Page 69 of Bite Marks & Broken Hearts

“Seb?”

Kit grabbed my arm. “This isn’t your fault.”

“We need to decide our plan of action, quickly,” I said to Maxwell.

An internal struggle played across Maxwell’s face as he stared at the car. His shoulders sagged, his torch beam wavering. “I think we’ll avoid this going through official channels because of the unique circumstances of the crime. We’ll drive the car to a secure location. I’ll take some samples,run some tests off the record. See what we can find.” He pressed his lips into a grim line. “After a week, we’ll find the body in the Thames. I’m not having his family wonder why he’s not coming home for any longer than that.”

For once, Rory kept his mouth shut. Perhaps even he recognised the weight of Maxwell’s compromise.

“We’ll work together, Maxwell.” I said. “Find who did this, and why.” The words felt hollow in my mouth, tasting of copper and guilt.

Kit’s hand hadn’t left my shoulder. His fingers tightened. “Rory, you go with Maxwell. Take the car to the location. Seb and I will head back to Killigrew Street, run a full assessment.”

I knew what he was doing. Kit had seen me like this before, in my darker moments. He wouldn’t leave me alone, not with the taste of blood still fresh on my tongue and centuries of ghosts crowding my thoughts.

Maxwell tossed his keys to Rory, who caught them with a surprised blink. “You’re driving my car. I’ll take this one.”

“Seriously?” Rory’s face lit up.

“Touch anything except the steering wheel and gear stick, and I’ll arrest you myself.”

“Aw, handcuffs and all?” Rory twirled the keys around his finger, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I guessed you’d be into all that.”

Maxwell’s face darkened, jaw clenching as he stepped into Rory’s space. “There’s a fucking dead body ten feet away from us. Show some goddamn respect, or I swear to god I’ll—”

“Alright!” snapped Kit. “We’re moving out! Rory, assist Maxwell with body extraction. You follow his orders to the letter, or there’ll be consequences.”

Kit pulled on his motorcycle helmet, tossing me the spare one. I slipped onto the back, and as we sped away, I didn’t ask him where he was taking us—if I wanted blood immediately, there was only one option remaining.

Kit’s bike roared through the empty streets of London, the wind whipping past us. Thirty long minutes later, we pulled up outsideUndertone as predicted. My stomach clenched. The last time I’d been here, it hadn’t ended well.

We tugged our helmets off, stowing them within the vehicle. “You know this is going to be unpleasant, right?” I said to Kit.

“Do you have any other choice? Unless you fancy another drink from me?”

He said it with a twisted smile. He knew I’d rather not.

The “By Appointment Only” sign glowed dimly in Undertone’s window. A bell tinkled as we entered, and the familiar scent of aged vinyl and leather hit my nostrils, barely masking what lay beneath. Jazz music played softly through hidden speakers.

Marlene looked up from behind the counter, their perfect victory rolls and red lipstick unchanged since the 1950s. The vampire’s eyes widened. “Sebastián Salazar.” They adjusted their cat-eye glasses.

“Marley.” I inclined my head.

Their gaze flicked to Kit, then back to me, taking in the blood still staining my clothes. “Are you both… here for a listening appointment?”

“Yes. If possible.”

They reached for their rotary phone. “I’ll need to check if we have any booths available.” Marley’s voice remained carefully neutral, but I could sense their curiosity. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Salazar. I was under the impression you wished never to set foot in here again.”

“Circumstances change.”

They set down the phone. “I’ll take you straight to Dominic.”

Marley’s boots stomped across the worn floorboards, weaving between towering shelves of vinyl. They led us past countless rare pressingsand limited editions that would make any collector weep—the shop’s carefully curated façade had fooled many over the decades.

At the back of the shop, three listening booths lined the wall. Marley unlocked booth three, ushering us inside. Kit’s shoulders tensed as we squeezed into the tight space, his breathing becoming deliberately measured.

The leather-padded walls still held their original 1960s charm, though the turntable gleamed suspiciously newer. Marley selected a record from a hidden shelf, the needle dropped with practiced precision, and the first notes filled the tiny booth.

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