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Logan claps a hand on my shoulder. “Seriously, man, you okay?”

“I just need to make a fruit-heavy smoothie, and I’ll be fine.” I think.

He nods, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Hey, we need to plan a game night with Kallie, Evren, Jackson, and Grace. It’s been ages.”

“And Ember,” I say, making Logan flush. “Later.”

“Later, Count.”

The drive home is filled with dread. I debate going to the station, but know the longer I put off drinking a blood smoothie, the worse my condition will get. As soon as I’m home and out of the car, I head for the kitchen.

Liberally coating menthol ointment under my nose, I mechanically prepare my smoothie. Even with the generous amount of menthol currently tingling my nostrils, the moment I open the blood bag, a rancid odor assaults me. I confirmed the use-by date on the bag before I opened it, as I always do. Yet the scent of it is rotten.

I must have gotten into my own head and convinced myself that the blood is bad. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pour the contents into the blender and finish my routine. When the blender completes its cycle, I pop the straw in and drink quicker than ever before. The need to immediately vomit it back up is strong. My vision goes spotty for a moment as I lean against the counter, bracing myself, fighting to keep the drink down.

The longer I keep it down, the more nauseous and dizzy I get. I may be more depleted than I thought. Medical instinct kicking in, I prepare another smoothie. Forcing this one down is even harder than the last. The dizziness persists as my stomach bubbles like a poorly brewed potion left to boil too long. Lying down on the couch and waiting for the feeling to pass, I lose myself in thought.

Was it a fluke that I was drawn to Cordelya’s blood—or was it fate?

Chapter 5

Accident Prone

CORDELYA

“Order up!” calls from the passthrough window.

I scurry over from the other end of the bar and slide the plates onto my tray like a seasoned pro. Waitressing is one of the easier jobs to obtain, and I’ve made it my business to be good at it.

I head for the table in the back corner and drop off the food.

“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, my cheery tone and best smile on display.

“I’d love some more tea,” a being with deep blue scales replies.

“And some hot sauce,” his human companion says.

“You got it,” I say cheerfully as I head to the prep station behind the bar, where I grab a pitcher of tea and a bottle of hot sauce.

Moving on autopilot as I settle into the late-afternoon groove, I return to the table, top off the drinks, and deposit the sauce.

Once both customers are set, I head back to the window to check on the orders for my other tables. Keep moving, always keep moving.

The day after the accident, I wandered down to the office to tell them about the janky window lock. Dale, the property manager, practically tripped over himself apologizing and assuring me the maintenance crew would come out and fix the issue at my convenience.

When he asked if there was anything else he could help with, I took a chance and asked about a job. He immediately pointed me in the direction of Twisted Broom, the town's local pub.

It was a short twenty-minute walk from the apartment, probably less than five minutes if I had my car.

I didn’t mind the walk. It gave me time to think, take in my new surroundings, and start mapping out exits.

The main street of Ravens Hollow looked like a classic Halloween movie set. Cobwebbed storefronts. Cauldrons bubbling with dry ice—or maybe even real potions. Animatronic werewolves that howl on the hour. Flashing red eyes from a window display grabbed my attention, and I nearly ran into the person in front of me. For a moment, I’d thought it was the EMT from the accident.

On one of the street corners, a chalkboard sign listed all the activities for the month of October—movies in the park, costume contests, moonlight dancing, a craft faire, and finally, the Haunted Halloween festival.

Every event sounded like so much fun. Activities I used to love.

But fun is a luxury. I’d been here less than a day. No protocols in place. I couldn’t risk it.