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Chapter One
Just Another Day
Weird has become normal for me to the point that true normal feels weird.
I’m not sure if it’s an unusual side effect of immortality, but my life prior to that night in Hillcrest Park feels more like a hazy faded dream that may or may not have really happened. On some intellectual level, I know there used to be a scrappy little girl named Sam who used to sneak onto the neighbor’s big company farm to steal food. She had three brothers and a sister, a mother with better things to do than spend time on her kids and a dad who kinda sorta tried—when he wasn’t either away on some crazy dream project or high.
She eventually survived to adulthood, got married, had two kids… and then everything went bonkers.
When I say it feels like my entire life has been one calamity after another, it’s not me trying to exaggerate. The ‘my entire life’ part covers from the night I turned into a vampire forward. All the mundane stuff before that has become so distant in my mind it feels more like a book or movie about someone else I vaguely recall reading or watching.
Earlier today marked a first for me. Paxton had a meltdown over some cosmetics she desperately wanted being out of stock. The makeup was to complete an outfit she’d come up with for a talent show at school. Anyway, not a bratty Veruca Salt ‘I want itnow’ sort of meltdown, more a ‘the world is over’ sobbing kind of meltdown. The kid is almost fourteen now and she’s so girly it hurts. Tammy would never have thrown such a fit over cosmetics. I couldn’t help myself and found it adorable to watch Paxton come apart over something so trivial, especially when we still had plenty of other stores to check. Thankfully, the girl’s an empath, so when I couldn’t stop smiling, she knew I wasn’t making fun of her.
By the way, I smiled because her emotional reaction to makeup being out of stock told me she felt safe. Poor kid never would’ve been able to let that out if she still lived with her biological dad—who will likely spend the next several decades in prison, but that’s another story entirely. Short version is, he killed her mother years ago in a fit of drunken rage.
Anyway, her meltdown wasn’t entirely about the glitter-infused face paint or whatever it is she wanted… she’s all sorts of nervous about getting up in front of her entire class for a talent show. Anxiety can be like a partially frozen lake: all it takes is one little crack or imperfection and the entire surface shatters.
Locating some makeup is hardly the most apocalyptic job I’ve ever undertaken. Not exactly killing a dragon here. Just have to go to a couple other places until we find the stuff. Her outburst also reassured me with its normality. One does not raise kids without having to navigate the occasional irrational emotional storm. I wasn’t one of those moms who desperately wanted a girly girl or anything in particular from my kids. Early on, I never insisted Anthony play sports or not play sports (though later I recognized he had an unfair supernatural advantage and pulled him from competition), or pressured Tammy into gymnastics or dance class or karate. Whoever they happened to be, I would love them all the same. Can’t say I wastoothrilled with those few years of ‘the world and everyone in it sucks’ goth Tammy, but she’s out of that phase.
Paxton, however, is much higher maintenance than my other two ever were.
Honestly, as soon as Anthony no longer required diapers, he really didn’t need much effort from me or Danny to keep him going. I’d say my son was abnormally low maintenance for a kid, but it all kinda makes sense now. Far be it for me to attempt to explain how the cycle of life works, but I still can’t wrap my head around how a seven-year-old boy can accomplish all he needed to accomplish in life and be ready to move on. It’s like his previous life went into overtime and only needed a few more years to finish off.
I objected, of course.
Maybe I shouldn’t have but… he’s my son. I’d be damned if I didn’t do everything in my power to keep him safe. Turns out, things ‘within my power’ happened to reach into the alchemical and magical realms, far beyond the abilities of ordinary mothers to protect their kids from inexplicable diseases.
Anyway… weirdness aside. The day started off with Paxton in tears as bad as if someone she loved just died, but now we’re completely normal. Costume cosmetics crisis solved. The stuff she wanted wasn’t even expensive… just a bit on the rare side. Her mood is back. She’s sorta-singing in the Momvan, practicing her routine for the talent show. Soon, we’re on our way into the store to grab groceries for the week. Unlike Tammy—who at this age would scowl at everyone who dared make eye contact—Pax is thrilled to go shopping with me.
Truth is, I don’t blame Tammy. Our family had some…issuesgoing on back when Tammy was thirteen. Being moody because her mother dragged her off to do grocery shopping was hardly anything for me to panic about. Teenagers get moody over the smallest things.
Crazy how fast Paxton can go from crying to giggling at everything.
We make our way around the store like any other mother/daughter pair navigating the aisles. At least half the items on my list are from Anthony. He’s gotten more and more into the cooking thing, I think as some kind of homage to Danny. It started with spaghetti sauce—really the only thing Danny ever made from scratch. It’s strange to me how my son has this association between his father and being a chef. Danny wasnota chef. The only thing he ever really cooked was the spaghetti sauce. Of course, he madeamazingsauce.
Anyway, the boy is trying all sorts of recipes he finds on TikTok. My personal feelings about my ex-husband aside, cooking reminds Anthony of his dad… and he seems to enjoy doing it, so I’m not going to stand in his way. Hey, there’s a future in it, right? Gordon Ramsay isn’t exactly destitute.
Roughly fifty minutes after entering the store, we’ve gotten all the stuff we need and make our way toward the front, past tables loaded with all sorts of baked goods strategically placed there in hopes of triggering an impulse grab.
All of a sudden, Paxton stops talking. She’s been chattering away the whole time we’ve been in the store. The kid is a bundle of energy and happiness, and it often leaks out her mouth in the form of continuous talking. If she abruptly falls silent, it usually means she’s spotted an insect of some kind, had a sudden, shocking thought… or a nearby person’s emotions are so strong they overwhelmed her.
Since she didn’t scream, the silence is not the fault of anything with more than four legs.
She’s walking a little behind me on my left as I’m pushing the cart, so I twist to peer back at her. Paxton’s staring off to her right, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Before I can ask what’s wrong, she scoots forward and cling-grabs my arm.
“Mom!” she whisper-shouts. “That guy’s gonna do something bad. His emotions are seriously out of control.”
I follow her stare to a man standing behind the second register from the door. Looks like he just walked into the store and stopped there maybe fifteen feet from the entrance. He’s glancing to either side repetitively as if he’s on the side of the road waiting for traffic so he can cross. It’s kinda warm out today, but the guy’s wearing a long black raincoat. He’s mid-thirties with shaggy brown hair, fidgety. The sort of person in-store security would start following as soon as they entered the place.
Paxton squeezes against me. “He’s really angry… and he also wants to die.”
Those two emotions existing at the same time are not a good thing… unless he’s a Chicago Cubs fan, in which case it’s pretty much their normal state of being. In all seriousness though, this guy already set off my ‘we have a problem’ instinct. At Paxton telling me he’s simultaneously raging and suicidal, I find myself reflexively starting to reach for a gun I haven’t carried since I resigned from HUD.
Old training comes back to me in an instant. Body posture and bulges in the fabric make it obvious to me he’s concealing a rifle under that coat. The way he keeps looking back and forth takes on a new, darker meaning. He’s watching people… perhaps waiting for there to be a lot of targets in close proximity before he whips his coat open and raises whatever weapon he’s got under there.
Oh, hell no.
“Get down,” I say in a low voice. “If I start dragging the guy out of the store, call 911.”
