We Love the Nightlife

by Rachel Koller Croft

Genres: Women's Fiction; Supernatural suspense; Horror

Synopsis

Locked in a toxic female friendship, two vampires careen toward catastrophe in this dark and dazzling page-turner, set amidst London's glittering disco scene.

London 1979. Two women with a deep love for disco meet one fateful night on the dance floor, changing the course of both their lives forever. 

Nicola, a beautiful and brooding vampire for nearly two centuries, can’t resist fun-loving and feisty Amber from America, ultimately offeringan eternity together where the glamour of nightlife always takes center stage.

But not all is what it seems.

Nearly fifty years later, after an unexpected betrayal, Amber wants out from under Nicola’s thumb, but it won’t be so simple to break up this festering friendship when she learns others have done the same—and wound up dead. 

Sensing Amber’s restlessness and in one last play to keep her close, Nicola proposes they open a nightclub of their very own, hearkening back to their best days as dancing queens. 

Amber agrees but she’s secretly hatching a dangerous escape plan. And if she fails…the party is over for good.

 

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Release date: August 20, 2024

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

PROLOGUE

I should have known the party was over when she casually suggested killing my husband back in 1981. I shut her down immediately, but I never forgot the way she said it. With a quick shrug of the shoulder. Up and down, like a spasm. Her dark eyes rolling up to the ceiling. Painted lips pushed together with a small hmm? as if she was innocently putting the ball in my court. Like we were just deciding what to do with the rest of our night. Acting as though she wasn’t making a literal threat on his life while she let the needle drop on a Donna Summer album, her voice warbling around us about bad girls and sad girls.

Message received.

Yes, I left my husband, but I never wished death on him.

So I did what she asked me to do and she promised we wouldn’t hurt him.

But since he was still looking for me in London, we had to stay home.

Well, I did.

Nicola was always free to do as she pleased.

How could I not see that it was only going to get worse?

So much worse.

Maybe because I couldn’t even imagine the betrayal that was coming my way.

I didn’t know yet. That she did this to everyone she cared about. Past and present.

How could any of us have known at the beginning? Nobody anticipates the hit from behind, especially when you’re supposed to be on the same goddamn team. It didn’t even cross my mind to try to leave Nicola back then. I mean, where was I gonna go? I didn’t have anyone else. She was my brand-new best friend in a brand-new city. Why wouldn’t I trust her when I was a total amateur and she was an old pro?

Emphasis on the old.

There was just something about Nicola that was so irresistible to me when we met. Yes, she was funny and vivacious and beautiful. The two of us together grabbed the attention of everyone in the room, even when we weren’t trying.

But it was the way Nicola answered to no one but herself, taking anything she wanted, whenever she wanted, that really got my attention. She had her own money, she had her own home, she was self-possessed, wise and whip-smart; she suffered no fools and had zero issue with burning any bridge she saw fit to set on fire.

Did I really think I’d avoid getting singed myself one day?

More than that.

Scorched.

On the night we first met at Tramp, I instantly recognized Nicola, even though rationally I knew I’d never seen her before in my life. But we were two sides of the same record. I can cop to being the A-side. The hits, the crowd-pleasers, the lead single that pulls you in. But that’s why I liked Nicola so much. She was the B-side. The dark, the weird, the experimental, but with the potential to break through with the right crowd, the right person, to appreciate her for what she was: extraordinary.

I think that was part of her strategy all along.

Not just with me, but with all of us.

Every single so-called treasured friend that she deceived. She told us we’d live forever with her. Eternal youth. And that she would take care of everything for us. Nothing to worry about ever again. When you’re a good-time girl in a bad situation, with seemingly no other way out,

how are you going to turn down an offer like that?

Nicola made it seem like we had a choice, but I’m not sure we ever did.

Once you were in her sights, she wouldn’t let you out.

Nicola knew what she was doing. What she was taking. From me. From the others.

From her sister, too, even though she won’t admit it to herself.

It was her past that dictated all our futures.

We just couldn’t see it.

But I see it now.

Still, I never thought our friendship would come to this, a place so dark that I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

But it’s the only way out.

It makes sense. In a sick sort of way. All things considered.

We’re vampires.

The darkness is all we know.

It’s all we have.

 

ONE

 

AMBER

Sometimes, when I was alone, I’d follow my husband and his third wife around Central London at night. Not like a complete psycho, but I’d see what they were up to in Mayfair or Marylebone. It was hard to believe he’d be out after sunset since he never wanted to bebop around town with me when we were together.

No, Malcolm Wells liked to curl up with a dusty old book about World War II to wind down on a weekend, sipping on a hot toddy or a cup of tea until it ran cold. Even way back then when he was still only in his thirties. He’d always been an old fogey in a young guy’s body.

But soon enough, and much faster than I’d like to admit, he was old, and so was his current wife, Geraldine. Still, there he was, regularly taking her out on dates in the city, enjoying their retirement together. Dinner. Drinks. The theater.

I guess the third wife was the charm.

---

—

Malcolm was probably mortified when I started going out alone without him, not long after we got married in the summer of ’79, but what was I supposed to do? Sit around and listen to him spout off facts about Winston Churchill? I mean, respectfully, who cares? I was twenty-three years old and, come on, we’re only young once.

Or so I thought at the time.

When we met earlier that year, Malcolm said he was attracted to my joie de vivre and I swooned. Just imagine some sophisticated British man speaking French to you when you’re a small-town Wisconsin girl who came to Chicago for the day, only to get rejected at the Rockettes audition you’ve been waiting for your whole life.

I was devastated when they didn’t call my name.

It was supposed to be my ticket to a whole new life. I really didn’t want to go back home to my miserable family, who wanted to control my every move. So as I was drowning my sorrows at some fancy businessman bar in River North before getting the late train to Milwaukee, Malcolm swooped in with his accent and handsomeness and money, offering to fly me back to London with him instead.

Listen, it was the ’70s and we were delightfully tipsy and how could I reject such a juicy invitation? I’d never been out of the country before. What was meant to be a one-week jaunt on some richie-rich fella’s dime quickly turned into something serious, and before I knew it, we were engaged.

I fell in love with London the second I got here. And yes, I probably got that mixed up with true love for Malcolm, which now seems a little nuts. It would be a few months before I admitted it to myself, but we were a god-awful match. Unless it was for business reasons, he wasn’t much for being social, and all I ever wanted to do was flit around town. Go dancing, see live music and shows, alongside other young people. But Malcolm? It was books, tea, the BBC and repeat. Nightmare.

Not that I knew what real nightmares were just yet.

I didn’t tell anyone back home in Wisconsin about my potential screwup. It was a different time and I’d never confided much in my parents. Everyone was always hanging on by a thread as it was. Emotionally. Financially. And I knew my dad would have just said something about getting what I deserved after being so impulsive. My mother didn’t have too much to say about it, but she didn’t protest either. Money talks, obviously, and Malcolm had it. We never did. So Godspeed to her eldest daughter. One less thing to worry about.

And she still had the little one.

I feel bad about leaving

my sister behind to this day.

But I try not to think about it.

---

—

The first time I revisited Malcolm, after I left him and after I turned, it was the early ’90s. He was still in his second marriage with Cheryl, the show pony with no personality, who was also the mother of all three of his small children, so I figured he’d be up for a cheap thrill. Enough time had passed by then, over ten years, and I didn’t see how a quick cameo would cause much of a fuss.

The two of them were having a nightcap at the American Bar in the Stafford Hotel. Not the Savoy. Way too much of a scene over there for Malcolm, with the chatty pianist and the tourists and the hustle-bustle of the Strand. The Stafford was understated and classic, tucked away on a quiet street not far from St. James’s Park. Honestly, I had always liked it, too.

For kicks, I asked for my usual at the bar to get his attention. A French 75. Malcolm told me once he thought it was a charming order. I agreed. When I was sixteen and on vacation in the Dells with my family, using the term vacation lightly, a much older man ordered one for me at the Ishnala Supper Club. My parents made me send it back, but when I could finally order drinks of my own, that cocktail was always my go-to because I never forgot the sweet smell from its quick stop at our table.

The second Malcolm heard my voice at the bar that night, we made eye contact. I smiled, but he did a double take. Eeeep!

He could see me.

Someone from before.

The only one from before.

I started to feel warm in my body, but it had to be in my head only, since the blood in my veins was downright frosty. Oh, it was just nostalgia, which always feels great until it doesn’t anymore, taking a quick turn before you know what’s what, the kind that feels like a good friend stabbing you in the back, hurt by someone you thought you knew so well.

“Amber?” Malcolm whispered softly. I think only I could hear him. I raised an eyebrow, pretending to be confused. “Amber,” he said again, louder this time, with more conviction. So much so that Cheryl looked over Malcolm’s shoulder, visibly annoyed, with pursed lips, showing more emotion than she had all evening.

“Hello,” she snarled, trying to intimidate me.

Good luck, babe.

I bite. 

“Hi there!” I said, laying my American accent on extra thick.

“Do you know her?” she asked Malcolm, but he couldn’t stop staring at me. His big brown eyes blinked rapidly, highlighting his crow’s-feet. The kind I’d never have.

“Sorry, darling.” Malcolm brought his attention back to Cheryl. “Thought she was someone else. Have a good night, miss.”

He didn’t even turn back around.

The bartender handed me the fresh cocktail and God damn it, she smelled so good. I missed the fancy buzz of a French 75. Its tall flute, the fragrance of the gin shamelessly flirting out of the glass, complete with a sweet lemon twist on the rim. The preferred drink of a party girl with pizzazz. That’s me. Always was.

“Cheers,” I cooed at the couple, hoping for one last lingering look with Malcolm, perfectly timed to the dreamy Cranberries song playing softly in the background.

But he didn’t look my way again.

---

—

Ididn’t make a habit out of showing myself to Malcolm over the years. Especially as he got older. But something came over me one night as I was following him alongside wife number three.

The night I saw him for the very last time.

He was standing outside Annabel’s—just for dinner, of course. Malcolm never did like to party and he wasn’t going to start as a senior citizen. He looked about ready to go home and crack into the book he probably had waiting on his nightstand. A thousand pages minimum on the Normans or Oliver Cromwell or whatever. His hands were in his pockets, eyes staring off into space, as he waited dutifully for his wife to wrap it up inside. I had to give the guy credit. Sure, he’d gotten old and tweedy, but he was still handsome despite the cranky resting face. His mustache looked great on him now. A little salt, a little pepper.

I rushed over to him, through Berkeley Square, as if I were just another busy bee off to enjoy the nearby nightlife. And then I gently bumped right into Mr. Malcolm Wells.

“Oh! Excuse me,” I gasped, wondering what he was going to do, just as that mysterious warmth flooded my body again. This time, though, there was no confusion from him at all. He smiled at me. It was sweet and sincere. Almost amused. Reminiscent of when we first met.

“Ah,” he sighed, as

if it all made sense to him now. “You’re a ghost, aren’t you, love?”

I lightly touched his shoulder and laughed, hoping something genius would fly out of my mouth, maybe even something poetic, but we were interrupted by someone behind me, clearing their throat.

I knew who it was before I even turned around.

She was watching us.

God knows for how long.

Her dark hair was swept up elegantly in a loose French twist, a few pieces falling at the front of her face. That hourglass figure of hers was draped in a silky crimson dress that accentuated her waist, long and flowy at the bottom, with an asymmetric hem. And those dark blue eyes, so deep they looked violet, grew smaller as she squinted at me in disbelief, before opening wide again alongside her signature twisted smile.

Nicola Claughton.

My best friend.

The vampire who made me.

Nicola always said my past was off-limits. It was too dangerous, too complicated. No one would ever understand my decision to turn. It was the fair price you had to pay to live forever. Vampires and humans could not knowingly coexist. At least not for very long. But these days? What was the harm? Malcolm was an elder statesman now, for God’s sake. What trouble could he have caused us at this point, really?

But that wasn’t the issue anymore at all, was it?

Nicola knew he was still important to me, in his own way. Because no matter what had happened between us in our whirlwind romance, Malcolm Wells was my last living link in London to the woman I used to be.

Before Nicola.

A time she never wanted me to think about, much less openly acknowledge.

Nic had promised me she wouldn’t touch Malcolm, and even though I believed her, I still kept my sporadic visits a secret. I knew she wouldn’t like it. I knew she’d hate it. But now that she knew the truth, so many years later, I wasn’t sure what she would do about it, if anything.

Yes, Nicola could be ruthless.

Of course. We’re vampires.

But with me? Her companion? No way; she always had my back.

Still, I couldn’t shake the thought.

What if?

In the moment, Nicola acted like everything was fine as she shuffled between Malcolm

 and me in front of Annabel’s. She smiled again before ascending the steps into the club, passing Geraldine on her way out. The entrance was completely decked out with a display of roses. Hundreds of them in white and pink and yellow.

Nicola plucked a single white one before she went in.

I scurried away without another word to anyone, but I followed Malcolm and his wife at a safe distance, back to their town house in Belgravia. Watching and waiting. I stayed there as long as I could, but I had to get home before sunrise.

I told myself that Nicola would let it go. Yes, she was probably mad, but I’d assure her that I wouldn’t show myself to him again and I’d mean it. It would all be fine.

She hurt a lot of people.

But she would never hurt me.

---

—

Afew days later, Malcolm’s death was all over the news. Murdered in his own home. Found in the bathroom. He was brushing his teeth. His wife was already in bed asleep. No suspect identified yet. Nor any motive. My hands shook as I held my phone in bed, scrolling through story after story, reading the words over and over and over again, visceral descriptions like grisly and bloody and vicious cementing the truth.

Malcolm was gone.

The last one left who knew me before.

And his death was my fault.

I felt this hollowness inside me growing bigger by the second, like nothing would fill it up again or round me out or nourish me or bring me back to some semblance of a moral center. It felt like there was no trace of the woman I was born to be, stuck now and forever with the monster she made.

Was this it?

I mean, was this really it for me?

Just Nicola and me and the night?

She’d sealed Malcolm’s fate, just like she thought she’d sealed mine back in 1979. That was always the message, no matter how big or small the vessel. Her way or nothing at all. I can admit that I’ve always known that about Nicola, but most of the time our interests aligned.

Didn’t they? I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Malcolm’s death was a punch to the gut that made me rethink everything about Nicola. About us. About our friendship. Because if she could break a promise like this, a serious promise she made to me, all those years ago,

 at such a vulnerable time, what else was she capable of?

What else had she done?

What else would she do?

I think Nic was always jealous I still had someone out there who knew the real me, someone who cared for me once and maybe, on some level, still did. It wasn’t about romance with Malcolm anymore, but it was about a connection, no matter how thin the thread had gotten.

Who did Nicola have, except for me?

All the others were gone. I had no idea where they went. She never talked about them, except for her sister, and even then she didn’t say too much, muttering about legacy and loyalty and the Laurels, our home.

But maybe Nicola didn’t really care about me at all.

Maybe she only cared about keeping me.

My mind raced, like a movie playing backward, sped up and slowed down, retracing the course of our years together, pausing at moments I might have mistaken for friendship but might actually have been a show of control or manipulation or untruths to keep me close and afraid of the world around me, even though I knew we were both predators in our own right.

But with Nicola, I’d always be younger, the baby, the progeny.

She thought that I belonged to her.

But I didn’t want that anymore.

Had I ever?

I made a promise to myself right then and there.

It was time to leave Nicola behind.

For good.

Others had left, hadn’t they?

I could figure out how they did it.

And then I would do it, too.

---

—

Nicola never wants to talk about her previous companions. Whenever I tried, she said it was too painful. Like bringing up an ex-boyfriend, but even worse because the relationship between maker and companion is the kind that can’t be fully defined or explained. Female friendship on another planet, from a different world, a darker and deeper place where language doesn’t apply, unable to fully hold the weight.

So I know leaving Nicola won’t be so simple. I don’t have any real friends. I don’t have any money of my own. I don’t have a safe place to go. Yet.

And I don’t know what she’ll do about it once she finds out.

I have to tread carefully, but I can’t play small either.

Big swings only.

No risk, no reward. 

—

Sure, I’ve clicked around on the internet in hopes of finding other vampires, but there’s no way to know, 100 percent, if anyone’s telling the truth online. Besides, vampires are slippery little suckers as it is, not to mention the whole strange human spectrum of pretending to be vamps on Reddit and the like.

And Nicola aside, I already know it’s not an easy thing to just pick up and go as a vampire. We’re at the mercy of the sun. Seriously. It’s the only thing that can kill us. So, there’s time zones to consider. Any travel delays or issues with documentation could be deadly. And let’s say you miraculously arrive safe and sound in your chosen location. What if the welcome wagon isn’t so welcoming? By and large, vampires are with their makers or respective companions. Being a loner? Better watch your back. Property, land, territory, money, possessions. All of it is very fraught, to say the least, with our kind. You can be captured and you can be kept or you can be shown the daylight for the very last time.

Nicola has told me all about that.

Threats from humans who could never understand, but also threats from vampires who know all the rules, trusting no one outside their circle.

Part of me understands the harsh nature. When you can’t roam fully free out in the world, living the nightlife forever, a vampire’s home is like a fortress, their territory is a sanctuary, and any trespassers need to be vetted very, very carefully.

I’m keeping that in mind.

I snooped around this week in Nicola’s bedroom, looking for anything about previous companions. Specifically, I rifled through her jewelry box. I never went into Nicola’s jewelry box. She’s funny about stuff. Look, I like nice things, but she is a material girl, if you know what I mean. Whenever Nicola lent me a piece, noting that a particular bangle would look good with my dress, or pointing out a specific ring that would make my manicure pop, it came directly from her hand. Her jewelry box was never open for casual browsing.

But I know that a jewelry box often holds many baubles of sentimental value over the course of a woman’s life.

I was right.

There it was.

My own wedding ring from Malcolm, tucked alongside others in the ring roll, the diamond even bigger than I remembered. I had no idea

 she kept it for herself or when she took it, and obviously I was tempted to snatch it back, but that’s not what the mission was about, and she’d notice if it was gone.

She notices a lot.

I picked up each ring and bracelet, of which there were so many, looking for engravings or anything personalized, replacing them carefully when I came up short. Earrings were anyone’s guess. A solid-gold pocket watch was in the back of one of the little drawers, with no discernable markings, aside from being pretty masculine, and I had a hard time believing Nicola would ever take a male companion, her opinion on men pretty grim, to say the least, human or otherwise.

But when I ran my finger through the hangers of necklaces, I stopped at a locket. Silver and tarnished, in the shape of a heart, not really in style anymore, and something I’d never seen Nic wear before.

Because it didn’t belong to her.

There was a photo of a happy couple inside.

And I recognized one of them.

Why would Nicola have this in her possession?

Unless…

---

—

We’ve had some brief run-ins with the other vampires in London since I joined Nicola. There’s not many in this city, much less worldwide, and all the interactions I’ve witnessed have been chilly and removed. We generally keep to our own territories. Nicola won’t have it any other way and the others don’t seem to have a problem with it. No one crosses into an area where they don’t belong. According to her, it’s just better to stick to your own.

And maybe she’s right.

But what if she doesn’t want me talking to them because she’s afraid of what they’ll tell me?

Nic says that the only vampire you can trust is your maker.

We’re supposed to live and die by that rule.

But then why does it seem like one of Nicola’s former companions, the woman pictured in the locket, is still in London—and she’s living with another vampire?

So I’m not playing by Nicola’s rules anymore. I’m off to Chelsea tonight to confirm my suspicions and get the real story, or at least some version

of it. Chelsea is not our territory, but really, what are those girls going to do if I ask them a few quick questions?

Kill me?

 

 

TWO

 

NICOLA

1979

Inever felt more human than when I was in the middle of a dance floor. Tramp was always a favorite of mine. It was a nightclub that attracted a crowd in their prime, but age had nothing to do with it. It was about presence. Well-heeled and well-dressed, everyone out to have a phenomenal time, no matter the cost.

Hedonism always prevailed.

Sublime fashion, too, of course, but that’s London for you. Polyester was practically prohibited, as one could imagine. Silky jewel-toned gowns on the women, leaving little to the imagination. Sparkles twinkled on the sky-high stilettos. Ears, wrists and necks were awash in flashes of gold or silver, sometimes both. Long and shiny hair slicked with sweat by the time the wee hours crept in. Hips stayed strong all night, side to side, as they ran manicured fingers up glistening napes, giving those strands a little tug, for a lift, some relief from the body heat. Sharp elbows remained at attention, swaying in the air along with the music.

The men at Tramp? Just as divine. Very Savile Row after-hours. Sharp dressers only. Smart jackets eventually tossed aside in the banquette. Shirts unbuttoned, revealing that delightful patch of masculinity I always loved to run a finger through, plucking just one hair to get a rise out of him, followed by a quick and nervous laugh. Trousers tailored in a way that made a man’s bum practically beg for a wayward graze or wanton grope. And plenty did with pleasure. Because if you were at Tramp, you were a proper dish, served up to all who wanted to have a cheeky bite.

Which could make it difficult to stand out in a place like this.

But somehow she did.

I always gained admittance to Tramp, even though I wasn’t on the revered members-only list. Like anything in life, it’s all who you know, and doormen typically made for worthwhile acquaintances in the city. As a result, there was never any problem when I’d add a guest to my unofficial list.

See, I preferred to have a meal at the ready come closing time.

Solo male travelers were simple enough to meet, especially just after sundown. Leisure or business, London attracted plenty of men having a wander about the city all alone, looking for a bit of a frolic. I’d pop into any given pub to find an unsuspecting gentleman who likely had no other prospects for the night. The type of bloke probably nobody would miss. I’d tell him to meet me at Tramp or Annabel’s or Regine’s or some other smashing locale that they’d just die to get into, an irresistible invitation.

Not to worry, darling.

You’ll be on the list.

Just tell the doorman you’re with me.

Nicola Claughton.

---

—

The DJs at Tramp were incomparable. Classic. Spinning the hits only. They knew our desires. Kept us all in motion, kept us all in good spirits. We became a visual feast for the eyes. All of us, possessing a single body amidst a swarm of others, always considerate of the collective movement, but purely in charge of our own contribution.

Disco was a bloody rush.

I knew it would be fleeting, like every passing music craze, but I wanted that one to last as long as possible. I wholeheartedly appreciated the

melancholy understanding that time was ephemeral—for most—and we better have a sodding good time while we still could.

The night I met her, I finally spied Jeremy from down the pub earlier emerge just after one in the fucking morning. Took him long enough, but at least he heeded my pointed wardrobe recommendation. He had changed into a collared shirt, unbuttoned of course, as the trend dictated showing off a thick neck and some furry pecs.

Fantastic.

Here we go.

I waited for him to approach me first, like a gentleman should, striking an alluring pose with my pins on full display. But he was whisked away to the dance floor by some willowy woman in white I’d never seen before in my life.

Her teeth shone bright in an enormous smile, straight and large and even, hardly diminishing that pillowy pout of hers. She was lips upon lips upon lips. Her wide-set glacier-blue eyes gave her an almost feline appearance, ...