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Do they recoil at the sight of sharp sticks?
Are they nocturnal? If so, do they have trouble remembering that not everybody else is?
Have you never seen them eat before? Like, not ever?
Do they require explicit permission before entering someone’s residence?
Do they have unusual magical abilities?
Do they have unusually prominent canine teeth?
Have they told you that they are a vampire?
If you can answer yes to one or more of the above questions that’s notconclusiveproof that the person you suspect is a vampire is actually a vampire. But at a minimum, you should be on your guard, stock up on wooden stakes and garlic, and call us right away at 1-888-VAMPIRE for an informal and completely confidential consultation.
The skeptic in me rolled her eyes over the fact that there was apparently an upper-Midwestern amateur vampire hunting guild. But as I read the checklist, my innate skepticism couldn’t keep my stomach from twisting itself into a tighter and tighter knot.
I didn’t know about the sharp stick thing, but the rest of the list described Reggie to a tee.
I was the world’s biggest idiot not to have realized immediately that when he told me he was a vampire, he’d meant it literally.
“Fuck.” I buried my face in my hands, panic rising again. This was realigning my entire worldview with respect to what was real and what wasn’t. I wasn’t wired for this. I’d built my life and career around predictability and logic. Around things that made sense.
How was I supposed to process imaginary monsters coming to life and hanging out with me at my family’s cabin?
I couldn’t do this by myself.
I needed Sophie.
