Page 65 of Fang Fatale

A single knock sounds against the side window.

Trent.

One tap.

Our signal that he'd spotted headlights at the bottom of the hill but didn't consider them an immediate threat. Probably another spectral deer—the local cryptid equivalent of a mail carrier making the rounds.

I make a mental note to thank him later before settling deeper into the couch, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of my own heart.

Ridiculous.

Considering it only bothers with such enthusiasm on special occasions.

I dim the lamps and let the fire burn lower.

Birdie wakes only once.

She blinks around the room, momentarily disoriented, then finds me still sitting where I'd been all evening.

"You going to stay up all night?"

Her voice is quiet.

Not frightened.

Just curious.

I can't explain why that matters.

"I'm a vampire, remember?"

I offer the smallest shrug.

"It's literally my only marketable skill."

She laughs.

Softly.

For the first time...

It doesn't sound like armor.

She laughs.

For the first time...

It doesn't sound like a dare.

Or a shield.

We fall into the sort of conversation people only have after all the usual defenses have been worn thin by exhaustion and soup that tastes like despair.

Birdie settles back into the armchair with her knees tucked beneath her, the deep red upholstery doing nothing for her complexion. The firelight, however, burns her edges in gold until she glows like a reluctant apparition.

We trade favorites—books, bands, places we'd haunt if death gave options.

She's partial to Agatha Christie and Scottish ghost stories, and at some point confesses that she hates the beach but loves the way oceans make her feel temporary.