Without looking up, the small man shoved a manila envelope at me from across his desk and said, blank-faced, “Your next target.”
I slowly picked up the envelope while looking at Jonas and said, “Aren’t you a barrel of fun today?”
Lazily looking up from his desk, he pushed his glasses up further on his nose. “And when am I ever?”
“You need to get a life, Jonas,” I quipped, putting the envelope under my arm and strolling out of his office in my shiny red stilettos and mini skirt. Yeah, it was slutty, but it got the job done without me having to turn any damn tricks.
Once I reached the breakroom area of the warehouse, I plopped down into a chair and opened the envelope. I spread out the papers on the table, I gazed at my next target.
“Judson Creed. Geez, sounds like the newest boy band member,” I murmured to myself.
“Did someone say member?”
I turned around to see Talon, a douchebag vamp who wore too much hair gel and guyliner.
“Go away, dick,” I said under my breath, trying to ignore him.
In true Talon fashion, he grabbed a chair and flipped it around. Then he straddled it and pulled the chewed-up toothpick from his mouth. “Why?”
I sighed and looked up at him. “Why what?”
“Why you so mean to me?” He grinned and replaced the toothpick.
“Because I don’t like you,” I deadpanned. I looked down at the paperwork. “Now, I know you don’t know what it’s like to read the same line over since you can’t read, but it’s annoying and I have shit to do. So, go… fall on your knife.”
I heard the sound before I saw the knife whiz by my head and land into the corkboard behind me. I grinned. “Nice throw.”
Talon walked over and pulled the weapon from the wall. “You’re lucky I missed.”
I mock-gasped and put my hand over my heart. “You would never kill me.”
He re-sheathed the knife and walked out of the breakroom but stopped before he got to the door. “And I do know how to read.”
I snorted and looked down at my paperwork.
Judson Creed, age 26, guitarist at Bash nightclub. Real name Judson Daniel Smith.
“Geez, I was only joking about the boy band thing,” I muttered.
He and his sister were attacked by a vampire, he survived but she didn’t. He hasn’t kept his mouth shut about the attack and has even tried to lure vampires into alleys without success. Tells anyone who will listen about it. He’s been warned twice but is not giving up. Expiration date: October 31st.
I glanced at my phone: October 25th.
I had five days to find and kill this blabbermouth before he exposes us all. Which should be extra fun since he obviously hated vamps. I may be pretty but I was still the very monster he loathed.
Picking up his photo, I stared at it. Good-looking guy, longish, sandy blond hair, strong nose, nice lips, stubbly jawline. No fashion sense, though. Plaid button-up flannel. Shudder.
I memorized his home address and stuffed all the paperwork and photos into the envelope. Thankfully, I was able to leave the warehouse without being bothered by Ringo or any of his goons.
2
The music inside Bash was a literal assault on my sensitive hearing. I kept meaning to go get some of those moldable earplugs and keep them in my purse for occasions like this, but I seemed to be too busy avoiding the sun and killing people once it went down.
I’d only been a vampire for about six months. I’d just finished the night shift at the diner with Angie, and that night, her then-boyfriend had picked her up to stay at his place. When I’d gotten into my car, it hadn’t started. A nice-looking stranger—a demon wearing the face of a saint—had offered me a ride home. I foolishly had accepted. After all, he was dressed in a very expensive suit, wore a Tag watch, and drove a Tesla. I mean, what could have gone wrong?
But… he was a devil vampire in disguise. Devil wears Prada. Son of Sam. Where had my brain been?
I’d known almost immediately that something was wrong. The townhouse was only about two miles from the diner, and when Ringo had pulled over in a deserted alleyway, I knew I was in trouble. I tried escaping but the door wouldn’t unlock. He leaned over, looking like he wanted to kiss me, but I recoiled back from him.
“Just… just… take me home,” I stammered.
He grinned at me and brushed a stray piece of hair off my forehead that had escaped my bun. “What’s your name?”
I remember feeling relaxed at that point. There had been something in his eyes that had calmed me. “Daniela.”
“Such a pretty name. What’s your last name, sweetheart?” he cooed.
“Diaz,” I deadpanned, still fascinated by his eyes, which I could have sworn were brown but now looked silvery.
“Ah, muy bonita,” he replied in broken Spanish.
“Take me home, please,” I pled, a panic building up in my chest but still seeming calm on the outside.
“Shh, senorita,” he said, leaning in and putting his lips to my neck.
“Get off me!” I snapped, trying to push him off.
He covered his hand over my mouth and bit into my throat. I screamed but it was only a muffle. I tried biting his hand, but it was no use. I was growing weak. The harder he sucked, the weaker I became until the blackness finally took me.
I woke up three days later in his bed. I had no idea what he had done to me during those three days—and I never asked. What would be the point? He then drove me home and told me to, “Stay out of the sun.” That was it.
Living with Angie had become a
