I was two years old the first time I had dinner with a vampire.
My mother loved to tell the story of how I threw mashed potatoes on the crisp black button-up shirt of Julian Locke.
“I was embarrassed at first,” Mom would say, “but then, when that man took his shirt off to soak the buttery stain, oh boy.” At this point, Mom loved to fan herself for dramatic effect. “I was grateful to you, Jessie-girl. So damn grateful.”
Every family member that’s come before me has bound themselves to the Locke Vampire House since the early 1800s when the treaty between mortals and supernaturals was signed. By binding ourselves to them, once we’re of age, our veins are like a 24-hour juice bar.
There are rules, of course.
1. A vampire shall not pierce the flesh of a mortal without their permission.
2. A vampire shall not enter the dwelling of a bound mortal without their permission.
3. A vampire shall not drain a mortal’s veins.
No one wants an empty 24-hour juice bar, so it’s really in everyone’s best interest that they only take what they need.
I’ve lived in Midnight Harbor my entire life, so I’ve always been surrounded by the things that go bump in the night.
Though supernatural creatures coexist in Midnight, it’s not without its drama.
The vampires hate the wolves obviously.
The witches are extremely protective of their virgins, but the vampires love to sink their teeth into an innocent every now and then.
And the shifters will throw an absolute tantrum if the witches cast spells near their territory. Apparently, witch magic to a shifter nose can stink up a house for a week.
And the fae just want to go back to the faerie realm but can’t, so they’re disgruntled about being permanently displaced and cut off from their family and their courts.
The humans are split on their opinions of the supernaturals. Except for me. My opinion is very clear. I plan to leave Midnight Harbor to escape the supernatural world.
When you turn twenty-one, you’re legally required to pledge yourself to a House, and my birthday is right around the corner. It’s expected that I’ll pledge to the Lockes, but I don’t want to be a blood bag.
Not that I want to be some shifter’s mate. And I certainly don’t want to be a virgin for the rest of my life. Though I’m not even sure I’d qualify at this point. I know how to take care of my own pleasure, and I have the toy collection to prove it.
What I want is a normal life. Somewhere out in the world where I’m not required to tap a vein like a juice box.
“Jessie,” my boss says. “Did you hear me?”
“Huh?”
Rita frowns at me. Her dark braids are wound up in a knot on top of her head. Giant emeralds hang from her earlobes. Perfect winged eyeliner accentuates her big almond eyes. She smells like spices and incense.
Rita is a witch and a powerful one at that. She owns the Magic Coffee Shop and was kind enough to give me a job last year when I begged and pleaded.
“I said I’m leaving for the day, but if you need anything, holler. I’m just gonna be home working on spells.”
“Okay, have fun. Don’t sacrifice too many virgins!”
She chortles as she pushes through the front door. “Oh darling,” she says over her shoulder, “everyone knows sacrificing a virgin is bad luck!”
After Rita’s gone, and with the place empty, I busy myself with cleaning and restocking. I may not be the most proficient barista, but what I lack in coffee-making skills, I more than make up for in organization. There’s just something about matching labels and boxes lined up on shelves and full canisters that makes my heart sing. Sometimes I can’t relax until a place is cleaned and organized.
Rita had me help her move some boxes in her house last month, and when I saw her apothecary room, I almost keeled over. It was like a pack of rabid dogs ran through there. Spoiled toad’s stool and blackening mugroot. Peeling labels and empty containers.
My fingers itched just looking at that room.
“Don’t judge me on my messes,” Rita said when she caught me wide-eyed in the doorway. “Every Hallow’s Eve, I make a vow to be cleaner and more organized, and every year I break it.”
“Then let me help you straighten up,” I said. “Please dear god.”
She agreed, though I’ve yet to get an invitation back.
The bell above the door jingles, and I call out from the stock room. “Be right out!”
I set aside the box of coffee filters and smooth down my Magic Coffee apron before heading out to the front.
When I see who’s at the counter, the air freezes in my throat.
Bran Duval.
Black sheep of the Duval vampire family.
And also my neighbor.
Blood floods my face when he turns his heavy gaze on me. He’s caught me peeping in his windows more than once. I can’t help it if my second-story bedroom window looks in on his bedroom window. And he never shuts his blinds.
I saw him naked just last night and part of me wonders if he lingered in the square of his window just to give me a show.
He drives me mad.
I’ve had more than one hate-sex dream about him.
In fact, I’m having one right now.
Crap.
Gelatin cake.
Gelatin cake.
You don’t grow up in a town of supernaturals without learning the lesson of guarding your scent, especially when you’re feeling horny.
My best friend Sam and I decided early on that in order to stop lusting after the supernaturals, we’d think of gelatin cake. The old-fashioned kind, shaped like a loaf with the gross meat pieces suspended inside.
I get sick to my stomach just thinking about it. And as soon as I have that image firmly burned in my mind, I feel my body unwind and settle.
I can totally do this.
Be cool. Be cool.
“Hey,” I say as I come behind the counter.
Bran’s black hair is messy and wet like he just got out of the shower. He’s wearing his usual: black t-shirt and jeans, black boots. Everything about Bran is dark and a little dangerous. Even in a town of supernaturals, he’s not the type you’d want to bring home to Mom.
“That boy is trouble,” my sister said when she watched him move in next door. “If I had a choice and the means, we’d be moving right now.”
“Did you call him a boy?” I’d said. “He’s several hundred years old.”
“Well, he looks like a boy, so that’s what I’m calling him. It makes me feel better.”
Bran was turned into a vampire when he was twenty-ish years old. He may be one of the oldest in town, but he’s one of the youngest in appearance. It somehow makes him more menacing. Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you in here,” I say to him, now trying to act casual when I am freaking the fuck out. “I never took you for a coffee connoisseur.”
“And I never took you for a peeping Tom, and yet here we are.”
Fucking hell.
Shame flares in my face, and I’m sure it’s making my freckles stand out even more. With my pale Irish skin, it makes it impossible to hide my embarrassment.
Bran stares at me, blank-faced. Vampires, on the other hand, have always been very, very good at hiding their emotions.
I lick my lips and decide to ignore that accusation since it’s technically true. “What can I get for you?”
“Care to tap a vein?” he asks.
Now I’m starting to sweat. I need to get him out of here.
I smile tightly at him. “We’re not allowed to tap a vein in a witch-owned property. But you know that.”
He smiles back, but it’s the coldest smile I’ve ever seen. “I suppose I did.”
“Now, coffee. What can I get started for you?”
“I didn’t come here for coffee.”
I take a step back. I’m not exactly sure what he’s jiving toward, but better to be prepared than sorry. There hasn’t been a nonconsensual vampire attack in over a hundred years, but if someone broke that law, I’m pretty sure it would be Bran.
He’s not only arrogant and rebellious, but insufferably difficult. I mean, he lives in suburbia next door to me when he could live in the Duval Mansion outside of town. I don’t know why he moved out of the mansion, but rumor has it that he got into a big argument with his older brother and got kicked out.
“What did you come for then?” I ask carefully.
His bright amber eyes seem to glow in the dim lighting as he says, “I came to warn you, little mouse.”
