Chapter One

Hayley

The pink-faced manager at O'Connor's Bar & Grill throws crumpled bills into the air, leaving me no choice but to pop a squat and collect the money on the beer-soaked wooden floor. As I stuff the soggy bills in my jean pockets and rise up to my feet, I see a self-satisfied smirk spread across Tim's chubby fuchsia cheeks.

What an ass-hat.

"I knew you'd be trouble. But attacking a customer? You're lucky I didn't call the police!"

I flip him off as I turn on my heel and strut out of Tim's tiny office. He starts shouting profanities at me, but I tune him out. Sighing, I take off my tiny black work apron, and prop myself up on a stool next to the bar. Savannah, an O'Connor's bartender with platinum-blonde hair, gives me a sympathetic look. She nods her head towards Tim's office and rolls her eyes, which makes me laugh. We both know he's a douche. I wish Savannah would leave this old, mold-infested joint. Not only is the manager an ass, but the pay isn't that great. Plus, I'm pretty sure the bar's décor never changed from when it was built in the '80s. There's a zebra-patterned couch next to an out-of-order jukebox for fuck's sake.

Savannah comes over and offers me a warm smile. "So, Tim's giving you the boot, huh? I'm sorry to hear it, but this drink is on me." She serves me a Sam Adams with a wink and I mumble a 'thank you.' Even though I don't work in this dump anymore, why can't I treat myself to one last drink?

I sip the cold beer and muse about the little incident that caused Tim to fly off the handle and fire me. Technically, the customer I fought had attacked me first, but by the time Tim came around to see what the commotion was about, I was standing over the unconscious body of my would-be assaulter.

It was a newbie werewolf. I vaguely remembered meeting him back when I was invited into the werewolf pack in New York City. Was his name Bill or Will? He didn't strike me as an experienced werewolf. He should've known better than to try to take me on. I felt a touch regretful beating up on the scrawny were. I knew it wasn't his idea to make me a target. She was definitely behind this. And now that Bill/Will or whatever failed, it was only a matter of time before she would order more wolves to come after me.

Luckily I never stay in one place for long. I know the drill by heart: try to make nice with the local wolves, stock up on as much money as I can, and then beat the hell out of town. Wolf packs aren't exactly known for embracing strangers—even fellow wolves—so when I was welcomed by the pack in New York, I had a fluttery, excited feeling in my stomach. That maybe this time it would be different. I could finally call this place my home.

Now that dream is dead. No time for regrets or even revenge against that vamp seductress who mind-controlled all the wolves to do her bidding. My only thought is to leave New York as soon as possible. But first, I need more cash. Turns out that living in one of the most expensive cities in the world did quite a number on my savings. To go somewhere far away—where my former wolf friends can't find me—I'll need one more score. I look around the bar for someone with a lot of cash, a bit inebriated, and won't notice if a few bills go astray…

I peruse tonight's bar crowd and groan out of frustration. "Slim pickings" is an understatement. The place is completely empty. It's the Tuesday night crowd. Only two grumpy old men are busy watching some game on the flat screen, while a nerdy boy chats up an uninterested girl at the far end of the bar. I'm thinking it's a first date. It's awkward as hell just watching them.

I reach for one of the bigger bills, place it on the bar for Savannah, and prepare to head out. I shuffle towards the door, but before I can head out to face the cool autumn night, a large body knocks into me. I lose my balance, and I'm pretty I'm about to face plant on the ground until strong hands wrap around my arms, steadying me. I turn my head up to glance at the imposing figure of my savior and my jaw drops. Standing before me is the most handsome man I've ever seen. His flawless features are overwhelming. He's tall with wavy brown hair, a strong nose, and soulful, dark eyes. Then I notice his clothes: a black suit, light blue tie, pocket square, and polished, black leather shoes. His whole outfit fits him like a glove. Tailored, of course, and ridiculously expensive.

It doesn't even occur to me to ask why Mr. Park Avenue decided to slum it at some Irish pub on the west side. All I see are dollar signs. He's the perfect target.

I'm about to turn on my charm, but he smiles at me warmly and I lose my train of thought. Shit. He's a smoothie.

"I must apologize for knocking into you. Are you alright?" His dark eyes are full of concern as they search mine, and I know I'm losing my chance to go in for the kill. It's time to focus.

I bat my eyelashes and return his smile. "I'm good, thanks. It's half my fault too. How about I buy you a drink to make amends?"

I peek up at him and feel somewhat relieved that he seems amused by my flirty antics. I hook my arm through his and I'm about pull both of us to the bar when I hear a booming voice from across the room.

"What are YOU still doing here? You're fired. That means get THE FUCK out of here. Or do I need to spell it out for you?"

Tim's posture is ramrod straight and his cheeks have darkened from fuchsia to cherry-red. He's furious I haven't skedaddled.

Suddenly, I realize that plan A—getting this guy liquored up—is no longer an option. It's time for plan B: the "quick lift."

I shoot Park Avenue an innocent "I have no idea what that crazy man is talking about" smile and unlatch my arm from his. He gives me a quizzical look and parts his lips as if he's about to speak, but I silence him by pressing my fingertips to his full mouth. Then I lean in closer to his gorgeous face.

"Sorry about that drink," I whisper and brush my lips against his ear. My hands fall against his crisp, button-up white dress shirt and my throat dries up as my palms rest against his firm chest.

It's not like this tactic is new to me. After all, I've played the seductress countless times before, but it's strange feeling up Park Avenue. There's a pit in my stomach and I think I'm blushing. When I steal a glance up at him, his expression is unreadable. It's kind of annoying. I feel completely transparent.

I can see red-faced Tim in the corner of my eye and I know it's time to make my move. He's about to blow.

I jump away from "Tall, Dark, & Handsome" and shoot him my best coquettish smile. "Maybe next time I'll buy you that drink."

Then I give Park Avenue a wink and slam the door behind me before he can utter a word.

Almost immediately, I feel a pang of regret. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I disappointed that I might not run into Park Avenue again? I remind myself that's not what counts. I feel the familiar, heavy weight in my right hand. Money. The only thing in this world that matters. My mission was a success.

There are three Ds that are essential for being a good thief: distraction, discretion, and distance. I'm feeling confident that I aced all three Ds this go around, but I still need to get away from the bar STAT. Still, I can't resist turning the corner and checking out my hard-earned reward: Park Avenue's black leather wallet.

I roll my eyes at the brand. It's Fendi. Figures.

I'm sure that whatever's inside the wallet will be more than enough to get me far away from the city. I pat myself on the back for a job well done and prepare to make a run for it, but a familiar form comes up behind me and blocks my escape.

It's Park Avenue.

Sonofabitch.

"I believe you have something that belongs to me?"

His tone is light and playful, but I'm not an idiot. Underneath the charming exterior is something dangerous. No human could possibly sneak up on a werewolf like that. I'm dealing with a fellow supernatural, and if I were to judge by looks—clean cut, prim and proper speech—I'd say vampire. An old vampire.

Strength-wise I'm definitely outmatched and he knows it too. He offers me a triumphant grin and holds out his hand expectantly. I feel like he's laughing at me and it's starting to piss me off. What can I say? I have a temper. And I'm a bit proud. But I also want to live, so I reluctantly place the wallet in his hand.

Once our hands meet, he swiftly tucks the wallet away in the inside of his suit pocket, his shit-eating grin never leaving his face. That cocky bastard.

I've lost the battle with Park Avenue and now I'll have to find a new target.

"Don't spend it all in one place." I shrug and turn to leave, but he grabs my arm. Hard.

Crap. I'm not getting out of this one so easily. There's nowhere to run, and of course, the corner around the bar is a narrow alleyway—an alleyway without any witnesses around. My throat dries again, but this time it's for a completely different reason. I'm scared.

As if he sensed my fear, the vampire releases my arm and raises his hands in the air in a non-threatening gesture. "Please forgive me. Where are my manners?"

He places a hand to his chest and heat rises to my cheeks. I remember all too well what that sculpted chest felt like. I replay the intimate moment over and over again. I pinch myself on the wrist. I gotta snap out of it. It's not the appropriate time for these dirty thoughts.

But the vampire doesn't notice my inner turmoil. Thank god.

He continues his speech. "I'm Elijah. An original vampire—one of the first vampires created on this earth."

I suppose I should feel comforted that I guessed he was old. But a freaking original!? I stole a wallet from an original vampire. I might as well dictate my obituary to him. I'm in deep shit.

One of Elijah's dark eyebrows lifts up and he stares intently at me, clearly waiting for me to introduce myself. As if the information he divulged is totally normal. I mean, it's not every day an orphaned werewolf girl meets a centuries-old vampire. It's more than a little unnerving.

"I'm Hayley," I reply lamely.

"A pleasure," he rewards my answer with an even broader smile. And yet, there isn't a trace of maliciousness in his expression. In fact, he seems kind—friendly even.

I allow myself to relax just a smidge and exhale loudly. "It's nice making your acquaintance and all, but I think we're done here. I stole from you, but returned your wallet. So we're good, yes?"

Elijah smirks, in a wise-ass way. "Unfortunately, we are not "good" as you say. We have unfinished business."

"How do we have unf—"

I try to protest, but he won't stop talking.

"I'm here because of that deranged werewolf you defeated so easily this evening. He's not the only wolf who's suffered from mind control."

Elijah steps closer towards me. I stand still and erect. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe.

"You know of whom I speak."

My light brown eyes meet his direct gaze and I nod. "Of course, I know who's controlling the wolves."

Elijah doesn't bother responding. He already knows the answer, but he's toying with me.

My irritation at his deliberate elusiveness makes me bold. I decide to call him out. I'm done playing this game.

"And you also know who's controlling the wolves."

He nods his head and laughs softly.

"Katherine Pierce."