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Chapter 1

It’s 3:06 a.m., and I am tied to a literal wooden stake like it’s the Dark Ages.

The late-October air in East Gloaming, Vermont, is cold and thick, with fog curling around my combat boots like fingers, dragging goosebumps up my thighs beneath my black denim miniskirt.

This macabre event is taking place at the top of the closest thing to a mountain in these parts. I’m staked in the middle of a clearing, lit by a full moon and about a hundred battery-powered, flickering LED torches.

They couldn’t even manage real fire. Lame.

On top of that, they didn’t let me keep my leather jacket.

Apparently, goat-headed thousand-year-old demons like their “brides” suitably attired.

They tried to make me wear a wedding dress, for Christ’s sake. White, of course, because I’m pure.

Not a chance. White lace? With my complexion?

I threatened to tear it right down the middle and jiggle my breasts at the demon, and apparently, I was convincing enough to make them back down.

So, I’m adorned in what I think is the perfect ‘bridal’ outfit for this sort of union.

Black, on black, on black. Mini skirt, fishnets with garters, knee-high platform boots, and an off-the-shoulder, midriff-baring puffy-sleeved blouse.

The bride gets her way.

They tried to take my glasses, too, but I told the mayor that if I’m getting eaten, I’d like to see it in HD.

Then I nailed him in the nuts with my knee when he reached for them anyway, ignoring my one last minor request before my doom materialized. What are they going to do to me?

Police Chief Reynolds is gonna cuff me and toss me into the single cell at the police station?

Nope. I have a higher purpose.

Technically, I only need my glasses for distance, and even then, barely.

A road sign a quarter mile ahead. A hazy demon emerging from the fog.

The rest of the time I wear them because I like myself better in them, and because a girl built like me in contacts gets looked at.

A girl built like me in librarian black wire frames gets looked past.

Dolly Parton never hid a single thing a day in her life. But I hide behind drugstore glasses, XXL black sweatshirts, goth ass kicker boots, and bras that flatten instead of lift.

I wish I could be more like Dolly, but instead…I’m just Dolly. Same but different.

Tonight, though, I am not hiding anything.

I wore the one bra I own that combined lace, underwires, and enough upward force to put my 40EEE breasts on full display, filling out the front of my blouse.

So, on Devil’s Night in this pathetic little town I’ve called home since I was born, instead of chasing away the mischievous kids, toilet papering houses, and playing ding dong ditch, the entire town is here, silent and fidgety, avoiding eye contact as they wait for the damn demon to come claim the chubby sacrifice that will prevent the entire town from being – I don’t know exactly – but something bad.

I spot my high school guidance counselor whispering prayers into the buzzing air. She once told me I’d “Never find what you’re looking for dressing like an apocalypse Barbie.”

Joke’s on her. Maybe shedding my moral coil as an icon of East Gloaming, Vermont is exactly what I was looking for.

Oh, and let’s not forget the fact I was the only virgin left over eighteen.

I’m also an orphan, so there’s no family left to throw a fit about their loved one being sacrificed to the demon with no name.