Page 49 of Fang Fatale

"It's a bakery."

"You are approximately the color of a tomato in August."

I scrub at an already spotless counter.

"He's got a decent face."

Clover waits.

"It's an objective fact."

She keeps waiting.

"Like weather."

Still waiting.

"That doesn't mean I want to kiss it."

Clover laughs.

I don't answer.

Mostly because...

I wasn't entirely sure I believed myself anymore.

CHAPTER 9

ALARIC

There's a particular sting to a vampire slump.

It's not that I can't get out of bed—my kind rarely sleep.

It's not that my job is soul-sucking. I don't have a soul, so that particular box was checked centuries ago.

The real suffering is metaphysical and deeply embarrassing, like showing up to your favorite blood bar only to discover your usual seat has been stolen by a wispy three-hundred-year-old with a better jawline and more Instagram followers.

I hover in the doorway, surveying tonight's crowd.

Vlad's is a haven for the terminally attractive and the terminally damned, so every visit feels like walking into a parade of genetic jackpots, Pallor of the Month models, and the occasional self-flagellating goth who hasn't yet realized the danger isn't part of the décor.

They're here for the thrill.

The vintage glassware.

The chance to get drunk on blood so cold it'll leave you with the supernatural equivalent of an ice-cream headache for a week.

Even to me—someone who generally occupies the top of this particular food chain—they look younger.

Sharper.

There's a woman with a razor-cut bob and lips angular enough to cut glass, holding court with a genetically ambiguous twink who apparently worked with the Prussian embassy during the wars.

Everyone looks at least ten times more alive than the last time I checked.

Which is especially unfair considering we're all, by definition...