Page 100 of Fang Fatale

"Complicated."

I laugh.

"That's not a flavor."

"For you," she says, bumping my shoulder with hers, "I think it is."

The sun climbs over the trees behind us, chasing the last of the night from the sky.

For the first time in longer than I care to admit, walking toward Blackthorn with Birdie's hand tucked safely in mine, I realize I'm no longer simply existing.

I'm finally home.

CHAPTER 15

BIRDIE

Blackthorn is a different beast in the early hours, the bars vomiting out their last patrons and the streets yawning empty except for the occasional plastic bag ghosting across the pavers. The only business with a light on is Hex & Honey, which glows like a hive from the corner. The sign is made of tin and magic marker, the E in Honey scribbled in at a wonky angle. I’m the only person alive who likes that detail. The other is Daisy, but she would die before she admitted to liking anything about the signage.

It’s a Tuesday, so foot traffic is nil, but Daisy works like she’s prepping for an apocalypse. She’s got flour on her face as well as everywhere else, and she’s spritzing the countertop with a cleaning potion that smells suspiciously like bubblegum vodka and is probably illegal in three counties. I’m supposed to be doing inventory, but I keep drifting to the window. Not for the view—just to see if Alaric’s silhouette is in it.

Since Leland vanished, the world has clicked into place in a way I would almost call suspicious. No more watchful eyes at my door, no more kidnapping attempts, and my name hasn’t appeared in any dead drops or missing-persons columns for months. Clover, our resident high witch, is off at some monster summer camp, so it’s just Daisy and me manning the fort for now.

She wipes her hands on her skirt and leans against the case of BEWITCHED BUNS—TRY OUR HEXY ROLLS! I tried telling her that sounded like a sex thing, but Daisy only shrugged and said, “If the bun fits, babe.”

“You seeing him again tonight?” she asks, stretching the him with greasy pride. Her smile is all canine and conspiratorial.

I look away, mumbling, “Maybe,” but Daisy is immune to shame and has the ears of a fox.

“You’re blushing,” she says, nearly cackling.

“I’m not,” I say, which is a lie, but she doesn’t call me on it. Daisy has too much respect for a bluff.

She pulls a tray of marshmallow potion cubes from the oven and sets them down between us. The warmth is comforting, not because of the actual temperature, but because Daisy has been family since the day I floated into this place with a duffel bag and a refusal to die.

A shadow flickers across the window. Not Alaric this time—just the postal wraith making her rounds, her veil trailing behind her like an oil slick. I let my shoulders drop, which Daisy notices, because Daisy notices everything.

“So what’s the plan for tonight?” she asks, flipping a cube into her mouth and talking through chews. “More brooding in the moonlight? Oh—” She snaps her fingers, sending powdered sugar flying. “Let me guess. You two are going to dramatically not talk about your feelings and then kiss in a graveyard.”

“That only happened once,” I protest, even if once was the week before and his lips tasted like midnight and menthol and something chemical I couldn’t name.

“Does he eat?” Daisy asks around her snack. “Like, real food? Or is he one hundred percent on the blood diet?”

“He eats,” I say, remembering the first time I saw him make an omelet. He cracked the eggs with one hand and whisked them like he was conducting an orchestra, casual and infuriatingly good at it. He set the table, gave me the bigger fork, and didn’t comment when I ate like an escaped squirrel. “He’s got a thing for Italian.”

Daisy whistles. “Classy. I always figured vampires just slurped blood out of Capri Suns.”

“He’s not just a vampire,” I say automatically. “Not exactly.”

She raises both eyebrows, which is her way of calling bullshit in stereo.

“What, then?”

I think about it. “He’s like a very bored predator. A panther who got trapped working retail for two hundred years.”

“Oooh,” Daisy says, licking sugar from her wrist. “That’s hot.”

Even though I roll my eyes, I agree. Every time he looks at me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to ruin, it feels hot and dangerous and wrong in just the right proportion.