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Chapter 1
Being part werewolf was a massive pain in the ass.
One thing I could really do without was my ridiculously acute sense of smell. It was making this run-down convenience store a real garden of delights, between the mold under the leaky cooler, the gallon of cheap cologne on the cashier, and the expired mystery meat hotdogs spinning in their greasy hot box.
My objective: get in, buy booze, and get out as fast as possible, but when I reached the wine section, I froze with indecision. I was shopping for my first date in decades and had no idea what was popular these days. After a few moments, I selected three different white wines and three reds. Then, just to be safe, I grabbed a rosé.
I hauled the armload of bottles up to the register, where the cologne-drenched cashier frowned at me and said, “Come on, kid. You look like you’re barely eighteen.”
“Not true. Most people think I’m in my mid-twenties.”
He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Let’s see your ID.”
Another annoying thing about being part werewolf—we aged very slowly, so even though I was pushing a hundred and twenty, I still regularly got carded. Since I was in a hurry, I waved my fingers and said, “You don’t need to see my ID.”
When he repeated, “I don’t need to see your ID,” and began ringing up my purchase, I couldn’t help but grin. That Jedi mind trick was courtesy of my warlock side, which was a million times more fun and useful than that werewolf bullshit.
He packed the wine in a cardboard box with a picture of some sort of off-brand cereal mascot on the side. If it wasn’t named Phony the Tiger, it should be. I loaded the alcohol in the trunk of my midnight blue Barracuda, and then I slid behind the wheel and took a deep breath.
On the drive back home, I tried to concentrate on calming the hell down. There was no reason to be nervous, since nothing was probably going to come of my date this evening. Sure, we’d seemed to click while chatting online, but it wouldn’t take him long to realize I was odd and socially awkward once we were face-to-face. About the best I could hope for was that he’d fuck me anyway before never calling me again.
As I turned onto the private driveway leading to my home, I tried to imagine how this place would look to my date. The security gate had been torn off its hinges by a friendly but impatient vampire a few months ago, and it was leaning against the retaining wall. That would probably raise some questions.
So would the fact that I lived in a huge, purple Victorian, which seemed wildly out of place in the Hollywood Hills. It looked sinister in the dark, so when I reached the top of the driveway, I flicked my fingers and turned on all the exterior lights. Now it just looked like an overgrown dollhouse. In retrospect, I really should have made plans to meet him anywhere but here.
I parked off to the side to make room for my guest, then lugged my wine haul up the stairs and through to the kitchen at the back of the house. Now the waiting game began.
I’d expected him at eight, and when he still hadn’t arrived by eight-fifteen, I was sure I was being stood up. I picked up my phone five or six times with the intention of messaging him to see if he was on his way, but I kept putting it down again without sending a text. If he wasn’t coming I’d know soon enough, and I didn’t really want to hear whatever flimsy excuse he came up with for ditching me.
Finally, at nineteen past the hour, I heard a car coming up the driveway and dashed into the nearest bathroom to quickly assess my reflection. I’d just gotten a haircut, and my black hair was very short on the sides. Maybe too short. I tried to finger-comb the longer bit at the top as I frowned at my outfit. I’d gone with a light blue button-down shirt and jeans, and that wardrobe choice wasn’t doing me any favors. No wonder I’d gotten carded. I looked like a high school senior who’d dressed up for picture day.
