My entire undead existence had flashed before my eyes.
Then Billie continued. “Like mosquitoes.”
Conrad had simply nodded distractedly. “Sounds unpleasant.”
I’d nearly ascended directly into hell from the stress of it all.
The children’s questions had only increased from there.
Could I see in the dark?
Did garlic actually work against vampires? This one took some time to explain, considering they’d seen me cook with garlic on numerous occasions. “It depends on the intention behind the garlic. If it’s fresh and it’s being used toward a vampire who has ill intentions, it works as a deterrent. But I can cook with it and be around it in the kitchen. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Had I ever met Dracula?
Could vampires get braces?
Did I know any werewolves?
Could zombies and vampires date?
That last one had resulted in a forty-minute debate between CJ and Bianca involving disease transmission, decomposition rates, and “cross-species romantic logistics,” which I had to shut down quickly.
“The zombie would smell bad,” Billie contributed.
Honestly, valid point.
By Sunday evening, I finally forced myself out into civilization because I needed my monthly blood ration before I started making deeply irresponsible choices involving Conrad Lawrence’s extremely sexy neck.
The funeral home sat two towns over beneath a flickering sign that had looked mildly haunted since the nineteen-eighties. Holloway & Sons Funeral Services.Comfort Through Compassion.
The basement beneath it smelled faintly of antiseptic, clove cigarettes, cold stone, and expensive cosmetics.
Emil looked up from embalming paperwork when I entered through the side door.
“Well,” he drawled. “You look emotionally drained.”
“I came for blood, not therapy, Emil.”
“Same difference.”
Emil had been thirty-eight for approximately ninety years and somehow managed to look both elegant and exhausted at all times. Silver threaded through his dark hair at the temples. His shirts were always immaculate. His moral ambiguity remained inspiring.
He slid a small, insulated case across the counter toward me. “Hospital stock this month. Type O.”
“Bless you.” I opened the case carefully. Four sealed bags. Enough for several weeks if rationed properly.
“I also acquired fresh plasma from a magical practitioner with extremely good iron levels,” Emil added.
“How romantic.”
“You mock me, but sourcing ethically is difficult.”
That was true. Most vampires operated through black-market feeding circles or willing donor arrangements. I preferred Emil. He was discreet, professional, and only moderately criminal.
He leaned against the prep counter, watching me closely. “You’re distracted. What’s going on in that pretty mind of yours?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
