let me forget this one.

A few days later, Sam came crawling back to me with apologies and expensive gifts, trying to shower me with kisses, saying he felt awful and how relieved he was that I was unharmed He’d just panicked about being stuck in the Irish countryside with nowhere to take shelter at sunrise. It was the first time I didn’t believe him.

“This video is a bloody masterpiece, and you know it. It could have won me an Oscar if I were able to submit it. Michael Kahn has nuthin’ on me. If you want me to delete it, you better give me a fuckin’ good reason.” Callum demands.

“Look, I was wrong. The video doesn’t show any supernatural activity. Those guys – four of them – were later that night killed by vampires, but nothing that can be seen on that video has any connection to it.” It’s a small twist to the truth, and I pray Callum will never find out. Or forgive me if he does. “It’s just humans doing awful things to another human. None of our business. That kid, he doesn’t need it to be exploited. I just want to give him some privacy back. Some dignity.”

“So this about the kid?”

“Callum… please… will you do it?”

“He’s cute.”

“It’s not like that…”

“Of course it isn’t.” Callum stops hammering at the keyboard for a moment. “Hey, you still takin’ calls from Smurfette?”

“No, we’re done for good.”

“Good. Good for you, mate.” I can hear Callum drumming his fingers in a rhythm on his desk. The noises in the background tell me he’s watching the video.

“You know Bambi, right?”

I sigh. I have no idea how he gets from watching Wendell’s video to a Disney movie, but that’s Callum for you. There’s also no stopping him once he starts on one of his rambles.

“Everyone just thinks Bambi’s that little baby deer, right? Harmless, soft, proper itty-bitty cute in some pastel-green forest. Big doe eyes, long dark lashes. But if you look closer, Bambi’s really all about trauma, yeah? ‘Cause that perfect little world gets smashed with proper brutal violence – bam! – mother’s gone, everything ripped away from that poor baby deer on his wobbly legs, and suddenly he’s expected to survive in a hostile world, dealin’ with predators, rivalries, alliances. And he does it! That’s resilience, mate. And then you get the antlers, yeah? I mean, it’s the perfect allegory for any kid growin’ up in a rough world. And that’s all of us, innit? But somehow we watch it, and instead of thinkin’, ‘Oh wow, child trauma,’ we go, ‘Aww, so cute.’ That’s genius manipulation. Pure genius.”

“Callum?” I ask cautiously when he makes a small break to catch his breath. “The video?”

“Eh, the video, ‘course.” He sounds like he just woke up from a dream. “Are you sure about this? Once I press the button, there’s no goin’ back?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Filthy…” More clicking. “Alright, it’s gone. The deep clean’s gonna take a bit, but once I’m done, not even their mum’ll be able to find ’em. If files had mums, eh? Hey… can I be your best man?”

I groan. One day he is going to give me whiplash the way his mind ping-pongs all over the place.

“Oh, fuck off!” I scowl, and Callum cackles.

“Hey, I didn’t say who you were gettin’ married to! As long as it’s not fuckin’ Smurfette, I’m game. Hey, is Charlie still single?”

“Charlie is in a committed relationship, dickhead.”

“Since I’m not the marryin’ type, that only leaves you and Bambi.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I love Callum, and – not counting Charlie – he is my best friend, but he’s giving me a headache with his code names.

“Whoever Bambi is, other than a cartoon character, I’m not marrying them! Have you ever heard of a married Talam-… Tweety Bird agent? No? Me neither!”

Callum snickers at my exaggeration. “Fine, fine, just make sure Bambi never meets Godzilla. His eyes are way too pretty to be stomped out by that ugly giant lizard.”

I haven’t got the faintest what he’s going on about. “Loosen up on the weed, mate; you’re worrying me.”

Callum laughs out loud at that, and it sounds a bit maniacal. “I’ll call you once I’m done, and next time you’re up here, we’re goin’ for a pint – you’re buying – and you’ll tell me all about Bambi.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“Shalom, my friend.”

“Wa alaikum salaam.”

*****

Tonight – one year later – I find myself staring at those eyes. I wouldn’t call them Bambi eyes; I still don’t know where Callum got that impression. The shape is different and they’re dark, almost obsidian black, framed by a set of thick, long eyelashes. And they’re looking at me. At first it doesn’t even register with me. Only when I see them widen a fraction and his chest heave in an intake of breath.

He’s looking at me. Not only in my general direction. He sees me.

I should retreat into the shadows behind me. Why am I standing so close to the railing where the light catches me? But the damage is already done. He sees me. Our gazes meet for only one long heartbeat, then he breaks the connection to look away. To his sister and her friend who are still standing near the bar table. I take the chance to step away. I walk and I don’t stop until I’m out the door, almost running into another man.

“Oy, papi, careful!” The young man laughs, and I recognise Mr Peacock, Wendell’s date.

I mumble an apology as I slip into the gap between two neighbouring buildings and lean against the wall, taking a few steadying breaths. The concert ended a while ago – very un-Lestat-like – without any incidents. Anaïs called us into the house manager’s office for a quick debriefing and then let us go. Luca, Samir and ‘MV’, whose real name I’ve never learnt, left after a quick goodbye, and Sam suddenly disappeared. I only wanted to step out to the balcony one last time before heading straight back to the airport to catch the first flight to Atlanta, where hopefully a hotel room waits for me before my next mission takes me to Montevideo and a haunted house in Uruguay’s capital.

After a long night, I’ve been sloppy. Wendell saw me. But no harm done. He still doesn’t know who I am. All is well.

“Darlin’, are you alright?” I flinch when I feel Sam’s hand touching my shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just needed some fresh air.”

He nods, understanding. “Look, darlin’, I’ve got to go. Sun rises in an hour, and I’m feeling a little peckish. But if you ever need anything – anything at all – just give me a call, alright?”

I want him gone, so I assure him that I will. I can’t think of a scenario that will make me call him – him out of all people – for help. Couldn’t imagine trusting him with anything that mattered.

He quietly nods to himself again, then blows a kiss near my cheek and breathes into my ear: “Take care of yourself, darlin’.”

Then he vanishes at vampire speed. One instant, he’s there; the next, there’s only a gust of wind. I stay where I am until a few minutes later, the door to the venue opens again, spilling out light and four people: Wendell and his date, who is belching out Lestat’s last song at the top of his voice, while his arm is possessively looped around Wendell’s waist. Josie, a pair of high heels slung over her shoulder, and Little Miss Maxi Hoops follow them, giggling and chatting.

I lean back against the brick wall and watch them leave. Wendell’s laugh sounds in my ears long after the group has disappeared around a corner. A small smile spreads across my face. It looks like I succeeded. I gave him back the privacy and dignity he deserves, and he seems to thrive. He seems happy. Time to close this chapter and move on. My mind lingers on the moment where his eyes met mine earlier. The way they widened. I’m certain he didn’t see me last year. He couldn’t have recognized me. What was it then? It doesn’t matter. There’s no chance.

I wonder where my driver is and I’m surprised to find a string of new text messages on my phone:

IC: When are you coming back?
IC: Poppy’s bday is in 2 weeks!
IC: You said you’d try this time 😒
IC: We’re doing something small btw 🎉🎂🎈
IC: It’d be nice if you were here 💛

My smile widens as I read text after text, and I quickly type a reply.

RC: Can’t make it to Poppy’s birthday, sadly, meri chhoti. 😔 But I’ll be there soon. Promise. 💛

I push away from the brick wall and pull my coat a little tighter around me. Above the rooftops, the sky is still dark, but it’s beginning to give at the edges, the depth of a long night draining out of it slowly. Dawn is coming. Time to go.