Undead and Unwed: A Novel
Author: Sam Tschida
Date: 2025-10-28 00:00:00+00:00
Description: “The found-family vampire Hallmark movie I didn’t know I needed.”—Jenna Levine, USA Today best-selling author of My Roommate Is a Vampire Bridget Jones’s Diary meets What We Do in the Shadows in this bitingly funny supernatural romance about a vampire finding herself and falling in love during the Christmas season. Tiffenie may be three hundred years old, but she’s still a hot mess. The vampire is tragically single, works a dead-end job at a blood bank, and spends her nights marathoning Hallmark Channel movies with her cat. When Tiffenie inherits a fixer-upper home in Valentine, Vermont, thank
Publisher: Quirk Books

PRAISE FOR UNDEAD AND UNWED

“Full of hilarity, hijinks, and so much heart, Undead and Unwed is the found-family vampire Hallmark movie I didn’t know I needed.”—Jenna Levine, USA Today best-selling author of My Roommate Is a Vampire

“Don’t miss Tschida’s quirky Christmas novel that’s full of heart and bites in the best way. If you love Hallmark movies and vampires, this adorable book is for you!”—Roselle Lim, author of Natalie Tan’s Book of Luck and Fortune

“Interview with the Vampire meets a Hallmark movie? Sign me up! Undead and Unwed is uniquely and darkly delicious, with laugh-out-loud humor and characters so perfectly flawed you can’t help but root for them. Sam Tschida’s voice shines through in every word. You’ll be completely drawn in to this small town with its charming festivals, delightful locals, and cozy, holiday-fueled bloodlust. Prepare to be delighted!”—Denise Williams, author of Just Our Luck

“A bloody good time! Sam Tschida’s writing is a master class in voice and wit. Undead and Unwed is a hilarious, biting, and wildly entertaining novel about finding yourself at literally any age! I was rooting for the charmingly messy and utterly relatable Tiffenie the whole way through. I’ll read anything Sam Tschida writes.”—Ellie Palmer, author of Anywhere with You

“Undead and Unwed is the Hallmark vampire movie I never knew I needed, full of laugh-out-loud dialogue, unforgettable characters, and poignant moments. I was rooting for Tiffenie to figure out her life—her undeath?—the entire wild ride.”—Amanda Elliot, USA Today best-selling author of Love You a Latke

This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and characters are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 by Sam Tschida

All rights reserved. Except as authorized under U.S. copyright law, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Tschida, Sam, 1979- author.

Title: Undead and unwed / Sam Tschida.

Description: Philadelphia : Quirk Books, 2025. | Summary: “Immortal vampire Tiffenie moves to the bed-and-breakfast in small-town Vermont that she unexpectedly inherited to try to get her life back on track with the help of a Christmas tree farmer, her newly undead neighbor, and her vampire ex”—Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2025020799 (print) | LCCN 2025020800 (ebook) | ISBN 9781683694724 (paperback) | ISBN 9781683694731 (ebook)

Subjects: LCGFT: Vampire fiction. | Romance fiction. | Novels.

Classification: LCC PS3620.S44 U53 2025 (print) | LCC PS3620.S44 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20250512

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025020799

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2025020800

ISBN 9781683694724

Ebook ISBN 9781683694731

Book design by Elissa Flanigan, adapted for ebook

Cover illustration by Ksenia Spizhevaya

Quirk Books

215 Church Street

Philadelphia, PA 19106
quirkbooks.com

Quirk Books’ authorized representative in the EU for product safety and compliance is Easy Access System Europe, Mustamäe tee 50, 10621 Tallinn, Estonia, gpsr.requests@easproject.com.

a_prh_7.3_153739304_c0_r0

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part I: Baby Boom

The Lovable Mess Trope

The Inheritance Trope

The Best Friend Who’s Always There Trope

The Accidental Baby Trope

Part II: Sweet Home Alabama Valentine

The Escape from the Big City Trope

The Road Trip Trope

The Damsel in Distress Trope

The Meet-Ugly Trope (Hometown hero edition)

The Fixer-Upper Trope

The Struggling Single Mom Trope

The This Town Is Too Small Trope

The Makeover Trope

The Fish out of Water Trope

The First Rule of Fight Vampire Club Trope

Part III: Romy and Michele’s Tiffany’s High School Reunion

The Mean Girls Trope

The Toxic Ex-Boyfriend Trope

The Near-Miss Kiss Trope

The Fake it till You Make It Trope

The Baby Makes Three Trope

The Perfect Snowy Date Trope

The Christmas Is the Most Magical Time of Year Trope

The Trimming the Tree Trope

Part IV: Fight Club

The Second Rule of Fight Vampire Club Trope

The “What Letters?!” Trope

The The Whole Town Hangs Out at the Same Bar Trope

The Baking Grandma’s Favorite Recipe Trope

The Dogs Scapegoated Coyotes Bring People Together Trope

The She Faints at the Sight of Blood Trope

Part V: Days of Our Lives Undeath

The I Am the Monster Trope

The Blackmail Trope

The Bachelor Auction Trope

The Drunk Confessions Trope

The Grand Gesture That Didn’t Work Trope

The Do(om) It Yourself Trope

Part VI: Two Weeks’ Notice

The Escape from the Small Town Trope

The Vampires Can’t Tell Time Trope

The Found Family Trope

The Stake Me or Leave Me Trope

The First Love Is True Love Trope

The (Bottled) Blood Is Thicker Than Water Trope

The Manifestation of a Divine or Supernatural Being Bridget Jones’s Vampire Trope

Epilogue: A Castle for Chrithmas

The Happily Ever After Trope

Acknowledgments

About the Author

To all the unlikable women

You know who you are

Vlad: Do you want a subscription to MasterClass? That online thing where famous people share their secrets to success? The woman who invented Spanx teaches a course. Just saying.

Me: what exactly are you trying to say?

Vlad: She’s successful, no?

Me: i don’t have time to take classes from people who are supposedly more successful than me

Lies. All lies. I had nothing but time. Not to mention I already had a subscription, thanks to a midnight impulse purchase, not that I’d stayed awake for any of the classes.

Vlad: What about a Finance 101 class?

Me: absolutely not

I slipped on a white button-down shirt, a cue to take myself seriously so my ex wouldn’t think of me next time he saw a class in basic life skills.

At least, that was the idea. George Washington dressed like a general, and look what that got him. If you took the outfit away, who was he really? A toothless dude with a small penis. I know, I was surprised too. The man was all codpiece, no cod. But if George could impress the Continental Congress with some gold buttons, a powdered wig, and a mouth full of other people’s teeth, I should be able to talk a mid-level manager named Lance into a minor shift change.

A two-minute cat eye was all I needed to finish my look. I pulled up one of my favorite beauty influencers on TikTok and hit Play on a recent video. A confident blond with a contoured face waved a tube of liquid eyeliner in front of the camera. “One minute per eye!” she announced, leaning into the camera and expertly lining one eye. She made it look as easy as breathing.

“Now, grab your boyfriend’s black card.” She smugly waved a piece of black plastic and gave it a kiss. “Before you treat yourself to a shopping spree, use it as a straightedge.” In a practiced movement, she placed the card at the corner of one eye and swiped a perfectly straight line toward her temple, her makeup a bold, black checkmark that said “Yep, she’s got it.”

I’d cut up my own credit card in a budget crisis, but I had an LA Metro TAP pass that would do the trick. Confident, sexy, getting ahead—tonight my eyes would speak for me. I couldn’t always count on my mouth.

As I opened my camera in selfie mode, the phone screen went black. A quick tap didn’t revive it, so I hit the side button. Still nothing. Just when I needed my phone the most, it was a useless rectangle. Just like a man, I imagined the TikToker saying, though I didn’t exactly have a man to blame. I was the one who forgot to charge it. I hurriedly plugged my phone in.

When you can’t use a mirror, you get extra dependent on selfie view, which is a nice loophole in the no-reflection issue. People always think of vampires as glamorous, but really, how was I supposed to do eye makeup blind? Vampires pre-smartphone—just forget about anything complicated. A little blush and a forgiving lipstick—nothing matte—was the best we could do back in the day.

I wandered over to the patinaed mirror behind my bar cart, an ornate gold frame from the fifteenth century that some guy had given to me. Nothing had changed. I was still invisible, at least to myself, but all the design influencers I followed hung mirrors above their home bars, and I thought it looked cute. Cat wove between bottles of bourbon and gin, begging for dinner with a throaty purr. Instead of my face, the mirror reflected back a pile of clothes I’d been meaning to put away for an eternity. Immortality really takes the pressure off laundry. A hot-pink scrap of lace peek-a-booed from underneath a pair of sweatpants, making me do a double take. That bra had been “missing” so long that I’d replaced it.

Cat meowed for food and I admonished her. “Shut up, beast. You just ate.” She stared at me like I was stupid. With a sigh, I removed her from the bar cart before she could break something.

Before leaving for the night, I turned off the TV, which had been paused on a Hallmark Channel movie for an hour. This one was about some woman who inherits a fixer-upper. After Vlad’s implication that I was a financial mess, I wasn’t feeling it. I’d been teetering on the edge of ruin for three hundred years and didn’t need the reminder.

If I lived anywhere else, I’d probably own a home by now. But LA is the place to be for a reason. The blaring sunshine and traffic keep other vampires away and, more importantly, out of my business. Kristen Stewart could be lurking around any corner. Everything is open twenty-four hours a day. The all-night plasma donation clinic where I work is perfect for someone like me. At least, it was until last week.

Lance had been staring at his phone and leaning on my desk. Without looking up, he’d said, “Tiffany, I need you to come in at 5 p.m. from now on.”

Five—that’s an hour before sunset this time of year, and three hours at the height of summer. My face would melt off—which would suck because I’d just gotten my skincare routine down. (It’s the little things that break you. It’s the little things that keep you going.)

Already criminally late for work, I found my front door blocked. When I pushed, the sound of cardboard sliding across gritty concrete met my ears. I managed to shimmy through the opening and found a large box blocking the door. On top of the box was an envelope the size and shape of a greeting card. At the sight of the addressee my smile wilted. Current resident, it read in lazy calligraphy.

The box below it was from Hellofresh! Had I ordered a box of chicken? I didn’t even eat food. Seriously. I needed to get ahold of myself.

On the way to work, I called HelloFresh. “Hi, I need to cancel a subscription,” I said, hoping my earbuds would pick up my competent, I’m-handling-problems voice.

“Let me look up your information. What’s your name?”

“Tiffany Amanda Blair.”

“While I’m looking you up, may I ask why you’re canceling?”

“Food isn’t currently in my diet.” When that was met with silence, I added, “I’m on a juice cleanse. It’s an LA thing.”

He laughed. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything we can do to change your mind? Free boxes, free breakfast?”

The bright red sign of Plasma4Life greeted me, as well as a rough-looking crowd lined up outside. This was not the lunch hour crowd of charitable office workers who traded a pint for a sticker and a cookie. Anyone lurking outside Plasma4Life at night was scraping bottom and desperate for cash, not unlike myself. “I need to go. Just cancel my subscription.”

“Actually, I can’t find—”

I hung up the phone and held out the chicken. “Anyone want a box of HelloFresh?”

A guy in flannel ignored the box. “How much do I get for plasma again?”

“Two hundred and fifty. But do you want this?” I asked, hefting the box a little higher.

“What is it?”

“The meal on top is cavatappi and dijon chicken. I’m not sure what else is in here. You cook it yourself in twenty minutes or less. At least that’s what it says.”

“I don’t like chicken,” he said flatly. Not even a “No, thank you.”

“Who doesn’t like chicken?” I said a little too loudly.

“If it’s that great, why don’t you keep it?” His voice had an edge I didn’t like.

Why was everything so hard?

“I used to love chicken!” I shot back, on the verge of yelling. Chicken soup on a cold evening had been one of my favorites when I was alive. I’m sure dijon chicken was nice, too. “These recipes really make cooking simple!” I said, definitely yelling.

I stopped myself from getting up in his face while a whole line of donors stared back. “I’m going to leave this here. Someone, please take this chicken off my hands.” More calmly, I set the box down. A few people shuffled forward, perhaps more interested now that the loud woman was leaving.

“Tiffany, you’re late!” Lance barked just as the front doorbell to Plasma4Life chimed.

I fumbled for the fake doctor’s note excusing me from work. “Here you go.”

Lance squinted at the single sheet of paper. “Por-phy-ria?” he said, sounding the word out slowly. It was a pretty good forgery, if I do say so myself.

“It’s an allergy to sunlight. I just burst into fl—” I caught myself. “Uh, I mean blisters. I burst into blisters when I’m in the sun.”

“Fine, whatever,” Lance said.

I hurried to my seat at the reception desk, and soon I was shuffling paperwork to look busy and chugging B positive from my motivational water bottle. I was already down to the You can do it! line. Lance just thought I was really, really into beet smoothies.

With my work hours sorted out, I was feeling optimistic. Things were looking up for me. I wasn’t such a disaster after all. Take that, Vlad.

An hour later I was at my desk, contemplating what nail polish complemented the endlessness of existence—was black too obvious?—when the door chimed. I jolted out of my coma and knocked my drink over, Jackson Pollocking blood all over my crisp white shirt and the desk.

“Shit!” I dabbed at it with a tissue and looked up at the guy who’d come in. I tried to smile as if I weren’t drenched in blood. “Welcome to Plasma4Life!”

The man wasn’t your typical late-night donor. He seemed calm, not like he was five hundred dollars short on cash for his bookie. Something was off. Healthy, well-adjusted people didn’t donate plasma at midnight.

Instead of immediately asking how much he was going to get—another red flag—he locked eyes with me. “Tiffany Amanda Blair?”

Oh, fuck. My stomach dropped to the floor.

As a vampire, I need a fresh ID now and then. I bought my latest from a woman who sold fake IDs out of her kitchen. This is a part of the vampire life HBO hasn’t addressed yet. If you want to live anything close to a normal life, you need a name and Social Security number, and you need a new one every few decades before your identity ages too far past your immortal good looks.

This time around, I was lucky enough to score a real ID from someone named Tiffany—almost the same as my actual name, Tiffenie.

You’re probably wondering, aren’t you from the Middle Ages or something? A) of all, that’s rude, and B) of all, learn your history. Variations of the name Tiffenie were historically bestowed upon girls born around the Epiphany, like myself—that’s right, I’m a Capricorn. The name was only recently ruined by the likes of Tiffani-Amber Thiessen and every other elder millennial woman I’d met in LA.

A name like Brittany or Candy would’ve fit like a cheap Halloween costume, impersonal and a little slutty. But Tiffany with a -y was so close to who I really am—or who I was. Close enough that it could almost make me forget the Tiffenie I’d been. It’s not like I’ve been scrapbooking all these years.

Whoever Tiffany with a -y had been, her life hadn’t been good. Normal people with happy lives don’t sell their identities and go into hiding. If someone was looking for Tiffany Amanda Blair, it wasn’t for a good reason.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” I told the guy.

He stepped closer and leaned over my desk. “I know you’re Tiffany Amanda Blair.”

What was this going to be? A subpoena, an arrest warrant, a notice that Tiffany owed the government thirty grand?

I pushed my chair backward. Casually rolling out of the room seemed like my only option. All he had to do was prove that he’d made an attempt to deliver whatever it was. Three failed attempts to deliver Very Bad News to Tiffany Amanda Blair, he could report to his manager.

A disturbing thought crossed my mind. What if my alias had killed someone? Now that would be tragic irony, to have spent the last three hundred years restraining my natural bloodthirsty instincts only to be arrested for someone else’s crimes.

I gripped the arms of my office chair and considered my exit options. Before I could make my getaway, the man thrust an envelope into my hands. “Will you sign?”

Like Marie Antoinette walking to the guillotine, I robotically signed the name of the murderess whose identity I’d purchased. Tiffany Amanda Blair.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I’m just the delivery guy,” he said before he walked off, leaving me at my desk holding an uncertain destiny in my hands.

“Is this a divorce thing?” Lance said, sticking his head through the doorway.

I hoped it was a divorce thing and not a murder thing.

Doyle & Doyle

15 Main St.

Valentine, VT 10137

Dear Tiffany Amanda Blair:

It is with great regret that I must inform you of your aunt Mildred Jane Blair’s passing. We were unable to reach you during her final days, despite great effort. Your aunt has left you with a property, the country inn where she raised you. You will find pictures of the plot enclosed, as well as its current valuation.

It couldn’t be. I wasn’t going to jail for a heinous crime, and I wasn’t on the hook for obscene amounts of money. I wasn’t even due for a visit to family court.

I blinked dumbly at the letter, barely able to believe it. This was good news.

“Lance,” I said as the realization dawned on me, “this says I inherited a piece of property in Vermont.”

“Vermont, huh? Bet it’s cold there,” Lance said. He didn’t sound as interested now that I was no longer getting fake divorced.

Like temperature mattered to me.

Visions of freshly fallen snow, Christmas trees, maple syrup, and charming, locally owned businesses danced in my head. Had I unknowingly bought the identity of a Hallmark heroine? Was I going to be a small-town innkeeper?

This was it, the moment I had been waiting for. The financial uncertainty that had plagued me for three hundred years was suddenly solved by one letter delivered by a stocky man with a thick beard. My heart soared. No more rent. No more crappy laundromat. No more tiny apartment with broken and bent venetian blinds that let in spotty patches of sunlight. I never did manage to hang up those curtains that promised “graveyard lighting.”

Wide-eyed and hopeful, I reached into the envelope and pulled out the pictures and another stack of papers. My soaring heart stuttered at the first image.

Photo 1, exterior of the inn. The photo depicted a hulking Victorian building. The paint was peeling, and an unruly landscape was encroaching. It was the kind of place that little kids wouldn’t approach at Halloween without the lure of a full-size candy bar.

Photo 2, view from the road. This one depicted a winding drive. An off-kilter, heart-shaped sign at the end of the drive announced the property as the Valentine Bed-and-Breakfast. The paint had worn off in spots, leaving it as the Bed-and- reakfast. Wreck fest was right.

Photo 3, interior, downstairs. The inside was a mess. Everything was ancient or falling apart. It looked like a Victorian frat after a rager, and I would know. Been there, done that.

I flipped back to the letter for some kind of explanation. Maybe it came with money to fix it up. Or maybe these were the “before” photos.

The majority of Ms. Blair’s estate was sold off to pay her medical bills, but she was able to retain ownership of the country inn where you grew up. You will find that the property has fallen into some disrepair since you last saw it, and the inn itself is no longer in operation. If you would like me to arrange a sale, I could do so for a small fee.

Please let me know how you would like to proceed.

Sincerely,

Doug Doyle, Esq.

So much for that fantasy. A little bit of foreplay from the messenger and then a total letdown once I saw the real thing. Half-heartedly, I looked at a page titled Valuation.

“It’s worth nothing, zero dollars,” I said mournfully. It was a confirmed teardown.

“Oh, man, too bad,” Lance said. “Hey, there’s leftover donuts in the break room at least.”

“Thanks,” I said and took another swig from my bottle. “But I’ll pass.”

Lance said, “You sure? If you pop ’em in the microwave for ten seconds, they almost taste fresh.”

I needed a moment to mourn the death of my short-lived dream. It would have been nice. Drinking wine in a small town, joining a knitting circle, frolicking in the freshly fallen snow, dating a brown-haired local business owner. For one wild second, I had it all.

I picked up a tiny rake and dragged it across the tray of sand I kept on my desk. I might not have control over the rest of my life, but it was nice to make a few lines in my Zen garden. You could really rake forever and ever and ever.

“You really don’t want a donut?”

“Not right now, Lance. I’m raking.”

Vlad: Are you sure about MasterClass? I took one on relationships recently and learned more than I did in the last five hundred years.

I stared at the text as I walked home from work. This guy wouldn’t let up. Royalty, you know. Vlad is a prince in the Parliament of the Undead. (I mean the ruling body of North American vampires, not the edgy bluegrass band of the same name. We’ve all made that mistake, none worse than when a bunch of vampires descended on an outdoor concert in Livingston, Montana. I got Vlad a band T-shirt for his death day a few years ago.)

Don’t ask me what the prince of darkness actually does. Coven politics is worse than Congress, but the man looks like Henry Cavill during his Superman days. He looks just as good in a white T-shirt as he does in a bespoke suit. (If you’re wondering, I look like Rachel Weisz circa The Mummy. Well, I have brown hair anyway.)

Personality-wise, he’s a little too much, the kind of guy that will order for you at a restaurant. One virgin for her, two for me—that’s Vlad.

The idea of Vlad taking a class about relationships intrigued me, but before I could hide my true feelings behind a sick burn, he texted again.

Vlad: Did you get a census?

The too-fancy envelope addressed to Current resident. I should have known.

With trepidation I reached into my bag and ripped open the envelope to find an official document from the Parliament of the Undead. It was a census form with an attached questionnaire:

- 1) What is your birth name?

- 2) What is your current alias?

- 3) To whom have you bestowed the Dark Gift and where do they currently live?

- 4) Who were your sexual partners in the last year?

- 5) What are your current social media handles?

That last question was a trick question. Social media was against the rules. And my sexual partners were none of the parliament’s business. I mean, sure, I hadn’t gotten any in the last year. But the parliament didn’t need to know that, and neither did Vlad.

Me: how did they find me?

Vlad: Did you buy those Blackest Blackout Shades? Parliament is tracking purchases.

Fuck. The shades that had promised “graveyard lighting.” The box had said For vampires! on the side. I had thought it was cheeky.

Me: okay, creepy

Vlad: It would be easier if you followed the rules.

Sure, but I didn’t want to follow the rules. The Dark Gift this, the Dark Gift that. Serve the devil. Everything’s a secret. I wasn’t going to live in one of the parliament covens with establishment vamps. The accommodations would be nice, but no twenty-first-century woman could live within the confines of the Vampire Code. The code wasn’t just Byzantine in nature. It was a product the Byzantine era.

I pushed open the door to my apartment, the new owner of a bed-and-breakfast no one wanted, covered in blood, and arguing with my ex about the same stuff that broke us up more than a century ago.

I twisted the plastic thingie on my bent venetian blinds to block the coming daylight and flipped on a lamp.

“Oh, shit!” I exclaimed, and nearly jumped out of my skin at the sight of Heaven, the twenty-six-year-old life coach who lived next door. She was passed out on my couch in pajamas and a silk bonnet. Sure, she had a key to feed Cat occasionally, but I hadn’t asked her to stop by. She needed to leave so I could collapse dramatically on the couch and brood about my second-rate inheritance.

As Heaven stirred and rubbed her eyes, Cat padded toward me and did a figure eight between my ankles, reminding me I owed her a bowl of morning kibble. “Do you love me for anything besides food, beast?”

“Oh, hey, Tiff.” Heaven was not a woman who existed in the liminal spaces between night and day. She was an awake-at-dawn-and-chasing-rainbows kind of person. With pink and yellow braids that hung all the way down her back and a Technicolor wardrobe that made my eyes hurt, Heaven was not an appropriate companion for the undead. Tonight, the woman was wearing a Funshine Bear shirt. What more needs to be said?

She looked up to reveal a puffy, tear-streaked face and bloodshot eyes. Salt trails ran down her soft brown cheeks. Her voice quivered with restrained emotion. “I didn’t want to be alone but forgot you were at work…”

“What’s going on?” I said in a move-along-little-puppy tone. “You should probably be getting up for the day, right?”

“Gemma, she—she—she broke up with me!” Her voice broke and her chin wobbled as she held back tears.

“Oh.” Gemma was very loud. Good riddance.

“What’s up with you?” Heaven wiped a tear away.

“It was a weird night.” I sighed dramatically. “I found out I inherited an inn.”

“Then why don’t you look happier?”

“It’s a teardown in—” I still hadn’t caught my breath (metaphorically speaking) from my hopes soaring and then crashing to earth at the sight of the first picture. “It’s in Vermont,” I said tragically. The blood in Vermont probably tasted like pancakes.

For a second, she seemed to forget her sadness. She gave me a discerning look. “I’m not sure Vermont’s for you anyway.”

“What makes you say that?” My voice rose defensively. “I love Hallmark movies.” Vermont, Hallmark—same difference.

She shrugged like her observation needed no explanation, before being overcome by tears again. “We were gonna make dijon chicken and watch some TV before she…” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I thought we were good. And then outta nowhere we’re going at it about HelloFresh.”

I groaned, reliving my own HelloFresh drama from earlier.

“The app said it arrived, but it must’ve gotten porch pirated,” she said. “Who would do that?”

My brain screeched to a halt. Damn it. Had I even checked the name on that box? It had arrived with the Parliament of the Undead census.

“That was $70 of food.” She expelled a frustrated breath.

So I had taken her food, carried it all the way to work in heels, and given it to someone who didn’t want it. Oops.

“I couldn’t even TikTok today.”

Well, that was a bonus. Heaven TikTok’d every morning at sunrise just as I was going to bed. She would stand on the walkway outside my window practically yelling: “Greatest of grand risings! It’s a new day, a new you. Look to the sun and get your glow on.” Yelling “shut up” did nothing. Her spirit was too strong.

“How ’bout I Postmates you some takeout. Pad thai from that place around the corner?” It was the least I could do.

“I can’t believe we broke up over something that stupid.” She flopped back onto the couch. “Gemma didn’t understand why I order prepackaged meals in the first place. ‘You still have to cook it,’ she always says.”

Even I, a vampire with a string of failed relationships going back three hundred years, knew they didn’t break up over dinner. How many times had I heard Gemma interrupting Heaven’s sunshine-and-roses speeches? “Can you be real for one minute, Heaven? Can you put the phone down?” Then Heaven would say, “We’re good, Gem. Mercury’s in retrograde.”

“Cooking is a sacred routine,” she said to me now. “Cutting the vegetables, boiling the pasta. It makes you slow down and savor the moment.” Dramatically, she added, “Making is everything to me. Making content, making connections, making a difference.”

“Are those…things?”

She looked at me like I was the crazy one, but how could a twenty-six-year-old be a life coach? And how could anyone as positive as her know anything about living?

“I’m sorry about Gemma, but I need to get to bed,” I said, hinting that it might be time for her to move on. Instead, she sank deeper into my slipcovered couch. The Instagram ad had promised the cover would freshen up my sofa, but it just rode up between the cushions like a pair of janky underwear. When I left a review calling it a couch thong, they mailed me a second one for free. It’s still in the box.

“I thought she was the One,” Heaven said.

For three hundred years I’d been listening to people romanticize love. I decided to help her out and drop some wisdom. “Heaven,” I said, “there’s no such thing as the One. Gemma was just the one for now.”

Sure, my undead heart still yearned for romance, for a happily ever after like the ones I saw on TV every night. But I also yearned for cigarettes. Wanting something didn’t make it good for you.

“Tomorrow is Halloween. We were going as Daphne and Velma.”

It seemed like they could have tried harder with that concept, but I kept my mouth shut.

“LA is such a shit town. People stealing food off doorsteps…,” she said with frustration. “Maybe I should go to Vermont with you.”

Before I could explain that I had no intention of going to Vermont, Heaven started crying in earnest.

I rubbed my temples. She’s the only human alive who knows I’m a vampire and she couldn’t care less, letting me take little sips from her when I’m low on pilfered blood donations from work in exchange for my parking space. I also feed her parakeet when she’s out of town.

What kind of person is that trusting?

“I really need to go to bed,” I told Heaven. “Don’t you have work?”

“Do you mind if I stay for a while longer?” She tilted her head to expose the column of her throat. Against my will I started to drool. All I wanted to do was be alone and watch a Hallmark movie. But if she was going to be a snack and not talk…

She flashed puppy-dog eyes, practically begging. Every time I drank from Heaven, she slept like the dead. Funshine Bear needed a little of my dead calm.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” I picked up the remote and hit Play on A Country Christmas. The heroine, a career gal, was canceling her important big-city plans and packing a Louis Vuitton suitcase filled with Hermès and Louboutins for some R & R in rural Connecticut. Silly her. I smiled at the journey I knew was about to come.

My gaze drifted to the envelope containing pictures of the Valentine Bed-and-Breakfast.

“Hey, Siri, how much does it cost to move across country?”

“Cross-country is a sport—”

I cleared my throat and tried again. “Siri, how much does it cost to move to Vermont from LA?”

“Two thousand to eight thousand dollars.”

With a groan, I sank farther into the couch, the slipcover going right up my ass. I didn’t need to look at my bank account balance to know I didn’t have the money. When Heaven started to say something, I said, “Quiet. I want to watch Jessica get her Christmas miracle.”

“It’s Jennifer.”

“Who’s Jennifer?”

“The heroine.”

Eyes fixed on the snowy scene, I asked, “Heaven, have you ever been to Vermont?”

“Nope. Just Florida.”

I turned up the volume as the perfect couple drank glasses of red wine on a couch that didn’t need a slipcover. I had died at twenty-nine, frozen at the age before you learn proper grown-up things, like how to pick out a bottle of wine and own a white couch.

On the screen, a Christmas tree worthy of Martha Stewart glowed splendidly. The smell of sugar cookies practically wafted through the screen, and the warmth of the fire crackling in the fireplace toasted my emotional core like a marshmallow. Heaven leaned into my arms as the brown-haired man took the heroine’s hand, smiling at her warmly. It was going to be a Christmas engagement, of course.

“Do you want—” Heaven angled her neck toward me again. A little vampire bite would send her worries flying. In her words, they made her feel “high as shit.”

Heaven’s silk bonnet was soft against my cheek. I sank my fangs into her neck. Bagged blood was fine, but this was so much better.

Heaven’s breathing evened, and her blood flowed freely. With each sip I got stronger and surer of myself, as thoughts of Lance and my broken blinds and my stupid couch faded into the background. The heroine on my TV was in a faux-fur-lined jacket and boots I had seen for sale online. She looked cute but I could never pull off that look in LA. Snowflakes landed like kisses on Jessica/Jennifer’s pink cheeks. With a contented expression on his face, the hero took her mittened hand, and they twirled in the soft glow of streetlamps.

Vermont could never work, could it?

My alarm rang, the sound muffled and distant. I groped for the phone on my nightstand, but instead got a handful of couch. I’d fallen asleep watching some rosy-cheeked woman named Jessica or Jennifer get her Christmas miracle.

“Heaven,” I grumbled, “you’re sitting on my phone.”

No response.

Louder, I repeated, “Heaven.”

Still nothing.

According to the microwave clock, my shift had started an hour ago. I was late again. Three hundred years of this shit and an eternity to go.

I sank deeper into the cushions. The programming had shifted to an online-shopping informercial for leather gloves, and my fairy lights were blinking, eerily illuminating my dusty apartment every few seconds. My Impress Lance outfit, which I’d slept in, was now wrinkled in addition to being bloody.

The wrongness of the situation was palpable. I’d watched a Dateline episode recently in which the main evidence of foul play was a statement from the woman’s son: “She’s never gone to bed without tidying up before.” I hadn’t even made it to the bed last night, and Heaven had slept through the entire day. This wasn’t right.

Not since Sarajevo in 1914 had I felt such a strong sense of doom and foreboding. I could feel a world war blooming in the darkness of my apartment, just as I had when Princip died. Heaven wasn’t heir presumptive to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but still.

“Heaven.” Her name rolled off my tongue too quickly, a welfare check rather than a greeting. When I jostled her, her head lolled to the side, revealing fang marks and two trails of blood running down her shoulder, staining the edge of her Funshine Bear T-shirt rusty red.

Holy shit.

I couldn’t have.

I didn’t.

…did I?

I squeezed my eyes shut as if that would make this all go away, but I couldn’t block out what I’d just seen. Heaven’s strangely still form and the telltale fang marks.

This. Wasn’t. Happening.

No killing. That was my code. I grew up in Transylvania, which was ground zero for vampires. I had the good fortune to become a vampire instead of a vampire’s lunch. But I’d decided right then and there that I didn’t want to be the kind of vampire who would leave someone without a sister, daughter, or mother.

Visions of Alba hit me like a montage from a horror film. Alba shopping in the village, her eyes sparkling with life and mischief, a few errant curls escaping from the braids she had pinned up in a way that she thought was so sophisticated. Alba kneading bread dough while confiding her hopes and dreams. It was always some man, a new one every week. Then me, stupidly telling her every detail about my crush on a vampire, about how I was going to marry Vlad and become Queen of the Undead. At twenty-nine, I should have been smarter. I was practically considered an old lady during that time. I’d been so dumb.

Then the closing image: Alba with blood trailing down her neck while I flung myself on top of her, pleading with members of the parliament to turn her instead.

No vampire shall ever reveal his true nature to a mortal and let the mortal live. It’s the first thing you learn when you take your oath to the Parliament of the Undead. That whole ceremony was so long and boring. I hadn’t paid attention when I took my oath, thinking only of my budding romance with Vlad.

Alba had paid the ultimate price. And I’d let it happen again—only this time I had done the killing directly, even if accidentally.

What had I done?

“Heaven!” I said louder, shaking her.

No response.

“No. No. Please, no,” I pleaded, a prayer to a god who had forsaken me. “Heaven, please wake up,” I whispered, desperate for her eyes to open or for her ashen lips to speak.

But then, my senses prickled. I smelled fresh blood. A faint trickle was oozing from her fang wounds. Her heart was still pumping. She was still alive.

“Thank God!” My skin sizzled briefly like a steak on a hot grill at the mention of His name. I groped around for my phone.

Mostly dead is slightly alive was all I could think. Billy Crystal had done witchcraft on Cary Elwes to bring him back in The Princess Bride, but that wasn’t an option for me. I also couldn’t call the paramedics. They would call the police, and I would go to jail. Heaven might be okay, but I’d be one hundred percent dead by sunup. And from the looks of her, she was too far gone for 911 anyway.

Vlad. Every fiber of my being wanted to call him. Vlad would be there for me. I knew that like I knew that the sun always rises.

And just like the sun, it was better for me to stay far, far away.

Sure, we texted almost every day, but it was always about little things. I left out all the parts where I wasn’t following the rules that every vampire was expected to live by, and he left out official vampire business. He knew on some level that I was struggling to get by, but he didn’t know just how bad it was.

I pushed down my worries and called him.

“I knew you’d change your mind about the MasterClass,” he said. In the background I could hear some History Channel bullshit. He was always arguing about how they were getting historical events wrong. Watching a history documentary with him was like watching Grey’s Anatomy with a doctor.

“Or are you calling to wish your maker a happy Halloween? It’s Halloween, you know.”

When I didn’t answer his teasing with a clever retort, his tone went dark. “What is it?”

I looked at Heaven. She still wasn’t moving. I braced myself and said it all in a rush. “I don’t know what happened. I was drinking from my neighbor and I fell asleep. I think I almost completely drained her.”

“You killed her?”

“She probably only has a few minutes to live. How do I turn her?”

“I thought you were off humans. I’m glad to see you’ve changed your mind.”

“Vlad.”

“It’s unfortunate that you went too far, but I’m glad you’re feeding properly. You know you can’t get proper nutrients from stale blood. You’re starving yourself like some kind of American actress.”

Heaven’s false eyelashes lay like butterflies on her full cheeks. I didn’t have time for Vlad’s lectures.

I huffed out a frustrated breath. “This was an accident. Just tell me how to turn someone.”

The screen of the phone lit up. Would you accept a facetime from vlad the insufferable?

We hadn’t FaceTimed in forever. It was like Julia Roberts’s no-kissing-on-the-mouth rule in Pretty Woman. We didn’t do IRL visits or video calls. I didn’t want to fall in love all over again. I couldn’t afford to.

Glancing over at Heaven, I hit Accept.

There he was, the same as ever. His dark brown hair curled at the edges, framing a beautiful face that never aged. His green eyes were fringed with long lashes that I’d always been jealous of. Full lips, a strong jaw, just enough stubble to make it look casual. I shut my eyes. He’s a good friend but a bad boyfriend. Whatever you do, don’t fall for him, Tiffenie.

He said, voice like butter, “Tiffenie. You look even more beautiful than the day I met you.”

“Enough flirting. Just help me.”

“Show me this person you’ve drained.”

“I don’t want to hear anything about her appearance,” I cautioned him. Heaven was soft and curvy—not like all the shapewear influencers who were usually turned.

Be it further understood that all mortals who receive the Dark Gift should be beautiful in person so that the insult to God might be greater when the trick is done. Obviously, this is rule #2 of the Laws of the Vampires as revealed to Armand by Santino in The Vampire Lestat. I’m convinced Anne Rice had an insider at Parliament.

Suffice it to say, I think the rule is a load of crap.

“I would never,” Vlad said somberly. He looked deeply into the camera, his gaze landing on me. “And you know I’ve never ascribed to the rule about only turning so-called beautiful people. Pretty is as pretty does.”

“So why haven’t you changed it?”

Vlad’s expression sagged in exasperation. “Tiffenie,” he grumbled, “how many times must we have this conversation? The Vampire Code has existed for thousands of years. We were both ‘born’ into a system that is bigger than us.”

“But you’re a prince,” I protested. “You must be able to do something.”

“Prince isn’t king, and I’m only prince of one coven. All the covens have to convene to change the rules. It’s a whole thing.”

Whatever. I glared at the screen. Heaven couldn’t wait for us to retrace the well-worn paths of my disappointment and his professed ineffectuality. “I need to turn her now. What do I do?”

“It’s simple. You feed her some of your blood, bury her, and wait twenty-four hours.”

“That’s it? Are you sure? There’s not some special step, chant, or ‘fold in the cheese’ direction?”

“Fold in the cheese?”

Of course he hadn’t watched Schitt’s Creek.

“Just remember, once you turn her, you can never go back. You must teach her the ways. Of all vampires, you know how difficult it is to go it alone.”

He said the ways as if I knew them, as if I wasn’t a feral vampire who’d raised herself. It probably would’ve been easier if I hadn’t broken up with Vlad after he turned me, but I couldn’t stay, not after Alba. It’s not like he’d killed her, but I couldn’t live in a coven with the vampires who had, even if they were holed up in a castle. So here I was, several centuries into making it up as I went along. A coven of one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m thriving,” I said.

“You live in an apartment the size of a shoebox.”

“Hey, renting is a great option in this market,” I said, glancing around the small apartment with its too-big window. My eyes landed on the haphazardly stacked boxes of things I ordered at midnight and never bothered to unpack, then the piles of unfolded laundry.

Vlad’s warning settled in the pit of my stomach. If I turned Heaven, I would have to be there for her always and forever. When you don’t have a support system, you never quite learn how to take care of yourself. Vlad knew this, which is why he made every effort to keep in touch, even as I tried to keep him at arm’s length.

And what did I even know about my neighbor? She used to have a girlfriend, she loved knickknacks, and she had a decently popular TikTok where she told people how to live their lives. Could I really form a lifetime bond with this woman based on those few things, especially if that lifetime lasted forever?

If only I could rewind the clock eight hours and not fall asleep with her neck in my mouth. Why had I been so stressed out about my job and a surprise inheritance? This was so much worse.

“Very well. You know how to reach me.”

I ended the call and took a deep breath like I needed the air to breathe. Old habits die hard. With Heaven’s head in my lap, I ran my fingers along the curve of her neck.

It might be nice having a friend. We could go shopping together, get our nails done, have movie nights. I could teach her everything I knew about how to get by as a vampire in a world made for humans.

But first, I had to make things right.

I bit into my wrist, feeling nothing at the rending of my own flesh. I tilted Heaven’s head back and let my blood drip into her mouth. As it pooled in the back of her throat, I massaged it down her gullet.

“I’m so sorry.” I was saving her life, but I’d been the one to almost take it away. Heaven might not appreciate this “gift” when she woke up.

Vlad said to bury her, but in LA almost everything is concrete. There was a strip of grass between the apartment building and the road, but it wasn’t wide enough for a person, and the neighbors might have something to say about me burying a body on a public roadway. Not to mention digging a giant hole all night isn’t as easy as they make it look on TV.

Vlad didn’t say she had to be buried in dirt, though, just buried. I untucked the slipcover from the couch cushions and covered Heaven with it as if it was a burial shroud. It was a discount, one-size-fits-most slipcover in paisley, an ancient Persian pattern that the 1960s thinks it invented. And, I remembered, I still had that second one unopened. I quickly located it, pulled it out of its plastic wrapping, and double-wrapped her.

And then I waited.

Before I was a vampire, I was a mother. I had children. This moment of quiet stillness brought it all back. I can barely take care of myself now, but things were different back then. Women married and had multiple kids before their midtwenties. I had three and lost one. My mom and sisters spent as much time with them as I did. “It takes a village” wasn’t just something Hillary Clinton said—it was the truth and I lived it.

The last time I saw my littlest one, she’d just awoken thirsty for Momma’s milk, all dimpled knees and sweet damp curls. While she nursed, she had twirled my hair in one chubby fist.

I became a vampire the next day, and because of that, I am forever twenty-nine and she is dust. My heart, or whatever remains of it, squeezed at the memory.

I startled awake at the sound of Heaven’s phone pinging. I picked it up and read the message preview.

Gemma: heeeeyyyy sorry baby. i love you.

Shit. Gemma.

Gemma: i know i said some harsh things, but i was just trying to be radically honest with you.

Gemma: it’s not my fault you got offended. i just want to make up. can i come over?

No wonder Heaven had been in tears. I glanced over at the paisley slipcover covering her.

Gemma: hello? are you srsly giving me the silent treatment? i’m coming over.

This would not do.

My phone rang just as I was starting to panic again—Vlad.

“How’s it going?” he asked. For once I was glad to hear his voice.

“Uhhh…” I looked at Heaven. Weekend at Bernie’s came to mind.

“When she wakes up, she’s going to be—”

“—bloodthirsty and reckless, I know.” Heaven would be a disaster for a while. Turning her wasn’t going to be walk in the park. “Vlad, her girlfriend is looking for her. And I think she has a lot of friends.” Or maybe not. She talked into her phone a lot, but for all I knew, that was all livestreaming.

“Get out of town. If you don’t, she’ll probably end up killing someone.”

Heaven murdering people in her Care Bear shirt didn’t sit right.

Vlad continued, “Either that, or someone will think you killed her, which you technically did.”

Ugh. I sagged into the couch, crushed by the weight of my guilt.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” he asked. “Somewhere remote?”

My gaze went straight to the envelope from Aunt Mildred. Vermont was far, far away from anyone who might come looking for Heaven and meet the sharp end of her newly acquired fangs. Sure, the house was a teardown, but it was somewhere to stay.

Energized, I sat up straight. This could work. This could actually, really work. We were going to Vermont.

“I have somewhere,” I said, my mind racing with the possibilities.

“Where are you going?”

“Let’s just say we’re going on a road trip.” I wasn’t going to just tell anyone from the Parliament of the Undead my new address, even if it was Vlad. Mostly because I didn’t know it yet.

You’ll need a travel coffin,” Vlad said. I peered through a gap in the blinds at Heaven’s car, an adorable VW bug in lime green. A statue of a naked woman with hips that would put the Kardashians to shame, plus the generous belly and thighs to match, was Sticky Tacked to the dashboard. She had told me that her car ran on “goddess power.”

“At the very least, you need a panel van, something dark where you can keep her contained.”

“A kidnapper van. Just what I always wanted.”

Heaven’s car might as well be an iridescent green bubble blown from a toddler’s bubble wand. It shouted for attention and couldn’t fit all the luggage I intended to bring, let alone a coffin.

“You can’t have her getting loose at gas stations,” Vlad cautioned. It was hard to imagine Heaven chasing down some unsuspecting dad pumping gas while listening to Kai Ryssdal on Marketplace, but he was right. Heaven was going to be thirsty.

First task: Get a new car in the next couple of hours. But how do you even buy a car? I only bought things for less than $50 that could change my life, like face wash. One of those car vending machines was appealing, but they probably didn’t have hearses or panel vans.

My brain just couldn’t do this. I might as well try to relate to middle schoolers. There weren’t any neural pathways developed in the car or money-management regions of my brain. If you asked me to bake a loaf of bread or heft a bale of hay, I was your girl. But a car loan? Forget it.

New plan: Pack for Heaven and think about car shopping after.

Heaven’s place was filled with even more crap than my apartment, but was neat as a pin. Boxes and trays of crystals, more tea than one person could possibly ever drink, and used furniture draped with pink and gold scarves. On the wall behind the couch, she’d painted a mural of a sunrise. She was not getting her deposit back.

A chunky knit turtleneck and miniskirt in fall colors with tights and glasses was hanging over her closet door. Her Velma costume had cozy, Vermont vibes, so I threw it in a duffel along with a random selection of clothes, several nostalgia T-shirts, and her phone charger.

The pantry was stacked with enough Kirkland brand organic coconut water to get through the apocalypse. Some guy at Plasma4Life had once told me you could use it in a pinch for a blood transfusion. It was low in sodium, high in potassium, and osmotically neutral, whatever that meant. We’d find out soon. It was coming with.

For a moment, I imagined myself walking into a coffee shop in Vermont and ordering a grande dragonfruit drink without the dragonfruit or the syrup. The barista would pour coconut water into a plastic cup and write my name on it. Tiffany Amanda Blair, a girl with a signature drink at Starbucks, moving to a small town to rehabilitate an inn. I could be just like everyone else.

Next on my list: Deal with Gemma. Back in my apartment, I unzipped the slipcover and held Heaven’s phone up to her sleeping face.

Nothing happened.

Glasses! I found a cute pair of oversized tortoiseshell cat-eyes under the coffee table. When I slipped them on her face, bingo. The phone unlocked. I headed back to her place again for cute earrings because I wasn’t a monster. As I rifled through her eight million bangles and oversized earrings, I grabbed a few handfuls of the rocks she was so fond of, and sent a message to Gemma.

Heaven: don’t come over. i need space.

All I needed was for her to stay out of my way for one night, for her own good.

Heaven: could u watch Professor Parakeet? leaving town for a bit

Gemma: really? ur breaking up with me and asking me to watch your stupid bird?

Heaven: yep. thanks!

Let’s be honest, Heaven was better off.

A Google search turned up ten used hearses for sale in Los Angeles. I called the first number.

“I’m interested in the Cadillac hearse with 149,000 miles. I have a very cute green Volkswagen Beetle I could trade in.” Sorry, Heaven.

“It’s available.”

“You don’t know how happy I am to hear that!” The words tumbled out in relief. “Could you deliver it to my apartment tonight?”

“What the fuck, lady. You murder someone?”

A cold chill ran up my spine.

“Just use a trunk like a normal person.” He hung up.

A trunk! I would not be putting Heaven in a trunk.

I called Vlad.

He didn’t even wait for me to finish the story. “Start packing. I’ll send a car.”

“No, that’s too much. I was just looking for some car-buying tips.”

“Look, I’d rather send a car than bail you out of jail tomorrow or, even worse, try to break you out before sunrise,” Vlad said briskly. “Take the car.”

Why was he always right?

“I’ll pay you back,” I said.

“Just get out of town.” Softly, he said, “Tiffenie. I worry about you.”

Two hours later, a guy in a shiny track suit pulled up in a sky-blue hearse painted with fluffy white clouds. The side door read Happily ever after funeral home.

Hmm…it was going to take me a minute to process that one. So much optimism for death.

“You Tiffany?” the guy asked, in a heavy Bronx accent.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“You need help loading a package in this thing?”

“Um, I guess.” From the way he said package it seemed like he meant body.

Upstairs, he wrapped Heaven more tightly in her burrito-style double wrap and eyed me skeptically. In a gruff voice, he asked, “Can you help me carry her down the stairs or do I need to get a guy over?”

“I’m stronger than I look,” I said.

“What’s the camera situation outside? I’m sure there’s footage of her coming in here, but you don’t want a video of her being carried out.”

There was only one cheap camera covering the stairs and our doors. I hit it with some organic avocado oil spray from Heaven’s apartment.

He snickered. “I was thinking black spray paint, but I guess that’ll work. Nothing to say that murder and healthy living don’t go together.”

Awkwardly, we carried Heaven down the stairs, her fluffy slippers poking out from the couch cover. When we were done, we stared down at the paisley pattern while he caught his breath.

“If you’re not up to it, I’ll dispose of her, but that’d be an extra charge.”

I clasped my hand to my heart. “No! This is my friend.” Well, technically, my neighbor with benefits, the benefits being a parking spot and blood swap. I grasped her hand through the slipcover.

“This must be your first time.”

I sighed and nodded. “It was an accident.”

“It’ll be fine. Tomorrow you’ll have some avocado toast and a latte and the world will look the same.”

I looked up into the eyes of this gangster’s helper, or whatever he was. “You’re right, Gary. Tomorrow will be a new day.” Or night, as the case may be. I was moving to Vermont with my dead neighbor in the back seat. It was a move. Maybe not the move, but a move nonetheless.

“My name’s not Gary.”

“What is it?”

“No names.” He glanced up at my apartment. “Vlad said you were skipping town. You need help with the rest of this?”

“Really?”

“Yep. I don’t pull no legs.”

So a guy who wasn’t named Gary, who believed he was helping me dispose of a body, packed a woman I sort of knew into a sky-blue hearse along with three centuries’ worth of knickknacks, a duffel bag of Rainbow Brite T-shirts, and Cat, mewling in a panic in her carrier.

Standing in the doorway, I took in my apartment for the last time. The slatted light from the parking lot reached all the way to the back wall, exposing all of the imperfections and dust I’d let build up. The place somehow looked even smaller without my things. I’d lived here for years. I’d made a home here, or at least, I’d tried to. So why wasn’t my heart breaking? The Germans probably had a word to describe the absence of feeling when leaving a place that should be beloved. Maybe the feelings would come later. They probably had a word for that, too.

With Cat protesting loudly, I started up my brand-new car, typed Valentine, Vermont into my map app, picked a route, and hit Drive.

Like my hearse said, Happily Ever After, here I come.

A ways into the trip, I was going cross-eyed from staring at the endless road, while listening to Heaven’s phone, which wouldn’t stop beeping, buzzing, and generally announcing itself to the world. It sounded like she was friends with the entire population of LA.

It had been a very long time since I’d driven. A car had always seemed like more money down the drain, money that I’d rather spend on Netflix and a fluffy robe and maybe some at-home gel nail kits. But there was something about it, the independence, the feeling of taking destiny into my own hands. The open road and the adventure—it was a little bit John Wayne. The road was a metaphor for life for a reason. Follow the yellow lines to your destiny, which could be found anywhere: the largest ball of twine, Mount Rushmore, or the snack aisle at a gas station. But it was also a little triggering—the endlessness of it all.

Several hours from LA, where California turns to desert, I pulled over to a scenic overlook because my vision was blurring, plus why not. It was a road trip and I could use a snack. I glanced in the rearview mirror at the stack of coconut water I’d brought. Time to give it a go. With a twist, I opened the top of one of the grown-up juice boxes. Without thinking twice, I took a sip. It wasn’t blood, but there was something satisfying about it, an oddly thick liquid with a salty sweetness to it. As a servant of the devil, I couldn’t partake in any human food or drink except for drugs and alcohol. And, apparently, coconut water. So far it was going down smooth.

The land was flat and there was nothing to look at but dried sagebrush tumbling across the barren landscape. Leaning against the hearse, I looked toward the sky, mouth agape. It was the first time I’d seen stars in years. An entire cosmos I’d forgotten existed stared back at me.

My skin prickled with vitality. I’d been in that little box of an apartment distracting myself with online shopping and makeup tutorials, lost to the fact that I was part of a greater world. A small part, yes, but a part of this universe nonetheless.

Gazing at the stars, I chugged the box of liquid sunshine. This could be it—the loophole that got me out of being a bloodthirsty wench for all of eternity. Coconut water was the new black.

What did it even mean to be alive? A heartbeat, brain waves, or could it be something I had forgotten? Whatever it was, I was more alive tonight on this abandoned roadside in the middle of the California desert than I had been in a very long time.

Heaven’s phone pinged again. Was this the hallmark of popularity in 2024, or her daily reminder that she was alive?

The notifications section on her phone was a mile long. There were a lot of missed texts from Gemma and too many Instagram and TikTok notifications to count. One click brought up her TikTok profile pic—Heaven on a beach in a bikini, rays of sunlight streaming around her like she was on the cover of a brochure for a religious order.

Her profile: RadianceGlobalLifeCoaching. Her bio: “Turn to the sun. Embrace your power. Wake TF up!” Each sentence was punctuated by an emoji.

Turn to the sun? Not anymore, unless she wanted to burst into flames.

She had a blue check, a gazillion posts, and even more followers. I scrolled through her reels. Each one started with a dramatic “Greatest of grand risings!” greeting and most were recorded on the walkway outside our apartments. Her notifications included a ton of comments:

“hey wya?”

“no monday glow up?”

“Follow @209hotgirlsonthebeach20333 for sexy fun! #beach #hot”

I scrolled back to her last post.

“Get ready, my peoples,” virtual Heaven proclaimed. “I am about to share some wisdom from the heart. If you’ve been feeling your light dim, I got you. Life-changing demo tomorrow!”

I glanced back at the casket. She’d missed that demo.

I drew back my arm, preparing to hurl (or, more realistically, poorly lob) the phone into the desert for good, when something stopped me. These people were looking for Heaven. I might not understand it, but this woman in a Care Bear T-shirt had an audience who needed her.

Another notification flashed across the screen: “I miss you girl!”

This was not good. I’d known she was an influencer, but I thought that was just something she said.

Plus, Gemma was probably going to come busting into her apartment any moment now. Pretty soon, someone would realize that: 1) Heaven had disappeared without a word, 2) so did her neighbor, 3) they left in a hearse, and 4) her phone’s last known cell phone tower ping was in the desert several hours from LA. That was another Dateline special. Smearing the security camera with avocado oil would only add to the suspicion of wrongdoing.

I glanced at the coffin.

Heaven failing to show up online was basically a no call, no show at a regular job.

I tapped the reverse button on the camera and aimed it at myself.

“Hello,” I began. No, that wasn’t right. I was meant to be Heaven’s stand-in. I cleared my throat and said, “Greatest of grand risings.” And it was a grand rising. Heaven was about to wake up to eternal life.

“My name is Tiffenie, and I’m a friend of Heaven’s. Heaven is resting from a sudden illness. Until she’s better, I’ll be filling in.”

A barrage of comments and heart emojis filled my screen.

“What about the life-changing demo?” read one.

Filled with sudden inspiration, I continued. “I don’t know what Heaven was planning to talk about, but I have some simple advice. You’ve probably heard it before, but I’d like to remind whoever is listening that it’s never too late. It’s never too late to watch that show that everyone already watched two years ago, never too late to apologize, never too late to say I love you, or never too late to move to Vermont on a whim.”

It wasn’t too late. The rightness of this move filled me with spirit. “Don’t worry about being too old. You can’t change it, and there’s a chance you might be wise. Maybe not, but you are probably wiser than you were a while ago.”

Tampa420Babeyy commented, “who are you? lol”

But GiaLovesCats said, “I needed to hear that. Thanks Tiffany.”

That thank-you warmed my cold, dead heart. My job here was done.

The sun was coming up, and it was time to settle down for the day. Carefully, I put up the six-piece car window shades that Vlad had sent with the car, settled into the driver’s seat, and reclined it until it bumped up against Heaven’s coffin. Just to be safe, I pulled the cord on my hoodie until my face disappeared and tucked my hands into my sleeves. After three centuries, I could vampire on the cheap with the best of them.

“Night, Cat,” I said. She meowed in response, and I adjusted the rearview mirror to check on her.

“Really, Cat?” She was using her litter box, kicking up a flurry of litter with reckless abandon. I would have to scoop it tomorrow when the sun went down. Maybe I’d record it and say something cute like, “Road trips—less glamorous than you might think.”

This online life coaching could become addictive.

At a gas station in Pennsylvania, one of the big glossy ones with floodlights that played top forty hits from twenty years ago, I sat in the driver’s seat waiting for the tank to fill. No one else was there, not even a clerk—just me and Heaven under the glaring lights. They were probably supposed to make you feel safe, but they somehow made everything outside of the circle of light harder to see. Anything could be lurking in the shadows, maybe something worse than me.

I pulled out my phone and typed who is Heaven into Google. The first result: “Heaven is a real place where the people of God”—oh no.

I tried again: who is Heaven Cole TikTok life coach.

Heaven Cole (born 1999) is a popular online life coach. As of 2024, she has acquired more than one million followers. Heaven originally posted size-inclusive fashion content and affirmations, describing herself as “Thicc and twisted, crystals, healing.” After a brush with death that she accidentally livestreamed, she changed her focus to the joy of living. Heaven now coaches her audience on how to manifest their best life using crystals and positivity to clear the way to abundance.

Heaven’s first brush with death was recorded in one of her pinned videos on TikTok. I clicked on it, unable to tear myself away from the screen. The opening image was Heaven on a beach.

“It’s Thursday, and I’m taking all of y’all on a walk. I’m trying out this new selfie stick, which is attached to my belt.” She mugged for the camera, framing her face with her hands. “It’s like having my own cameraman.”

Heaven proceeded to serve looks (in a leopard-print bikini top) while promenading down the beach until someone (off camera) asked her about surfing. “No, I’m not about to kill myself,” she began, before changing her tune. You could see the gears turning in her head as she realized this was an opportunity for more content. “Actually, why not?”

The gas station music switched to Aerosmith. Stephen Tyler blared loudly into the emptiness while I watched in fascination and horror as Heaven paddled out to sea and managed to stand up on her board.

“I got this,” she said directly to the camera. “Check me out—” Then the view went sideways. Suddenly, the video was in and out of the surf; I could hear her cries for help and catch occasional glimpses of her gasping for air. The rest of the footage was of her being rescued by a hot surfer—it was Gemma. Of course. That was how they met. Onshore, Gemma performed CPR, and then the camera finally stopped filming.

According to Wikipedia, it was one of the most-viewed videos on TikTok in 2023 and had spawned thousands of “I got this” spoof videos that further propelled Heaven to viral-video stardom.

It looked like she’d become a life coach the day after dying. Her trade with me hadn’t been just about the parking spot. I was her daily encounter with a fate she had avoided.

How would she react to dying again? “Been there, done that” was probably too much to hope for.

I pulled onto the highway with my twice-dead companion. I glanced at the coffin in the rearview mirror. Completely silent. Vlad had said it would be twenty-four hours until Heaven woke up, if she woke up. It had been a week of driving already, sometimes in the wrong direction, without a single peep. Hopefully, it was just taking her longer. Everyone develops at a different rate. I remember getting my first period when my neighbor already had two babies.

The 1700s: It could have been better.

Why was I so worried about Heaven? Vampires were supposed to kill people without remorse. Meanwhile, here I was, still upset about my friend whose bones had turned to dust long ago. When a vision of Heaven in her coffin, regular dead instead of undead, flashed across my mind, I knocked on the shiny wooden dashboard. What some call superstition is nothing but common sense. That’s something Heaven and I could agree on.

At least I was almost to Vermont. If everything went to plan, I was starting my final night of driving. I’d never been so ready to reach my destination. Illinois, Indiana, Ohio—no hate, but the Rust Belt wasn’t my scene. I’d already lived through the Middle Ages, I didn’t need to spend time in Indiana.

“Next trip, you’re driving!” I shouted into the back. Please let there be a next time.

I had reached my limit for talking to a cat and a silent coffin. I turned down Beyoncé, who I’d been blasting at top volume, girl-powering my way through Amish country, and FaceTimed Vlad.

“Ah, Tiffenie!” he said, picking up immediately like he’d been waiting for me to call. With a contented sigh, he said, “How’s the drive?”

“It’s all right.”

“Are you sure you won’t tell me where you’re moving? I could drop by and see how things are going with your progeny.”

Here we go again. “Vlad, you know I can’t tell you.”

“Tiffenie, I’m not going to give you up to the parliament.” He sounded exasperated. “I just want to see you.”

“FaceTime is good enough, but thanks for the offer.”

He didn’t say anything for a beat, swallowing his disappointment. “So how’s the drive? Is your progeny behaving herself?”

“About that…” I glanced at the coffin.

Vlad sighed. “She didn’t wake up, did she?”

“Not yet. Does it take extra long sometimes?”

“Did you follow my directions?”

“Mostly.” Recipes are just suggestions.

“What did you do?”

“Well, I didn’t bury her. I just sort of…covered her up.” And I wasn’t about to tell him that I opened the coffin once or twice a day to unlock her phone with her Face ID so I could keep posting TikToks.

Vlad groaned. “Tiffenie, you have to follow instructions.”

“The point is to just cover them up, keep it dark. Right?”

“It’s about the soil,” he said. “You need the sacred soil of her homeland.”

“I don’t know, Vlad. Have you been to LA recently?” It didn’t feel very sacred or homeland-y, not to mention Instagram was more like Heaven’s homeland than the earth. “We’re not an agrarian society anymore. Maybe soil is less important.”

“You might be fine.” Vlad didn’t sound optimistic. “It’s a waiting game at this point.”

My stomach clenched. Please let him be wrong. Please. I didn’t want to arrive in Valentine with a dead friend. Not to mention, if she was dead I would definitely be arrested for murder. You can’t kill someone and then spend the next four days posting on their social media accounts. Even I knew that much.

Cat meowed loudly, complaining from the floor of the passenger side. After a week in a car with Cat, I understood why people took dogs on road trips.

Something moved inside the coffin. I strained to hear more, anything to confirm it wasn’t my imagination.

“Vlad, quiet. I heard something.” More rustling and then a knock. “She’s awake!” If I could have, I would have yelled “Hallelujah!”

“Well, that’s good. How much longer till you arrive?”

I glanced at the map app. “Six hours.” We’d be there well before sunrise.

“Don’t let her out till you get there.”

“Six hours—you think she’ll be okay?” I didn’t want her to start her new life acting out a buried-alive nightmare.

“Just put on a podcast and keep going. You don’t have a choice. It should take her a while to gain full consciousness.”

Except for the podcast rec, he was right. I put my foot on the gas and turned up Beyoncé again. Upstate New York was only a hop and a skip from Vermont.

My excitement climbed with each mile we crept closer to Valentine. Heaven was waking up and we were almost home. Would I find a job? What would the townspeople be like? Where did Bernie Sanders live?

But I didn’t drive fast enough. We weren’t quite there when Heaven knocked from the inside of her coffin. “Let me out!”

“We’re almost there!” I called with forced cheerfulness, echoing parents of time immemorial.

“Help!”

“You know how you mentioned going with me to Vermont?” I called into the back seat.

“Let me out!”

“We’re almost there. You’re doing great!” I called. There was nothing for it. I stepped on the gas.

“Tiff, is that you? I’m going to kill you!”

“You’re going to love Vermont,” I answered. “The leaves, the hills, the…” Not murdering her girlfriend was the real highlight, but that was better left unsaid for the moment. The headlights were twin beams of soft yellow light illuminating gently falling snow. I was heading home.

According to a DJ on Valentine’s 103.5 “The Heart,” it was past peak fall colors—not that it mattered much to me. Leaf-peeping was a daytime hobby.

There wasn’t more than an inch or two of early snow, but it had been preceded by bouts of rain, making for poor driving conditions, especially for an LA driver. I followed each curve in the road with bated breath and a white-knuckle grip until I saw it: a quaint wooden sign that announced, Welcome to Valentine!

“We’re here!” I called.

No response from Heaven, except for some rustling around. It seemed like she’d drifted off again. For the undead, a coffin is quite comfortable, except that the pillows are too small.

Valentine, population 4,356, was quaint. I stopped the car in the middle of the empty street beneath a banner advertising the SugarBoo Ball. A week ago, I’d watched A Country Christmas with Heaven on my couch in LA, my dumb slipcover riding up between the cushions, and drank my fill by accident. Somehow, I’d basically Jumanji-ed myself into the TV. Me, Tiffenie Ruba, immortal vampire and servant of the devil, living A Country Christmas.

Wide-eyed, I took it in. Everything about the town was charming and quaint. A small gazebo decorated with snow-dusted pumpkins and heaps of about-to-be-frozen mums marked the center of the town square. The gazebo and gardens were bordered by a bakery, a bookstore, and a tavern. Of course, here, a bar wasn’t just a bar. It was a tavern.

I wanted to touch all the books in the bookstore, admire the goodies in the pastry case of the bakery, walk into the general store looking for breath mints only to meet the love of my life when we reached for the last tin. Or something. Not tonight, though. It was late and every store had a Closed sign. No Patagonia-clad Vermonters trudged down the street carrying too many shopping bags and steaming hot chocolates. There wasn’t a sled or a ski track to be found. In my old neighborhood there would be people everywhere at this hour, making a late-night run to the store, heading to or from work, and always a guy peeing in an alley because there weren’t public restrooms.

Here, the snow was a pristine blanket, not a track in it, a world created just for me. Heaven was banging on the inside of the coffin. I called, “Just a few more minutes.”

An impulse hit—to put my tracks in the snow, to make this town mine. I would be the Neil Armstrong of Valentine, Vermont, leaving prints from my Payless heeled boots. Were Neil’s footprints still on the moon? Really, NASA should be sending vampires into space. Then they wouldn’t have to invest so much in life-support technology.

With a Christmas morning feeling I hadn’t felt for centuries, I stepped into the snow-covered square still wearing yoga pants and my Parliament of the Undead T-shirt (the Bloodthirsty Banjo tour, not the vampire council). The snowflakes fell like kisses on my alabaster cheeks. An eddy of flakes twirled around me like magical Disney sparkles, the kind that turn Cinderella from a pauper to a princess.

I was becoming who I was always meant to be, a small-town girl. Maybe the big city had been my problem all this time. Back when I was human, I lived in a small village. Valentine was a return to my roots.

In the back of the hearse, I found my best fur coat, the one I wore to the club during the flapper era. It had been the only thing that looked good on me in the 1920s. Flapper dresses aren’t for curvy girls. The coat smelled a little of mothballs, but it’d air out soon in the fresh Vermont air.

I knocked on the coffin. “Heaven, you’re going to love Vermont! It is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.” And I’ve been to Switzerland.

Heaven murmured something, but she didn’t sound distressed.

Before I shut the back door of the hearse, Heaven’s phone pinged again. My official announcement that her followers should chill out had done no good. To satisfy these followers, whoever they were, I snapped a photo of the snowy landscape. All it needed was a caption. I tried a few pithy pieces of advice before landing on:

Get out of your own way and become who you are meant to be. If you don’t know who that is, that’s okay, at least try something. I’ve heard great things about pottery and Korean skincare seems to be a good idea. If you haven’t seen that Martha Stewart documentary, you should watch it. You do you.

Back in the car, I retyped the address of my new home into the map app, my whole being vibrating with excitement.

“Here we go.” I took Main Street out of town and turned right at an old-fashioned mill. I sat up straight, peering at every tree and rock with a wide-eyed excitement I hadn’t felt since that time I drank from some people at Woodstock. That LSD hit hard, even secondhand.

Maple Lane, my new street, was narrow and curved gently along the path of the Valentine River. My heart and mind floated on a plane they’d never reached. Yoga, meditation, affirmations—nothing had lifted me like Vermont on a snowy day. When a graceful doe leapt in front of the car, I gasped. She was so lithe and tawny, a happy little deer dotted into my world by Bob Ross. But then she stopped and stared, a literal deer in the headlights.

“Ah, fuck! Move it, deer!” I yelled, but she was frozen, forcing me to slam on the brakes. Instead of slowing, the wheels locked and the Happily Ever After hearse skated sideways down the road, taking up both lanes. I screamed. Heaven, now fully awake apparently, screamed with me. I gripped the wheel harder to no effect. The guardrail-less drop into the Valentine River beckoned, an abrupt fall into an icy river that could kill us if we weren’t already dead.

Just when I thought it was hopeless, a crash inevitable, the car skidded to a stop peacefully on the side of the road. No accident, nothing. It was nothing but a reminder that you needed snow tires in Vermont. In the silence, I started laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing, at the dumb hearse, Heaven in her coffin, a falling-down bed-and-breakfast. And then a few tears welled up—relief, probably. I don’t know. The doe who had started it all watched from the hillside, serene, graceful, completely unbothered.

“Heaven!” I called. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” But when I glanced in the rearview mirror, the back of the car was open and her coffin was skidding to a stop. Apparently, she had been ejected in the chaos. I jumped out and slipped on the icy road, almost not catching myself. Why was I wearing heels?

“Heaven!” I yelled, scrambling to my feet. “I’m coming! It’s okay!”

All I had to do was collect Heaven and get her back in the car. We were okay. I had this.

Just then, a cherry-red pickup came barreling down the lane. The lights blinded me, and I shielded my eyes. Hopefully, he would just keep driving. I didn’t need anyone to get all up in my business before I even got to the house. Please keep going. Please keep going.

No luck. The truck pulled to a stop right beside me.

And then it got worse. The side of his truck was painted with the name St. Nicholas farms in the handwriting you would expect Santa Claus to have. The pickup bed was filled with wrapped pine trees.

Fuck fuck fuck. There was no reasonable explanation for my situation. Maybe if a satanic cult pulled over, I’d be able to talk my way out of it, but this was a Christmas tree farmer.

A young Black man, tall with broad shoulders and a trim beard, stepped out of the pickup dressed for the snow.

He looked from me, to the Happily Ever After hearse, to the coffin. There was no reaction on his face, nothing. Not even surprise. In a voice like butter, he said, “Looks like you got yourself in a bit of a fix.” There was a hint of the South in his voice.

I let out a nervous laugh. “You could say that.”

He took a step closer and I caught the distinctive smell of leather work gloves, pine needles, and freshly cut wood—the kind of smell a designer would die to put in a bottle and sell as the latest scent for men.

“Do you want me to keep driving and pretend like I didn’t see this?”

I nodded. “Kind of.”

He laughed. “You know I can’t leave a damsel in distress on the side of the road.”

Damsel in distress. I could have laughed if I wasn’t so overcome by this pine-scented hero.

“How about I help you load that, er…coffin in your…uh…vehicle?”

Deadpan, I responded, “Some help would be lovely.”

“No one’s in there”—he gestured to the coffin—“right?”

“Oh, no.” I laughed gaily, as if the idea was preposterous. “I’m getting out of the mortician business, but no sense wasting a good moving box.” I laughed again to let him know this was supposed to be funny.

“Seems like an expensive moving box.”

“Oh, it is. Caskets are not cheap.”

“What do they normally run?” he asked like we were talking about the weather. A twentysomething woman dressed for California on the road with an escaped coffin at 3 a.m. in Vermont—either he had a poker face, or no one had ever acted right around him before and he was cool with anything. Maybe he grew up in a traveling circus.

“They run from two thousand to eight thousand, for normal ones,” I said, reciting the cost of moving to Vermont. It’s not like I knew how much a casket cost. I wasn’t Dracula.

“So, the Happily Ever After Funeral Home?” He recited the name on the hearse like a question. “Is that where you worked?”

“It’s important to put a positive spin on death.” I smiled, trying to project normal and well-adjusted, not creepy. “What do you do?” I asked, desperate to change the subject to anything else.

“What it looks like.” The man jerked a thumb at the truck. “I’m a Christmas tree farmer.”

I clasped my hands together. Vermont was delivering on every level, except for the coffin-in-the-road situation.

“I hope this doesn’t bother you…too much.” I gestured to the coffin. “I almost hit a deer and…well, you can see what happened.”

“Practically self-explanatory.”

I could have swooned. A man who didn’t ask questions was my dream.

“Well, let’s get it in the car again. Can’t leave it out on the road like this. Someone else will end up in the river.”

He tested the weight of the coffin, which was substantial. This would be a four-pallbearer situation if I wasn’t a vampire.

“Do you think you can help me lift it?” he asked, eyeing my somewhat petite frame and dainty heeled boots. I still think of myself as tall because back in the day I was, but nowadays everyone is like, “Tiffany is such a cute little thing.”

“Of course.” I’m not one of those vampires with superstrength, but I’m still a vampire and it comes with some perks. The farmer gripped one end of the casket; I gripped the other.

“Lift with your legs,” he advised.

As long as he did. It would be unfortunate if this cute farmer threw out his back lifting Heaven’s coffin. It was already awkward enough, but it could get worse. It could always get worse.

Heaven must have passed out from spinning in her coffin, either that or the drop from the car. Fortunately, a little knock to the head was no biggie for a vampire. She’d be just fine.

On a normal day, I wouldn’t have powerlifted a casket in front of a guy, but he had me in a bind.

When we were done hoisting the casket into the back of the hearse, the man gave me an up-and-down look and said, “Wow. I could use your help around the farm.”

I fluffed my hair. “I’ve been doing a lot of dead lifts at the gym.”

He laughed at my accidental pun.

“Tiffenie.” I held my hand out.

He froze and gave me a closer look, searching my face in a way that made me squirm. I retracted the hand I’d offered and shoved it in a pocket.

“Tiffany Blair?” He looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “It’s me, Tyrone.”

I blinked back. “Sorry?”

“Tyrone Nicholas. I had some business with Jeff a long time ago.”

“Oh.” I smiled as if that meant something to me.

“We only met once or twice in passing a long time ago, so you might not remember me.”

Phew. But still, how small was this town anyway? Being recognized by the first person I saw was not ideal.

Standing at the back of the open hearse like we were tailgating at a homecoming game, Tyrone gave me a not-so-subtle inspection. I pulled my hat down around my ears. Tiffany had been blond.

I had been anonymous for so long; I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be known. It made me want to scuttle away sideways like a crab.

With a glance at the coffin, he said, “You know, I didn’t take you for the type to become a mortician.”

“What did you think I would be?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. The way Jeff talked about you, maybe a kindergarten teacher or a nurse.”

“Jeff clearly didn’t know me all that well.” Note to self: Find out who Jeff is, ASAP.

“So where are you staying?” he asked.

I pointed down the road. “The Valentine Bed-and-Breakfast.”

“Really?” he asked, his voice skeptical. “Have you seen a recent picture?”

I shrugged. “I’m going to fix it up.”

“Maybe it’s better on the inside than I thought.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you knew, but I bought Jeff’s parents’ farm. I’m right across the road from you.”

“Looks like I won the neighbor lottery,” I said, and I meant it.

“Same,” he said, looking relieved, as if I wouldn’t be excited to see him. Who wouldn’t be excited to see a handsome Christmas tree farmer?

“Maybe I can take you out for a drink to thank you for the help,” I said with a burst of inspiration. Look at me, taking charge of my own destiny.

“Deal, but I’m buying. Now come on.” He walked back to his car and said over his shoulder, “Just follow me and you’ll end up at the house.”

I waved and got back into the hearse, all casual-like, but if my heart could beat, it would be racing. I needed to figure out who the hell Tiffany Amanda Blair was, and quick. The people in this town knew her as a person. I only knew her Social Security number.

Luckily, I had bought the identity nine years ago. That meant no one had seen her in at least that long. A lot could change in a decade.

I pulled up to the Valentine Bed-and-Breakfast ten minutes later. Just like in the pictures, an adorable off-kilter, heart-shaped sign marked the spot.

Maple Lane, which was less of a lane and more of a scenic rural highway, separated my new abode from Tyrone’s farm, which boasted rows upon rows of pine trees and a cozy log cabin. A painted wooden sign the size of a billboard announced it as St. Nicholas farms and Christmas fair. Tyrone’s truck was already parked in front of the house.

My new home might be a little dilapidated, with peeling paint and signs of rot, but if you squinted it was beautiful. It was situated at the top of a gentle rise at the end of a long driveway with a wide, welcoming porch.

The hearse only made it halfway up the icy drive before the wheels started spinning. I revved the engine, and the wheels spun harder. We’d made it all but the last hundred feet.

There was no delaying; I had to let Heaven out. What should I say? “Congratulations, you’re a vampire!” didn’t seem to cover it.

I unlocked the lid to her casket and braced myself.

The lid creaked open, and she sat bolt upright, gripping the sides of the coffin. “What the—”

She looked around at the snowy, barren landscape. “Tiffenie?” she said, her tone nothing but a question.

“Good evening, sweetie.”

At the word sweetie she gave me a weird look. “What’s going on?”

“Well…we had to leave town in a hurry.”

Heaven looked at me in confusion. “Where’s Gemma?”

“Remember, you broke up.”

She flashed a defiant, I’m-broken-up-when-I-say-I’m-broken-up expression.

“And then you fell asleep on my couch…” I spoke slowly and calmly to help her process the news.

“That doesn’t explain”—she gestured at everything—“any of this!” I could see the panic settling in as she realized we were far, far from LA.

When I woke up as a vampire for the first time, I’d been in a castle. Vlad had been there. “Hello, dumpling,” he’d said. “How do you feel?” He’d had several virgins ready to quench my thirst.

“Where the fuck am I?” Heaven said, wide-eyed, clearly taking in the snow, which was collecting in miniature drifts on her false lashes.

“Before we talk, let me get you something to drink.” I had to crawl all the way into the hearse to get to the coconut water. “Hang on,” I called. “I’m sure you must be thirsty.”

She stared at the proffered coconut water like Cat had just gifted her with a dead mouse. “A Kirkland Organic Coconut Water”—she emphasized the name like it was a curse— “is not going to help this situation.”

“Actually, I think it might…” I trailed off at the look on her face. “You know how I inherited a bed-and-breakfast…”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, ta-da!” I gestured to the hulking home outlined against the night sky. There wasn’t a single light on in the house. “Remember how you wanted to come with me?”

She looked down at her feet. “Why am I not…cold? I’m low-key a little freaked-out right now,” she said, sounding more on the high-key end of the spectrum. She was still in her Funshine Bear shirt and sweatpants, her feet in nothing but slippers.

“Well, you know our arrangement. I drink a little and you get my parking space…”

“Come again?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Well, I drank a little too much and…” I held up my thumb and forefinger to emphasize how little.

“What?” Her head whipped up, and her mouth dropped open. “You what?”

“It was an accident.”

She squinted at me long and hard. “You mean I’m a—”

“Yes, you’re a vampire. I turned you. You couldn’t stay in LA. It wouldn’t be safe.”

She gave me a does-not-compute look and held her hands out, as if expecting them to look different. “I look the same. I feel…the same.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine,” I said. Then I stooped to give Cat a scratch through the door of her carrier and whispered, “We’re home!”

Heaven looked from the house to me. “You’re out of your damn mind, Tiffenie.”

Hefting up the carrier, I said “Let’s check it out. Shall we?” like a professional tour guide.

Heaven took a deep breath and shut her eyes to calm down. “I need a woosah.” She walked ahead of me toward the house, leaving me to struggle with the bulky cat carrier and slippery footing.

Fallen leaves had piled on the stairs along with a dusting of snow and ice. I said, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The snow is so…white.”

Heaven was looking at the ground like she’d landed on Mars. “We’re in Vermont. Everything is pretty damn white, Tiffenie.”

“We can bring in the luggage tomorrow,” I called after her, as if that was her concern. “Some of my creams might freeze, but it’s probably okay.”

Hopefully the house had a TV hooked up, because the conversation wasn’t flowing.

There was a double front door made of carved wood. From experience I’d say it was old.

“So,” Heaven said as I fiddled with the lock, “just to get this straight, you killed me and kidnapped me.”

“Sure, if you want to look at it that way.”

I pushed open the door to our new home and said, “Immortality is a lot. Just focus on the new home. It’s going to be—” Before I could say beautiful, a light fixture fell from the wall and crashed on the floor, scaring a raccoon that had been hiding in the shadows.

I flipped a light switch but nothing happened. No electricity—that wasn’t great. I didn’t need heat, but I could definitely use a TV and a few lights. “I guess we can watch a show on our phones tonight, but we’ll have to charge them in the car.”

Cat slunk out of the carrier with her belly low to the ground, unsure of her surroundings.

Heaven scanned the room with wide eyes, looking as if she couldn’t process anything. “Ohmygod.” At the word God she winced. I’d have to explain that to her later when she was more capable of absorbing the details of vampirehood.

“I need a minute,” she said, walking around in horrified silence, more like a FEMA employee assessing a disaster than a woman walking into her new home.

Using my phone flashlight, I gave myself a tour of the living room. What I saw would’ve taken my breath away if I still breathed. Vaulted ceilings with a chandelier, a grand fireplace, a sweeping staircase. There were so many HGTV must-haves, but they were all covered in a thick layer of dust. The plaster was missing in spots, revealing the structure of the wall behind.

“Once we get it cleaned up and turn the lights on, it’ll be better. It’s not that bad.”

She held up a hand like she couldn’t even talk about it.

“And don’t worry, you only need to quarantine for maybe a month. Could be less. However long it takes to get your bloodlust under control.”

Heaven turned to stare. “Stay inside this place. For a month. Nuh-uh.”

I patted her arm. “It’ll be over before you know it. Let’s check out the house.”

The main themes of the décor were the Bible and the 1980s. Framed, embroidered Bible quotes graced almost every wall. Antique dolls populated the mantel over the living room fireplace and almost every bookshelf. Several large portraits of Jesus hung in places of honor in the living room and dining room. Even a non-vampire would sizzle and smoke if they had single thought that wasn’t holy.

Aunt Mildred must not have done a thing to the house in forty years. She definitely hadn’t operated it as a business for a while. Based on personal experience, I’d say this was the result of at least twenty-five years of deferred maintenance, maybe longer.

Upstairs, the bedrooms were filled with teal carpeting and mauve bedspreads. Every room had big poofy floral curtains that matched the bedspread. A few years ago, it would have been habitable. Tonight, though, the wind was howling through the house as if to tell us we weren’t welcome. In one room, the snow had even piled up inside of the windows facing the road. Clearly, the carpets and fabric all needed to be replaced thanks to water damage.

It was a poorly preserved ’80s time capsule.

In what I suspected was Aunt Mildred’s room, my skin sizzled and began to burn and smoke from the high concentration of religious paraphernalia. “This is just not going to work for us,” I said, taking several Bible verses from the wall and piling them up. Burning vampires with crucifixes wasn’t a myth. Anything holy would do it.

I picked up a big black Bible with some fire tongs and held it as far in front of me as possible.

“Don’t come in here till it’s clear,” I called down the hall to Heaven. “It’s not safe.”

Heaven picked up a cross-stitched quote, Do unto your neighbor as you would have them do unto you. She held it up meaningfully. “I think we should keep this—” she said, but as she brandished the cross-stitchery, her hand began to smoke.

“Sorry,” I said.

“For the burn or for being a shit neighbor?” she asked.

“Both.”

In the attic, I found a smaller room. My phone light cut across the cramped space, illuminating a papasan chair and day bed. Fairy lights were strung around the wrought-iron bed frame and movie posters tacked to the wall. Against the wall was a single bookshelf with as many trophies and figurines as books—bingo. I slipped a high school yearbook under my arm.

It was surreal, stepping into the childhood bedroom of a woman whose life I had claimed but whom I had never met.

I might’ve been named for the Epiphany, but the woman whose life I was inhabiting had clearly been named for Tiffany the redheaded ’80s pop star of mall-dwelling fame. Was she a one-hit wonder or could I only remember one song? “I Think We’re Alone Now” came to mind. The beating of our hearts is the only so-ound.

My beating heart was the only one I couldn’t hear.

I sang the song softly to myself as I wandered through the rest of the house, my voice off-key and echoing through the hallways.

The roar of a car’s engine interrupted my singing, and I peeked behind one of the curtains to see the hearse’s headlights cut through the darkness. Damn it! Heaven was making a break for it. The engine revved. The road was still as slippery as it had been an hour ago. After ten feet of sliding backward, Heaven landed right in the ditch, her wheels spinning futilely. She’d never driven on ice, and the hearse was outfitted for California.

I hurtled down the stairs, out of the house, and slip-slided through the mess of wet leaves and snow to the car. Through the driver’s side window I mouthed, “Just come inside.”

“I don’t—” Heaven began, but then she looked at the snowy night, and all the fight went out of her and she sagged into the seat.

“I am so sorry. I did not want this to happen.”

“You accidentally turned me into a vampire?”

“Well, technically I accidentally killed you. I intentionally turned you into a vampire to save you.” I extended a hand to help her out of the car. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Fine,” Heaven said. She took my hand. “I guess I don’t really want to be in LA right now anyway, not after my fight with Gemma.”

Together we walked back inside and up to one of the bedrooms, the smallest one with the fewest windows. The curtains were moth-eaten, so I tucked one of the ’80s floral bedspreads behind the curtain rod to block out the light.

Before I left the room, she was out. Today had been a lot.

With the sun cresting over the horizon, I didn’t have enough time to jerry-rig any blackout shades for myself. Instead, I crawled into an old clawfoot tub and wrapped myself in an aggressively floral bedspread. This wasn’t exactly the self-care, spa-day moment I’d been looking for. All I wanted to do was watch a movie in a sheet mask.

I’d once read that some of the most stressful events in a person’s life are moving, having children, divorce, and changing jobs. I’d hit all of them but divorce in the last few days, and it felt like it.

The faucet dripped slowly, wetting the bottom of my bedspread. As I tried my best to keep my feet dry, my phone pinged.

Vlad: Did you make it?

Me: yes

Vlad: Where are you? Are you okay?

My fingers hovered over the keys. It would be so nice to have Vlad visit, to explore this house together, to banter about what colors to paint the walls, and when I said “I hate pink,” he would understand it had nothing to do about my feelings about being a woman and everything to do with the relationship I’d gotten into while I was visiting Japan during cherry blossom season. Naoki wrecked the color pink for me. Our relationship had been all fighting, no rest, not even while we were sleeping. That was the thing about people. You could never get on the same schedule. It just wasn’t worth it.

Instead of saying all of that, I texted:

Me: im good. how’s Indiana?

Vlad: I live in Utah.

I knew that, but I wasn’t going to let him know I’d been paying attention.

Me: how’s utah?

Vlad: Haha. Sleep tight.

Our first evening in Vermont Heaven and I sat silently in front of the picture window in the front room. Day one of together forever.

“The view is lovely, isn’t it?” I commented mildly. It was everything I’d hoped it would be, a serene painting of a landscape and an old barn, the kind that might hang in a dentist’s office, soothing and unobjectionable. Except for the hearse. It was lodged in the ditch where Heaven had left it, deep tire tracks leading to its final resting place.

“The view—” Heaven scoffed. “That’s what we’re going to talk about?”

“Would you like to say something?” I asked. “You’ve been very quiet.” Uncomfortably so. I couldn’t help but recall that feeling of new motherhood, holding a brand-new human who is at once a stranger and your child. One does not become a mother, or a maker, overnight.

“For one, it would be nice if we had electricity,” Heaven said, turning in my direction and blinding me completely with a headlamp she had found.

Holding a hand over my eyes, I asked, “Can you dim that?”

“No.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

This was going to be more work than parenting in the 1700s. Standards were pretty low back then. People these days are always talking about the trials of growing up in the 1980s, but child mortality rates spoke for themselves. Most kids born in the ’80s survived to adulthood, even if they subsisted on plastic-wrapped American cheese slices and benign neglect.

Heaven was already an adult, a former neighbor, a woman who previously tried to fix me with some volunteer life coaching. This was uncharted territory.

“Well, tonight we have to do two things. Number one, we need to burn all of the vaguely religious decorations and Bibles.” I shuddered at the thought of all the danger around us. The least religious decoration was a Thomas Kinkade painting.

When I plucked the Kinkade from its place on the wall, Heaven exclaimed, “You can’t burn that. I love the light!”

“Which is why it has to go.” There was something sinister about the idyllic cottage. The sunbeams, the saccharine coziness—it was too perfect to trust. On second thought, it was essentially my Hallmark fantasy. I hung it back up.

“Okay, we can keep the painting, but this could kill you.” I picked up a Bible with fireplace tongs.

“Book burning, Tiff, really?”

“Heaven, right now, I know what’s best for you. I’m your m—”

She looked down her nose at me. “What were you about to say? You’re my—”

“Maker. That means a couple of things. First, I need to help you stay undead, instead of regular dead. If you watched Buffy, you know most of it—no stakes, sunlight, religious stuff like holy water and”—I gestured to the pile of cross-stitchery and portraits—“almost everything Aunt Mildred owned. We would get sunburned just living in this house as is.”

Heaven stared out the window listlessly. “Did you have to get a hearse?” Her voice had a “really, Mom?” edge to it.

“We’re vampires.”

She shut her eyes and started slowly shaking her head. “We’re vampires” wasn’t sitting well with her. In a preachy tone that filled the vestibule, she said, “Tiffenie, I am a Black woman, I’m a life coach, I’m a lesbian. I’m a mediocre gardener. I’m a fan of old cartoons. Vampire”—she spat out the word—“is waaaay down the line of anything I identify as.” Gathering momentum, she said, “Why am I even humoring you? I’m not a vampire and I never will be. You can’t make me.”

Umm…we could talk about that later.

I handed her a coconut water. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

She took the coconut water and set it down unnoticed. “Before we light all the Bibles on fire, where’s the rest of my stuff? I found a duffel with some clothes, but that’s not all, right?”

“Your earrings are in the center console. I grabbed those dangly ones you always wear and the African ones. I didn’t know which crystals you wanted, so I grabbed a bunch.”

“That’s it? You didn’t even bring hair products.” She pointed to her hair, which I couldn’t see with the headlamp pointed right at me.

In a huff, she gestured to a pile of things. “You packed medieval armor, several laundry baskets full of—” She picked up a bottle of encapsulated retinol and a bunch of beauty products that promised to provide a youthful glow. There was an LED mask. She shook her head in exasperation. “Isn’t eternal youth one of the perks of this?”

“Better safe than sorry?” I stood to go get her stuff from the car, grabbing the car keys. “Whatever I missed, we’ll grab in town.” Putting a fun spin on it, I said, “There are so many cute stores in Valentine.”

With an exasperated shake of her head, she said, “Gemma will send me what I need until I get out of here.” Practically growling now, she yelled, “This is insane, Tiffenie. You can’t just turn me into a vampire and move me into your dumb house in Vermont to watch Netflix on my cell phone because there isn’t even electricity.”

Gemma—oh, no. “I’m very sorry about not packing better and, well, for everything else.” Turning her into a vampire didn’t belong in the same apology as forgetting to pack hair stuff. In my most serious voice, I said, “You need to stay away from people you care about.”

She stomped up the stairs. “I’m taking your pajamas because I don’t want to wear my Halloween costume around the house tonight.” From the landing she shouted, “You turned me into a vampire and brought me a couple of T-shirts and a Halloween costume. What is the matter with you?”

After the sound of violent unpacking lessened, I crept up to the bedroom.

She held up a dress I’d worn in the ’40s with an expression of outrage. “Did you pack anything comfortable?”

I pointed to a jumpsuit that I’d ordered when my targeted ads had me by the throat. “These are very popular.”

Reluctantly, she took the zip-up onesie and walked into the bathroom to change.

Standing in the doorway, I hazarded a few words. “I know you’re mad, but I don’t want this to mess up your business. You still have your life coaching thing.”

“Do I? I haven’t posted in days, because apparently, I was in a coffin—”

“It’s fine. I told them that you were sick.” I leaned against the wall and added, “But there’s been some speculation that I killed you.”

That made her snort.

“I have to admit, I don’t really understand what you do. What is RadianceGlobalLifeCoaching?”

“I’m a life coach, Tiff,” she said, with some edge to her voice. “It’s in the name.”

Basketball coach, volleyball coach…life, though? It’s not a game to win. I kept that thought to myself.

Heaven cleared her throat and climbed up on her soapbox in the too-tight jumpsuit. “I post quality content with unique insights every morning. I’m sponsored by companies that I believe in, and I make enough money to pay for my shit.”

Surfboards and swimwear—the endorsement deals made more sense now. “But what about a retirement plan or benefits or a regular salary. How does that work?”

Heaven rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry. I forgot that you’re a thousand years old.”

“Only three hundred.”

She scoffed.

I just didn’t get it. “You say nice things—tell people they can get rich, be beautiful, find love. But you don’t know them. You don’t know if they’re smart or beautiful or deserving. What is that—lies that ease the pain of existence?”

“You’re wrong,” she said. “I do know my followers.”

“How?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Cat sauntered in and jumped on Heaven’s lap. For a moment Heaven was quiet while she stroked Cat’s fur. Without all the sunshine and crystals, her demons were visible just below the surface.

Leaping up, Cat suddenly darted across the floor and snatched a mouse like it was an episode of National Geographic. I gasped in horror as she slowly paraded past us with the mouse in her mouth. Instead of eating it, she dropped it in one of Heaven’s slippers and waited a few feet away in pounce mode, totally still except for the last inch of her tail. The mouse made a run for it. Cat chased.

I recoiled and pulled my feet into my chest to keep them off the floor. “Cat!” I yelled. “This violence is very uncomfortable.”

Heaven shook her head like she was trying to erase the image. “You’re uncomfortable with violence,” she said pointedly.

I shrugged. “This is a side of Cat I haven’t seen.”

A while later, Cat was still torturing the mouse, but some of Heaven’s positivity had returned. “Do you think this is the first time I’ve Funshined my way out of a bad situation, Tiffenie?” she said, a discernible note of “Don’t fuck with Funshine Bear” in her voice. She was still wearing the headlamp. It obscured her face in shadows, except for her fang-toothed smile.

I believed her. This wasn’t even the first time she’d cheated death.

With finality, she finished off her third coconut water and crushed the box. “Where’d we put the recycling?”

I pointed to a makeshift grocery bag in the corner.

As she gestured, the beam of her headlamp swept across the room. “If I’m going to be stuck here, we gotta fix this place up.”

“Agreed.” I didn’t think I could stand another night without electricity. Whoever said diamonds are a girl’s best friend was dead wrong. It was Wi-Fi, thank you very much.

“Besides the rodent problem, it’s a super-dope old mansion. All we have to do is clean it up and repaint things. The fireplace is”—she pinched her fingers together in a chef’s kiss—“mwah! Can we light a fire? I might not feel the cold on my skin, but I feel it in my soul, if you know what I mean.”

I did. “We have plenty of kindling.” I pointed at the pile of Aunt Mildred’s anti-vampire décor.

“Are you sure about the book burning?”

I nodded. “We need it gone. G-O-D hates us and we can feel it.” I handed her a copy of I Smooched Dating Farewell: A Christian Girl’s Guide to Intentional Courtship and Holy Submission I’d found in Tiffany’s room.

With a gasp, she dropped the nightmare reading material and blew on her poor fingers.

In no time we had a crackling blaze. The firelight danced on the wall, bright and cheerful. Heaven pulled two delightfully mismatched chairs in front of the fireplace. She settled in with a contented sigh and said, “I’m sorry I insulted your clothes.”

“It’s okay.” That dress was gorgeous, but I knew when to play nice.

“I want to make the best of this, so truce.”

“Truce,” I said.

“So I guess we’re partners, at least until I’m safe in public.”

“I would love that.” A warm glow filled my entire being, and not from the fire.

She gave me a nod and said, “You’re right. I need to post, so here we go. I’m going live.”

“More like undead,” I joked.

“Don’t push it.” She set up her phone on a makeshift tripod, draped her pink and yellow braids over one shoulder like a goddess, and pressed Start.

In an exalted tone, she belted out, “Greatest of grand risings. Today is a new day. You are a new you. Let us face the sun and recharge.” She took a deep breath like she needed the oxygen. “I have had a tough…actually, I don’t know how long it’s been.”

Another side effect of being a vampire. Time means nothing.

“But I’m back.” She took a moment and said, “You might have met my friend, Tiffenie.”

I leaned in and waved.

“I’m going to be recuperating in the Vermont countryside for a while with Tiffenie.”

While I froze, suddenly realizing she didn’t know not to share our location, she nudged me. “Oh!” I scrambled for something to say. “Heaven’s going to be fine, and I’ll be right here with her.”

“This is going to be a challenge, people, I’m not going to lie. I don’t do dark, cold, or winter sports.”

A commenter reminded her that she was supposed to talk about relationships today.

“Damn, my bad.” Heaven collected her thoughts and said, “I don’t have any new advice, but sometimes we have to go back to the foundational principles. One of those is good dick don’t make up for nothin’, because some of my heterosexual sisters need to hear that.” With a shrug, she added, “He better have a job, a car, and a place to live. This goes for anyone, he or she or they. They better be vibrating on your level or you don’t need ’em.”

Heaven got up and started walking with the camera. “At the moment, Tiffenie and I are on our own journey. This house needs fixing.” She showed her audience the surroundings. “As you can see, this is a dusty-ass, low-frequency dwelling, but that’s about to change.”

As comments from real-time viewers came in, she responded. “Hello, Houston! Yep, it’s cold up here! And hello, Australia. What time is it Down Under?”

The mouse had finally succumbed. Cat walked slowly across the room with her prize like a queen, making a brief cameo in the recording. “Oh, and I’m rooming with a feline now. Meet Cat.” When she saw the dead mouse, she changed her tone. “Never mind. Don’t look too close at that killer.”

Behind us the fire sparked. The blaze was going full-on White Christmas. All we needed was Bing Crosby on the record player. Heaven continued chatting with the people commenting on her live feed.

“AngelFire wants to know when the inn is going to be open for business.” A stray ember leapt from the fireplace, and she jumped back. “What’s up with the smoke?”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s been a few years since I lit one.” Like two hundred. I’d been trying to forget that part of my life. If someone asked me to go camping, I’d laugh in their face.

“You know, boos”—she paused to wave the smoke from her face—“I don’t think we can ignore this smoke. Tiff and I have to sign off and deal with the fireplace. Until tomorrow, be radiant!” She flashed a deuces sign and peaced out.

Which is when she turned to me and yelled, “You’re going to set this house on fire!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

The room was filling with smoke. “Do we need to open a flue?” I squatted down to look at the fireplace. “Is there a pull cord?”

There was no way to see into the fireplace, especially when I didn’t know what to look for. Also, the fire wasn’t crackling anymore, it was roaring like an angry, adult male lion. A whole pride of them.

“I’m calling 911,” she said, her eyes wide with fear.

“Heaven, no. The firefighters will be too delicious. You can’t drain a first responder on our second night in town.”

“Firefighters aren’t my type, Tiffenie. You know that.”

“Don’t be sexist. There are women firefighters. Plus, I don’t think you’re going to care. You’re going to want a bite, trust me.”

“Trust me,” she parried. “We need help.” She waved at the gray plumes billowing out from the fireplace.

“Just go lock yourself in the bathroom. Take Cat with you.”

Halfway up the stairs, she said, “You realize you’re locking me upstairs while the house is on fire?”

“You’ll be fine. You can’t die again.”

If there was ever a moment to start smoking again, this was it.

A couple of the town heroes were still spraying down the fireplace with a hose while I watched from the Happily Ever After mobile. Heaven was waiting in the attic with the bats like a princess waiting to be rescued. My spirits swung from “It’s not that bad” to “Let’s drive back to LA and pretend this never happened.”

As I fished around in the driver’s side door pocket for a cigarette, a man in an oversized jacket with reflective lettering that spelled out Valentine fire came over and leaned in the window.

“Hey there,” he said. “Hang tight and don’t go back inside till we give you the all clear.”

“Got it.” But soon, I was tapping my foot impatiently. The fire was out and I needed to get these local heroes off the property before Heaven let herself out and decided to get under one of their big rubber jackets for a bite. Not to mention sunrise was coming. It was time to wrap this up.

Fuck it. I went back inside. In the house, no one looked that busy or concerned. One of the firefighters was rolling up a hose, while another casually thumbed through a stack of my books.

At the sight of me, he glanced up without bothering to hide his snooping. “Hi, I’m Pete.”

“I’m Tiffenie,” I said, edging closer.

“I was just browsing through your library. Self-help, huh?”

I was about to be mad when he said, “I’ve been meaning to read The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People for a while. Like, since high school.” He laughed at himself and thumbed through some other titles. Who Moved My Cheese? and Get Out of Your Own Way and A Beginner’s Guide to BDSM.

“You can have that one if you want.” The diagrams were a little too hard to follow. All those straps and knots—I might as well have signed up for a sailing class.

“Uh…thanks.”

“It’s signed, if you’re into that sort of thing. Author signatures, I mean.” BDSM wasn’t for me. I dated a guy who wanted to experiment with leather and whips and all of that. I was just trying to be nice. If he wanted to be whipped, that was cool with me, I just didn’t want to do it. To be fair, I did like biting him.

Another firefighter, his face shield thrown up and his jacket off, walked over to me. His name tag said Dylan in bold type. “It’s a good thing you called when you did. You’ve got minimal damage. It’s not nothing, but it could have been a lot worse.”

“That’s great news,” I said. “Thank you!”

“Let me show you what happened,” he said, walking over to the fireplace and beckoning for me to follow. “The chimney was blocked. Some kind of animal nest, I suspect.”

That seemed likely. “Is the house safe now?”

He looked around with an amused expression. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. The electric is off and there’s no heat. You’re not staying here, are you?”

“I just got back to town. This was my Aunt Mildred’s place.”

“You’re—” He stopped and gave me a careful look. “You know, I never thought I’d see you back in town.”

Here we go again. Never in a million years did I think I’d have to play the role of Tiffany Amanda Blair so often or so soon.

“Remember Homecoming our junior year?” He chuckled.

Uh-oh. I stared back like a deer in the headlights before saying, “We got so drunk, right?”

He laughed in a way that let me know I’d guessed right. Nothing to do in a small town but drink and have sex. That was true in the olden times and it’s true today. I suppose you could go canoeing or read the classics, but who does that?

In a more somber voice, Dylan said, “Sorry about your aunt. She was a nice lady. I don’t think she ever skipped a day of church.”

“I’m going to miss her,” I said, with downcast eyes.

“I’m just glad you’re okay.” A cloud passed over Dylan’s face and he leaned down. Darkly, he said, “A lot of people around here thought you were dead. It’s been a real long time since anyone’s seen you, Tiffany.”

For all I knew, the real Tiffany Amanda Blair could be dead. A foggy memory of a blond girl in a passport book surfaced. I’d watched the lady I’d bought the ID from scrape Tiffany’s photo off.

I certainly didn’t know what she was like in high school or why she ran away. The only information I had was her Social Security number, her date of birth, and the fact that she hadn’t wanted to be Tiffany Amanda Blair anymore. She might be in the ground, buried in an anonymous grave. Meanwhile, I was moving into her aunt’s bed-and-breakfast. A sadness washed over me. So many times in my long life, I’d seen young girls meet fates they didn’t deserve. I’d been that young woman a few times.

Dylan wandered over to the fireplace. “What were you burning, anyway?” He kicked the soggy pile of partially burned cottagecore items and religious paraphernalia.

Willing him to shift his attention somewhere besides the smoking Bibles, I asked, “Why didn’t the stuff in the fireplace burn to ash?”

“Sometimes the fire can get going in the chimney itself, leaving combustibles in the fireplace partially burned. It looks like that’s what happened here.”

Dylan, an upstanding small-town guy who apparently went to church often enough to know Aunt Mildred never missed a day, nudged a partially burned Bible with his steel-toed firefighter’s boot. “Is this a—?” he inquired, leaning down to read the cover of the charred Bible.

I looked around at the men with their crew cuts and clean-shaven jaws. Well, one of them had an out-of-control beard and a tattoo that said Mom, but that was just his “Sweet Home Alabama” beer-drinking right. Here I was on my first day in Valentine with a smoking guide to Christian courtship in my fireplace. All of Vlad’s warnings about small-town folks came back to me. Salem was probably only a few hours from Valentine. I’d seen it on the map, one state below. It was a flashing yellow reminder—be careful, Cotton Mather’s descendants are near.

I half wanted to call Heaven down to drain them and be done with it.

“Wow, is that a phone book?” I smiled innocently. “Remember when we used those? Probably not since last time we saw each other, or before.”

But then Dylan fished out a large portrait of Jesus tending to a flock of lambs. It was charred around the edges, leaving Jesus and a couple of lambs sooty but visible.

Dylan looked up from the portrait in shock. The guy to whom I’d gifted my BDSM manual joined him. “What’s Jesus doing in here?” Pete asked, his brow crinkling in concern.

“Oh, that’s not Jesus!” My flesh sizzled as his name passed my lips. Luckily, the smoke from my burning flesh blended with the smoke already lingering in the air. “This boy band member in a toga is definitely not our savior.” I laughed.

Dylan eyed me skeptically. “You used to be a prayer leader, Tiffany.”

“Which is why I can’t stand by a false Jesus.” I walked up to the painting and boldly announced, “This isn’t Jesus.” I dredged up a few partially remembered truths. “Our modern image is based on Leonardo da Vinci’s paintings, but he was really just painting his boyfriend and then everyone else copied it. Which is how we ended up worshipping sexy white cheeses.” Cheeses and Jesus sound remarkably similar if you don’t enunciate too clearly, and I couldn’t say his name one more time without creating a noticeable cloud of smoke. To be fair, people also worshipped sexy white cheeses. I did in my day.

Dylan looked confused, which was better than angry.

I gestured at the blond-haired, blue-eyed shepherd. “That guy is just some Renaissance hottie. Even worse, he looks like my ex-boyfriend.” Cringing like I meant it, I said, “My ex with a halo. I just can’t.”

At that, Dylan snickered. “God, Tiffany, you’re funny, aren’t you?”

I laughed along with him. Whatever kept me from getting staked.

To change topics and steer them away from the fireplace, I hazarded a request. “Would you mind helping me board up some of these windows?” I just couldn’t sleep in the bathtub for a second night.

“No problem,” Dylan said. “But you know, you really shouldn’t be staying here.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine, and I want to start cleaning bright and early tomorrow.”

“No more fires, okay?” Dylan said.

“I promise.”

After he nailed a few boards over the bedroom windows, Dylan walked back in with a piece of paper covered in bold red and black lettering. Even damp from the snow, it still looked official. “Bad news,” Dylan said, with the look of a doctor delivering a terminal diagnosis.

TOWN OF VALENTINE BOARD OF HEALTH NOTICE OF ORDER TO VACATE

In accordance with the Vermont Code of Health and the Valentine Rules of Incorporation, the City of Valentine performed an inspection of the premises at 623 Maple Lane, the Valentine Bed-and-Breakfast, on November 8, 2024. Based on reasonable information and belief, the inspector found the condition of the premises to be a clear and imminent threat to the health and well-being of the occupants and potential guests.

Under the authority granted us by the above-referenced rules, the City of Valentine is condemning the property and ordering occupants to vacate immediately.

I read the notice with growing horror.

“It must have blown off during the storm,” Dylan said with a frown. “You might want to pop down and talk to someone soon. I probably shouldn’t even let you stay.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, with a confidence I didn’t feel. Like a woman in command of my destiny, I walked to the fireplace and tossed the paper in. It floated down gently like a feather in the wind and landed atop a sign that had previously said Let your Faith be bigger than your fear.

“Well, all right then.” He shrugged. “Good luck.”

“Don’t worry about me. It’s just paperwork.” To Pete, I called, “Let me know if you enjoy that book I gave you.”

Dylan stopped on his way out. “Oh, if you’re going to be in town, you should join the holiday decorating committee.”

Hell no.

“Actually, I’ll just tell Jessica you’re coming. She’d kill me if she knew I saw you and didn’t pressure you into joining.” Dylan grinned.

I laughed like it was funny. “Sure,” I said.

“They’re meeting at the tavern tomorrow night at 8:30. I’ll give you my number in case you decide to go.”

I had no choice but to exchange numbers with this hot, religious fireman.

This night had gone sideways in so many ways that I had lost count.

The house was condemned. Worse yet, everyone knew Tiffany Amanda Blair. My first two encounters with locals had been on a dark roadway and in an unlit house, but I needed to be ready and able to impersonate Tiffany with a -y with the lights on. Also, I needed to charge my phone.

When the firefighters left, I tucked the Valentine High yearbook from the attic under my arm and headed out to the car to charge my phone and do some research. The trucks had done a number on the yard, the thin veneer of Hallmark worn away with one crisis. It was all tire tracks and churned-up dirt. Where I had seen a winter wonderland before, I now saw a light dusting of snow barely covering the advanced decay of fall, leaves frozen for a moment before they could return to the earth. Much like the house itself.

Maybe I was just being dramatic. It had been a long day.

In the full dark of 4:30 a.m., in an idling hearse, I flipped on the car’s dome light and pored over the yearbook of a normal teenage girl. Tiffany played the flute, was in the school play, and delivered meals to the elderly. In the senior superlatives section, she was listed under Best smile.

My most charitable activity was not murdering people. At least, I tried not to murder people.

With a heavy sigh and a sense that I was about to lift a burden I might not be able to carry, I traced handwritten notes on the inside cover. At least three people had written “Never change.”

Too late.

It was night two of my Tiffany Amanda Blair research project. Tonight’s mission: Ransack her bedroom.

Tiffany’s room was for people who liked hiking, all the way at the tippy-top of the house. I walked up the grand staircase to the second floor, where a loft overlooked the main entrance, one of those spots where you’re eye level with the huge fancy chandelier in the entryway—or at least, you would be if it was strung up correctly. The chandelier was old and dusty, only partially lit, missing quite a few of its crystals, and dangling several feet too low from exposed electrical wires, the old man’s balls of crystal chandeliers.

At the doorway to Tiffany’s room, I flipped on the lights, startling a few bats.

“Shit!” I leapt back as the bats flapped about the room in a brief and aimless panic before settling back into a dark corner. I made a mental note to figure out how to rehome bats later.

Movie posters, vintage snapshots, and certificates of achievement awarded to teenage Tiffany were layered over faded wallpaper, which was peeling at the seams from water damage. It was a normal, wholesome room, forgotten by time and taken over by bats. Honestly, a relatable aesthetic.

The few pictures tacked to the wall featured a pale, even-featured girl with a perky blond ponytail. In one photo, she was sporting a cheerleading outfit. Beside it was a newspaper clipping featuring Tiffany holding pom-poms at the edge of a football field. It was captioned Valentine high cheer squad. check out those smiles!

I let out a groan, a noise of despair from deep within my soul, and flopped back onto Tiffany’s comforter. Cat model-walked into the room and beached herself on the bed next to me.

“Oh, Cat,” I lamented. “What have we gotten ourselves into?” I stroked her fur to comfort myself. She responded with force, biting and viciously attacking with her hind legs. Same, Cat. Same.

How was I supposed to pull off a former cheerleader? She had won Best Smile. I had fangs. People remembered popular girls.

There was one thing I could check off pretty easily. Judging from her photos, Tiffany hadn’t been a natural blond either. She was one of those women who was blond as a child and refused to let that go. There were a couple of boxes of Clairol Nice ’n Easy Ultra Light Cool Summer Blonde in her bedroom closet.

“Apply all over and work through hair. Leave color mixture on hair for twenty-five minutes,” I read aloud. Simple enough. I headed to the bathroom for the first step in my transformation into Tiffany Amanda Blair.

With the hair dye applied, I had some time to kill. Downstairs, I found Heaven doing yoga by candlelight near the second-floor bedrooms. A too-sweet knockoff Yankee Candle was hitting all the wrong notes, the Axe Body Spray of vanilla candles.

“You don’t need to do yoga.” Finally, I had some good news to break. Vampire strength was real. “Yoga won’t do anything for you anymore.”

“Mind-body connection?” Heaven moved into downward dog, and one braid escaped her giant bun and swept the floor as she pedaled her feet.

“Eh.”

Heaven plopped back on her haunches. “It’s not working for me today, either.” Her eyes were too wide and she looked too alert.

“Have some more coconut water,” I said. “It’s probably the bloodlust.”

She chugged a box that she’d set by her yoga mat and seemed to settle down. But Heaven’s mind-body connection was broken. She wrinkled her nose. “What stinks?”

My hair was covered with blond hair jizz and wrapped in plastic, giving the overall impression of a used condom. “Ammonium thioglycolate,” I answered, channeling Elle Woods. “Or no, that’s for perms. It’s just blond hair dye.”

I couldn’t shake the sense of unease that I might not be able to pass as Tiffany. Sure, a few pounds and changing trends in eyebrows could distort anyone’s appearance, but Tiffany had been slight compared to my agrarian silhouette. I was busty with hips that looked better in a bar wench outfit than in a cheerleading skirt. Ten years could turn anyone into a bar wench, though. I’d seen it happen time and again.

“Can you help me pick out an outfit?” I said, wandering over to the adjacent bedroom and scanning a pile of clothes with my phone flashlight. I wasn’t a clothes horse, but if you’re alive long enough, things accrue.

“What’s this?” Heaven followed me to the bedroom and pulled out a long purple dress with a boat neckline. Her headlamp was starting to fade.

“All of the ones in that pile are bridesmaid dresses.” There was one from the ’70s that looked like bad wallpaper, a flapper-style one from the ’20s, a ren faire number from that Lord of the Rings wedding I’d been in. “Always a bridesmaid,” I said wistfully.

“I can’t believe you had this many friends,” she said, sounding genuinely confused. “I thought you didn’t do friends.”

“Then what are we?” I waved at the space between us.

“You’re my anemic-looking neighbor who I befriended because I make it a point to know my neighbors.”

That stung, so I quipped, “And you wanted my parking space.”

“That too.”

I’d had friends, once upon a time.

I held up the ice-blue satin number I’d worn in Emily’s wedding, not too bad as far as bridesmaid dresses went. It had been modern at the time, the height of feminism. It was a pantsuit with linebacker-esque shoulder pads. It said, watch out, men, we can wear pants too!

I set the pantsuit down. “I’ve been meaning to call Emily again.”

Heaven squinted at the shoulder pads. “From the looks of it, you might be forty years too late.”

“Emily and I were supposed to go to the mall…”

Heaven raised her eyebrows. “Girl, you might have missed that.”

“There’s always time for the mall,” I said, wandering off to wash the dye out of my hair and finish my transformation.

An hour later, blond, blown out, in a satin pantsuit, I was ready for my grand debut as Tiffany Amanda Blair.

“You’re just going to get supplies, right?” Heaven asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Watch out, Valentine! Tiffany Amanda Blair is in town.” I struck a pose at the top of the grand staircase.

“Why do you keep talking about yourself in the third person?” she said. “Is that a vampire thing?”

“I guess I never mentioned it before.” To be fair, we’d had bigger problems. “I can’t use my real identity because no one is going to give a three-hundred-year-old Romanian woman with no birth certificate a passport and a visa. If you want to participate in society, you need a modern identity. The last identity I bought was Tiffany Amanda Blair of Valentine, Vermont. I had to dye my hair blond because we just moved back to her hometown.”

Heaven’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

I nodded.

“When you say the ID you bought, do you really mean stole?”

“No!” I protested. “I bought it on the black market. It’s fine.” I waved my hand in dismissal.

As I walked down the grand staircase, the lights came on and there was a discordant, synchronized beep of all the appliances in the house, as if every instrument in the orchestra had picked a random note to play to announce my arrival.

Heaven’s jaw was still hanging open, but at least the power was on.

The universe had spoken. Lights, camera, action. I was ready to roll.

I rolled onto Main Street a little after 6 p.m., sure that I would find a bustling village: children playing tag in the square, beautiful couples heading to the tavern, shopkeepers selling bottles of wine and wheels of cheese to townsfolk about to enjoy dinner with their neighbors.

Just like last time, the town square was empty. Shoveled sidewalks, tire tracks, and trampled snow were the only evidence that someone had been there.

I parked the hearse in front of the Valentine General Store. The sign was flipped to Closed and the hours were posted as 7 a.m. to 6 p.m. The diner closed at four in the afternoon, long before dinner. A sense of panic began to build as I walked to the next store. The bakery closed at 2 p.m., the bookstore at 6 p.m. sharp. Who were these people who only went out in the daylight? Were they scared of the dark?

Frustrated, I stood on the sidewalk closed out of the world I’d just moved to. It seemed like I wouldn’t be able to buy any supplies in Valentine—tonight or ever. The windows were decorated for pumpkin-spice season. The bookstore window was frosted and filled with twinkling lights. I stopped in front of the dress shop and sighed wistfully. A red-velvet dress called to me, sumptuous fabric, a deep V neckline that would work well with my physique. Every fiber of my being wanted to walk into the shop and buy it, along with some new chandelier earrings and vintage Victorian boots. This dress was only for wholesome women, peasants who smelled of garlic and walked in the light, someone who could do a full twirl in a three-way mirror to admire their reflection.

A light across the square twinkled, taking my attention from the dress. The tavern, of course, was open. Eagerly, I walked through the empty street to the Valentine Tavern. It was an old German-style building, white stucco crisscrossed with wood, hobbit-y and quaint. The faint sounds of music filtered out.

Inside, I found an oasis of humanity. Clinking glasses and silverware mingled with the folk tunes of a flannel-clad band.

When I paused next to the Please seat yourself sign, the tavern fell silent and all eyes turned to me. Everyone else was straight out of the L.L. Bean catalogue. Here was I, spotlit by a hanging stained-glass Budweiser lamp, the only one in the tavern dressed as a bridesmaid circa 1981. Apparently, I needed a pair of Wellingtons and a zip-up polar fleece to fit in. Heaven was right. I was overdressed.

“Evening,” I said cheerfully with a wave.

The hostess wore a T-shirt with the Valentine Tavern logo stretched across her ample chest. A fellow bar wench—I smiled in greeting.

She paused on her way to a rowdy table of lumberjack types. “Hey, it’s a little busy, but grab a seat anywhere and I’ll be by with a menu.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Go get yourself a drink at the bar, then. Gary’s offering some kind of pumpkin-spice whiskey concoction tonight.”

Perched on a stool at the ornate wooden bar, I couldn’t help but overhear a couple of dudes debate the merits of leaf blowing versus raking. My to-buy list burned a hole in my pocket: gel, hair oil, a hammer, batteries, and other house-fixing supplies. I texted Heaven.

Me: the only biz in town open is the bar. :(

Heaven: Is there a post office? I need a much larger crystal and some pyrite. And some lotion. Did you even pack me extra underwear?

Me: idk. order what you need to the house. use my card.

Heaven: omg

Me: kissy face

I ordered a Macallan scotch. I couldn’t eat food anymore, but I could drink. The scotch tasted of the earth, of the sacred soil of which Vlad had spoken. I shut my eyes and felt my humanity deep within me, still there.

“Scotch, huh?” A deep voice interrupted my reverie, and I looked up to see Tyrone. In the dark, he’d been a snack. In the warm glow of the tavern, he was a full meal, with broad shoulders and eyes that sparkled with wit and charm. He smelled of evergreens and iron.

“Yep.” I sat up straight and gestured at the seat beside me.

He took the offered seat and flashed two fingers to the bartender. “Two more of whatever the lady’s having, Gary.” He sat down, briefly towering over me. Big men were always my undoing.

“You look refreshed,” he said.

“An extended cross-country road trip isn’t exactly a beauty treatment.” Gesturing to the room, I said, “I forgot the Vermont dress code.”

“Don’t apologize for looking good.”

Gary, the bartender, slid two generous pours across the bar with a wink for Tyrone. They were clearly friends.

“What he’s saying is you look hot,” Gary said, sounding pretty sassy for a man who looked like he had passed hunter safety and had a closet full of puffer vests. He winked at me. “Love the satin. Work it, girl.”

“Was I being cagey?” Tyrone laughed. “Gary’s right. You look hot. A little weird for sure—”

“Hey!” I protested.

“—but hot.”

Tyrone’s compliment hit harder than the alcohol, warming me all the way to my toes. “It’s good to be back.” Looking him dead in the eye, I said, “I missed all the flannel.”

“The flannel, huh?” When he threw back the rest of his whiskey, he tilted his head and exposed his throat. His neck was thick and muscled, and a five-o’clock shadow dusted his jaw like powdered sugar on a delicious treat. When he swallowed, his blood bloomed with the warmth of the alcohol. I swallowed in turn.

“What have you been doing for the last few years?” he asked, setting his glass down on a thin paper napkin.

“I was just joking about being a mortician,” I said. “I actually went out to LA to be an actress, but you know how that goes.”

He nodded sagely.

“I’ve been working at a blood clinic for the last couple of years,” I said, sprinkling in some truth among the lies. “When I inherited the inn, I was more than ready to get out.”

Just then, a table behind us erupted into laughter. Tyrone leaned over the bar and shouted out an order for fries above the din.

A second later, Gary slid a plate of fries onto the bar between us. “On the house.” I think I liked this Gary.

Tyrone raised his glass. “Thanks, man.” Turning to me again, he said, “Oh, I met your friend.”

“My friend?” My brain scrambled to catch up. “Do you mean Heaven?” I glanced around, trying to disguise my panic.

Tyrone’s neck was unmarked. That had to be a good sign, but still. Heaven was not ready to be out.

Like it was no big deal, he said, “I stopped by your place with a housewarming gift.”

“How did that go?” I asked skeptically.

“She only opened the door a crack.” He plowed through some fries, unconcerned with Heaven. “She mentioned something about not feeling well.”

“So, what do people do in town these days?” I asked, changing the subject as casually as I could. “I’ve been gone so long. I forgot how early everything closes.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “Going home is always unsettling. It’s the same, but not.” A conflicted expression flickered across his face.

Visiting my hometown in Romania after several regime changes and a heavy Communist architectural shift—now that had been unsettling.

Commiserating, I said, “It’s hard to know if it’s me or the town. Something changed, though.”

“It might be you,” he said.

I gave him a closed-lip smile, holding my secrets tight. “Ten years is a long time.” Not really, at least for me, but he was young.

When he seemed satisfied with my answer, I asked again, “So what do people do here these days?”

“It’s probably the same as when you grew up, a lot of hiking, fishing, skiing, canoeing, camping. The dog park is popular.”

Being a vampire was creepy enough; I didn’t have to add to it by floating around on an inky black lake at midnight. I wasn’t trying to get staked out here. Also, no night vision. Sorry, Anne Rice fans.

“Anything less wholesome?” I asked.

“You’d have to ask the therapist.” He raised an eyebrow. “She’s pretty popular lately.”

“Do you go?” I asked, taking a sip of scotch without breaking eye contact.

After a beat of silence, he said, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you really have a coffin.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard men in therapy make great boyfriends.”

“I’ve heard the same about women with coffins.”

I leaned in closer to Tyrone and his heartbeat ticked up, his blood running faster, the big vein in his neck throbbing noticeably, to me at least. I bit my lip, and his eyes shifted to my mouth.

I was probably just thirsty. After a week of coconut water, the scent of iron tickled my nose, along with the prospect of a man who was too big for his barstool. I tore my eyes away from the delicious treat in front of me and took a swig of scotch, a mouthful of dirt to distract me from Tyrone.

“So the therapist—she’s very popular?” I swirled my scotch. “What problems could anyone in Valentine have? It’s just so…picture-perfect.”

He laughed. “Tiffany, how much have you forgotten? We’ve all got dark sides. And secrets.”

“What are your secrets, Tyrone?”

“Oh, I have my demons,” he said, with more earnestness than I expected. “Eleanor has her work cut out fixing me,” he joked, clearly trying to lighten the mood before it got dark. But the darkness drew me in. I wanted to know more. What was Tyrone hiding?

Gary interrupted. “Tyrone’s not nearly as messed-up as the locals.”

Another transplant. I cocked my head and asked Tyrone, “So what’s your story?”

“Well, you know some of it probably—”

“Refresh my memory,” I said with a smile.

“I came up because of the trees, and Jeff’s family.”

Jeff again. Uh-oh. I nodded with encouragement to coax more words from Tyrone, and to keep my foot out of my mouth.

He swirled the remaining ice cubes in his glass before saying, “My family has a tree farm in North Carolina. We’ve been working on creating a hybrid evergreen that stays fresher for longer: green, fragrant, fewer needles to sweep up, perfect for Christmas.”

“You couldn’t grow them in North Carolina?”

“We could, but Vermont has a better climate for this variety, so I contracted with Jeff’s family to grow some of the trees. A few years later, I ended up buying the farm.” With a ta-da hand gesture to the tavern full of Vermonters, he said, “And here we are.”

I nodded, taking it all in.

“You don’t know any of this?” He drew his eyebrows together.

I shook my head in the negative. “Nope.”

“Huh.” For some reason that seemed to surprise him.

Putting the focus back on him, I said, “So what you’re saying is that you invented the Chrithmas tree?” I couldn’t say Christmas for being-a-vampire reasons and no one called them holiday trees, so I just had to hope he’d find my lisp adorable.

With a laugh he said, “No, I hold the patent, but it’s just a cross between a blue spruce and a white pine with some vampire DNA thrown in, or at least that’s how I like to explain it.”

I could feel my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. He wasn’t calling me a vampire, but still.

“What’s your tree called?”

“Santa’s Choice.”

I choked on my Macallan and loudly whispered, “That makes it sound like a condom.”

He burst out laughing. It felt good, making someone laugh. I could get used to it.

I wanted to ask more questions that I was probably supposed to know the answers to. Before I gave myself away, I said, “I better be going.”

“What’s your number?” he asked.

I preened and recited the digits. Five seconds later, my phone buzzed. Instead of a flirty text, he had shared the contact information for someone named Eleanor Rosetti.

“Who’s that?” I asked with a frown.

“The therapist. Text her for an appointment.”

At that, I laughed. “And I thought you were going to ask me out on a date.”

“Well, that too. Tomorrow is supposed to be beautiful, sunny, not too cold. I’d love to take you snowshoeing, maybe across Lake Valentine.” He cocked his head, waiting for a reply.

Snowshoeing—he had to be joking. “No, thank you.”

“Cross-country skiing? Ice skating?”

I shook my head no. Was he trying to kill me?

“Snowmobiling?”

“I’d rather go to therapy. In fact, maybe I will.” I quickly texted Dr. Rosetti.

Me: i’m new in town and having trouble fitting in. do you have any late evening appointments?

“The dog park?” Tyrone asked.

“The thing is, since I left Valentine, I developed porphyria, which makes me erupt into blisters in direct sunlight. I can only go out after dark.”

He leaned back on his stool and looked me up and down. “How about hot chocolate around the bonfire? Does that get around the daylight issue?”

“Yes, that sounds so…quaint.”

“Quaint—that’s how I roll.” He put some cash down on the bar for Gary and asked me, “So, tomorrow night?”

When I nodded, he said, “I’ll pick you up after sunset. Be ready.”

On my way home, the therapist texted:

Eleanor: Welcome to Valentine! Short notice but I am working late tonight. I could fit in a session if you’re interested?

Me: on my way!

Dr. Eleanor Rosetti had an office over the adorable bookstore on Main Street. Alone, I sat in a quiet waiting room with two chairs arranged around a coffee table. The wall facing me featured a painting of a decaying tree inhabited by owls, their big, round yellow eyes staring me down not in judgment, more like they wanted to eat me. A cheap water feature was probably intended to relax me, but running water made me nervous. Too much time in a cave will do that.

Unlike the Reka River caves in Slovenia, therapy was unexplored territory. A part of me was excited to see what all the hype was about. Another part wanted to put up my nose and walk out. All of these people hyping it were too young to remember important recent history, such as Luke and Laura’s wedding on General Hospital. Practically babies, wielding the language of suffering like they were the first generation to experience despair. There was always enough suffering to go around. Anyone who lives long enough gets a piece.

Lately it was all: “You’ve never been in therapy?” Gasp. “You must have so many unresolved issues.” “I would never date a man who wasn’t in therapy.” Sure, I get it, men are assholes. That’s why I watch the Hallmark Channel.

To avoid the judgment of the owls, I pulled out my phone and started mindlessly scrolling. On my fourth makeup tutorial, I remembered what I should really be doing—googling Jeff. I typed Tiffany Amanda Blair Jeff Valentine and bingo:

Tiffany Amanda Blair and Jeff Powers, both of Valentine, are delighted to announce their engagement to be married. Tiffany and Jeff are Valentine High graduates from the class of 2014. Jeff is in the family business, growing Christmas trees on the Powers Family Tree Farm. Tiffany is employed at the general store on Main Street. She is known for her starring roles in the annual production of Shakespeare in the Park. The two will be married at the Powers family farm next summer.

So Jeff had been Tiffany’s fiancé. It was a charming announcement, but clearly something had gone terribly wrong. Tiffany had disappeared for an undoubtedly non-fun reason and sold her identity by way of a black-market ID fixer to a vampire.

The good news: Tiffany had a dark side, which was something I could work with. Maybe my version of Tiffany was someone with an edge and a haunting past but who, like me, was trying to make a fresh start.

Mid–Tiffany Amanda Blair research, Dr. Rosetti emerged from her office with a waft of musky perfume and a rustling of expensive fabric. Dr. Rosetti was tall, with dark, curly hair and a smattering of cinnamon-sugar freckles. “Tiffany,” she said, her voice like a bell.

“Dr. Rosetti?”

She held out her hand, warm with life next to my cold alabaster. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Come in. Have a seat.”

A Persian rug, comfortable chairs, and several paintings of old barns welcomed me in. It’s a truth universally acknowledged that the people most nostalgic for barns were never farmers.

“It’s good to meet you, Tiffany. What brings you in today?”

“I moved to town a few days ago. Tyrone, my neighbor, mentioned that therapy is very popular here. I thought I might get to know my neighbors, understand the town, the people.”

Dr. Rosetti sat back, choosing her words. “Oh. That’s an interesting idea, but you realize that therapy is more of an introspective practice. It’s about gaining self-awareness, not investigating others. Helping you look inside and lead a more fulfilling life.”

I scrunched up my face. “So you’re only worried about my psychology?”

She nodded.

“That sounds very boring. I already spend all day with myself.” I’d spent three hundred years with myself. Learning more about myself—no, thank you. That was the last thing I wanted to do.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know this.”

“People are always talking about their childhood, their work problems, their lovers. I assumed the therapist helped someone understand why other people do dumb things.”

Dr. Rosetti picked up a pen and scratched something on her notepad. “A lot of people find that gaining self-awareness helps them gain understanding of others as well. Your actions and reactions are the only ones you can control.”

This woman was very good at stating the obvious. “So we can’t talk about other people at all?”

“Well, you can talk about other people. It’s expected, but I can’t tell you anything about what others tell me. It’s called doctor-patient privilege.”

“Really?” I raised my eyebrows in question. “I can tell you anything and it’s a secret?”

Sagely, she nodded. “I’m legally bound to keep your secrets. There are limits, though. If you tell me you’re about to commit a crime, I will be obligated to report that to the authorities.”

That didn’t bode well. I ran through a mental list of ten crimes I’d committed in the last week. “Be more specific regarding the crimes you need to report.”

Nonplussed, she said, “Oh-kay.” When she saw that I was waiting for her to enumerate the list, she began. “Any child abuse or elder abuse. If I think you are an immediate threat to yourself or others.”

“But everything else is fine? Like if I already killed someone, that’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t say…okay.”

“So hypothetically, if I tell you I’m a vampire, you won’t tell anyone?”

She smiled benignly. “As long as you aren’t about to bite anyone.”

“Consensual biting?”

She cocked her head to the side. “I’d have to think about that, but probably okay.”

This could be interesting.

While I was considering my options, Dr. Rosetti gave me a scrutinizing look. After sitting with her discomfort for a moment, she smiled as if she’d figured something out. “I bet you feel like a vampire. How long have you been afflicted with porphyria?”

“As long as I can remember,” I said carefully. “I lived in LA until just recently, and it wasn’t as big of a problem there. Even though it’s sunny all day, the city is alive at night. Here, everything closes after dinner, which seems to happen very early.”

“So you haven’t been able to meet people?”

“That’s why I’m here. To learn about my neighbors.”

“I can see how you might feel isolated at first in this community.”

“The bar and, apparently, your practice are the only businesses open past eight.”

“Do you live alone?”

“No,” I said, reluctant to offer any more information.

“I sense some tension in your answer. Who do you live with?”

“I moved here with—” I hesitated. What was Heaven to me? We’d declared a truce. I answered, “I think she could be a friend.”

“Say more.”

“Heaven was my neighbor in LA. We’ve always been friends, but we’re not incredibly close. I turned her into a vampire, mostly by accident, and yada yada yada, here we are in Vermont renovating an inn.” Letting out my truth was better than taking off a corset at the end of a long day.

Dr. Rosetti kept her expression blank. “Is there anyone else?”

“Tyrone invited me over, but you know, he’s a tree farmer and I’m…” I struggled for words.

“A vampire?” she supplied.

“Exactly.” I returned a benign smile.

“I can understand how you might feel unable to be yourself on a Christmas tree farm, as a vampire.”

She understood. No wonder people loved therapy so much.

“Have you made any other big life changes?”

“I’m on this new coconut water diet. It’s sort of a juice cleanse, I guess.”

Dr. Rosetti made another note. “What made you start this diet?”

“It’s an ethical thing. I don’t want anything to die for me to eat.”

She nodded. “Interesting choice for a vampire.”

“Tell me about it. Am I forsaking the core elements of what makes me me or am I just on a diet?”

“Tiffany, when you say you’re a vampire, are you saying you don’t feel like you’re a part of this world?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Vampires didn’t belong anywhere, except for maybe Reddit forums.

“Where do you think this feeling of existential loneliness, of separateness, comes from?”

“From being a vampire. I am separate. But lonely—I wouldn’t go that far.” What was loneliness even? “I see people. I live with Heaven. Up until recently, I worked as a receptionist at a plasma donation place.”

“Loneliness is a state of mind. You’ve heard of being alone in a crowd?”

“Yes.” I didn’t add that it sounded like something someone who went to therapy would say.

“There is a loneliness epidemic in this country. Did you know that?”

“Like the plague?” My husband and child had died of actual plague.

“Sort of. A lot of people are alone. It has only gotten worse with social media.” Dr. Rosetti glanced out the window. You could just barely see the glimmer of the tavern’s lights. “In this social media age, we’re both more connected and more disconnected than ever. Loneliness is the kind of hurt that bleeds you slowly rather than all at once.”

I didn’t want to hear it. “It’s not the Black Death or anything. I mean, let’s be honest.”

She smiled like she was humoring me.

“Plague is no joke,” I said. “These days people are alive long enough to be truly miserable. That’s called progress, I think.”

“Very funny, Tiffany. But really, when you describe yourself as a vampire, I don’t think you’re alone. A lot of people feel as if they exist in the shadows, not participating in life. Social media has only intensified that.”

Did they, though?

“Our time is almost up, but if you come back, I will help you learn how to make friends. Like anything, it’s a skill.”

I sighed. This woman didn’t see me at all. I told her I was a vampire, and she came away with Tiffany is lonely.

“Thank you, Dr. Rosetti. It was very nice talking to you.” Not.

“I will save this time for you next week.”

“Thank you, but I’m good. I think I’m much more mentally healthy than I even realized.”

“I’m not going anywhere if you change your mind.”

I waved and smiled. Goodbye forever, Dr. Rosetti.

Dr. Rosetti must’ve never met a lonely person if she thought that’s what I was. I wasn’t lonely. I was a vampire. Lonely people suffered from acute melancholy and didn’t have friends. I had friends. All those bridesmaid dresses were proof.

Back in the hearse, I texted Heaven.

Me: heaven, we’re friends, right?

She responded with a laughing-crying emoji.

My hand slipped along the satin pantsuit I’d worn at Emily’s wedding. Emily had been my friend. It had been a long time, but I could check in with a quick text, just a casual “hey, Em, how’ve things been?”

Her last name was…Kerrigan, right? Like the figure skater?

A search for Emily Kerrigan brought up quite a few people. There were even more Emilys than Tiffanys. A pro golfer, a gazillion moms, and several high school students. When I narrowed the search to her hometown, I gasped in horror.

Emily Kerrigan (1955–2017), a beloved mother, grandmother, and wife, leaves behind her husband of thirty-three years…

One of her wedding photos was included, confirming that this really was my Emily.

I slumped in my seat. Emily had lived a whole life and died. Meanwhile, I was wearing the same outfit as the last time I saw her. My vision blurred over the names of all of her children and grandkids.

Maybe I did need to make friends. I ran through the list of people who I’d met in Valentine. That firefighter, Dylan, had said something about a holiday decorating committee. I sent him a text.

Me: when’s the thing with jessica?

Dylan: hey, good timing.

Dylan: meeting at the tav right now.

I sent back a thumbs-up emoji and drove the hearse approximately half a block to get a prime spot in front of the tavern. I was about to get my holiday cheer on.

Back at the tavern, I hesitated outside the door. Light and music spilled out onto the street as if the business was overflowing with joy and merriment. What kind of vampire volunteers for a holiday decorating committee?

Me, apparently. If I wanted my happily ever after, I needed to get happy first, and that meant making friends. I didn’t need a thirtysomething human who was suspiciously available for work on a Friday night to give me friend-making lessons. I could do this.

I pushed my way into the den of merriment. The tavern was much the same as earlier, just a slight shift in the crowd, fewer babies and more old men. The real Tiffany would recognize the women on this committee. One booth for four was crowded with six people animatedly talking over one another—

Wait, did I just hear my name?

Nope. Nope. Nope. I started to back out of the tavern as all the reasons not to socialize came back to me. Even if I wasn’t draining humans, everything about me was wrong. I had the wrong schedule, the wrong diet, and if I was being honest, the wrong personality. Sure, I could talk with other people on the fringes, people who had missed social norms by a mile, but the women at the tavern, drinking mulled wine, all wrapped in cable-knit sweaters and the privilege of belonging—I couldn’t blend in with them. One night of yearbook research wouldn’t save me.

“Tiffany, is that you?” A voice cut through the revelry. A woman with a tight ponytail and a sunny smile pushed through the crowd.

“Jessica?” I hazarded.

“Tiffany!” The woman squealed and hugged me tightly. “It’s been forever!” With a familiarity that took me aback, she grasped my arm and led me across the dining area like we were in an Austen novel taking a turn about the room. Our destination: a bunch of women in their late twenties, looking cozy in overstuffed chairs.

“Tiffany?” A redhead said my name as a question.

I smiled and waved, unsure of who any of them were. Damn. I should have made flash cards from the yearbook.

“You remember Stephanie, class of 2012?” Jessica said, pointing at an Asian woman.

Stephanie waved.

“And Claire. You might remember her from—” Jessica crinkled her nose adorably and turned to the redhead. “I don’t know. Were you both on basketball?”

“Nope,” I said. “I only did cheerleading and theater.” I knew that much from the yearbook.

“We weren’t in the same classes or anything, but we crossed paths a few times.” Claire gave me an intense look. “You look different. Good different. Your skin—” She shook her head. “It’s porcelain.”

I preened. Having no blood will do that for you.

“And do you have pores?” Jessica said, leaning over the table.

“Korean skincare,” I said. “It’s basically stopped the aging process.”

“That’ll do it,” Stephanie said.

“I need to know all your holy grail products yesterday,” Claire said with sudden interest. “I turned thirty and these eye bags appeared out of nowhere.”

I scanned each of their faces. Had they changed? Did they look the same? I didn’t know. I settled for “No way. You look amazing.”

“Let’s get you a drink. Wine or beer?” one of the women asked.

“Brought my own.” I pulled a coconut water out of my purse. “I’m on a juice cleanse.”

“Good for you!” Claire said sympathetically. “You’ve been through a lot.”

I smiled sadly and said, “It hasn’t been easy.”

“Ugh. I’m so sorry babe,” Claire said. She didn’t sound sorry.

“Thank you,” I said, like I believed she was genuine. “But I’m okay. LA has been good.”

“Speaking of, we are all dying to know what you’ve been up to in the big city.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I said, staying vague so I didn’t give myself away. “I’ve been trying to break into Hollywood.”

“Ooh, have you been in anything we have seen?” Jessica asked, looking excited.

“Not unless you’re into hardcore porn,” I deadpanned. Everyone blinked back in shock. “Kidding! I’m just kidding.”

“Tiffany!” one of the women exclaimed in shocked delight. “You’re so funny!”

“Nah, no porn, just a couple of commercials.” This was technically true. I had been in the background of a Plasma4Life ad. “Oh, and I played the dead girl in one those crime shows once,” I ad-libbed. “Wish there was more to tell.”

“That’s ah-mazing.” Jessica shook her head. “Just look at you! I have barely been out of Valentine.”

I waved off her statement with a half-hearted “There’s a lot to do in Valentine, right?”

Everyone erupted into laughter because I had entered my comedy era apparently.

“So, what do you all do?” I asked.

Jessica was a nurse, Stephanie was an elementary school teacher, and Claire was a clerk at the general store. If only one of them had been a tattoo artist or perverted. What could I talk to an elementary school teacher about? I had two babies close to three hundred years ago, but that memory was best left buried.

“Let’s talk while we work,” Jessica said. “The gym’s not going to decorate itself.” She slung a heavy knit scarf over her shoulder.

On our way out, I fell into step with Jessica. “What exactly are we doing?”

“Dylan didn’t tell you?” she said. “We’re decorating for the SugarBoo Ball.”

Stephanie made a face of displeasure. “I’m just really struggling with the timing this year. The SugarBoo is supposed to be a Halloween thing. We normally decorate with those cute ghosts. It’s the SugarBoo, not the SugarTurkey or SugarSanta.”

Jessica flashed me a secret look and mouthed “Crazy!” while twirling her finger around her temple.

“Anyway, we’re breaking with tradition and holding the SugarBoo in December,” Jessica said matter-of-factly. “It’s when the venue was available.”

“It’s the biggest controversy to hit town in years. Almost as bad as the time we had to change the Christmas ball to a holiday ball,” said Jessica. “You should’ve seen the town hall debate. I thought Mr. Jenkins was going to keel over from rage.” I was starting to like Jessica. She had a little bit of an edge to her.

“Anyway,” Jessica continued, “we’re putting up some of Tyrone’s trees and decorating with fall colors, white fairy lights only.”

“It’s going to be a fall-to-winter to transition,” Claire added. “The maintenance staff at the school already put up the stage and runway, so it should be pretty easy.”

“Just tell me what to do,” I said.

“You’re a saint,” Stephanie said. “Though, actually, you don’t have a monopoly on good deeds anymore. We’ve got a new saint in town.”

“Who?” I said, relieved to be replaced.

“Our Christmas tree farmer, Tyrone Nicholas. He didn’t grow up with us, but you probably know him through Jeff—”

Did I? Tyrone had known who I was.

“Anyway, he’s basically perfect. Tom and Melinda have relied on him almost one hundred percent, and he does school tours at the farm for free.”

That sounded about right. How many men would stop and help a girl reload a coffin into her hearse, no questions asked?

Outside, Jessica jangled her keys and clicked a remote at an SUV. The other women followed suit.

“We only have a couple of hours to set up. The ball isn’t for a while, but tonight was the only night I could get everyone together. Holiday schedules, you know.” She shook her head as if I too had in-laws and a bevy of community events to attend. “You parked out front, too? You can follow me.”

I gestured toward the hearse with a smile.

“Whoa, that’s your car?” Stephanie asked, eyes wide.

“Yep,” I said, pulling open the door. “If you need me to haul anything, say the word.”

We entered the gym through some sort of loading dock entrance. With a heavy click, the lights came on all at once, illuminating the space. Our shoes squeaked on the gym floor as we filed in. Well, not mine. No one else had worn heels for holiday decorating.

Wide-eyed, I took in the high school Americana. A cartoon heart reminiscent of the Kool-Aid man was the school mascot. Go, hearts! Love conquers all! was painted across the side of the gym in italics, punctuated by a picture of the mascot wielding a sword.

“You remember our old cheers?” Jessica asked. Without waiting for an answer, she launched into some sort of high-energy chanting.

“Hearts, hearts, you can’t defeat!” Jessica cheered.

“OMG, yes!” Stephanie joined in. “Ready steady, we got the beat!”

Then all together, they chanted, “Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. GOOOOOO, HEARTS!”

“Gooooo, Hearts,” I echoed a beat too late with a weak fist pump.

Claire flipped her hair and shot me a look. “Tiffany,” she said, “how could you forget that?”

I went full deer in the headlights, waiting for the truth to broadside me.

“Tiffany, are you okay?”

As they stared Mean Girls style at me, my cheer echoed off the cavernous walls.

Maybe I would sign up for that making-friends tutorial with Dr. Rosetti after all.

“So, decorating,” I said. “I can’t stay all night. I’ve got a lot of holiday baking to do, so many sugar cookies to take to the nursing home and all of that.”

“Aww, that’s so nice of you.”

“Well, you know me,” I said. “I still love feeding old people.” Was I laying it on too thick? Maybe.

“Oh, Tiff, you are such a cutup.” Claire laughed, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. I’d never been to high school, but maybe I hadn’t missed out. Mean Girls was feeling more and more like a real-life documentary.

Jessica checked a clipboard she produced from her tote. “Okay, tonight I want us to focus on decorating all the trees.”

Soon, we were busy bringing nonspecific holiday cheer to the gym. I dragged out several tubs of décor and got to work. While I strung lights and arranged pumpkins, I popped in an AirPod and hit Play on Heaven’s TikTok sermon of the day. She had been by herself since I’d gone out, her first night alone as a vampire.

“Greatest of grand risings to my peoples.” Heaven’s voice chirped in my ear. “Today, and every day, I want to wish all of you and myself a happy birthday.”

Was it Heaven’s birthday?

As if she’d heard me, she said, “Every day is a birthday. Each morning, we get to wake up and decide who we want to be. It’s not your boss’s choice, your mama’s choice, or your weird neighbor’s choice.”

Weird neighbor. Ha.

“Don’t let the haters hold you back. There are people out there who might try to tell you that sunrise is not a color, or that you can’t walk in the light and partake in the abundance that Mother Nature has to offer.” She paused for dramatic effect. “But let me tell you something. Sunrise is my favorite color: pinky gold, orange, yellow, blue, all mixed together, and it’s beautiful.”

She definitely hadn’t accepted the vampire thing yet.

“I’ve charged my pyrite with sunlight,” she said, “and today, I’m gonna harness this golden light, flip it, and reverse it.”

I was about to text Heaven to not under any circumstances attempt to flip it and reverse it, whatever that meant, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

Stephanie smiled brightly. “What are you listening to?”

“My Favorite Murder,” I said. Technically, it was.

“I love that podcast!” she said. “My husband thinks I’m a creep, but whatever.”

“I’m sure he’s the creep,” I said.

“I’m totally telling him you said that.” She laughed and directed my attention to the runway. “Would you help out with the runway?” she asked.

“Is there a fashion show?”

Jessica laughed. “Sort of. It’s for the SugarBoo bachelor auction. Don’t you remember?”

“Silly me—of course I do.” A bachelor auction. Now that was something I could get behind. “Is Tyrone going to be in the auction?”

“Of course. Everyone is, but definitely Tyrone. He always helps out. The proceeds go to the Valentine Christmas Miracle Fund.”

Stephanie called out from behind her tree. “I told you he was a saint!”

New plan. I would decorate this room to the best of my ability and buy Tyrone for myself. I wasn’t above aggressively manifesting my future.

“How much do the bachelors generally run?” I asked, already budgeting in my head.

Claire walked by carrying a box of tinsel. She smirked. “Ooh, someone’s thirsty. Good luck. You’ll be bidding against half the town.”

I laughed like I wouldn’t drain them all for this man.

When we’d finished putting up all the decorations, we took a step back to admire our work.

“It looks…” Stephanie hesitated.

“Empty.” You could barely tell we’d done anything. The gym was just too big. “Is it always like this?”

“No, this is our first year in the gym,” Jessica explained. “Maybe I was too ambitious.”

We stared at the twinkling Christmas trees in silence. It would be fine if we had a few bigger decorations.

“You know, I saw some theater sets in the storage room,” I said. Jessica didn’t look convinced, but I was suddenly filled with confidence. I was Tiffany Amanda Blair, damn it. If Heaven could crystal magic her humanity back, I could tap into my inner Martha and save the day (and the bachelor auction).

When I flicked on the storage room lights, I found the theater sets in all their amateur, high school glory. They were clumsily painted and so charming. One set featured a giant clockface that read, Radium dial, ottawa 1917. It was bold and dramatic. Another background featured the windows of an old-fashioned factory, the kind of building filled with loft apartments and young people who drank expensive coffee. The windows were bleak in a way that appealed to me, showing nothing but the night sky, pitch-black and dotted with stars. The stars glowed in a way that was unnatural but also beautiful. The set pieces were also movable—if you were a vampire.

I rolled the clockface out just as Jessica was snapping the lid on the last Rubbermaid bin.

“What do you think?” I said. It was perfect.

Jessica nodded with approval. “It says ‘Time to buy a bachelor!’ to me.”

While Jessica and Stephanie arranged the clockface, I dragged more of the set pieces into the gym and propped them up behind the stage. The starlit factory was a little Dickensesque, but it felt right.

“Is that the set from These Shining Lives?” Stephanie asked.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a play about women factory workers who died of radiation poisoning. They thought they were getting good jobs, but you know…”

Jessica grimaced. “No one needs to know. It looks Christmassy to me. Thanks, Tiffany, you’re a real life-saver.”

I had to admit, it felt good to be a part of something.

Once we’d cleaned up, we parted ways with hugs in the parking lot.

Stephanie lingered as I unlocked the hearse. She gave me a serious look and said, “Text me when you get home. That house is so big and empty.”

“Oh, I’m fine. I have a roommate.”

“Just do it.” She gave me another hug, squeezing me tight. “Us Murderinos have to stick together. Stay sexy and don’t get murdered.”

My undead heart squeezed at her undue concern.

Twenty minutes later, when I arrived home to the woman I’d accidentally murdered, I texted Stephanie.

Me: SSDGM.

Stephanie: back at you girl!

When I walked through the front door of the inn, it appeared transformed. The place was cozy instead of cluttered. Blankets had been draped over the worn fabric of chairs, rugs had been artfully arranged to cover gaps in the wood flooring, and the air smelled of essential oils instead of acrid smoke. Heaven was reclining on a chair beneath the chandelier that she must have restrung with crystals. I’d only been gone one evening and she’d done an almost concerning amount of work.

“Did you do this by yourself?” I asked. “Because whoa.”

She waved to me and turned her attention back to her phone. “So my decorating tip for the day is to arrange your furniture so as not to impede the flow of cosmic energy.” She stood and panned her camera across the room. “Mmm. Did you feel that? Because I did.” She twirled in the mosaic of light cast by the chandelier.

“Before I sign off, one more thing.” She squared her shoulders and looked into the phone like she was about to drop some truth. Her eyes were peeled open too wide and her energy nearly radioactive. “This is the only financial lesson you will ever need. Money is attracted to me.”

When I snorted, she gave me a dirty look and said, “Repeat after me, people: MONEY IS ATTRACTED TO ME!”

I wish.

“Don’t waste energy chasing money,” she said in the booming tones of a preacher. Her voice filled the entryway, too loud in our empty house. “If chasing money worked, everyone would be rich. Instead, let it chase you.”

Maybe Heaven had channeled her bloodlust into decorating and TikToks.

We’d been living exclusively off coconut water since Halloween. It was almost satisfying, but it wasn’t blood. I’d ordered a few more cases because we’d burned through the original Costco pallets. At this pace, we needed an entire coconut farm to support us, maybe two.

With her livestream over, I handed a box to Heaven in hopes it would help her settle down. She was glowing. “Did you steal my good lotion?” I joked.

She sat down on the stairs and absent-mindedly opened the coconut water. “I watched the sunset tonight. I’ve never had so much energy or felt so alive.”

“You seem a little hype. Is that norm—” I trailed off because she was too focused on her phone, not listening.

“Hallelujah, praise the lord!” Heaven barely flinched at the smiting. Her eyes wide, clutching the crystal around her neck, she whispered, “It worked.”

Oh, no. “What worked?”

“Money is attracted to me,” she said.

“What? Did we win the lottery?”

After an emotional pause she said, “My followers started a GoFundMe. They’re paying for us to fix up Radiance.”

“Radiance?”

She said, “Yeah,” like it was obvious. “That’s what I’ve been calling the inn.”

“Heaven, I’m glad you’re excited, but we’re vampires,” I said, stating the obvious. Sometimes hearing it out loud helps. “We can’t run a bed-and-breakfast. Although Radiance Bed-and-Breakfast sounds kind of good.”

“No. Bed-and-breakfast isn’t us.”

At least she knew that much. “Radiance Hotel?”

“Just Radiance.” Her voice had a strong note of duh to it.

“How’s anyone going to know what it is?”

“They just will.”

“How much are your followers sending?”

“Twenty thousand. Well, at least, that’s what the fundraising goal is. They’re already at three.”

“Dollars?”

“Three thousand.”

I started choking on my coconut water. If they were going to pay for the inn, we could figure it out. Maybe a familiar could make breakfast? “Radiance it is. Order a sign.”

Twenty minutes later, I was sweeping up around the hearth like I used to when I was a young girl, except I was playing “Listen to Your Heart” at top volume. My heart wanted a Christmas tree farmer. I used the broom as a mic and belted out the chorus. Just as the song ended, I heard Heaven’s voice carrying from the foyer.

“Come on in,” she said, in the same casual tone that she’d use when she asked me to feed her parakeet back in LA.

“Nooooooooo!” I dropped the broom and turned to the front door. “Don’t invite anyone in, Heaven!” I called, although it was already too late. I’d heard the invitation pass her lips myself. If it had been the middle of the day, fine, but it was four in the morning. Who dropped by at four in the morning? The list was short: emergency services (we hadn’t called), serial killers (NBD), another vampire (bad news).

In my haste to get settled in town, I hadn’t talked to Heaven about any of the vampire rules. Not one.

My skin prickled with fear. This was a vampire. I knew it in my three-hundred-year-old bones.

Vampires can’t enter private spaces without being invited in, which is one of the only defenses available to a weak vamp like me. I couldn’t turn into a bat, or glamour, or even pay my credit card off. I was at the mercy of whoever this was. You shouldn’t invite a vampire in unless you know they aren’t an asshole—or from Parliament. Uninviting them is a pain in the ass. Once they’re in, they’re in.

Heaven shouted, “Tiff, someone’s here for you!”

“It’s Vlad,” a voice I would recognize anywhere said.

“Vlad’s here!” she called, as if she had just ordered a pizza.

How? I hadn’t told him my address. Everything was vague. I had intentionally kept every mention of Vermont from him. All he should have known was that we were in the northern hemisphere.

“Tiffenie.” My name rolled off his tongue like it was meant to be said, temporarily stopping my panic.

“What are you doing here?” I took in his physical form. It had been twenty-five years since I’d last seen him. Physically, he was broad shouldered and virile, the kind of guy humans often assumed played football. It wasn’t football Vlad had played but war. No matter how many meditation apps he tried, he still carried a lifetime of danger and violence within him. My skin prickled with awareness at his presence.

Vlad was the kind of man who drowned out everyone else. Just being in a room together, others faded into the background, leaving just him, with his Hollywood looks and charisma. In the movies, sometimes they blur out all the other actors to focus on the two lovers, usually at a pivotal romantic moment. That’s how I felt whenever I was with Vlad—everyone else faded away. At the drugstore shopping for Q-tips, at the bowling alley, at the movie theater—it didn’t matter where we were. He was a sun that never dimmed, his light too bright for others to shine around him. And it wasn’t cool. When I was young and impressionable, I was bowled over by his charisma. Now I knew it was not to be trusted. That kind of charisma left a woman powerless. Do you want to fight the Ottoman Empire? Sure. Do you want to watch another action movie even though we haven’t seen a rom-com in a year? Anything you say, Vlad. Would you be my vampire bride? Of course.

I had been so young, so naïve. We had been walking through the forest in spring. The world was lush with new growth. He and I had been meeting every night I could sneak away for what was probably only a month. He was my refuge from the chaos of my family: my parents, my sisters, my babies, my grief after losing a husband and child, my hopelessness that anything would ever change. Even as a grown woman, there was no space for me to have ideas that weren’t about what was for dinner and how I would serve God.

Vlad didn’t have me at hello—shout-out to Jerry Maguire—he had me at Have you read Voltaire? I hadn’t, but the fact that he looked at me and thought I might have read anything, in particular a scandalous book that questioned the accepted order of things…that was the world I wanted to live in.

When he asked me to marry him, I knew I had found my happily ever after, no matter that it involved approval from the parliament and candlelit rituals I didn’t understand at the time. That added to the excitement.

Here I was, three centuries later, still trying to find my way after agreeing to that one. What a stupid girl I’d been.

“I don’t understand. How did you find us?” I smoothed my hair and straightened my clothes, which were a mess from a night of mostly emotional labor.

His eyes followed my desperate attempt to look less like a hot mess, and a flicker of amusement crossed his expression. “I missed you,” he said.

“What, Parliament isn’t keeping you busy enough?” I said, putting a wall of sarcasm between us before I invited him into more than the house.

“Yes and no. I’ve made a couple of changes I think you’ll like.” He squared his shoulders and said, “I’ve started a podcast.”

Heaven laughed. “Really? You and Prince Harry, huh?”

Vlad gave her a secret smile. “It’s not not that.” Turning to me, he said, “I’ve enjoyed watching your videos.”

My what? Oh. Heaven’s TikToks.

“I gave all your video recordings a thumbs-up. Didn’t you notice?”

“Since when do you use social media?” I demanded. “I thought you said it was a ‘blight upon humanity’. Is that how you found me?”

“Yes. Did you know your address is on Google Maps?”

I turned to Heaven. “Did you do that?”

She nodded. “Radiance needs to be findable.”

Damn, she worked fast.

“Tiffenie, a vampire is not supposed to share anything with mortals. The dark and mysterious image is by design! And here you are on TikTok changing cat litter and talking about whatever pops into your head.”

I shrugged, but I knew he was right.

“You’re aware that it’s against the rules to give a mortal your location?” he said. “How many followers do you have, Heaven?”

She clapped back with “Didn’t you say you started a podcast?”

“That’s different. TikTok isn’t even secure enough for mortals. Half of these apps are run by people with fascist inclinations who will steal your identity.”

Now that was funny.

“And it’s not like you’re just online talking about the weather. I watched you nearly burn down the house.” He looked around the living room, probably for signs of smoke damage. “That’s when I got in the car.”

“Vlad.” I said his name deliberately to stop his diatribe against social media. “This is exactly why I don’t talk to you. Heaven and I aren’t going to live like it’s 1500 because 1500 wasn’t that great.”

“I just want you to be safe.” After a moment of silence, he said, “Let’s talk about it tomorrow. I brought my best bottle of vintage blood for us, 100 percent virgin. Bottled in Utah.” Looking at Heaven, he lamented, “I tried to get Tiffenie to move to Utah with me. Cold mountain air, virgins everywhere.”

I stormed over to the door and grabbed the bottle of blood waiting there. “Thanks, but no thanks, Vlad.” I uttered his name like a curse.

Vlad looked at Heaven. “My apologies for not bringing a virgin in the flesh, a consenting one, of course,” he said, with a nod to me as if that solved all of my issues. “When I turned Tiffenie, I had a bevy of virgins for her to feast on.” He smiled fondly at me, and at the memory.

Heaven ignored me and eyed the bottle. She was practically drooling. “I’m game, if it’s ethically sourced? No one got murdered or anything, right?”

“Of course not! The parliament runs a clinic near each major coven. People donate, get a Band-Aid and a monster cookie. Everyone’s happy and fed. No one gets hurt.” He made eye contact with me as he said this.

“We’re vegans.” I pushed the bottle back toward him. I would not trade my principles for a few comforts.

Vlad covered his face with a hand. “And you call me insufferable.”

“Vlad, stop. We don’t drink blood in this house anymore and we definitely don’t worry about whether someone is a virgin.”

He looked aghast. “No wonder you’re so pale and drawn.”

“Virginity is a social construct. It’s very harmful to women.”

“Tiffenie, this isn’t about gender. It’s about flavor.”

“What flavor is that?” Heaven snickered. “Cherry?”

I swiveled my head in shock and exclaimed, “Heaven! This is not funny.” To Vlad I said, “It’s just about keeping women ‘pure’ for men, and keeping women from experiencing joy or pleasure. Fuck that.” I heard someone say that on TikTok and it really resonated.

“You say that as if I don’t enjoy male virgins. I assure you, I can taste the chastity.”

With the attitude of a diner waitress at the end of the night, I stomped into the kitchen and came back with a glass of coconut water, staring into his eyes and daring him to say something.

His jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

I didn’t respond.

“Is this even safe to consume?” He picked up the cup and swirled it, staring into the cloudy liquid like it was poison.

“I feel great,” I said. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it was doing the trick, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

Cat did an exaggerated model walk all the way to Vlad and then flopped over with a plop at his feet.

“Cat,” I admonished, “have some self-respect!”

Vlad scooped her up and cuddled her like a baby, rubbing her belly. “No need to be ashamed about asking for protection and love.”

I inspected my fingernails.

He arched an eyebrow and looked my direction. “Do you want me to rub your belly next?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tiffenie. This is dire. Quaint small towns are not for vampires. Burning Bibles and posting it online—you are going to cause a stir if you haven’t already. People will start talking. ‘Tiffany seems so different these days.’ ‘She used to be such a nice girl.’ ‘What was she burning?’ ‘Why does she sleep all day?’ You are not being careful.”

Had being careful made me happy? Had I been really living in LA? Or had I just been hiding, working in a job that was only good because of access to blood, living in a too-sunny studio apartment that provided shelter but not much else? In Vermont I’d seen stars and flirted with a hot farmer. Tonight, I’d gone out with women who could be friends.

“The world is different these days, Vlad. Everyone is more accepting. Sexuality, gender…You can be whoever you want. Women can have credit cards and own property, in case you haven’t kept up with the news.”

“You know very well that it’s dangerous for people to be who they are, even if parts of the world are becoming more progressive.”

“Vlad, I’m not going to live in the shadows anymore. I have a hot chocolate date with a Chrithmas tree farmer tomorrow night, I’m making friends, and I’m fixing up a country inn.”

His eyes narrowed and he looked at me like I had just betrayed him. “A date?”

“Yes. With a Chrithmas tree farmer.” I stared him down, daring him to say something.

“We can’t even say Chrithmas. Isn’t that a sign?”

Heaven was still drooling at the bottle of blood, so I handed her another coconut water.

“This is worse than I thought,” Vlad said. “You absolutely need to get out of this town. The first rule of being a vampire is don’t talk about being a vampire.”

Heaven perked up. “Like Fight Club?”

“Exactly,” Vlad said. “See, Heaven gets it already. I bet you didn’t even tell her not to post.”

“Of course not!” I wasn’t going to wreck her job on top of everything else.

“What happens if you tell someone about Fight Club?” Heaven asked.

Vlad rocked back on his heels. “If the leak can be solved with a minimal amount of glamouring, they’ll do that.”

I scoffed, and Vlad said, “It’s not the old days, Tiffenie. Extreme risks are moved to Utah to join the Provo coven. But there would be a hearing first, of course.”

“Hell no,” Heaven said.

I put my foot down. “We’re staying here and we’re going to run a bed-and-breakfast and Heaven is going to post as many TikToks as she wants. I’m more than three hundred years old, Vlad. I’ve earned the right to live the life I want. Who am I hurting?”

“Yourself!”

I rose to my full height, which was about a foot less than his, and looked into his eyes in a direct challenge. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I do, and I’m bigger than you.”

I laughed in his face.

At that, he lifted me up, tossed me over his shoulder, and proceeded to carry me out of the house.

I pounded on his back and thrashed my legs. “You can’t be serious! Put me down!”

Heaven stared at us, open-mouthed, a crystal clutched in her hand. “Tiff, you okay? Should I…call someone?”

I went limp, defeated. “It’s fine. We do this.”

“Really?”

“If she would listen,” he said through gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t have to carry her off.”

“What happened to that MasterClass on relationships?” I yelled, and he grumbled. “What are you going to do, carry Heaven out too?”

“Um, no thanks, I’m good,” Heaven said.

“I will, if you continue to post,” he said.

“It’s my job, new guy,” Heaven said, hands on hips.

Vlad turned to her. “But is it really?” Now outside, he opened the door to his car with one hand and shoved me into the passenger seat.

“Ouch,” I said as he bumped my head on the car frame on my way in.

“Sorry.” He smoothed the hair on top of my head. “Stay here,” he commanded as he walked around to the driver’s side. When I gave him a hard stare, he added, “Please.”

“You can’t just manhandle me into submitting to whatever you desire.”

A spark of a different kind flickered in his eye and my cheeks heated as I remembered him doing exactly that in the bedroom.

From the porch, Heaven casually called, “I think you’ll have to use the trunk. She’s gonna make a break for it.”

“Stop it!” I yelled at her. “Unless you want to help me put him in the trunk.”

“It’s just kind of nice watching you get kidnapped, for once.”

“Oh, stop!”

She shrugged. “Plus, you two are cute.”

“You’re kidding!” I blew my hair out of my face.

Smoldering with intensity, Vlad said, “No, she is dead serious. We are very cute and always have been.” He held up his hand. “Stay here.”

“No.”

With a sigh, he said, “Fine, the trunk it is.”

If Vlad hauled me off, Heaven would be left in Vermont with nothing but a couple of crates of coconut water and no skills. I relented. “How about we continue this conversation tomorrow? Right now, just go to your hotel.”

He scoffed. “I agree to continuing the conversation, but I’m not staying at a hotel.”

“No,” I said. “You’re going to get in the way.”

“No, I won’t.”

“What about my date tomorrow?” I narrowed my gaze.

“Why should I care if you go on one date with a mortal? I’m not the jealous type. You, on the other hand.” He gave me a knowing look. “At any rate, where would I stay without exposing myself? It’s either your place or I sleep in the car. I’ll even pay.”

“Deal,” Heaven interrupted. “It’ll be $300 a night.”

I turned to look over my shoulder at Heaven standing on the lawn, grinning. “What? We need the money.”

Tonight was my hot date with Tyrone. If I was in LA, I’d put on something tight and low-cut, but this was a different world. What does a former cheerleader who used to volunteer at a soup kitchen on the regular wear to have hot chocolate with a Christmas tree farmer?

I poked my head in Heaven’s room. “Hey, Heaven. I have a date tonight—”

I stopped abruptly at the sight of her. She appeared to be melting in front of some sort of overbright lamp.

“Ugh! What is that abomination?” I cried out, covering my eyes. “Isn’t it giving you a migraine?”

“A SAD lamp. Haven’t you seen one before?”

“Turn it off.” I peered at her through my fingers. “It burns.”

“No, it’s for seasonal affective disorder. It replicates sunlight.”

I backed out of the room. “Heaven!” I cried, “I’d rather you do meth.”

“Like what you’re doing is healthy?” she said with indignation.

“What’s the matter with what I’m doing? You’re just thirsty,” I said before she could answer.

“Actually, I am,” she shot back. “I’m dying of thirst all the damn time! But I’m still right.”

I could see this wasn’t the right time to consult her on my outfit. “Is Vlad still asleep?” Last night, he’d brought a coffin into the largest bedroom on the second floor, insisting that we hadn’t done an adequate job of blocking the light for him to sleep without one.

“He must be,” Heaven said. “I don’t get the coffin thing. You don’t need a castle, a butler, and lavender essence just to take a nap. The rest of us make do all the time,” Heaven said.

At the moment, I didn’t care why Vlad wanted to sleep in a box because it suited my purposes. I tiptoed into Vlad’s room, pausing every few feet to listen for him stirring. Once I was sure he was asleep, I stood as far away from the coffin as possible and strained on tippy-toes to reach for the latch. With one quick movement, I flipped it.

A groggy throat-clearing noise came from inside the coffin. “Tiffenie, is that you?”

I blew out my hair and curled it just so around a winter hat with a pompom. For my outfit, I went simple with jeans and a red turtleneck.

In the other room, Vlad began roaring in his coffin. When Heaven’s eyes went wide with fear, I said, “It’s fine. Let him out ten minutes after I leave.” There was no way he wasn’t going to pop out of that coffin and do his best to scare Tyrone away. “How does my makeup look?” I asked, fluffing my hair.

“Tiffenie!” Vlad pounded on the coffin lid. Then silence, followed by “Let me out this instant!”

Heaven studied my face. “Maybe some more blush. You still look a little dead.”

“That’s the hardest part to get right,” I said. The line between alive and clown was thinner than you’d think.

“Here, let me.” Heaven swirled a makeup brush through pink powder and lightly swiped it across my cheeks. Something about the gesture warmed my undead heart: the light brush of the bristles, the care with which she dusted my face.

Vlad was thrashing and yelling by this point. “If you don’t let me out this instant—”

I waved dismissively in his direction. “He’ll be fine.”

A knock at the front door interrupted us and I glanced at my phone. Tyrone wasn’t supposed to be here for another ten minutes.

“Stay back,” I said. “You don’t want to be near anyone yet.”

“I think you’ve been overhyping this bloodlust thing,” said Heaven.

“Just stay out of the way, please.”

At the landing, I paused. The chandelier cast little orbs of light through the room. Butterflies tickled my stomach at the sight of Tyrone’s silhouette, visible through the opaque glass in the doorway.

Tyrone knocked again.

I gave the girls a quick adjustment, smoothed my shirt, and opened the door with a smile. “Tyrone, you’re early—” But it wasn’t Tyrone. A boring-looking man with thinning hair and a Willy Loman aura stood on my doorstep.

“Miss Blair,” the man who tragically wasn’t Tyrone said, “I’m Wayne Jarvis with the City of Valentine. I need to talk to you about a few things.”

Whatever he wanted to talk about would have to wait. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m on my way out. Is it important?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you for some time.”

“I understand, but I was just on my way out, Mr.—”

“Jarvis.”

“Okay, five minutes, but that’s it.”

Looking unimpressed, he launched into his spiel. “Like I said, I’m from the city. I’ve been trying to reach you for some time. I have mailed multiple letters and attached notices to the door.”

A memory surfaced of a piece of paper going up in flames. “Do you mean the condemnation thing? I meant to straighten that out, but I haven’t had a chance yet.”

“The condemnation thing?” he repeated, incredulous. “So you know?” When I nodded, he said, “You must not understand what it means, then.”

“Yes, tear down the building. I get that, but you don’t have to.” I gestured to beautiful room. “I already started fixing it up.”

“Miss Blair,” he said, getting all huffy, “you can’t ignore notices like that. I’m doing you a favor by coming out here after hours to notify you in person that the city is about to tear this structure down.”

“What? I just moved in!”

“Again, you should have received a notice to vacate the premises.”

“Yes, but…”

“There are no buts. This is a legal matter. If you want to dispute it, you need to come down to city hall and take the proper steps. There are procedures.”

Tyrone was going to be here any minute. I tapped my foot impatiently and looked over the man’s shoulder. “I hear you, but I’m fixing things up. I just inherited this inn and haven’t been here very long at all.”

He took a breath. “I can appreciate that. This is probably a lot to take in.”

“Yes.” I nodded. The communication was working.

“If I see that you have intent to fix some of the bigger problems, it might be possible to give you an extension.”

I clasped my hand to my heart. “Thank you so much, Mr. Jarvis.”

“Call me Wayne,” he said magnanimously, which reminded me that you catch more flies with honey.

With a smile, I said, “I didn’t understand it was a big deal. I get so much junk mail. It all starts to look the same.”

“Well, if you ever get something from the City of Valentine, you should read it. We don’t send junk mail.”

I tried to be demure. “I see that now. This is the first time I’ve taken on a big project like this.”

All relaxed and manly, he rolled up his sleeves and said, “While I’m here, let me explain some of your bigger issues.” He glanced up and frowned. “Miss Blair, you didn’t mention that you had a guest.”

I followed his gaze. Oh, shit.

Heaven stood at the top of the stairs wearing a Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, her pink and yellow braids piled atop her head in a bun.

Wayne smiled and waved, probably excited to explain rules to even more people.

Heaven’s eyes were glowing, twin beams in the dim light. When she licked her lips, I caught a flash of gleaming fangs. She was looking at Wayne like he was her favorite order from the falafel place in our old neighborhood. Oh, no.

“Heaven,” I called, “go back to your room.” With a glance at Wayne, I said, “My roommate isn’t feeling well.”

“This shouldn’t take long,” he said.

With a sharp look and a faux-casual tone, I said, “Heaven, honey, let’s get you back to bed.”

“I’m cool,” she said, but she absolutely wasn’t. Ignoring me, she came down the stairs faster than I’d ever seen her move and took Wayne’s hand.

No no no no no.

“It’s all right. Your roommate should hear this too,” Wayne said, oblivious to the danger.

I grabbed her arm, trying not to make it obvious that I was restraining her. I was strong, but her baby vampire bloodthirst made her stronger. “Maybe we can finish this up later?”

“This’ll be quick.” He took a glance around. “If you do what I say, it’ll get you out of hot water with the city.”

Heaven was starting to drool.

“For one, you need to fix all of these exposed wires.” He pointed to the ceiling. “This is what I like to call ‘death trap wiring.’ ”

Oh, he was in a death trap all right. “Let’s go over this later, Wayne,” I said to no effect. The man kept going on about plastic coating on wires like it was his greatest passion.

Meanwhile, Heaven was about to drain him like a Capri-Sun. Her lips were drawn back over her teeth in a way that ought to make anyone uncomfortable. Wayne moseyed his way over to the fireplace and gestured to the darkened walls. “You’ve got a lot of smoke damage in here. That’s cosmetic, but you’ll have to pry off the plaster around the fireplace and make sure there isn’t any structural damage.”

While he patted the wall, Heaven sidled up to him and took a whiff like she was smelling a steak dinner.

“Well, uh, hello,” he said, laughing. “Come take a look at this wall.” He cleared his throat. “Even if you’re not comfortable with tools—I know a lot of ladies aren’t—you might be able to do this part on your own. Tyrone, across the road, probably has a crowbar you can borrow.”

Heaven bared her fangs and hissed.

“Heaven, no!” I used all my might to hold her back.

He backed away and eyed her as if he was only just beginning to realize Heaven wasn’t as interested in the structural integrity of the house as he was.

Heaven, who was barely recognizable compared to her usual happy-go-lucky self, jerked out of my grasp. She literally went for the jugular.

Oh, fuck. “Heaven!” I yelled.

Mr. Jarvis shrieked. “Help me—” His voice cut off in a gurgle.

“Damn it!” I grabbed Heaven by the collar of her Strawberry Shortcake shirt. “For heaven’s sake, get off of him!” I yelled, trying my best to pull her away. “You can’t kill the city inspector!”

Mr. Jarvis screamed again.

This couldn’t be going any worse.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jarvis! I’m so sorry.”

Driven by insatiable thirst, Heaven was too strong and determined. Mr. Jarvis was alive, but not for long. As he sank to the floor, Heaven still feeding, someone knocked on the front door.

Tyrone. “Fuck!” I yelled. I couldn’t let him see Heaven drain the life out of this sad little man. With no recourse, I grabbed the closest object I could find, the Thomas Kinkade painting Heaven hadn’t let me burn. Sunbeams and a heavy wooden frame would have to do the trick. My hands sizzled as I grasped the painting in a firm two-handed grip.

“Sorry, Heaven!” I said, as I brought the popular American wall art down on her head. She immediately slumped over. A trickle of blood ran down her face where the frame cut her forehead.

She’d be fine in a few minutes, but Mr. Jarvis wouldn’t.

Tyrone knocked again.

Before opening the door, I shut my eyes and took a second to collect myself. With the door open a crack, I snuck out onto the rotting porch. I knew for a fact it happened to be another one of Mr. Jarvis’s issues.

“Hey, handsome,” I said in an overly bright, nothing-to-see-here greeting.

“Hey. You ready?” He glanced down at my outfit. “You look…delicious.”

So did he. The smell of fresh blood in the air already had me in sensory overdrive.

“You need a coat?” he asked.

“I’m…I’m so sorry, but is there any way we could do this tomorrow?” I was obviously ready for our date in my adorable hot-chocolate-drinking outfit. With downcast eyes, I said, “Heaven still isn’t feeling well. She needs me. Rain check?”

“Are you sure? We could bring her back some soup…”

“Actually, I think I might need to take her to the hospital.” This was half true. Someone was going to the hospital. Just not Heaven.

His brow furrowed. “Do you want me to drive?”

I shook my head. “It’s a female thing. Can we meet tomorrow night instead, same time?”

“Sure.” Tyrone had the look of someone who’d been disappointed but was polite enough not to make anything of it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

For a hot second we stood awkwardly. It felt wrong to send him away with a wave, and I wanted more. We hadn’t had a date yet, but I was ready for the goodnight kiss, a little something to tide me over. The scent of blood in the air wasn’t helping.

He must have sensed my thirst, and my own desire was reflected in his expression. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?” he asked.

In answer, I stepped into his arms and looked up into his warm brown eyes.

People talk about that new car smell, but new man smell is even better. Tyrone was all freshly cut pine and drugstore deodorant, and definitely something I’d like to take for a drive. It didn’t take any more than a glance upward to invite a kiss. He leaned down and I opened my mouth to taste him, earthy and wholesome and all male. It took everything I had not to take a little nip of his lower lip.

Someone inside interrupted the moment with a long, painful groan.

Pulling away, I said, “I better go. Tomorrow?”

He smiled, and I read the promise on his lips.

As soon as I slammed the door on Tyrone, I grabbed Heaven by the hand. She was still slumped over by Wayne, but just starting to come to.

As I helped her to her feet, her eyes glazed over once again with lust and hunger as she stared longingly at Wayne Jarvis. It was laughable. He looked like he wore a pocket protector, and here was Heaven brimming with lusty enthusiasm to lap up every last drop.

“Of all people! You can’t drain the inspector!” I shook my head with frustration. “Anyone else would have been better!”

Heaven continued to make hungry eyes at Wayne Jarvis as I led her to the bedroom. I needed her out of the way so I could help Wayne.

“I’m taking him to the hospital. Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone!”

Downstairs, Wayne Jarvis hadn’t moved.

“Please be alive. Please be alive,” I chanted, just as I had a few days ago over Heaven. If he was dead, I would be covering up a murder in my brand-new hometown. I grabbed a pair of yoga pants and wound them around his neck as tightly as I could without strangling him to staunch the bleeding. With a surge relief, I heard his heartbeat. I could save this man. I could save this situation. This wasn’t good, but it was better than murder.

As soon as Tyrone’s brake lights disappeared down the driveway. I scooped Mr. Jarvis up like a baby and carried him to the car. “Sorry about the hearse, Mr. Jarvis.”

He groaned as I propped him against the passenger side door. “At least you get to ride up front,” I joked.

He turned his head just enough to see the coffin and lost consciousness. Okay. That would make things a little easier.

I typed emergency room into my map app and hit the road with a dying human in my car for the second time in a month.

Valentine Hospital looked more like a small elementary school than a hospital, except for the brightly lit signs designating the emergency department entrance. I pulled the hearse into the turnaround and waited for someone to rush out with a stretcher shouting commands. Next to me, Mr. Jarvis’s breathing was labored and a bloom of red was seeping into my makeshift tourniquet. I tapped the steering wheel in time with the blinking digital dashboard clock but the automatic doors to the hospital stayed shut, no sign of activity. What kind of hospital was this?

Unable to wait while Mr. Jarvis continued bleeding, I hurried through the automatic doors into a mostly empty waiting room. There was one patient snoozing in a lobby chair and an EMT eating some very dry rice with a fork. Not a lot of the rice was making it from the Tupperware to his mouth.

“I have an emergency!” I shouted.

The EMT looked up. “Do you have your insurance card?”

“No. I drove a man here.”

“Oh.” He stood, too calmly for my anxiety level, brushed the rice off his pants, and followed me outside. In the turnaround, he squinted at the hearse. “Ma’am, if you’re picking someone up, you need to drive to the back of the building.”

I blinked back through my false eyelashes and freshly blown-out fringed bangs. “What?”

“The morgue has a separate entrance.”

“Noah,” I said, with a glance at his name tag, “This is my car. I’m bringing someone in. He’s not dead yet.”

“Oh, okay. Gotta get someone to help lift him.”

Fucking A. I was facing the possibility of being responsible for someone’s death. For murder. I didn’t bite Mr. Jarvis, but I might as well have.

“I do a lot of…Pilates.” Without waiting, I lifted Mr. Jarvis into a waiting wheelchair and wheeled him into the hospital myself while Noah watched. No one would believe him later.

Inside the hospital, Jessica from the SugarBoo Ball decoration committee came out dressed in pink scrubs and with a bouncy step that didn’t match the surroundings.

“Hey, Tiff,” she said with a cheerful wave, completely unperturbed by Mr. Jarvis. “What happened here?”

“It’s a long story.”

Jessica took over and wheeled Mr. Jarvis into a surgical room along with a doctor who looked to be about twelve.

“Start an IV, Noah,” Jessica said.

The baby-faced doctor untied the yoga pants from Mr. Jarvis’s neck with a raised eyebrow. “Normally, a tourniquet is a good idea…” He squinted at the wound. “What kind of animal did you say bit him?”

“I didn’t. Maybe it was a coyote,” I riffed.

Jessica gave me a puzzled look. “A coyote bit him…on the neck?”

“I saw a documentary on coyote-wolf hybrids. They’re pretty bold.” Better a coyote than Heaven. “I think’s that’s what it was. I’ve never seen so much blood.”

Noah frowned. “Don’t you drive a hearse?”

I smiled. “For the gas mileage.”

The hospital workers looked at each other like they knew I was on some bullshit. The doctor started peeling off his gloves, practically done before he had started. “Just put him on a round of antibiotics and get him a tetanus booster and a rabies shot. Clean up the wound and bandage it with an occlusive wrap. We don’t want that neck wound sucking in air. Oh, and we can give him a bag of O neg.”

My mouth watered at the thought. Stress makes me thirsty.

Fifteen minutes later, the chaos was over. Jessica checked his vitals. “He should be fine soon. It looked worse than it was.”

I sagged into a chair, spent from the frenzied race to save his life.

“So…Tyrone, huh?” Jessica said, grinning. She nudged me with her elbow.

“What?”

“He texted me to look out for you and your roommate,” she said. “Although I’m assuming he got the roommate part wrong.”

“Yeah, there was a lot going on. I had to cancel our date.”

“Tyrone won’t mind.” With a barely audible sigh, she said, “He was the last semidecent guy I dated.”

My ears perked up. “You dated?”

“We didn’t get serious or anything.” She smiled as if recalling a fond memory. “I’m happy for you, really.”

I had so many questions now. Why did he look so tortured? Was he good in bed?

“Mr. Jarvis,” Jessica said, interrupting my reverie. “Glad to see you awake again.” The inspector cleared his throat and Jessica turned her attention to his care.

He groaned and reached up to feel the bandage on his neck. “What happened?”

“You were bit by a coyote,” Jessica said in a soothing voice.

The city inspector’s gaze landed on me and his eyes about bugged out of his head. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“Tiffany found you and drove you in, Mr. Jarvis. You’re very lucky, sir.”

“Are you kidding me?” He turned to Jessica. “I don’t feel safe around this woman.”

“Who, me?” I blinked innocently, grateful to still be dressed in my wholesome hot-chocolate wear.

“Young lady,” he said, struggling to sit up, “the last thing I remember was arriving at your house, and next thing, I find myself bleeding out at the hospital.”

“Mr. Jarvis,” Jessica addressed him in a calm tone, “I don’t know what happened, but something bit you and Tiffany here drove you to the ED right away and saved your life.”

Mr. Jarvis shook his head, not accepting any of it. “I don’t know what happened, but you are trouble. Your house is a mess. No more second and third chances. I’m tearing that place down tomorrow.”

I gasped. “Tomorrow!”

“I was trying to be nice, dropping by to give you notice personally.” He shook his head.

Fear struck me like a bolt of lightning. Vlad’s warnings that small towns won’t accept anyone different were coming true. First the firefighters and their looks of horror at the burning Jesus painting, and now Mr. Jarvis. I could feel the witch trial coming. If I didn’t get ahold of this situation, I would have to leave Valentine and go…I didn’t know where I’d go.

“Mr. Jarvis, I just arrived in Valentine. This isn’t a second or third chance. I just found out.”

“You’ll fix up that house over my dead body.”

I didn’t mention that had almost happened.

He pointed his finger like one of the Goodies on the stand pointing at an innocent witch. Thirty people—mostly women—were accused of witchcraft in Salem and nineteen were executed, one of them four years old. People could find a woman crazy based on no evidence.

Jessica put her hand on his. “Whatever happened, I’m sure that Tiffany didn’t do it. This is an animal bite of some sort.”

“You’ve had a really bad night, but it’s not my fault,” I said.

After settling down for a moment, he said, “Okay, Miss Blair. I won’t plow over your inn tomorrow, but you need to fix several things if you have any hope of keeping that place standing. Number one: that wiring. I can’t believe the chimney caught on fire before the wiring did.”

I nodded eagerly. “Of course.”

“Number two: You need to fix the porch and front entrance. The wood is rotted through, and it’s a danger to anyone entering the home.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Number three: You have a bat infestation. Whatever bit me will need to be euthanized for public health and safety.”

“It’s not like I have a mean dog,” I protested. “That coyote came out of nowhere.”

“A coyote?” He narrowed his eyes at me in suspicion. “My decision stands. I’m ordering a dangerous animal inspection of your property as a condition of this agreement. If you have any intention of opening that bed-and-breakfast to the public, you better get rid of everything that bites.”

I held back a gasp at his phrasing.

“It needs to be done by December 31. I’ll schedule an inspection for that day, eight a.m. sharp.”

A morning inspection wasn’t going to work, but I’d deal with that later. I had my marching orders: Fix the house or the jig was up.

Vlad found me sitting in crash position with my head between my knees on the stairs. I wasn’t crashing a car, but rather my hopes and dreams.

Just a couple of hours ago, Wayne Jarvis whisper-yelled that he was going to tear my piece-of-shit house down as soon as he could while two people taped a seeping neck wound shut. Heaven was crying in her bed, inconsolable about the whole thing.

It was all so much.

Vlad sat down next to me. For once I let myself lean into him and he rubbed slow, soothing circles across my back.

“I’m sorry I locked you in your coffin,” I said softly. “That was just to get back at you for threatening to throw me in the trunk. Plus, were you really going to be nice to my date?”

“No, but I could have helped with the inspector.”

“By finishing him off?” I laughed at the absurdity.

All of our disagreements lurked just below the surface. Instead of bringing them out, we sat in silence.

“It’s the coconut water,” he said in a careful voice. “She’s too thirsty.”

“She’s brand-new. Uncontrolled appetites are to be expected.” But he was right. More time had passed than I had realized. “How long does this bloodlust last?”

“On coconut water, who knows?”

My mouth watered at the smell of his “ethically sourced” virgin blood, but I wasn’t ready to give up my vegan dreams.

There were so many rules. Mortals who receive the Dark Gift must be beautiful. No vampire may ever reveal his true nature. No vampire may reveal his location. Let the money come to me. Every day is your birthday. The electricity must be up to code. Don’t let your porch rot off. Pay your taxes. Get your property into compliance by December 31 or we’ll take a wrecking ball to your brand-new house. Learn how to make friends, because that’s apparently your real problem.

Adulting was a lot.

Vlad cut through my spiral with planning. “Let’s go to Home Depot and get supplies. The inspector was right about all those problems. We really do need to fix this place.”

“We?” I asked. “I thought you were here to drag me away?”

“I was never planning on dragging you off. It went sideways when we started arguing about the internet and virgins.” He shook his head. “I hate to say it, but that blood is only twenty percent virgin and resulted in zero deaths. Vampires aren’t what we used to be.”

I laughed. “Why does every argument spiral like that?”

“That MasterClass said—” he started to say.

“Wait, you really did one of those?”

“Yes. Esther Perel said that every couple’s fights are set by the second date, and it’s true. Three hundred years of you being worried I’ll murder someone, which I’ve never actually done, not for you anyway.”

“You could have prevented Alba’s—”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t.” He pulled me closer. “But I came here because I was worried, because I wanted to be here for you.” He tilted my chin up and looked into my eyes. “I should have asked what you needed. I think Esther said something about that, too.”

“To be fair, I would have told you to stay away and that I didn’t need anything.” But having him here made me feel so much less alone.

He nuzzled the top of my head. “I like the smell of your new shampoo,” he said. “I liked your old brand, too. What was it, Herbal Essences?”

I pressed my cheek to his.

“I’m sorry for hauling you out over my shoulder.” The rumble of his voice soothed me as much as his words. “I missed you, Tiffenie. That’s why I came.”

I missed him too.

Instead of waiting for me to say it, he stood up and clapped. “So, Home Depot. You ready?”

I cupped my hands and yelled up the stairs, “Heaven, get in the car, we’re going for a ride.”

“I don’t want to,” she yelled back.

Vlad shouted, “Getting out of the house will help. You’ve been cooped up for too long, and there are some very nice trees in the area.”

Trees. I shook my head. This guy.

After passing approximately three million trees, we arrived in Burlington. The Home Depot parking lot was nearly empty. There was nothing to see except a lone shopping cart left under a parking light and a Taco Bell drive-through across the street.

“Wait here,” Vlad commanded Heaven.

“Okay, Dad.” Heaven leaned into the Dad sarcastically.

“Actually, it’s Grandpa,” I said.

“Grandsire, if we’re being technical,” Vlad corrected. “And if you two would accept your position in the parliament, you know you’re royal.”

“What, am I a princess now, Tiff?” Heaven said sarcastically.

I laughed, but Vlad answered, “You’re both princesses. It’s all about who turns you, Heaven.”

Before we left, I knocked on the window and said, “Lock the doors. Safety first.”

Heaven rolled her eyes and popped her AirPods in.

Vlad and I made it into Home Depot about thirty seconds before it closed. The moment we walked in, I could feel how out of place we were. Vampires don’t do home repairs, but here we were, essentially Neo and Trinity from The Matrix making a run at domesticity. Our mission: to purchase some composite decking.

A banner over the door announced, Find your Santa’s choice christmas tree here! Smells like cinnamon and lasts three times as Long as any other cut tree.

Wow, Tyrone had really made it. That Home Depot money must be good.

After we found the decking and placed an order, we wandered through the clearance aisle, which was ninety percent Halloween decorations. There were several large inflatables for front-yard display: a dragon, a ghost, and a vampire.

We stopped and stared at the vampire. Slicked-back hair, pale skin, fangs, a cloak. It wasn’t entirely wrong, but it wasn’t right either.

“I don’t know how to feel,” I said.

Vlad ran his fingers through his hair. “Maybe I should get some pomade. I haven’t done my hair in the classic Dracula for a while.”

I tugged his hand back down and gave it a squeeze. “I like it how it is.” The curls had grown out a bit, making him look more relaxed than he actually was. It was nice.

A guy in an orange apron approached us as we stared at the vampire. He had written Tim in Sharpie on his apron. “You want me to package him up for you?”

“No, thanks. We’re looking for something to get rid of bats?” I asked this supposed Tim.

“Ummm…We’ve got bat repellent.”

Tim schlepped to another aisle in his dirty jeans and end-of-the-day attitude while we Matrixed our way behind him. To my delight, he handed me a box that read Bat magic. This felt like the elixir I’d always needed, rather than a bat extermination tool.

Vlad scoffed when he read the label.

“Don’t laugh,” I said. “It might work.”

“It won’t,” he said.

Inspiration struck and I asked, “But while I’m here, how about coyote repellent?” Not that I needed to repel a coyote I’d made up, but still, I could make a show for Mr. Jarvis’s benefit.

“Coyote repellent?” Tim laughed. “That’d be a shotgun. Try Cabela’s.”

I backed away a step, stumbling into a display of duct tape. One package fell and rolled across the floor slowly.

Vlad flashed a confused look in my direction. “I don’t think we have a coyote, darling.”

“We don’t,” I said. At that moment, I was glad we didn’t. At least I wouldn’t have to “repel” any coyotes.

I clutched the box of Bat Magic and told Tim, “Thank you, I think we have what we need.”

He pointed us toward the self-checkout lane.

Vlad looked at the self-checkout with skepticism. “Would you check us out?” Vlad and I were too old for self-checkout.

“I guess,” Tim said and ushered us to the only open lane.

As we headed back to the car, I started feeling hopeful again. I looked from Vlad, who was navigating around potholes in the parking lot. Heaven leapt out of the car to greet us.

Between the three of us, we might really fix up the house before the end of the year. All we needed was a little vampire magic.

Peering into my selfie camera, I applied my favorite blood-red lipstick and a dab of gloss to make my lips look wet. I’d already curled my hair and pulled on a soft mohair sweater in snow white, black leggings, and a ruby cameo brooch.

I was booked for my second attempt at a first date with Tyrone, and I was ready to become smoking hot Mrs. Claus with fangs.

As I finished my makeup, snow fell gently outside. It was the first snow since the night I’d arrived. This time, it felt like Christmas.

“Is it just me, or is that pin with a picture of someone’s grandma on it giving grandma vibes?” Heaven said. She was perched on the toilet seat painting her nails.

“According to the guy at the pawn shop, it’s a carving of an ‘anonymous woman,’ thank you very much.” It was relatable fashion.

Vlad chose that moment to poke his head into the bathroom. His gaze lingered on my date look.

“Tiffenie, you look…” He inhaled like he was trying to restrain himself. “Nice.”

“I’m going for more than nice, but thanks.”

“The brooch is very attractive and, dare I say, sexual. It draws the eyes to the décolletage.”

Heaven rolled her eyes. “You two are both, like, a thousand. Get a room.”

The doorbell rang, cutting off Vlad’s retort, and I click-clacked down the stairs in my Payless boots. To my immense relief, I opened the large door to find Tyrone instead of Wayne Jarvis. He was balanced on the only surface available, a beam, because we were in the middle of prying up the porch flooring to replace it with something that wasn’t rotting away.

“Hang on, I’ll be right out,” I said, posing in my grandma brooch.

“You look gorgeous.”

“You too,” I said, slinging a bag over my shoulder. There was a virility to him that I could taste in the air, the smell of freshly cut pine with a hint of repressed danger, Christmas as told by Bruce Willis. A heady smell that made my skin prickle with awareness.

Just as I was about to make a clean escape, Vlad came up behind me.

“Who’s this?” Vlad rumbled. He folded his arms across his broad chest.

I shot a look at him. “Vlad,” I said, “this is Tyrone. He’s our neighbor.”

“Nice to meet you,” Vlad said, holding out a hand. When Tyrone took it, Vlad squeezed a little too hard, but Tyrone didn’t blink. “I’m—”

“An old friend. He dropped by for a surprise visit,” I said.

Vlad shifted slightly, so I edged past him, leaving him to continue crowding the doorway. Heaven had come down to watch the dick-measuring contest. She looked amused.

“Rule number four of Grand Risings. Good dick—”

“Don’t make up for nothing,” I finished.

Tyrone called out to Heaven. “Hey, sis. Feeling better tonight?”

“Yup, much better.”

Before they could get to talking any more, I said, “See you both later,” waved to Heaven and Vlad, and shut the door behind me.

After Tyrone helped me off the porch, he held on to my hand. With a cute smile, he said, “I wasn’t sure we were going to make it out of there.”

“Sorry about that.” There was something so boyish and sweet about him. His lack of guile struck a chord in my heart. I wanted to be vulnerable and unfiltered in return. At least I could be honest.

“Last night, I told you Heaven was sick, but it wasn’t her.”

“Why? Was anyone sick?”

“Yes, the city inspector came by. While he was inspecting the property, some kind of animal bit him and I had to drive him to the hospital. I think it was a coyote.” My eyes cast down in shame, I said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” He looked confused, probably because my story didn’t make sense.

“I was a little freaked out. He was bleeding so much.”

“How could that be your fault?” He looked like he was trying to wrap his mind around the story. “A coyote?”

“A coyote.” At this point, I had to stick to my dumb story.

As we walked down the drive, he said, “Let’s not worry about that right now. Tonight, I have a surprise.” With a big smile, he gestured to the base of the driveway. “I hope you like horses.”

I gasped at the sight of a horse-drawn sleigh. Like his truck, it was painted cherry red and decorated with the St. Nicholas Farms logo, in the same old-fashioned handwriting. “I thought Fred and Melva could give us a ride to the farm.”

I looked into Tyrone’s expectant face. He was trying so hard to impress me. Horses I could do without, but this sweetness went straight to my head. It had been a very long time, probably a lifetime ago, since someone had made such a big deal about me.

“I wouldn’t miss this date for the world.” I squeezed his hand.

“You can give them a little scratch, if you want. They’re both sweeties.” He whispered something and rubbed one of their velvet snouts. The animal nickered softly and nuzzled Tyrone’s jacket. With a chuckle, he chided the horse. “Hey, now, don’t be eating my jacket, Fred!”

Even the horses loved him.

Fred and Melva were miniature Clydesdales, like the ones in Budweiser commercials. As I stepped toward them, they shifted their weight uneasily, causing the bells on their harnesses to jingle riotously.

“People say dogs are a great judge of character, but horses are better. You can trust a horse,” Tyrone said.

Uh-oh.

“These guys are part of the Christmas fair. I’ve got a whole thing going on. I was going to give you a private tour last night, but tonight, you’re going to have to see it with the whole town. It’s a lot of work, but it helps pay the bills.”

“And here I thought you were just living off patent money,” I teased.

“Money’s tight right now.” From the way he said this, I could tell there was more to the story, but I didn’t want to push too fast too soon.

“Hello, sweeties!” I called to the horses in my friendliest voice. Fred’s whiskers and soft breath tickled my palm as he whuffed a big, soft, horsey breath. Once he got a noseful of my scent, he jerked his head abruptly and snorted loudly in objection. His neighs sounded almost like a cry of alarm. Maybe they were.

The whites of Fred’s eyes were showing as he stomped his hooves. I knew what was going on: Fred was telling Melva to watch her back.

Tyrone peered into the dimly lit yard, looking for whatever was setting Fred off. “Did you say a coyote bit that inspector?”

“I think so.”

“Something’s got the horses spooked.” He pulled a flashlight out of his pants pocket and shone it into the darkness. “Once horses get a whiff of a predator, they get skittish.”

I gulped.

“The scent of blood makes them lose their cool completely,” he said. As if on cue, Fred and Melva jerked their heads harder and started sidestepping away from me.

He scanned the tree line with obvious concern. “You’ve got something dangerous on the property.”

A vision of Heaven sinking her fangs into Wayne’s neck flashed across my mind.

“Coyote-wolf hybrids are more common these days.” Taking my hand, he said, “Don’t be scared. It’s part of living in the country.”

Tyrone almost seemed excited by the prospect of a man-eating coyote. It was as if he’d been waiting to step into the role of protector. “I never go out without a sidearm,” he said, patting a lump under his jacket that I hadn’t noticed before. “If something does attack, we’re safe.”

Ha. I wasn’t the one who needed protecting, but it was nice to pretend. I could play the damsel in distress.

“Let’s get you a hot chocolate. The horses will calm down.”

He helped me climb into the sleigh and sat down next to me. Our thighs pressed together in a way I wanted to repeat without so many layers.

“Hyah!” he called, and flicked the reins.

The horses trotted down the street, the clip-clop of their hooves muted by the newly fallen snow. They were calmer now, probably because the wind was blowing my scent in the other direction.

Then the wind shifted and the horses started moving at a brisk trot. “Whoa,” Tyrone called. “Whoa, Fred. Whoa, Melva.” The faster they ran, the more steam billowed in the cold air. I could barely see the road through the cloud of hot horse breath. He turned to me. “I’ve never seen them this spooked before.”

Five minutes later, we arrived at St. Nicholas Farms. Nightly Christmas fun! a sign proclaimed. See Santa, meet the reindeer, get a world-famous christmas tree! The parking lot was bustling with families walking back to their cars with Christmas trees. Others were pulling in, decked out in their winter gear to see Santa and drink hot chocolate.

The businesses open past eight in Valentine made for a weird social life: the tavern, the hospital, emergency services, and the Christmas tree farm.

Tyrone brought the horses to a stop in front of a bright red barn decorated with garlands and oversized wreaths.

“Something’s got ’em spooked,” he reported to one of the workers. “Give them each a feed bag and curry them down for a minute before we take them on any more rides.”

“Sure thing,” said the worker. “Who’s this here?”

Tyrone slung an arm around my shoulders. “This is Tiffany. I’m taking her on a VIP tour.”

I preened. “How VIP are we talking? Do I get Santa to myself?”

Tyrone raised an eyebrow. “Dylan is playing Santa tonight.”

“Dylan is cute.” I said. “But no, I’m all yours.”

He squeezed my hand and gave me a look that almost raised my body to a temperature that would register as alive, before his expression shifted to concern. “Do you smell something burning?” He sniffed the air.

Oh, shit. Smoke was rising from my backside. There was a baby Jesus in a manger scene right behind me. I pretended to stomp out a cigarette butt. “People are so careless. Poor Baby cheeses.”

“I’ll be right back. There’s too much hay around here for people to be tossing cigarettes.”

Too many flammables for me to be standing next to Jesus. Discreetly, I plopped onto a snow-covered chair. My overheated ass steamed as it melted the snow. Luckily, the fabric had just melted a bit, so my bum was still covered.

Speaking of cigarettes, I needed one real bad. A young woman walked by and the scent of iron wafted off her, tantalizing my senses. Involuntarily, I bared my fangs and hissed.

She looked my way, as if trying to make sense of my behavior, and asked, “Did you say something?”

“I love your…” I searched for something I liked and said, “Boyfriend.” I could have smacked myself in the forehead. Lipstick, hair, jacket—anything would have been better. I was a menace to society.

“Um, thanks?” The woman and her maybe-boyfriend hurried away.

“Sorry,” I called. “I have low blood sugar.” If I didn’t drink something soon, I was going to drain a kid waiting for Santa.

Coconut water was working, but I probably needed a lot more. It was just a matter of calibrating things. I made for the gift shop.

The St. Nicholas Farms gift shop was chock-full of ornaments, tree stands, and locally made chocolates. “Sweetheart, are you okay? You look a little wan.” A checkout woman reminiscent of Mrs. Claus touched my arm with concern. The smell of O negative emanated from her.

For her comfort I smiled (no fangs). “I’m just really thirsty. Do you have any coconut water?” Before I drain someone. We didn’t need a repeat of the Wayne Jarvis situation.

“Coconut water?” She repeated it like it was a foreign concept and shook her head in a young-people-these-days way as she checked the fridge. “Whaddya know? You’re in luck.” She emerged triumphant with a tall blue can of Goya coconut water.

After paying, I stood outside the shop and cracked the can open. With my first sip, I swallowed a few chunks of coconut flesh. I sputtered and coughed on the solid matter. Tyrone appeared as I was trying to choke down coconut water like I had tried to swallow steak without chewing.

“You okay there?”

I waved off my coughing fit. “Yes, take me to the fat man,” I said jovially, now that I had enough electrolytes in my system.

Tyrone offered his arm and I leaned into him as we walked. We were a fun couple on a quirky date with a fun night ahead of us—just like everyone else. Holiday tunes drifted through the air, intermingling with the laughter of children and the sound of a crackling bonfire.

“I feel like I’ve stepped into one of my favorite movies.” My stomach gurgled, unused to solids. This date was such a great idea, a fun activity and no pretending to eat. “Did you believe in Santa when you were a kid?” I asked Tyrone, a little too loudly. The mom in front of us turned and glared.

I covered my mouth in an oops gesture and mouthed, “Sorry!”

“Hell no. I was raised by a single mom. There was no way she was going to give some dude credit for presents she bought.”

A boy who loved his mom—be still my heart.

“How about you?” he asked.

“Oh, I still believe.” Santa, Satan—all you had to do was rearrange a few letters. He’s temptation personified, a capitalist god who works one day a year, passing judgment on children. “So, no Santa growing up, but now you’ve become Santa.” I gestured to the Christmas magic around us.

“This all just happened. I mean, what kind of twentysomething Black man from North Carolina decides to run a Christmas tree farm in Vermont? No offense, but that’s some white people shit.”

He wasn’t wrong. The line of people waiting to see Santa wound through a maze of candy canes and presents, nearly all white faces.

“But didn’t you say your family farmed Christmas trees?” I asked, genuinely trying to figure it out.

Tyrone raised a brow. “What are you, a journalist?”

I laughed lightly as some teenagers pushed past us toward Santa.

“Just getting to know you,” I said, leaning into him even more.

With a smile, he said, “It was my grandpa. He planted the first few generations of what would become Santa’s Choice, not because he had some big plan but because they were resistant to root rot. After a while, he noticed that they also last longer than other types of trees after being cut—that’s when he knew he was on to something. With the Christmas season starting earlier every year, a long-lasting tree is in demand.” He pulled his hat down farther around his ears like it was cold. It probably was. “Grandpa was just a regular farmer.” He gestured to the Christmas magic around him. “This here is a crime of opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t call it a crime,” I began, but then my brain shut down as Tyrone brushed an errant lock of hair from my face. I shut my eyes and savored the feeling of his finger on my probably freezing cheek.

“What else do you want to know?”

“How’d you get involved with Jeff?”

“What?” He gave me a confused look. “Didn’t Jeff tell you?”

“Jeff didn’t tell me as much as you’d think,” I said.

With a knowing look, he said, “That makes two of us.”

Huh. I filed that away for later.

“Jeff’s parents planted a bunch of my trees here on this land.” He gestured to the farm. “After Jeff died, I helped out quite a bit. When Tom got too sick to handle the farming himself, I was here all the time.”

He must have taken my look of confusion for something else—hurt feelings maybe—because he quickly added, “No shade. It wasn’t your job to take care of them.”

“Thank you.” I guess it would have made sense for Jeff’s fiancée to stick around.

“It wasn’t long before I bought the place. If I’m growing Santa’s Choice, I can’t live south of the Mason-Dixon Line.”

Blessedly, a man dressed as an elf interrupted our conversation before I could put my foot in my mouth again. “Hey, boss, wanna jump the line to see Santa?”

“Nah, we’re good.” To me, he said, “Waiting in line with you is half the fun. Unless you’re too cold?”

“I’m fine, but you could warm me up.”

“I got you.” Tyrone side-hugged me and rubbed my shoulder. My spirits set sail with the snowflakes. Tyrone, the snowflakes on my nose and eyelashes, the silver-white winter that melts into spring, plus tingles of sexual anticipation and the rush of blood under his skin—just a few of my favorite things.

A mom in front of us was trying to rebutton her toddler’s jacket and jam a matching hat on his head. “Stop scratching, John!” The kid was frantically rubbing his belly like the coat was attacking him. To her husband, she said, “These pictures aren’t cheap. We literally can’t afford to have him look bad.”

The husband didn’t look up from his phone.

I could see the big vein in her forehead throbbing. I shut my eyes and counted to five. I couldn’t bite someone in the face while waiting in line for Santa.

To distract myself, I stood on my tiptoes and whispered to Tyrone, “I know what I’m asking Santa for.”

“Tell me what you want,” Tyrone said, his voice low and teasing.

“I think you know what I want,” I said.

“Why don’t you give me a hint?” Tyrone’s heated gaze sent a thrill down my spine, but my stomach gurgled again. This time it didn’t settle, and my mouth began to water. I tried to will the sensation away, but it was no good.

“Shit!” I wrenched away from Tyrone, staggering out of line just in time to vomit the entire can of coconut water into Santa’s bag filled with glossy, wrapped presents.

Just when I thought it was over, I dry heaved a few more times.

“I told you we should have come earlier, Frank,” the mom in front of us complained. “All the drunks come out at night.”

I shot her a look of pure evil between dry heaves. If only I was just a drunk. If she didn’t watch it, she was going to meet the sharp end of my fangs.

A hand offered me a handkerchief. “Are you okay?” Tyrone rubbed my back lightly.

“I think I accidentally inhaled one of those chunks of coconut.” I smiled at him weakly. “This is so embarrassing.”

My favorite elf said, “Don’t sweat it. You’re not even the first person to puke in line today.”

I smiled weakly and excused myself to go rinse out my mouth. In the bathroom, I stared into the empty mirror and touched up my makeup, as if I could see myself. My stomach growled from thirst.

As soon as I was back, an elf called out, “You’re up, VIP! Time to tell Santa what you want!”

“Hi, Dylan,” I said, as Santa and Tyrone gave each other a fist bump. “Thanks again for saving my house.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am.” He patted his knee and winked at me. “Tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”

Something about the way he called me ma’am…I don’t know why, but it was working for me.

Lowering his voice, he said, “Take a seat, li’l lady, and tell Santa what you want for Christmas.”

“Hey, Santa,” Tyrone barked, “stop flirting with my girl!”

But I was into it. I climbed onto Santa’s lap and he wrapped his arm around me, ostensibly for the purpose of helping me balance.

“You don’t want to know what I want,” I said in a throaty whisper. His red velvet Santa coat was unbuttoned at the collar, and I could feel his blood pulsing, calling to me. “Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

Dylan snorted. “I can’t do this. It’s your turn, Ty.”

Tyrone came over and sat on his other leg. “This what you meant, Dylan?”

“Get off my lap, you two,” Dylan said, shoving us off. With a grin, he said, “I don’t recall you winning Biggest Flirt in school, but man…you’d give Stacy a run for her money.”

I shrugged. “Christmas is about sharing. I’ll take two Santas to go.”

“Jesus, Tiffany.” Tyrone shook his head. “Santa, just give her some decent snow tires. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Next, we made our way over to the bonfire. A few teenagers were clustered around the flames toasting marshmallows. Tyrone ordered two hot chocolates from a quaint little stand staffed by some more teenagers.

“Careful, this is hot,” he said.

With cups clutched in mittened hands, we walked away from the Christmas chaos and into a stand of trees, lit only by ground lights that made it feel like the aisle in a darkened theater. The steam from my hot cocoa curled upward into the cold night air, and the trees seemed to stretch on forever, a never-ending path into the darkness. I focused on the little marshmallows on top of my cocoa.

“You look like you’re going to cry,” Tyrone said.

I shook my head, willing away the swell of emotion in my chest. “It’s just so beautiful here. So perfect. Everyone looks so happy.”

“Good. Christmas was magical for me growing up. I wanted that for the fair.”

St. Nicholas Farms was magical—for everyone else. I was the only one struggling, trying not to bite Santa, scaring the horses who pulled my sled, puking in Santa’s goodie bag.

“It’s perfect here,” I said.

While I pretended to sip my hot chocolate, he walked to the edge of the tree line and retrieved an ax and a hand saw from a stand. “I didn’t get you flowers. How about a tree?”

“Are you going to carry it back for me?” I teased, the ember of Hallmark hope in my heart sparking back to life with Tyrone’s kindness.

“I don’t think I have to.” He eyed my biceps, probably remembering that time I deadlifted a casket in front of him. “Which tree?” He gestured toward the entirety of the forest, like he was offering me the whole world.

I imagined where in my smoke-damaged, condemned house I would put the tree.

Tyrone stopped at the biggest tree. “How about this one?”

“I do like them big.”

“Is that right?” He side-eyed me. “Well, I can deliver on that request.”

Going Paul Bunyan on me, he gripped the ax firmly with both hands. “Back up,” he said, before swinging twice with two quick thwacks to score the trunk. He then picked up the saw and got to work. I could have done it faster myself, but being taken care of—that was the real magic. After I’d been alone for so long, it felt good to have a man taking me on sleigh rides and cutting down trees for me.

I took a closer look at the tree. “Are you sure? Is it too big?”

“I think it’s going to be extremely satisfying,” he said, mid-saw. Then he looked up. “Oh, are you talking about the tree?”

“Yes, I was referring to the tree. But in all seriousness, is it too tall for my house?”

“Well, it’s too late now. You’ve got yourself a big-ass tree.”

Five minutes later, the evening was over and we were back in the parking lot. As Tyrone loaded my tree into the truck bed, the woman who’d sold me the coconut water hurried up to us.

“Tiffany, I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier! I just wanted to give you a hug. I know the holidays can be hard after losing someone.”

“Yes, I think of Aunt Mildred a lot this time of year,” I answered smoothly.

“Oh, I don’t mean Mildred. I know she was a pill.” She patted my hand. “You poor thing.” The woman wrapped me in a long, rib-crushing hug before scurrying away.

“Thank you,” I said, trying not to betray my confusion.

When Tyrone dropped me off at home with the Christmas tree a few minutes later, I lingered by the truck. I wanted to invite him in, but how could I? Not with a bloodthirsty baby vamp and my ex inside. They were the Marvel superheroes of cockblocking.

After Tyrone propped the tree next to the front door, I turned to face him.

“Thank you for the beautiful night,” I said. “I would invite you in, but…” I sighed. “Houseguests.”

“I get it.” He pressed a kiss to my lips that deepened into a promise of more to come, a kiss that shot tingles all the way to my fingers and toes. My thirst spiked. I wanted him in more ways than one. On tiptoes, I traced my tongue along his jugular with a soft moan.

“Down, girl,” Tyrone said with a chuckle. “Next time.”

I couldn’t wait. And that was the problem.

When the truck’s lights had disappeared down the road, I opened the door to find Vlad reading a book by the fireplace.

“What is this?” Vlad said at the sight of the tree. “Hasn’t he ever heard of flowers?”

I slumped onto the living room couch, exhausted and starving.

After tonight, one thing was clear: Vampires drink blood. The despair inside me was building to a dizzying level. The coconut water might be the highest vibrational food according to several websites, but it wasn’t taking the edge off. I had almost sunk my fangs into Santa at the Christmas fair. Heaven had nearly drained the city inspector. The coconut water experiment was a failure.

With grim determination, I headed to the kitchen and twisted the lid off a box of coconut water. It went down the drain with a glug glug glug. After the first two boxes, the rightness of my decision became clearer and clearer. Why was I drinking a beverage that smelled like sunshine, beach parties, and Jimmy Buffet?

But how could I live happily ever after as a vampire? Draining a virgin and then riding into the sunset—that’s not how it worked. Vampires didn’t marry Prince Charming. Vampires drained Prince Charming.

The more I turned over the predicament in my mind, the worse I felt. My vision blurred at the edges so I collapsed on a chair in the living room. I blinked hard and focused on a nutcracker on the mantel to stabilize myself. His grimace didn’t comfort me, but at least it was familiar. Breathe in. Breathe out. Grit your teeth and bite down on the hard nut of reality. Soldier on.

I didn’t even need to breathe. It was a vestigial behavior, three hundred years into undeath, and here I was practically hyperventilating. With no other ideas, I texted Dr. Rosetti. She had told me to contact her in case of an emergency.

Me: i think i need help.

Eleanor: Are you suicidal? If so, go straight to the emergency room.

Me: i’m already dead, so no. lol.

Me: i don’t want to drink blood anymore so i’ve been on a juice cleanse. but it’s not working

Eleanor: How long since you had something other than juice?

Me: since halloween

Eleanor: Tiffany, that is concerning. Can you find something to eat right now?

I glanced at the kitchen where Vlad stored his bottles.

Eleanor: Are you available for an appointment tomorrow?

Me: yes

If I wanted to be a Hallmark heroine who didn’t drain her boyfriend, I needed blood. But Hallmark heroines didn’t drink blood. It was a catch-22. A Google search for coconut water alternative yielded an idea: sports drinks. Vlad caught me red-handed googling Gatorade.

“You were right. Coconut water isn’t for us.” Vlad didn’t rub in that he was right, so I must have looked very bad indeed.

“How was the date?” he asked, almost politely.

Too tired to pretend, I confessed. “Ugh. I accidentally swallowed coconut flesh and I vomited in Santa’s bag.”

He started belly laughing.

“The elf said it happens all the time.” Why had I told Vlad about this embarrassing moment? He would literally remember it for eternity.

“Remember that time we went to that fair and got stuck on the roller coaster for hours?” he reminisced. “We could have just climbed down, but we waited forever like we couldn’t rescue ourselves.”

I smiled at the memory. “You could have climbed down, but I was wearing a short skirt, plus you know climbing isn’t in my skill set.”

“Tiffenie, so much is in your skill set that you don’t know about.”

I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I said, “Go on.”

While I waited for him to list my skills like a high-school career counselor, I retrieved the Christmas tree. Tyrone had told me to let it dry out on the porch overnight, but if I didn’t decorate it to within an inch of its life in front of Vlad, it would be a wasted opportunity.

“Do you mind?” I asked with an innocent smile. “You can help if you want,” I added, knowing the only thing he wanted to do with this tree was light it on fire and launch it into outer space like a flaming javelin.

“Go ahead. I was going to watch TV,” he said as if he wasn’t annoyed by my Christmas tree flaunting. He clenched the remote and stared too deliberately in the direction of the television, pretending to watch a documentary about Shakespeare. For her part, Cat jumped into the window and stared out at the field of snow. She licked a paw and cleaned her face, bored by both of us.

I jammed the tree into the stand Tyrone had given me and turned the stabilizing screws against the base of the trunk. When it came out crooked, I did it again.

Even without standing back and taking in the view, I suspected the tree was still lopsided. No matter, though. It smelled amazing. Fresh-cut pine. I had a tabletop plug-in one in my LA apartment. I left it up year-round for a couple of years because I didn’t want to have to walk to the storage closet and put it away. Like a bad wig, it had never lost the shape of the box it came in, and there were never any presents beneath its boughs. Eventually, I jammed it into the dumpster outside.

Vlad might have been pretending to ignore me while learning secrets about Shakespeare’s identity, as if he didn’t already know them, but he was watching my every move. When I hung an ornament on a branch, he said, “I can’t take it anymore. Let me straighten this.”

“Okay,” I said, secretly delighting in making Vlad decorate a tree.

“You hold it and I’ll adjust.”

“I didn’t think you supported my celebration.”

“I would like it if you just moved into the coven and followed the rules. That would be so easy. But if you’re going to put up a tree, it might as well be straight.” With a mortified look, he said, “And you have to put the lights on before the ornaments. Were you raised in a barn?”

“You know I was.”

“Don’t exaggerate. You lived in a house next to a barn. It was very comfortable for the 1700s. It always smelled like fresh-baked bread. The noise, though! So many children in one small space.”

I smiled at the memory.

“Could you help me haul up some boxes from the basement?” I asked. In a normal household, Christmas hides in the basement for eleven months of the year. Even I knew that. Those are the rules. A grand celebration trapped in a dark corner in a musty old box. Relatable.

“After this show is over,” he said.

I put my hands on my hips. “Vlad, come on. Help me finish the tree. You and I both know that documentary has it all wrong.”

“I know,” he scoffed. “Shakespeare was not twelve different people.”

“Shakespeare was a woman,” I said. “Most successful pen name in history.”

“I met him. If he was a woman, he had me fooled.”

“You idiot. That was just some guy she convinced to stand in for her. He grandstanded his way into history, the undeserving bastard.”

“That’s absurd. How many women even knew how to read and write in those days?”

I walked away to avoid strangling him. When I heard footsteps behind me, I turned on him and said, “Stop following me!”

“You asked for my help!”

I laughed. “Is this a new argument at least?”

“I don’t think so. Pretty sure we’ve gone at it over Shakespeare before.”

“But not while decorating a Christmas tree,” I pointed out. “That’s new.”

Downstairs, it was a basement-by-spiders situation, a place where people kept pictures and trinkets, where memories went to die. I pushed the cobwebs away from my face and scanned the area. It didn’t take me long to find an entire corner devoted to Christmas. Old boxes that looked like they’d been holding ornaments since the 1970s. One box, undoubtedly the manger scene, was hot to the touch. I might not be able to feel a rush jumping out of a plane, but celebrating a religious holiday…This was skydiving for vampires.

“Take these upstairs,” I told Vlad.

Back in the living room, I shut off the TV and put on Christmas music. If we were going to do this, we were going to do this right.

“Tiffenie, that music hurts.”

“Just the religious ones,” I said. Mariah was all cool.

He shook his head but sat down to help.

The Christmas boxes were mostly a bust, plastic trays filled with colorful glass balls, many of them broken or missing their wire hangers. One tiny frame held a blurry picture of a toddler labeled Tiffany 1998. No one would realize it wasn’t me. I spotted a few ornaments obviously made by a child: stacked Styrofoam balls with googly eyes, a pine cone with antlers made of pipe cleaners. Memories of someone else’s childhood.

A feeling of melancholy washed over me. For all the time I’d been on earth, I didn’t have a collection of memories in a basement.

“Do you wish you had a box of childhood ornaments?” I asked Vlad as I walked into the living room with the box of ornaments in tow.

He gave me a funny look. “Tiffenie, do you not remember what I told you about my so-called childhood in the Middle Ages? I’ll take someone else’s box of trinkets from 1995 any day.”

I laughed at the truth of the statement and carefully hung Tiffany’s ornaments. I’d also purchased some clearance ornaments at Tyrone’s farm and began to rummage through them to find anything that might reflect me. I found a moose with one antler, a scuffed Santa, and an empty Christmas 2024! frame. I added them to the tree.

It wasn’t a Christmas tree so much as a tree of two broken Tiffanys.

“So ugly it’s cute,” Vlad announced. “Like a pug.”

Sitting in front of a tree in a room lit by Christmas lights, going through a memory box—it was downright cozy. Vlad’s hair was bronze in the firelight and called out to me to run my hands through it. I resisted.

“I think Vermont is what I’ve always needed: the clean air, the wholesomeness, the small-town charm.”

Vlad shook his head. “I still don’t think Valentine is a good idea. In small towns you get to know people. What happens when they realize what you are?”

I turned Tiffany Amanda Blair’s toddler photo frame over in my hand.

“You can’t be vulnerable around people.” With an intense look, he said, “I will not let anyone hurt you. You bear my mark.”

My hand brushed the mark on my neck that Vlad had left so many years ago. Did it make me his? Did I want that?

“I’m a vampire,” I pointed out. “I can take care of myself.”

“But are you?” He gave me a look that made me squirm. “You have never embraced the power. Look at this.” He gestured to our surroundings. “You are living in the cast-off life of a failed woman. You won’t even drink blood. Tiffenie, you might have fangs, but you aren’t a vampire.”

I hissed at him and bared my fangs. “Just because I don’t do things the same way as you doesn’t mean I’m not a vampire.” But his words caught me off guard. Was he right?

Vlad didn’t respond. His conviction that he was right was infuriating.

“And what are you doing? How can you fall in love if you don’t trust someone?” I said, just to throw something back at him. “How could I ever trust you?”

“I’m just saying, leave Santa Claus alone. That’s too much.”

Just to piss him off I made direct eye contact and said, “I like Santa. I think he’s got something special in his sack for me.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes.

“You’re jealous,” I said. “Remember Y2K?” I remembered flirting with a guy named Steve all night, deliberately toying with Vlad, and then Vlad ripping my pale pink gown off like I was his only sustenance, like he was starving for me.

He leaned forward menacingly. “I don’t get jealous.”

“Okay, well, then you won’t mind me dating Tyrone.”

At that he made some kind of clearing-his-throat noise.

“You’re jealous,” I taunted. “I’m going to ask my therapist if you’re jealous. I’m pretty sure you are.”

“I don’t think that’s what therapy’s for,” he said.

“Have you ever been?”

“A woman tried to make me go to couples therapy once. I told her vampires don’t need therapy.”

When I laughed, he retorted, “We don’t. Maybe humans can have their feelings hurt, but vampires are too strong for that.”

“Do you have feelings Vlad?”

“I’m not sure what I’d call them. I have responses to situations. I don’t have…feelings.”

I leaned back in my chair and did my best impression of Dr. Rosetti. “Okay then. If it’s not a feeling, describe your response to Tyrone.”

Cat jumped onto my lap and I stroked her fur.

“It’s a twofold response. Step one is analysis. I objectively viewed this situation and came to the conclusion that you are putting yourself in harm’s way. You’re making yourself vulnerable, and you wouldn’t defend yourself despite your powers.”

I pulled on Cat’s belly whisker, just because I couldn’t stop myself, and she rolled up in a ball and attacked my hand, kicking with her hind legs and biting.

“Cat, stop it,” I said casually, while she continued her assault on my hand. “Go on. Tell me step two of your response to my date.” “Jingle Bells” played in the background, at odds with the mood of the room. We both ignored it.

He cleared his throat. “Step two is a tactical response.”

“Tactical—that sounds a little military for the situation.”

“It means carefully planned to gain a specific response, which in this case would be your safety.”

“So you’re telling me you might drain him?”

“I would like to.”

With a laugh I confirmed my diagnosis: jealous.

“I need to get some sleep. I have to get up right after sunset for therapy.”

“Ugh, Tiffenie. What am I going to do with you?”

“I don’t know, you’ve had a few good ideas in the past.”

He moved closer. “You are still mine, Tiffenie. Do you remember?” “I am nobody’s, Vlad.” His possessiveness was a wet blanket on the nostalgia. I had been living in the cracks, not a vampire or a human, belonging nowhere. For all his help, Vlad was in charge of all the rules that kept me in hiding. This was not a Taylor Swift, “I’m the problem, it’s me” situation. He was the problem. I snarled in his general direction. “I think I’m done with you and your interference. It’s time for you to go back to Provo.”

Cat mewled and jumped off my lap as Vlad closed the distance between us. Inches away from me, he said, “Make me.”

The desire inside me boiled over, angry, hot, and desperate. With him so close, my senses spun out of control, a weathervane in the face of an approaching tornado. My anger and my passion intermingled, leaving me with nothing but a raging sense of need.

A minute ago, I wanted to yell at him to get out of the house for…why was that, again? Now I just wanted Vlad.

What was the matter with me?

Lust, plain and simple, my long-dead ovaries doing the talking for me.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He pulled me into his lap with a low, throaty “Mmmm.”

I heard footsteps on the stairs and Heaven’s voice: “Damn. I’ll just, ugh…damn you two.” Her footsteps retreated upstairs.

He growled into my neck, nuzzling it suggestively, and then trailed his teeth slowly across my jugular. He sucked in air slowly like he wanted to sink his teeth in, to taste me. I arched my back and he ripped my sweater in two. “I’ll get you a new one,” he whispered into my neck.

He sucked in hard and palmed my breasts through the lacy fabric of my bra, sending tingles everywhere.

“Bite me,” I said, desperate for his tongue, his teeth.

“Are you sure?”

“Please.”

I leaned back, completely at his mercy. After years of struggling with daily life, the surrender was even more delicious. He sunk his fangs into my neck, and for the moment I became his completely, all of my worries gone. I was on another plane, floating away from Vermont, where I didn’t really belong and never did anything quite right. Take me away, Vlad. My blood trickled from the wound, arcing over the curve of my breast and plunging between the mounds. Vlad dipped his finger in the blood and drew the shape of a heart on the pale skin above my heart that would never beat again.

“Have you gone soft?” I asked, spread out before him in front of a fire while he drew blood hearts on my skin.

“I love you, Tiffenie.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I will say what I want,” he said.

My swollen flesh cried out for his touch, and my undead heart sputtered to life like a car in the depths of winter.

He turned his attention to my tender peaks and sucked, drawing blood from a breast that would never again give milk. He followed the trail of red to my core and tasted all of me with his tongue like he had been starving for nothing else.

“I’m still kicking you out,” I said, in between spasms of pleasure.

“Let’s make the most of this, then.”

“Let me see that perfect cock.” I licked my lips. “It’s been a while.”

I unzipped his pants to find my favorite toy. “I’ve missed you,” I whispered. “So hard already. You are such a good boy.”

To clarify, I looked up at Vlad. “Not you. Don’t get things mixed up.”

“Stop monologuing and put it in your mouth. Please.” His cock throbbed in my hands. I licked him gently because I wasn’t as bloodthirsty as him, and he moaned softly. “Tiffenie.” He said my name in the way it was meant to be said.

Vlad slid into me, filling me, making me feel whole in a way that I craved and that sort of pissed me off. I didn’t want to feel like this, to be empty without him, but I couldn’t deny it. We were like two parts of a puzzle meant to be together, created for each other. It isn’t very feminist, and I would never tell him that because it would go to his head.

The music changed to “Angels We Have Heard on High” in Italian, the language of love. We both burned as Andrea Bocelli exalted the angels. He belted out “Gloria in excelsis Deo,” drawing out each syllable, which in turn drew out a long slow sizzle. Pain from God smiting us for taking pleasure, for existing. Something about the pain, the pleasure, reveling in it boldly in front of the Christmas tree, intensified the sensations.

“Do you want me to change the music?” I asked.

“No, I like the way it hurts,” he said, through the fog of pain and pleasure. “I like…no, I love the way you hurt.”

Pulling out and pushing in, a pantomime of our relationship. Yes, no, yes, no. Never a guarantee.

“Gloria in excelsis Deo!” We burned.

Andrea took a breath and the pleasure surged.

“Gloria in excelsis Deo!” We burned longer and harder as the song moved toward the climax.

The magic of always wanting more, the anticipation never over. As always, Vlad let me come first, an explosion of sensation that I had been starving for. To feel anything was good, but to feel this was transcendent. I closed my eyes. Maybe it was just a physical reaction. Maybe it was more.

Vlad came with a groan that made me feel more like a woman than if I was wearing the most beautiful dress in the world. I made him cry out and exalted in the thrill of my own power.

“Oh, shit! Vlad, the rug!” Beneath us, the rug was smoldering. The flames were starting to lick at the edge of the nearby couch.

Vlad hopped up. “Do you have a fire extinguisher?” he asked.

I didn’t (don’t tell Mr. Jarvis), but I did have several buckets of lemon water. Heaven had filled buckets with water, lemon, white vinegar, and salt to ward off negative spirits and placed them by the doors.

I grabbed the three buckets of lemon-scented spirit water, or whatever they were, and doused the couch.

Vlad and I stood naked in the destroyed living room, with a sopping-wet couch reminding us of how things always turned out when we were together. This had been a bad idea. Vlad and I were a bad idea. What had I been doing?

I wanted a happily ever after in Vermont. That meant: no blood, no biting, no promiscuity. No Vlad.

If the last three hundred years had taught me anything, it was that a vampire couldn’t have a happily ever after. Staying up all night, thirsty for blood and sex—that was everything a woman shouldn’t be.

“You said I’m not much of a vampire earlier, Vlad. That’s the way I want to keep it.” It was fine for him to be a vampire, but not me.

We sat on the partially burned rug, the smell of burnt fabric in the air, Christmas music still playing, not saying anything for a moment. I could tell he understood what I’d just said. If I didn’t want to be a vampire, I couldn’t be with him.

At this point, Tiffany Amanda Blair’s past was haunting me more than my own, and that was saying something. I’d spent too much time poring over yearbooks, learning who Tiffany had been in high school. That was useful, but I needed to know who she became, not who she was as a teenager.

Curled up in an armchair, I played Google detective.

There were so many Tiffanys. Young ones doing makeup tutorials, professional Tiffanys posing in front of bookcases on LinkedIn. Then there were volleyball Tiffanys and golf Tiffanys, not to mention obituaries for the dead ones. Team Tiffany was larger and more loosely connected than I had imagined, though it was doubtful that any of them knew about the epiphany we were all named for. These Tiffanys knew about Hot Topic and, apparently, golf.

I face-palmed at one entry.

Two weeks ago, local restaurant Mui Thai filed a complaint against blood donation center Plasma4Life, citing that the plasma donation business is scaring customers away.

Good times. The Plasma4Life donation line used to weave right in front of Mui Thai. If you wanted Thai food, you had to walk past the line of people waiting to donate. The plasma crowd was often asking for money or leftovers and generally getting loud.

Kulap, one of the waiters, was always swearing and yelling, “Stop blocking the entrance!” Then Lance would come out and yell at Kulap. Rinse and repeat.

To smooth things over one night, I’d ordered five hundred dollars’ worth of pad thai and spring rolls for the people in line. The article included a picture of a guy crouched on the curb eating from a takeout carton. You could see me in the background handing out spring rolls, blurry and out of focus beneath a streetlight.

Looking at the evidence of that one day preserved forever online filled me with a sense of belonging. It was my version of the Valentine High School yearbook. I wasn’t prom queen, I didn’t have the best smile in my class, but I’d left my mark in my own way.

When I added Valentine Vermont to the search, a few results popped up. I saw Tiffany and Jeff’s engagement announcement and then Jeff’s obituary.

Jeffrey Andrew Powers (1990–2015) is survived by his parents, Melinda and Tom Powers, and his fiancée, Tiffany Amanda Blair. Jeff was born and raised in Valentine and graduated from Valentine High School. He will be remembered as an easygoing and friendly pillar of the community, always willing to offer help when needed. He loved snowboarding and will always have the high score on the Street Fighter II game at Skip’s Pizza Parlor and Arcade. He was set to take over daily operations of the family tree farm and marry his fiancée this upcoming summer. He will be missed. Services will be held on Friday at the Valentine Church at 3 p.m., followed by a reception in the basement.

I stared at the obituary, reading it again. I’d bought Tiffany’s identity in 2015. Apparently, she had skipped town right after Jeff died. I glanced over at the open yearbook lying on the floor where I’d abandoned it the other day. Tiffany Amanda Blair stared back at me, a sweet smile curving her lips. What was this woman hiding?

Tonight, there was no wait for therapy. Dr. Rosetti ushered me into her office straightaway. After last night’s text exchange, she was probably going to want to discuss my diet. Me, I was hoping she could help me uncover my past. Instead of her usual cable-knit sweater, Dr. Rosetti was wearing an outfit that could transition from day to night seamlessly. All she had to do was take off her stuffy cardigan, shake her hair out, and work on her accessories game.

“As your friend,” I said, “I think a brooch would look nice with that blouse.” Especially if she was going out. Rosetti on the town—I could see it. “Does anyone ever call you Rosé?” It was the perfect nickname.

“Tiffany,” she said, ignoring my suggestion, “before we begin, have you eaten anything since you texted?”

“Yes, I gave up on the juice cleanse.”

“Excellent.” She nodded with approval. “Do you feel better now?”

“I’m sorry I bothered you with that. I’m fine.”

“You were upset enough to text. We should talk about it. Why were you on the juice cleanse?”

“Because I don’t want to hurt someone every time I’m thirsty. I’m trying to be normal. I’m trying to fit in.”

She leaned forward with intensity and focus, like she was about to uncover my core trauma. “Who do you think you’re hurting?”

I rubbed my temple in frustration. She wanted me to realize I was hurting myself with my diet. This was not going to be a breakthrough moment.

“Dr. R, you remember that I’m a vampire?”

“Yes, I heard you.”

“You understand how vampires eat, correct? Me going on a diet is good for everyone’s health but mine.” When she didn’t answer, I asked, “Did you see or read Twilight?”

“Team Jacob,” she answered without thinking.

“Really, the werewolf?” But I got it. Jacob was hot. “Anyway, Stephenie Meyer got the feeding part right. It’s just that vampires don’t all have mansions and sparkly skin, which is too bad. Also, I’ve never met a Jacob.” The closest thing was that fake coyote, which really was giving me hell. I’d take a werewolf over being trapped in a cage of my own lies any day.

Dr. Rosetti made a note.

“I know you only have fifty minutes, so I’m going to get right to it.” I needed to see if I could get any information about Jeff from her. “I want to run a hypothetical by you.”

“Go on,” she said, setting her pen on her notebook and folding her hands in her lap.

“So let’s say there’s a woman with a dead husband.”

“Okay. Remember our discussion of privilege.” She looked over her glasses at me and cautioned, “Doctor-patient privilege ends if you tell me you are about to harm yourself or others.”

“I remember. This already happened.” I smiled to set her worries at ease. “So anyway, shortly after the woman’s husband dies, she sells her identity on the black market and disappears.” I let her process the basic scenario and then asked, “What does that say to you?”

“Tiffany.” She shook her head. “This is a small town. I know how Jeff died.” She gave me a look like she was staring into my soul. “Are you asking about yourself, about why you disappeared? Did you watch Jeff die?”

“No. I don’t remember. How did he die?” Dr. Rosetti might not be able to tell me much, but she was the only person I could be fully honest with, besides Vlad.

She exhaled, clearly frustrated. “It is my understanding that Jeff died in a freak accident on the ice. He crashed through. I think he might have been ice fishing. I don’t remember that part.”

A drowning. That seemed like a normal sort of tragedy, not the kind of death that would make Tiffany leave town forever.

Her face etched with sympathy, she asked, “You don’t remember his death?”

“Nothing. It’s a blank.”

She jotted down a note.

I asked, “Do you remember why Tiffany left town after?”

“I can’t say why you left town,” she answered, making uncomfortably direct eye contact.

I shrugged, frustrated with the psychobabble. I needed answers, not analysis.

“Disappearing can hurt as much as the thing that you are running from, don’t you think?”

Ouch. This was getting too real. I’d been living in the shadows for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t a quick stab of pain, but rather a long, slow numbing of the soul. Or it would have been, if I had a soul.

I leaned forward and tried to refocus her on the situation at hand. I wasn’t here to talk about my feelings tonight. I just wanted to learn the things I was expected to know, the things I couldn’t ask anyone else.

“I notice you are still talking about yourself in the third person,” Dr. Rosetti said. Her glasses had slid down her nose, and while she waited for an answer, she peered over the lenses instead of pushing them up. It was cute, one little imperfection.

There was probably no point in explaining, but I tried anyway. “Yes, I am. I am living Tiffany’s life, but I’m not her. I’m going through the motions, using her name and address, but I’m not the Tiffany Valentine remembers.”

She nodded as if I was confirming all her suspicions. “That’s a powerful statement, and I think we all feel that way sometimes. If you reconnect with yourself, you might find answers. Let people really know you instead of the Tiffany they expect.”

“I bought Tiffany’s identity on the black market. She is not me. I am not her.”

Dr. Rosetti squinted at her notebook and scribbled a note.

“Why do you think I’ve repressed this memory?” I asked, trying another tactic.

“You could be scared for any number of reasons.” She looked me in the eye. “Tiffany, did you see Jeff die? Did someone threaten you?”

I didn’t answer because I didn’t know.

My brief silence must have been enough to convince Dr. R that she had figured it out. “Watching your fiancé die would be extremely traumatic.”

I waited for her to go on, but my mind began to slip to my own past.

“Tiffany, what happened to you?” she said. “What did you see out there on the ice? Did you push him?”

“I don’t know, I was asking you.” I didn’t know anything. I twisted the hem on my shirt in frustration.

“Did you see someone die?”

I capitulated. If she wanted to hear what I’d seen, then so be it. You don’t get to be as old as me without watching the life leave someone’s body.

“I did watch someone die. It was my fault.” I stared at my knees because it was too much to meet her eyes. “Such a senseless death.” I might not have rent her flesh myself, but I might as well have. If I had paid attention to the Vampire Code instead of gossiping and telling her everything, Alba would have lived to be an old woman.

Dr. R leaned forward. “Go on. Let it out.”

The number one rule of every secret club is to keep it a secret. Fight Club didn’t invent that. Vampires did. A vision of Alba’s last moments, her blood blossoming into a gory flower on her nightgown, her eyes staring without seeing—it was enough to send tears streaming down my face.

“So you watched Jeff die?” she redirected me.

Tears continued running down my cheeks, which she must have taken as a yes.

Dr. R moved a box of tissues across the coffee table toward me and took her questioning a step further. “Did you kill him?”

She saw me completely, but not at all. “I’m not talking about Jeff.”

“That’s right.” Dr. R nodded like she had me all figured out. “You didn’t kill Jeff because you’re not really Tiffany?”

Again with the psychobabble. “Like I said, I am not Tiffany with a -y. I am Tiffenie, with an -ie, an immortal, cursed vampire.”

“Tiffany, I think watching your fiancé die and believing that you killed him was more trauma than you were able to handle.”

My cheeks were still damp with tears, but a laugh escaped me.

“I believe that you have dissociated because of that.”

I might have been laughing and crying at the same time, but she had missed the point of this completely. “I just wanted to get my facts right. You’re the only person I can speak freely with.”

In a measured tone, so as not to alarm me with her astute observations, she said, “You’re scared that if someone gets close to you, they’ll be hurt.”

Well, that was true.

“That must make it very difficult to make close connections.”

That was also true. Of course I couldn’t make friends. Just being myself, being a friend, had led to Alba’s death. Living for eternity with another Alba on my conscience was unimaginable.

Dr. Rosetti sat back in her chair, looking almost satisfied. “Good work tonight, Tiffany. Uncovering your trauma is a huge part of this process.”

After I collected myself and finished dabbing at my tears, I said, “Being a vampire is the source of all my problems. It is my trauma. Any mortal who I share my secrets with is at risk.” I gave her a look. “You’re the first person I’ve met who is legally bound to keep my secrets.”

“That’s any doct—”

I shushed her. “You almost feel…like a friend.” She was the first person I texted to tell about my bad day, someone whose opinion I trusted. That was friend stuff.

“We have a profe—”

Before she could finish telling me we weren’t friends, I said, “Just don’t break privilege.” Even I knew there wasn’t a statute of limitations on murder. Dateline University.

Earnestly, she said, “I would never break privilege.”

At that moment, an electric current passed between us. Maybe being a therapist was a little like being a vampire, at least in the fact that it was a club where she was duty bound to keep everyone else’s secrets. What happens in therapy stays in therapy. Just like Vegas.

In Aunt Mildred’s pantry, I found some cans of something called No Fear Super Energy Supplement behind the cream of everything soups and Hormel chili. The cans each featured a cartoonish winged skull that would probably appeal to teenage boys. I googled the product before sampling. It was a sports drink popular in the nineties and early aughts and, strangely enough, the sponsor of World Extreme Cagefighting.

They had to be Jeff’s. Snowboarding, Street Fighter II, and macho energy drinks. Aunt Mildred must have been too frugal to throw them away, but too church lady to drink them.

No Fear had a nice ring to it. And the flavor: Bloodshot. Thanks, Jeff. I wandered to the living room with a can.

“Don’t you two ever check the mail?” Vlad griped. He was holding an armful of letters, fliers, and cards.

“Um, no,” I said.

“Well, there is mail,” he said. “I don’t even know how the mailman fit all of this in the box. He deserves an award.”

The pile of mail was 99 percent junk: pizza fliers, bills, and one letter. It had the same official seal as the notice to vacate.

COMPLAINT AND NOTICE OF INSPECTION

On November 8, 2024, Valentine Inspector Wayne Jarvis was bitten by an illegal canid while performing an inspection of your property, 623 Maple Lane, otherwise known as the Valentine Bed-and-Breakfast. Wayne Jarvis and the City of Valentine have filed an official complaint regarding this matter.

The city believes that the occupants of 623 Maple Lane are in possession of an illegal canid. Per Vermont law, a coyote or wolf hybrid cannot be kept in a private dwelling without a permit issued by the City of Valentine. We expect said animal to be produced, at which time Valentine Animal Control will collect and dispose of the animal in a humane way.

Furthermore, the bite Mr. Jarvis sustained on your property resulted in an emergency room visit for which he was billed $1,642.33. We have forwarded the bill to you.

The inspection will take place on December 31.

Thank you,

The City of Valentine

This low-level bureaucrat was getting out of hand. My vision was going blurry and red. The only solution I could come up with to this proposed inspection was to drain him. I cracked open the can of Bloodshot in my hand. It was time to see if this ’90s energy drink would satiate my thirst before I finished what Heaven had started.

Vlad stared at me in horror as I guzzled No Fear. Bloodshot tasted like tropical fruit punch.

“What is all of this about a coyote?” Heaven’s voice was high-pitched with frustration.

“At the ER, they wanted to know what bit him. It was the only thing I could think of.”

“What are we supposed to do, bring a dead coyote to city hall?”

“At least they didn’t ask us for a dead vampire.” But that’s what it felt like. “Let’s just pay the bill and fix up the house. If they want to come look for a coyote, it’s not like they’re going to find one.”

For once, Vlad agreed with me. “We don’t have another option.”

Grabbing the car keys, I said, “I’ll be back as soon as I pay this bill.” I chugged the rest of my No Fear so I’d be cool in town.

“Do you want me to come?” Vlad was already grabbing his coat.

“No!” I shouted before the door slammed behind me.

I pulled the hearse into a parking spot at the hospital. This time, no one redirected me to the morgue, which was nice. Nothing makes you feel more like a vampire than being sent straight to the morgue upon arrival. How many times had I fallen asleep and been mistaken for dead at a party, back when I used to go to parties?

The billing office was technically closed, but by some miracle I caught a woman as she was locking up. “Hi!” I called. “Is there any way I could pay a bill real quick?”

With a look of disappointment she said, “You have two minutes.”

“Thank you!” I said as she turned her attention to the computer. “I’m paying the bill for Wayne Jarvis.”

“J-A-R—?”

“V-I-S,” I finished. We almost sounded like we were doing a cheer.

After a moment of scrolling, she said, “Wayne Jarvis, here he is. That’ll be one thousand six hundred forty-two dollars and thirty-three cents.”

For once I was grateful to be undead—no health care required. Insurance paperwork and even more bills might be more than I could handle.

With a swipe of my card, I crossed this task off my list. As I left the office, I waved cheerfully and stood a little straighter. I was that much more broke than before, but I had one less problem to worry about now.

Instead of following the red exit signs out of the hospital, I took a left and walked in the opposite direction. This is where they kept the blood. Sure, I was on the No Fear diet now, but it was good to have options.

“Miss—” a weak voice called from one of the rooms I passed.

I peeked in to see an old woman lying in bed, nearly the same color as the sheets, patchy tufts of hair like a baby bird. On her muted TV, a news anchor was presumably explaining important world events.

“Hello,” I said. “I don’t work here. I was…”

“I don’t need anything, except some company. Would you do an old woman a favor and say hi?”

“Just to chat?”

The woman nodded. “I could use a friend.”

Oh. My antennae went up.

I sat down in the chair by her bed. The view from her window was all small-town charm, an adorable street with gingerbread houses. “I could use a friend, too, or so I’ve been told.”

“Want to play cards?” she asked. “The night nurse plays cards with me, but I’m not sure where she is. Doing her job, I suppose.”

I nodded and dealt us both a hand and put the pile in the middle.

“Go Fish?” I asked.

She harrumphed. “Really?”

“I don’t know many games.” All the rules in card games—learning them was worse than reading my mail. “What are you in for?” I asked her like she was in prison.

With a laugh she said, “I’m just dying.”

“Oh.” I took in the information matter-of-factly. “Are you scared?”

“Cards take my mind off of it.”

“Maybe they can take my mind off of living,” I joked.

She shook her head. “Young people are always so dramatic.”

“Who goes first?” I asked.

“The oldest,” she said smugly. I let her have it, and she put down a pair of aces on the smoothed blanket that was serving as our playing surface.

With no pairs, I drew from the pile.

“Most young people back out of the room if they sense death,” she said. “Almost like it’s catching.”

“I’m older than I look,” I said.

At that she laughed. “What does that mean, you’re twenty-five?”

I ducked the question. “Do you have any advice for me?”

“Find someone to love, someone you can count on.”

“How do you know if it’s the right person?”

“There is no right person,” she said.

“I figured that much out on my own,” I said with a laugh.

“That’s why you just pick one. In my day, you just married the guy across the road and made it work. Don’t overthink it.”

Finally, some advice I could follow. “There is a cute farmer across the road from my house. We went on a date and I’m manifesting more.”

“There you go. Marry him. Have some babies. Decide to make it work and it will.”

“The thing is, we’re very different.” I was about to say more but she waved me off.

“How’s the sex, though?”

Her simplicity was intoxicating. She drew a card from the pile.

At that moment, a knock sounded on the door, and I turned to see Jessica. Was she following me?

“I brought coffee, Lana. Hey, Tiffany, would you like one too?”

“Yes,” I said. I don’t know why. It’s not like I could drink it. But I could pretend to be human for a minute.

She handed a Styrofoam cup to Lana and retrieved another from a nurse’s station for me.

While they caught up on their days and the latest gossip about hospital romances, I poured powdered creamer into my coffee, mimicking Lana. Some of the powder dissolved but half of it clumped together and floated at the top.

“The coffee’s not half bad tonight,” Jessica said. “Or maybe I just don’t have standards anymore.” She shook her head. “I know that’s what happened with me and men.”

Lana started giving her the same advice she had just shared with me.

“So what’s the matter with Tyrone?” I asked. “He seems great.”

“He’s smart and hardworking.” Jessica took a sip of coffee. With a wistful look, she said, “And he’s handsome.”

I nodded. “So he’s perfect?”

“Not exactly. The closer I got, the more it seemed like he was just a gazillion unresolved issues wrapped up with a bow. I don’t do fixer-uppers.”

“He’s seeing that therapist, though.” Then I tried out a line I’d heard so many other women use. “I only date men in therapy.”

Jessica raised her Styrofoam coffee cup. “Hear, hear, sister!” She took a sip. “So, how’s the reno going?”

I shook my head in despair. “We’re doing what we can, but all the contractors are busy over the holidays, and you know I’ve got that December 31 deadline.” For the animal inspection and the home inspection now. I flashed a lopsided smile. “If you know any handymen, hook me up!”

“Actually…” She pulled out her phone and said, “I’ve got a number for you. My brother Bob is hard up for cash. He’s going through a divorce, and I bet he’d take anything.” She looked up before sending the contact card. “Don’t date him, though.”

With that business resolved, she eyed the pile of cards. “So are you going to deal me in?”

In the glow of camaraderie and the friendship that Dr. Rosetti must have been speaking about, I dealt her a hand.

“Do you do this every night?” I asked.

Lana nodded. “At least until I kick it.”

“Can I join?” I would enjoy a social life until Lana kicked it.

Jessica raised her cup. “To friendship.”

How could I not drink to that?

I eyed the coffee with the clumped Coffee Mate floating on top and downed a sip. I could power through this.

I braced myself like I was about to take a hit, clenching my abs, and willed my body to drink coffee like a normal person who played cards with friends. A woman who liked pancakes on Christmas morning and volunteering with old people.

I kept it down for approximately one minute before it started to come up. The only saving grace was that there was an attached bathroom. Instead of vomiting in a holiday display, I made it to the toilet.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Lana said. “I should have known you weren’t feeling well. You’re so pale.”

“I’m fine.” I waved off her concern.

A look passed between Lana and Jessica. “Have you missed a period?”

Lol. “Oh, no worries there. I can’t have babies.”

“That’s what my friend Jenny said, too,” Jessica said.

“No, I’m sure.” People always knew something was off with me. Nope, I wasn’t pregnant. Didn’t have PMS. I was just a vampire.

Puking seemed like a clear end to the interlude, so I collected my purse. “Thank you for the company.”

Jessica stopped me. “Not so fast. It’s Friendsgiving, and I’m not about to let you go home looking all melancholy.”

“It’s Thanksgiving already?” Time really loses meaning when you’re facing eternity. Now that I wasn’t working a regular job, I’d completely lost track.

“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, goof. Tonight we’re celebrating Friendsgiving at the tav and kicking off the holiday trivia bowl.”

I balked at the invitation. “I should go home.”

“Unless you vomit again in the next ten seconds, I’m gonna insist you come.” She started counting down. “Ten, nine, eight—”

Lana chimed in. “You can’t say no to Jessica. It’s impossible.”

I was starting to get that.

In a teasing voice, Jessica said, “Tyrone will be there.”

As a woman who had lived through three hundred years, I might not be bad at trivia. Perhaps it was one of my many skills Vlad had alluded to. Visions of small-town glory danced in my head.

The chalkboard on the sidewalk in front of the tavern advertised a Friendsgiving special for $15.99. Inside, the Christmas music was loud, the drink was flowing, and almost everyone was decked out in holiday regalia.

“Tiffany, you look fab!” The bartender was eyeing my outfit. She had on a huge curly wig, a short red dress, and sky-high heels.

“Gary?”

“Make that Mariah B. Gary. During the holidays, I’m Valentine’s reigning queen of Christmas.”

“Don’t we crown a queen at the SugarBoo?” someone yelled.

Mariah B. Gary waved off the suggestion as preposterous. “Stop being haters. You know those teenagers can’t be queens.”

“You look great,” I said. “You haven’t seen Tyrone, have you?”

Mariah shook her head. “Nope. He better show his butt up, though. This is a tradition.”

There were so many traditions in Valentine. It was almost worse than having a family. Or better?

Mariah turned down the music and called everyone to order. “It’s game time! I know I said it was Friendsgiving, but I don’t have Thanksgiving questions so we’re starting Christmas early with the rest of the country.”

A couple people booed at the early holiday threat, but Mariah carried on. “Tonight, we have the SugarBoos, the Santas, and the Mostly Jews.”

“We’re the SugarBoos,” Jessica practically yelled to me over the din.

Mariah B. Gary shouted, “First question. Which reindeer is named for thunder?”

People started yelling answers. Between the game, the side conversations, the music and clinking of silverware, it was a cacophony.

I felt eyes on me and looked up to see Dr. Rosetti watching. I didn’t know where to put my hands or what to say. But look at me, sitting in a group at trivia.

“Who was the first president to put a Christmas tree in the White House?”

Focus, Tiffenie! I’d lived through history. I should know this bullshit.

The door swung open and a newcomer spoke. “Franklin Pierce.”

“I thought that was a department store?” I said to no one. No one answered back. All conversation had stopped as everyone gaped at the newcomer. When I looked up, I saw the cause of the commotion: Vlad.

“Hello to Mr. Dead Sexy,” Mariah crooned. “Franklin Pierce is the correct answer, and just so you know, I am single.” She was batting her false eyelashes in Vlad’s direction. Vlad, meanwhile, was stomping snow off his boots.

“Ohmygawd, who is that?” Jessica practically swooned.

Vlad squeezed between me and Jessica at the SugarBoos table without even asking if he was invited, Founding Father style. Jessica exhaled a little too obviously and held a limp hand out for him. “I’m Jessica.”

Mariah B. Gary sashayed toward us with the mic and leaned over the table suggestively. “Who’s the new SugarBoo?”

Vlad offered his hand. “I’m Vlad, Tiffenie’s—”

“Ex,” I filled in loudly. “We broke up three hundred years ago.”

Mariah said, “Mmmm. I bet that’s how it feels. What are you drinking, Vlad? Because it’s on the house.”

Must it always be like this?

A moment later, Mariah handed Vlad a cocktail that he graciously accepted as though it was his due.

Focused on the game, Vlad said, “The Battle of the Bulge,” apparently the answer to a question I hadn’t heard. “Christmas Day 1944. The snow was red with blood.”

He slid his hand under the table and gripped my leg. For a second, I shut my eyes and enjoyed the firm pressure. I let my mind drift away with thoughts of our night in front of the Christmas tree. He could be mine. He was mine if I wanted. Gloria in excelsis Deeeeeoooooo. I leaned closer to him, the air between us heavy as a gathering storm. Desire burned through his palm. He gripped my flesh like he wanted me, wanted to bury himself in me. Heat surged as he kneaded my thigh with intent, but what would become of us? We could never be happy. Together, we would suffer. Nothing but house fires and breakups. That was our pattern.

The room was filled with merry people. None of them burned at the lord’s name. They were the kind of people who enjoyed pancakes and maple syrup, opening presents on Christmas morning. Wore hand-knit scarves. Had simple pleasures.

But tonight I had paid a bill, played cards with the elderly, and now I was playing trivia. I wasn’t going to be crowned queen of the small-town festival or anything, but I was passing. Vlad knew me. He was the only one who could truly know me.

Mariah B. Gary cut through my reverie. “What percentage of men start their shopping on Christmas Eve?”

Vlad held his hands up defensively. “We don’t celebrate.”

Maybe he didn’t.

“One in three men doesn’t do anything until Christmas Eve,” Mariah B. Gary said. Telling on herself, she said, “Gary doesn’t do shit.”

I laughed. Mariah B. Gary and I had something in common.

Vlad nudged me. “We should go. I need something to drink, and I bet you do too.”

I was thirsty, not that I was going to tell him.

“I have to go to the bathroom, will you come?” Jessica grabbed my hand and pulled, looking a little drunk.

“Jessica and I are going to the ladies’,” I told Vlad.

When a stall opened up, Jessica said, “You go first.”

For some reason, as soon as I got in the stall, the bathroom went silent. You could hear a pin drop and my bladder seized. Three hundred years old and here I was, trying so hard to be normal that I couldn’t even make myself pee in front of a girl I was trying to impress. A vampire with a shy bladder—my feelings swirled the drain that I was hovering above. But also, No Fear wasn’t very hydrating.

Jessica went into the stall next to me. Her pants dropped, and she said, “Oh, fuck. You don’t have a tampon, do you?”

“Sorry, no.” I hadn’t had to deal with all the messy, uncomfortable parts of being alive in so long. I didn’t get my period—no cramps and messy pads and tiny overflowing trash cans in public restrooms. “How about wadded-up toilet paper?”

“It’ll have to do.” After she’d flushed, washed her hands, and probably touched up her lipstick, she asked, “You doing okay in there?”

“Yeah, go on ahead. I’ll be right out.”

When the bathroom finally emptied out, I relaxed enough to pee and then exited the stall to find Dr. Rosetti at the sink. It was just the two of us so I sidled up next to her. The bathroom had no mirror, probably to discourage lingering. Either way, there was no evidence of my condition, which was a bummer. It would have been nice if she understood that I wasn’t kidding.

Dr. R washed her hands and said, “Tiffany, I’m impressed. Trivia night.”

“You too, Dr. R,” I teased, and she laughed in a way that made me think I’d hit a nerve. My therapist might not be as much of a socialization expert as she had led me to believe.

As we walked back through the tavern, Mariah B. Gary read the next question. “What is the Epiphany?”

For the first time since Vlad had shocked everyone into silence with his vampire magnetism, the bar was silent. No one recognized the holiday I was named for.

“Google says”—Jessica cleared her throat—“that the Epiphany is the manifestation of a divine or supernatural being, a sudden revelation.”

Were vampires supernatural? Maybe on TV.

“It’s a holiday,” I said in a frustrated tone. “January 6.”

“That’s definitely not a holiday,” Mariah B. Gary said.

I didn’t have any energy to explain. Fitting in was exhausting. I needed something to satiate my thirst and some quiet before my fangs came out.

Outside the bar, a guy offered me a cigarette. It wasn’t blood, but at least it was something.

I sat on a retaining wall, the unlit cigarette dangling from my lips. The music and light filtered out to the empty street, making it feel lonelier than silence, a reminder that there was a warm, welcoming community only two feet away.

“Need a light?” someone asked. I looked up to see Tyrone in a wool coat with the collar flipped up.

Tyrone was not the guy you’d look at in a crowd and say, “He’s definitely got a lighter.” That had probably been Jeff, at the skate park with the high score on Street Fighter II.

Tyrone pulled a Zippo out of his pocket and I leaned toward him. He sheltered the end of the cigarette, cupping his hands around it so it could burn, even in the wind.

I took a drag. The nicotine filled my lungs and calmed me almost immediately.

He sat down next to me and I scooted closer until my thigh was pressed against his. His breath was coming out in icy puffs. Mine wasn’t. Oh, well, if he noticed, he noticed.

“You want my jacket?” he asked.

I said “Yes,” because the gesture was nice. I wanted to be a girl who needed a jacket. I did, emotionally speaking.

“You’re a little late for trivia night,” I commented.

“I came here hoping to run into you,” he said. “No one was answering your door, even though I could definitely hear Heaven singing inside.”

“She’s going through a real Doechii phase.” I took another drag and watched the smoke curl up from my cigarette, soft curls of ethereal gray going up, up, up to—nothing. “Can’t get me off your mind, huh?” I laughed half-heartedly.

“No, I really can’t.” He said it like it was a burden.

Why so tortured, Tyrone? What could this handsome, smart, land-owning, patent-holding man have to worry about?

Leaning my head against his shoulder, I inhaled the scent of hard work, hay, horses, and Christmas. “Everyone around here thinks you’re a saint.” It was a statement, not a question. “Are you?”

He swallowed a laugh, not a joyous one. Tired, sardonic, jaded. I turned to get a better look.

“If people knew me, knew what I’d done, they wouldn’t call me a saint.”

“It can’t be that bad.” I stopped before telling him I’d almost killed Heaven in LA and basically gone on the run with her mostly dead body.

“Let’s just say everything I’m doing now is atonement.”

“I bet you haven’t even killed anyone.”

He swallowed another laugh. “Uhhh.”

“Well, that was a pregnant pause.” I decided to steer us in another direction. “Did you work with Jeff before he died?”

He flicked his lighter and stared into the flame.

“To the extent Jeff worked.” He glanced up at me to gauge my reaction. “You know Jeff, he mostly came around with big ideas and then disappeared.”

That tracked. “What happened between you two?”

“You don’t know?” He searched my face, which probably looked as blank as I was.

I shook my head no.

“Nothing?” he asked again.

“Nothing,” I answered.

“What did you two talk about?” he asked.

“It was more of a physical connection,” I said.

With a shake of his head, he said, “Jeff and I met on Reddit. I was looking for someone with land to grow a crop of Santa’s Choice in the Northeast. We talked, and I shipped him a bunch of saplings.”

I nodded like what he was saying was interesting.

“When I showed up in town a few months later to check things out, I found the saplings half dead.”

Now that sounded like the Jeff I was coming to know.

Someone opened the tavern door and I got an earful of some Kacey Musgraves Christmas song.

Tyrone didn’t even look up. “I was trying to get my own branch of the family business up and running, take things in a new direction, build on the work my grandparents had done, not to mention convince them that expanding was a good idea. And here goes Jeff—taking money and killing trees.”

“What?”

“The idiot—sorry to disparage your fiancé—thought I was setting him up with a weed-growing operation or something.” He shook his head. “Don’t ask me.”

“What the fuck?”

“Maybe you don’t know, but tree is slang for weed. Between the dumb ad I wrote, the tree thing, and the fact that my profile photo was me, a Black man, Jeff’s brain went straight to ‘Imma be a drug kingpin.’ ” With a shrug Tyrone said, “In his defense, who expects a twentysomething Black guy to be looking for a farm lease operation in Vermont?”

I took another drag off my cigarette. “What was he going to do, plant marijuana between the Christmas trees?” Tiffany with a -y had worse taste in men than I did.

“I should have known something was up when he kept calling them ‘Cripmas Trees,’ I thought he had a speech impediment.” I didn’t laugh with Tyrone on this one. It’s not like I could say the word.

“At least you just went into business with him,” I said. “Me, I was going to marry him. I was just a few years out of high school.” Tiffany with a -y had really been rushing that one.

“Everyone loved Jeff,” he said. “You weren’t the only one. Dude was the life of every party.”

We took a moment of silence for Jeff whose idiocy seemed as obvious as Tyrone’s goodness. Why Tyrone was angsty about him still made no sense.

“I don’t want Jeff to come between—” I started to say, but Tyrone reached for my cigarette, cutting me off.

“I didn’t know you smoke,” I said, watching him take a puff.

“I don’t.” He coughed. “It’s a nasty habit. But you make it look so good.”

For a moment we sat in companionable silence, both of us fraying at the edges, too damaged for real commitment to trivia. We were alone together.

Alone together was better than alone. Maybe this could work.

He was about to resume his story when Jessica burst through the doors.

“There you are! Come on, I need a ride home,” she said to me.

At the sight of Tyrone with a cigarette, Jessica gasped. “Tiffany! Stop corrupting that angel.” She took the cigarette and ground it into the sidewalk with her boot.

I looked helplessly at Tyrone, who seemed amused.

He waved as Jessica dragged me down the sidewalk.

When she saw the Happily Ever After hearse on the street, she started laughing—like doubled-over laughing. “Tiffany, I always knew there was something a little off with you.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely perfect, but I saw you in the park vaping back in the day, and who could forget your balance beam tricks on the railing with the big drop behind the school? It’s like you were taunting death.” She shuddered at the thought. “I couldn’t even watch.” With a smile, she said, “You seem good now.”

You could have knocked me down with a feather.

“Shotgun,” she called. More seriously, she said, “For real, don’t make me ride in the back.”

“Don’t worry, I only make my roommate ride back there,” I joked.

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” she asked.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yep. I would invite you over, and probably Tyrone because his sad butt is going to be sitting at home missing his momma, but I’m working. Getting that overtime pay, baby.”

She turned up the music, singing loudly to “Pink Pony Club.”

Maybe I had a shy bladder and no hidden talent for trivia, but sharing secrets with Tyrone and giving Jessica a ride home filled me with the spirit of Friendsgiving.

A turkey-based holiday held no appeal for me. But now that I knew Tyrone’s “sad butt” was going to be “sitting at home missing his momma,” it was time to bake. In the kitchen, I carefully set out each ingredient for cinnamon rolls. Flour, sugar, brown sugar, yeast, salt, butter, cinnamon, and milk. It was like a baking segment on Good Morning America.

My stomach growled as I mixed the ingredients for the dough, all wet and sticky, making a mess of the wooden spoon and bowl. When I was a young girl back in Romania, my arms would tire. Not today, though. I kneaded until the dough was silky smooth. I placed it in a greased bowl in front of the fireplace to rise.

Becoming Tiffany wasn’t so hard. Really, I’d been studying for this role since I’d moved to LA and started watching TV and movies like it was my job.

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. I would bake myself alive.

Vlad walked in with a brisk hello and poured a glass of the finest virgin blood into a tumbler. “Would you like one?”

I shook my head. Maybe I couldn’t live off of coconut water, but I didn’t want to be guzzling blood either. I’d been thirsty before.

Vlad took a sip and said, “I’m captain of the SugarBoos.”

“What?”

“The trivia team,” he said, as he gave the fire a good poke.

“Vlad, are you joking?”

“I would never joke about trivia.”

I joined Vlad by the fire. The warmth of the blaze tickled my toes, and the smell of yeasty dough—I was hungry enough to be tempted. The Christmas tree cast a soft glow of happy light over the living room. My robber baron boyfriend’s tree had caught on fire once. Turns out lighting trees with candles is a bad idea—maybe even a worse idea than deep-frying a turkey. Not that I had room to talk.

My thoughts turned back to the last time the two of us had been by the tree. I traced my tongue along the points of my fangs and sucked in. I needed to distract myself.

“I’m going to decorate.” I stood abruptly. “Do you want to help?”

“No, I’d be happy to watch though.”

“Creep.” I flashed a flirty smile. “Heaven,” I yelled up the stairs, “Want to put up the rest of the decorations and string lights?”

“Sure, I can record it.” She appeared on the landing with her phone in hand.

It was always about the million followers with her.

“Can you not record?” I asked. “Can this just be me and you and not everyone on the internet?”

“I guess…” She paused, unsure. “But why wouldn’t I? We’re doing it anyway, and it’s content. Everything’s content.”

“It’s just that I feel like the third wheel sometimes.”

She pocketed the phone and we got to work. Ten minutes later, she was balancing on a railing and stapling a string of lights to the doorframe. “Someone needs to see this.”

“I see it.”

“Okay.” A minute later she paused. “Do you know how many likes I normally get?”

I shook my head.

“Girl.” She looked down her nose at me.

By the time we were done, there were garlands strung on every railing. Between the baking rolls and the decorations, the whole house smelled like fresh-cut pine, cinnamon, and butter. Outside, we hung up strings of lights along the roofline and porch railings, and a wreath on the door. As a finishing touch, I plugged in an inflatable life-sized Santa being pulled in his sleigh by eight reindeer, which I’d found in the basement.

“It’s a holiday abomination,” Heaven said.

It was beautiful. The house was coming together. “It’s like Clark Griswold and Morticia Addams had a baby,” I said.

Heaven and I stood out front to get the full effect. As we watched, first one bat and then another flew from the eaves. “Where did those bats come from…and why are they leaving?” I asked, breathless.

The sky darkened with a cloud of bats, set in relief against a background of wispy, moonlit clouds. “Goodbye, bats.”

“Um…can some vampires shape-shift?”

She was basically just asking if we’d evicted a certain someone.

“Sure. And if he wants to leave, it’s his problem.” Although if Vlad could turn into a bat, that was news to me.

“But what happened?” I asked. “Why did they leave?” It certainly wasn’t the Bat Magic, which had turned out to be nothing but marketing.

Heaven shook her head. “Don’t ask me.” But then a smile quirked her lips. “Too much Chrithmas maybe?”

After she said it, I knew it was true. The essential oils, the Christmas music, the Christmas lights, and the baking. We had rehomed the bats with nothing but Christmas magic. Take that, Wayne Jarvis!

“Let’s go check on those cinnamon rolls,” I said, with the eagerness of someone who was able to eat one. I was so hungry, I just might. Ha, as if.

With a basket filled with plump rolls, I donned my red velvet cloak and headed out the door. Tyrone’s place was close enough to walk, but I took the hearse. For all its charm, the walkability score in rural Valentine was abysmal.

Tyrone’s house was a gorgeous log cabin nestled in a stand of trees, with a welcoming porch wrapped in twinkle lights and garlands. All of his farming equipment was parked out front: a snow mobile, a four-wheeler, and his St. Nicholas Farms pickup. He probably wore cute outfits to ride in each one.

Tyrone opened the door in a pair of sweatpants and a Transylvania County Fair T-shirt.

“Transylvania?” I read my homeland’s name on his T-shirt like it was a sign from God.

“Transylvania County, North Carolina,” he said, with an emphasis on North Carolina, which he drawled out more than usual.

“Are there vampires?” I stuttered a little.

He laughed like the idea was funny. “My hometown is all sugar and spice. Just like you, Tiff.” He pressed his hand to the small of my back and ushered me into his home.

Tyrone’s cabin was spacious and cozy all at once, an open concept design where the entryway moved right into the kitchen, which was separated from the living room only by an eating counter with barstools. In the living room, a mounted moose head loomed over the mantel, all jowly and dour, dead on the wall for eternity because it had a nice rack. A casual photo of a woman who looked like him sat by the TV.

“Is that your mom?” I asked, nodding toward the photo.

“Yeah. She thinks I’m crazy for living in Vermont. I was trying to get her to move up here, but it just ain’t her scene.”

“That’s too bad.” That’s when it struck me. “Where’s your Chrithmas tree?”

“Don’t tell anyone. I didn’t put one up,” he said sheepishly.

“Why? It would be so pretty in here.” And it would be. His cozy cabin would be even cozier. “Maybe you’re sick of trees?” I guessed.

“Not quite. I just don’t have anyone to decorate for.” He moved to the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

I shook my head and sidled up to him. “I brought you a gift. You seemed sad earlier.”

He leaned forward over the counter. “Tiffany, you shouldn’t be comforting me. It should be the other way around.”

“What makes you think I need comforting?” Nine years seemed more than sufficient to get over losing Jeff.

He let out a laugh that was almost a sob. I lightly stroked his back, unsure of the emotional turmoil he was suffering from or the way to comfort him. Tyrone was all over the place with this Jeff business. Maybe he was in therapy, but Dr. R clearly had some more work to do here. Obviously, Tyrone and I were meant to be.

With a sigh he leaned in closer and placed a soft kiss on my neck. “You’re so sweet. Thank you.”

Living up to the compliment, I plated a roll and passed it to him.

“Aren’t you going to have one?” he asked.

“You don’t have a tree. I’m not going to have a roll. Both of us denied the fruits of our labor.”

With a nod he said, “I’m good at denying myself.”

“What else are you denying yourself?”

He gave me an up-and-down look that burned all the way to my toes. With a big bite, he finished off the cinnamon roll, licking frosting off his fingertips. His pink tongue sliding through the sugary fluff turned my thoughts naughty.

A coyote’s howl tore through the quiet. Here I was trying to be sugar and spice, and my scapegoat was making a scene in the yard. I willed the stupid animal to shut up, but another joined.

“You hear that?” He perked up, and I could feel his heart beat faster.

How could I not? It was a chaotic chorus of yips and howls. The only thing louder than the coyotes was his heartbeat.

Tyrone moved to the window and pushed the curtain aside to investigate the dark nothingness of the countryside.

“How about we put on a show and snuggle under a blanket?” I said, trying to distract him. All these men and their insistence on protecting me was getting annoying.

“We can’t ignore this, Tiff. A coyote attacked the inspector on your property. It’s not safe.”

“Just sit down.” I willed him to let it go.

“And it’s not just that. For the last couple of weeks, the farm animals have been spooked. You saw the way the horses were acting. I don’t mean to sound crazy, but it’s like there’s some kind of predator lurking around the neighborhood.”

He wasn’t wrong. “Just because something is scary doesn’t mean it’s dangerous,” I said. But I was dangerous. Tyrone’s blood called to me.

“What does the city want from you?” he asked.

“They think I have some kind of vicious animal in my house. If I don’t produce the animal, Valentine Animal Control will collect and dispose of it.” I drew my brows together. “What does that even mean? Do they think I have a coyote in the house?”

“You’re supposed to bring a dead varmint into town, Tiff. Either that, or they’ll come find one.”

His words sent a chill down my spine.

Another crazy yip cut through the night, calling my bluff. Come and get me, Tiffenie, you liar!

“I believe there is a dangerous animal around. You saw a coyote bite the inspector. And for the last week, one’s been in my yard acting crazy and scaring the shit out of my horses.” Tyrone scanned the dark woods outside. “It’s not safe. I have kids out here every day at that fair.”

“I don’t want to give them a body.” Outside, the stupid coyote wouldn’t shut up.

With a heavy sigh and a look of grim determination, Tyrone slipped on some boots and a heavy coat. “Tiffany, we don’t have a choice. If you want to save your house, and if I want to continue operating a Christmas fair for kids, we have to deal with the coyote.”

“I don’t kill. It’s a rule.” Don’t wear matte lipstick. Don’t kill.

“This isn’t a normal coyote, Tiff. It sent a full-grown man to the hospital.”

How was I supposed to tell him that I was the problem? He would never talk to me again if he knew. I held the truth in tight.

From the set of his jaw, it was obvious that Tyrone was determined to protect me like it was his job. Who did he think I was that I needed this? But could I turn away from a red flag? No, I flushed with excitement at his boldness. Red was my favorite color.

I put the velvet hooded cape back on and followed him out the door. There was no way he was going to actually find a coyote and shoot it in the dark.

“You don’t have to come.”

“No, I do.” This was for my benefit, and maybe I could distract him to save the coyote, if it came to that. My cloak gaped open in the wind.

“You might want something warmer. Does that have a zipper? Or arms?” He looked confounded, as most men do when confronted with anything out of the sartorial norm.

“The cold doesn’t bother me.”

When he slung a shotgun over his back and grabbed a couple of flashlights, I stopped, unsettled by the weapon. The protector schtick was sexy, but a cozy fire and true crime on the television called my name too.

Dead serious, he said, “We’re in a bind. Something has to be done. I owe it to Jeff to look out for you, and to my customers.”

“I can take care of myself, Ty, and why would you owe Jeff? Sounds like he owed you after taking your money and killing your saplings.”

“I just do.”

I left space for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Whatever darkness he had inside him was boiling over at the mere recollection of our earlier conversation. A little uncomfortable, I turned my gaze to the ground and watched as the snow crunched under our feet, our boots breaking through the crust that had formed from a few days of cold and wind.

It’s really unfortunate Dr. R couldn’t report on her other clients. I could use some guidance with this one.

“Careful of that branch,” he said, and held part of a tree back for me to walk past unscathed.

I was not a prize to be earned, but a deep-down part of me purred with satisfaction, thrilling to this primal display of manliness. Here was a handsome, virile man, marching through the woods with a gun, intent on killing for me. Treating me like a prize. Flowers were okay, the Christmas tree had been cozy, but this made me feel alive.

Was this how the real Tiffanys of the world felt all the time?

We walked wordlessly for what seemed like miles, Tyrone stepping through the snow with his shotgun strapped to his back like a hunter. He had no idea who the real hunter was. As much as I thrilled at being sugar and spice, he was prey and I was the predator, or at least that’s what Vlad had always said. You are designed to feed from humans. It is not your fault. It is the cycle of life. Do you hate the lion for killing the gazelle?

“Do you want me to turn on the flashlight?” he asked, mistaking my internal struggle for blindness. I was yo-yoing between two options: 1) settling into traditional womanhood with all its benefits, or 2) draining him. Between the twisted branches of leafless maples and the pale moonlight reflecting off the snow, Valentine was an illustrated Grimms’ fairy tale tonight.

“The moon is enough light,” I said. He didn’t need any more help seeing my pupils dilated at the scent of his blood.

“Have you ever killed?” I asked Tyrone, swallowing loudly. I wanted him.

He didn’t answer.

“Let’s go back,” I suggested. I needed to calm my bloodlust for the good of us both.

An animal growled in the darkness. Tyrone was right. The scent of vampire had the local fauna worked up.

“Did you hear that?” Tyrone raised his gun.

“Must be the wind,” I said. Between my thirst and his excited state, everything was going hazy for me.

A dark shape ran across the trail. If it was a coyote, it was a big one. I made a move to catch up to Tyrone to stop him, lurching through a deep patch of snow. He raised his gun.

“Tyrone, it’s not the coyote’s fault.” I threw myself toward him with telenovela-level drama but tripped on a tree root. “Don’t shoot!” I yelled. “It wasn’t—” I started to protest, but he cut me off.

“Someone has to do it,” he said, like this was just another task, because to him, it was.

Tyrone ka-chunked his shotgun and trained it on the running form. When the unsuspecting creature stopped on a hillside and stared, Tyrone pulled the trigger.

“No!” I uttered the protest too late.

Tyrone turned and took my hand. Earnestly, he said, “I’ve got to look out for you, Tiffany.”

He ran through the snow toward the fallen animal. To my horror, he had hit it. “Tyrone, no! The poor creature.” It was Tyrone’s blood I lusted for, not that of an innocent coyote I had blamed for Heaven’s crime.

“It’s you or the coyote, Tiffany. Someone had to protect you and the neighborhood.”

I could see that he thought he’d done the right thing.

My thoughts and emotions were a swirling vortex, pushing me deeper into the darkness. The animal took its last ragged breaths and the snow crunched under Tyrone’s weight as he knelt over its body. Why did he think he had a right to kill in my name? I’d never asked for that. All my warring emotions pushed me under. In the darkness, my thoughts floated away, leaving me with nothing but thirst.

The animal’s blood was spilling onto the snow, bright red on pristine white. From the running and the adrenaline of the kill, Tyrone’s blood was pumping. As he hunched over the body of the poor creature, I couldn’t look away from the blood pulsing in Tyrone’s neck. His heart might have been saying “Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom,” but my vision was tunneling, his coursing blood clouding my senses. I heard, “Bite me. Bite me. Bite me.”

I made way to Tyrone and crouched next to him, closing my eyes, too parched to think of anything but quenching my thirst. Poised over his neck, the scent of sawdust and evergreen mixed with the blood. Red blood, white snow, evergreens all around. A Christmas killing in Christmas colors.

He turned to me, solemn but satisfied. “I know you didn’t want to kill anything, but it’ll get Wayne off your back. You can keep the house.”

I leaned in close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. His breath came out in soft puffs in the cold winter air. Saliva pooled in my mouth as the sound of his blood pulsed louder in my ears. I wanted to drink from Tyrone.

“Nooooo!” I cried out. I couldn’t bite Tyrone.

He looked at me. “It’s okay, Tiff. It had to die for you to live. You have to produce a body or Wayne’s not gonna let it go. Do you want your house? Your new life in Valentine?”

He didn’t say Me? but the idea hung in the air between us.

I wanted all of that, but I wanted a drink. So badly.

My senses warring between desperate thirst and desperation to be someone else—a normal girl with a pulse who didn’t kill the guy she liked—rose to a fever pitch. I dropped to my knees in the snow, breaths that I didn’t even need to take coming faster and faster. My vision tunneled to nothing but Tyrone hunched over the poor coyote before going black.

Tiffany! Tiffany, can you hear me?” Someone was frantically calling my name.

I blinked myself awake and Tyrone’s face came into focus. “Thank God.” He took a breath and asked, “Can you walk?”

“Umm.” I was lying on the snowy trail, the dead coyote a few feet away.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t know you’d be so freaked out at the sight of a dead animal.” He exhaled a frozen cloud of frustrated breath. “I’m dead inside. I don’t even know how a normal person is supposed to feel anymore.”

I stifled a laugh. “Who’s dead inside, you?”

World-weary, he hung his head and sat in the snow between me and the coyote so that I wouldn’t have to see it.

I propped myself up on my elbows. “It’s fine. Really, I’m sorry for…” I smiled weakly at him. What had happened? Had I passed out?

His face lined with concern, he said, “No, don’t be sorry. I was being too single-minded about protecting you, about the damn coyote.” He shook his head and carefully placed the gun behind him, as if I might become overwrought at the sight of it.

“I’m trying to make up for…” Tyrone’s voice trailed off like he couldn’t bring himself to say something.

“What?”

“Jeff.” Tyrone looked tortured.

“What about him?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Stop beating yourself up, Ty.” I rested my hand on his.

“I’m okay. You shouldn’t be worried about me.” He brushed the hair away from my forehead and looked at me with a softness I hadn’t yet seen in him. “You’re the one who fainted. I didn’t realize how delicate you are. And you must be freezing. You don’t even have a jacket on.” He pulled the flaps of my cape around me like he was wrapping me in a blanket.

“I’m tougher than I look,” I said. “You remember how we met.”

“Can you walk?” he asked. “I want to get you inside where it’s warm.”

Before I could protest, he lifted me up like a baby. This was a problem for a couple of reasons. Number one: My face was too close to his neck and his heart was pumping so fast and strong. I was too thirsty for that. Number two: No girl wants a man to awkwardly carry her for a mile through the snow.

He took a few steps, rearranging my weight like I was a couch he was trying to get down a flight of stairs, before his Apple Watch beeped and alerted him to his elevated heart rate. I already knew.

“Tyrone, I can walk. Please, set me down.”

With a laugh he said, “Don’t want me stumbling around with you in the woods, huh?”

“Actually, yes. My legs are just fine.” I could carry him better than he could me, not that I was going to tell him that.

“I’m going to bring this coyote back, okay?” He searched my face, clearly worried that the animal would upset me.

“Of course,” I said. “It can’t have died for nothing.” I grew up in a time when we hunted for food. I had killed and plucked chickens for dinner without a second thought. But this coyote had died to protect my lie and it sickened me.

“Tiffany, this was the right thing to do. This is the coyote that bit Wayne. It’s been scaring the horses since the night we took the sleigh ride. And you heard it growl, right? Never in my life has a wild animal approached me and growled. They just don’t do that. They avoid humans unless there’s something wrong.”

He lifted the creature from the snow and slung it over his shoulder, where it flopped lifelessly, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, its eyes glassing over with death.

Calmly, he said, “It’s gotta have rabies. There’s no other explanation. The city can test, everything will be cleared up, and you can go back to doing your thing.”

The poor coyote had just been walking through the woods minding its own business. Now it was taking the fall for Heaven’s violence. And, if you took it back a step, for mine. If I hadn’t fallen asleep dreaming of Vermont with Heaven’s neck in my mouth, this never would have happened.

“I really didn’t know you loved animals so much,” he said, misreading the anguish in my face.

A few moments later, we emerged in the clearing outside his house. He dropped the coyote to the ground before turning back to me. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“The hospital?” What was he even talking about? The only one who had been hurt was the coyote.

“You passed out.”

I shook my head emphatically and held up my hand. “No, I’m fine. I was probably just hungry.”

“Nope. I’m taking you in.” He looked me over with real concern. “Before you dropped, you were sort of drooling.”

I bet I was.

“And I don’t know, was I imagining it, or did you lick me?” He laughed. “At any rate, you need to get checked out.”

“Tyrone, I don’t have insurance. I can’t go to the hospital.”

“Are you serious, Tiffany?” He screwed up his face in thought, then said, “I’ll pay for it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ve got it,” he said like he’d just figured it all out. “Jessica’s working. I bet she’ll check you out off the books.”

It was obvious that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Men could be so frustrating. All I had to do was fake it through one quick check with Jessica. I relented.

“Fine, let’s go.”

On the car ride over, my thirst did nothing but grow. I hadn’t had anything to drink but No Fear Bloodshot since swearing off coconut water and taking a sip from Vlad under the tree. Honestly, I’d been all over the map emotionally—hopeful, excited, overwhelmed, panicked. It wasn’t just dating. I was on a calorie-deprived emotional roller coaster.

I was at the ragged edge of my limits.

When Jessica padded over in her pink scrubs, I looked up from under my hood and apologized. “I’m sorry. Tyrone made me come in. I’m fine.”

If she checked my heart, it’d be a dead giveaway. No pun intended.

“No worries. Looks like you had some fun after those cinnamon rolls,” she said wryly.

“Thanks again for the ingredients.” I reluctantly dragged myself out of the chair and followed Jessica. “I really don’t need any tests. I’m fine.”

“Tiffany, it’s no big. You’re a friend.” She ushered us into an empty exam room. “I’ll check on you in thirty after I do my rounds.” Before she left, she looked at my eyes. “Have you taken something, Tiff?”

“No, why?”

“Your eyes.”

Tyrone confirmed. “Yeah, your pupils are blown.”

It was bloodlust.

When she clicked the door shut behind her, Tyrone settled himself in a chair.

“Tyrone,” I said, “I need to get out of here.” I wasn’t at the ragged edge of my limits; I was past it. The vampire inside me was clawing her way out.

“What’s the matter?” he asked with concern.

“I don’t know what’s the matter, but I feel like I’m coming out of my own skin with…pent-up desires.”

A small smile quirked his lips. “You mean to tell me you’re falling apart because you need a little D?”

“Yes.” Men were such idiots, thinking the whole world revolved around their dicks. But at the moment he wasn’t totally wrong.

He pressed his full lips to mine and cut off my explanation. “We can go back to my place after you talk to Jessica.”

I couldn’t wait that long. I was ready to bite anyone.

“We have thirty minutes and there’s a bed right here.”

He narrowed his eyes at the exam table with the paper sheet. “It’s that serious? What do you have, like, medical-grade horniness?”

“Yes.” That was an accurate description of bloodlust. I traced his jugular with the tip of my tongue. As I did, his blood pumped faster, calling to me.

“Let’s get you undressed, then,” he said with ragged breath. He began undoing buttons, whispering kisses down my throat as he did. The scent of iron tinged the air as his heartbeats pounded out a primal rhythm.

“Hurry, Tyrone,” I said.

“Not sure if I can still work a bra. Santa hasn’t gotten laid in a while.”

With a quiet laugh, I said, “All giving, no receiving. That’s not fair.” Tyrone might be a saint.

Like a pro, he unhooked my bra without looking.

“You still got it, Santa.”

“Mmhmm.” He fondled my breasts, cupping their heaviness reverently and tracing a peak with his finger and then his tongue as I arched my back.

I wanted to be the girl on Maple Lane dating the boy across the way, looking forward to the SugarBoo Ball and trivia night. I pulled Tyrone harder to my chest, as if I was trying to clutch the dream in my arms. With my eyes shut, his skin was so warm and alive. I started to drool with thirst.

Lips, tongue, sucking, licking—I’d never been filled with so much need. I needed him inside me. I needed his neck in my mouth.

And he needed me. I could feel his hardness, smell his pumping blood. The two of us were a desperate, hot mess of pent-up desire. If my heart could race, it would.

If I gave him everything, maybe he would do the same. This was more than sex, this was me, just a girl in front of a boy asking him to give her a Hallmark life and a regular blood supply.

Under the fluorescent overhead light of the exam room, I stood before him and shimmied out of my skirt and tights as sexily as I could.

“How bad do you want me?” I asked in a throaty purr. I needed to know he wanted me as much as I wanted him.

“Hurry,” he said, “we only have a minute.”

“Can I see my present, Santa?” I said, with mischief in my voice. I undid his pants, released the D, and dipped my head to his lap. For other women, a blow job might be a chore, but for a vampire, it’s something else entirely. Lined with veins, throbbing with blood. This was nothing but a little something to whet my appetite.

He swallowed a laugh and gently tried to pull me up. “No, let me,” I said, running my tongue up the veins. “Please.”

The skin was so thin and the blood so close to the surface. Before I’d finished tasting, Tyrone pulled me up. “We gotta be quick, baby.”

Aye aye, captain.

He made a move to stand, probably to bend me over the table, which would have been the most hygienic position, but I’d have nothing to sink my fangs into.

“Let me climb on Santa’s lap.” How many women had used that line on him before?

He groaned with pleasure as I sank slowly onto his shaft. When he dropped his head back and shut his eyes, I licked and then sucked his corded neck. My pleasure and thirst were all that I could see now. Everything else had faded to black.

“Can I take a bite?”

“Mmmhmm.”

I sank my teeth into his neck, and Tyrone groaned in ecstasy. All my senses filled with pleasure at once, everything I needed, and wanted.

For Christmas, I wanted Santa.

It wasn’t just pleasure; it was control and power. This strong, sexy man was between my thighs, his life in my hands, and I liked it.

I was myself, in my element, riding Tyrone, my pleasure escalating as I quenched a thirst that I hadn’t satisfied since I’d been in this state.

After living off of coconut water and No Fear Bloodshot, Tyrone’s blood was giving me life. Tyrone moving inside of me while I swallowed his blood in gulps. I couldn’t feel anything but pleasure, my failures and worries fading. Face to the wind, and flying high off of a proper diet, I was alive.

“I want you, Tyrone. I want to be together,” I said between gulps, blood running down my chin, my body throbbing around him with pleasure. I didn’t ever want to be alone again.

Just then, a knock sounded on the door, and a sweet voice said, “Hey, guys, you ready for me?”

I shut my eyes and groaned in quiet despair.

Tyrone cleared his throat. “Um, just a minute.” He mouthed, “Get your clothes on.”

“What are you guys…?” Jessica started to make a joke about us screwing in the exam room, but when she was met with dead silence, she exhaled. “Are you two serious?”

“One second!” I called. All the pleasure and anticipation of a moment ago evaporated in a split second. We scrambled to pull our clothes back on, and then I opened the door and smiled. With my haze of bloodlust gone, the exam room looked a lot more like a regular exam room, sterile and very unsexy.

“I’ll be back in one minute. For fuck’s sake, please fix your clothes by then.”

“Transformers, assemble,” I said in a goofy voice.

“What? Transformers?” My dumb reference officially broke the mood of panic, and Tyrone said, “You’re using that reference wrong.”

“Really?” I had been more focused on Chris Hemsworth than the plot. I laughed. “I can’t believe we did that!”

He laughed. “It was your idea.”

As promised, Jessica walked back into the room a moment later. She looked at us like we were naughty children. “I swear to God,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Sorry,” I apologized.

“It’s fine. But what’s that on your chin?” she asked, looking concerned. “Did you cut yourself?”

I wiped a trickle of blood away with my sleeve.

She gestured to the blood on Tyrone’s neck. It was beginning to stain the collar of his T-shirt. “Tiffany, I thought you were the one who needed help?”

“Oh, dear,” I said.

Jessica put her hands on her hips and looked back and forth between us. “What is going on here?”

There was nothing to be done. I had to glamour her, or at least try to. It’s not like I could make the situation any worse.

I stood to my full height, slightly shorter than Jessica, and took her hands in mine. With all my focus gathered into a pinpoint of energy, I looked into her eyes.

“Why are you holding my hands?” She looked down at our joined hands in confusion, then back up at us. It seemed like she was more weirded out by the spontaneous hand-holding than Tyrone’s bleeding neck. Typical ER nurse.

I smiled reassuringly and continued staring into her eyes, forging a connection.

In what I hoped was a hypnotic voice, I said, “Nothing happened. We were waiting for you.” To explain our state of dishabille, I said, “I was partway into a paper gown, and Tyrone—”

“What?” I could see her struggle with my explanation.

“Cut himself shaving earlier. While we were making out, the wound reopened.”

She looked at us, our clothes partially undone, Tyrone with blood dripping down his neck. The worry lines between her brows softened and she blurted out a laugh. “You guys are full of shit, but whatever.”

It definitely wasn’t a full glamour, but it was enough.

Tyrone angled his chin down to examine the trickle of blood, then looked to me with a question in his eyes.

Jessica cleaned Tyrone’s neck and examined two neat holes. “This is the second neck wound you’ve brought in this month, Tiffany.”

“Let’s hope it’s the last,” I said, with true feeling.

“So Tyrone said you passed out…” She swabbed his neck with a pad soaked in alcohol. “Tell me what happened.”

“I was very upset,” I said. I didn’t add that I was upset because at the time I had wanted to drain Tyrone.

“Were you scared? Tyrone mentioned that you were bothered by—”

Tyrone interrupted. “I killed a coyote in front of her. The one that attacked Mr. Jarvis.”

“Eww, Tyrone!” She glared at him. “What is the matter with you?”

“I’ll explain later,” he told her.

Jessica nodded and asked, “Is that what upset you?”

“Not really. It probably doesn’t make any sense, but when I saw the blood, I got so scared that I was going to lose Tyrone.” Essentially that was true. I just didn’t say I was worried that I would be the one to hurt him.

“Oh, Tiff.” She made a sympathetic face and put her hand on mine before continuing with Tyrone’s bandage.

Carefully, she cut a square of medical gauze and applied it to Tyrone’s neck. It was unnecessary. A vampire bite closes and heals quickly, but there was no use explaining that to her.

After we talked a bit more, she said, “I think you might have had a panic attack.”

A vampire shouldn’t have panic attacks. That was…it went against the order of things.

“But…I want to rule out a couple of other things,” Jessica said.

“Like what?” I asked with trepidation.

“Today you passed out. Last time I saw you, you were nauseous.” She let the implication of the combined symptoms hang in the air. “You know what I’m going to suggest.” Before I could answer she said, “Have you had unprotected sex recently?”

Tyrone choked a little, but I shook my head. “Jessica, I swear I’m not pregnant.”

“Fainting and nausea are two classic symptoms. Just pee in a cup and you can be certain.”

“No, I’m sure I’m not pregnant.”

“I also want to check your blood sugar.”

I shook my head again. “I hate needles,” I said.

“At the very least, we should check your vitals, blood pressure, temperature, et cetera.”

No and no to those suggestions. When she pulled out a blood pressure cuff, I backed up. What had I been thinking, coming to a hospital? I had been too hazy with thirst to think.

“I’m so sorry, but I don’t want any exams.”

“But…you came in. You asked for help.” She seemed rightfully confused.

Tyrone put his hand on my forearm. “Tiff, let her check you out. Jessica’s a great nurse.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Tiffany,” she said, in an I’m-about-to-give-you-a-lecture tone. “You’re refusing a blood pressure check, a temperature check, a blood draw, and a urine sample? Do I have that right?”

I nodded.

“That is literally the entire exam. Are you always like this about medical stuff?”

I nodded yes.

“Tiffany, have you ever talked to anyone about your anxiety?”

“No.” As a vampire I was supposed to give people anxiety, not have it myself. “I have a therapist, though. Dr. Rosetti.”

She nodded. “That’s good. If you don’t want me to do anything, you should go talk to her. I can’t say for sure without ruling out any other potential causes, but I think you had a panic attack. She’s actually a psychiatrist, so she might be able to prescribe something.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll have to talk to her, but an antidepressant might help.”

“What, like Prozac?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Prozac for vampires. That seemed…

She must have seen the look on my face. “Are you worried about the side effects?”

“What are the side effects?”

“Umm, they’re variable, but some people complain of things like reduced appetite and low libido.”

My jaw dropped. Why hadn’t anyone told me about this miracle drug before? A little pill to deaden my desires and quench my thirst? Yes, please!

I texted Dr. Rosetti on the spot.

Me: had a panic attack. can i come in tomorrow?

Eleanor: Tomorrow, 6 pm?

Me: thank u

Dang, this woman responded to every text immediately, no matter what time of day. No wonder she was so popular.

I couldn’t get those drugs fast enough.

With a wave goodbye, Tyrone and I followed the exit signs out of the hospital. The automatic doors opened to the parking lot with a robotic, calming whoosh and we stepped into the Hallmark movie gone wrong that was my life.

Tyrone opened the passenger side door to his Christmas tree truck. He gave me a hand up into the passenger seat and waited to make sure I was buckled in. His neck bandage was bright white against his dark skin.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I knew Jessica would argue if I didn’t let her clean me up.” He traced the edge of the bandage with his index finger, the same one he’d touched me with so intimately just moments ago. I shut my eyes, my emotions warring between desire and guilt. I shouldn’t have bitten him.

After he’d sat in the driver’s seat, he turned to me. “Want to go back to my place?”

Half an hour ago I would have screamed yes, consumed by passion and thirst, not just for Tyrone but for the vision I’d had of our life together. Now, everything was off-kilter. The mark I’d left on Tyrone should have been sacred. Instead, it was under a perfect square of white gauze, a little picket fence of medical tape holding it down. My mark wasn’t acceptable, and neither was I.

When we got back to his house, he helped me out of the truck. “You sure you want to go home?”

I nodded. “I think I need some sleep.”

“Okay, babe. Call me if you need anything.”

He wrapped me in a warm embrace, resting his hand possessively on the small of my back, grazing the top of my ass.

“You sure you don’t want to come in?” he asked. His hardness was pressed into me and I realized I was leaving the poor man with the worst case of blue balls ever.

“Yes. I should go home.”

I stood on my tiptoes and pressed my face against his neck, letting my eyelids drift shut. He might not have been a saint, but I had to avoid him like one or else I’d drain him dry.

Describe what happened before you blacked out.” Dr. Rosetti sat back in her rich leather armchair like she had all the time in the world. Today, she looked ready to share a glass of wine with some professors in a pair of forest-green corduroy pants and a white turtleneck. If she could just prescribe me a little antidepressant, something that would curb my appetite and deaden my desires, we could both be on our way.

“Jessica, the nurse at the emergency department, said I had a panic attack.”

“That may be,” she said in a dispassionate voice.

Did she care? I had passed out from overwhelming bloodlust, and she looked almost bored.

“It’s important to talk about what happened. I can’t hand out prescription medicine like candy.”

Fine, if she wanted to play ball, I’d let her have it. “I wanted to bite Tyrone, to drink his blood, preferably while he fucked me senseless. He thought I was scared of the gun he was carrying, of the coyote he had just shot. But no, it was the violence inside myself. That’s what scares me. How am I going to have a nice hometown boyfriend if I want to bite him? A vampire can’t have a happily ever after. It’s not a thing.” I sagged into the chair. “I think I’ve been starving myself.”

“Ahh.” She nodded her head like I hadn’t shocked her at all. “So you were scared of your own desires, for food and for sex?”

“I guess.” My desire for blood, my propensity for violence, wanting to fuck the Christmas tree farmer. None of these desires were acceptable. Look what had happened last time I let myself lose control. I had nearly killed Heaven.

“Why are you scared to act on your desire for Tyrone?”

“Because I’m a vampire.” Simple human desire would be great. If only I needed BDSM for Beginners.

Ignoring my reminder that I was a vampire, she said, “You’re both adults. He presumably invited you over. You were on what sounds like a nice evening walk. Why did you think it was wrong to act on your attraction?”

“Eleanor,” I said with frustration, “I’m trying not to bite people.” How many times did I have to tell her I was a vampire? I focused on the picture of the owl. “Tyrone’s a Christmas tree farmer and, by all accounts, a saint. I shouldn’t be biting him while fucking like a raging vampire slut.”

She let my words hang in the air and then said, “Tiffany, just so you know, it’s okay for you to have a relationship with Tyrone. He’s an adult and your desires are natural. A consensual relationship between the two of you would be fine.”

She wasn’t listening.

Sensing my frustration, she moved on. “Have you been finding connections with anyone else in town? I was happy to see you at trivia night. That’s a great place to meet young people.”

“Um…I’m meeting a lot of people.”

She nodded with understanding. “Meeting people and developing authentic connections aren’t the same thing. Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Umm.” Most people thought I was Tiffany Amanda Blair, widowed and damaged. “No one knows me.” The words rang with truth.

“Tiffany, if you can’t connect with yourself in an authentic way, how can someone else?”

I shrugged. That sounded like some mumbo jumbo. I just needed a pill to make me stop wanting things I shouldn’t want, make me okay with being a simple woman, not a vampire thirsty for blood and sex.

“Are you okay with who you are?”

“No. I’m trying to become Tiffany Amanda Blair, the woman who people in town loved and accepted. I want to be the girl who won Best Smile in high school.” And didn’t have to hide her fangs, I silently added.

“Is that who you are?”

“No, that’s the problem. I want to drink blood and fuck.” Hadn’t she been listening?

“Tiffany, I know you aren’t there today, but I want you to work toward accepting yourself as you are. I want you to admit that you are human and accept that. Do you think you could do that?”

I shrugged. This wasn’t going anywhere.

“I, Tiffany Blair, am human. Can you say that?” She looked so hopeful.

“Do you want me to be honest or not?”

She sighed. “Okay, you’re not there yet. Let’s talk for a minute about why you chose to identify as a vampire. Why do you feel like a vampire?”

“Because I want to bite people, drink blood, and stay up all night,” I said casually. “Eleanor, I’m a servant of the devil. It’s not like I get direct orders, but all of my innermost thoughts and desires are evil.”

“So what I hear you saying is that you are not okay with the power and the violence inside of you?”

“Yup.” I nodded.

“I relate to that. I think most women probably do on some level. Society tells us that we need to be strong, but in a passive, supportive way. We are not encouraged to embrace power and violence.”

I nodded. That was true. “Yes. They call us bitches, or witches.” Everyone says they want a strong woman, but what they really mean by strong is long-suffering and supportive. No one wants a strong woman biting them on the neck and draining their blood.

“Society tells us that we should be made of sugar and spice, but women are animals with thoughts and desires, some of them carnal and violent. The makeup, the clothes, the tiny voices—every day women perform a role to make men comfortable, to make men feel important and strong.”

That sounded about right, though my carnal and violent thoughts were a little stronger than what she assumed.

“You need to stop burying thoughts, feelings, and desires that make you uncomfortable. That is what makes you you. It sounds like you’re using vampirism as an emotional outlet. What would it feel like for you to embrace those angry parts of yourself and accept them?”

“Embracing vampirism would feel like sucking my boyfriend dry.”

“Tiffany, you are not draining your boyfriend by simply asking for your needs to be met.”

“What?”

Getting fired up by her own rhetoric, she leaned forward and looked me in the eye. “You can be a human woman—imperfect, angry, messy. If you embrace and accept that about yourself, you will be on a more authentic journey.”

I kind of wanted to bite her. The smell of AB negative was tickling my senses.

“What about the panic attack?”

“The disconnect between your true self and the person who you think you need to be—I believe that’s why you had a panic attack. You’re trying to put yourself into a box you don’t fit in.”

The only box I fit in was a coffin. I wanted out so badly.

“Stop making yourself small and acceptable, Tiffany.”

But that’s what I wanted. I wanted to be smaller. I wanted to be acceptable. I wanted to be Tiffany Amanda Blair, small-town girl with a handsome farmer boyfriend.

“I just want something to calm me down so I can handle some of these uncomfortable feelings.”

She shook her head. “Tiffany, I don’t want you to try to hide these feelings. Historically, women have been medicated to deaden the discomfort of their desires. Every decade has a ‘mother’s little helper.’ In the 1950s it was Valium. Today it’s rosé.”

I knew Rosé was a good nickname for her.

“We can talk about a prescription later, but first I want you to try being honest. Be honest with yourself and the people around you. You are you, and you can’t change that. Be messy, imperfect, and filled with desires.”

I nodded and smiled at Dr. Rosetti. That advice might work for a person who was struggling with being a metaphorical vampire, but not me.

“Are you sure you can’t prescribe something?”

“No. Not until you’re honest. Will you try it my way first?”

“Yes,” I said just so I could leave. Honesty was not possible for me.

I am a vampire wasn’t something you could say to people. Most of the time, they thought you were joking. Everyone had a very strong idea of what a vampire looked like. Sexy, powerful, mysterious, dark, a man. I wasn’t any of those things. I was Bridget Jones with bloodlust. No one knew what to do with that. The movies were always about a sexy, brooding vampire hero and a virtuous human woman defending our beloved values. Bella, Sookie, Buffy. How annoying that the most popular women from vampire movies weren’t even vampires. People sucked. Well, I did. And that was the problem.

“You keep talking about Tyrone, but what about the guy at the bar? What’s his name…Vladdy?”

“We’re done. I’ve been watching this TikTok therapist and I’m pretty sure Vlad’s toxic.”

That woke her up. “Tiffany,” she said adamantly, “TikTok is not a good source for any life advice.”

Ouch. Don’t tell Heaven that one.

“Promise me—no more TikTok therapy.”

“Sure,” I lied. “Can I have the pills?”

“Tiffany,” she cautioned, “I want you to get comfortable sitting in discomfort. It’s impossible to grow and change if you avoid what makes you uncomfortable.”

“I think three hundred years of discomfort is long enough.”

Unfazed by the duration of my suffering, she asked, “Have you tried journaling?”

Sure, I’d bought some notebooks.

Dr. R glanced at the clock and I sensed that she was about to end the session. “Find a time that works for you. When you start to scroll, put down your phone and pick up a notebook. Write down what you’re feeling. You might surprise yourself with what you discover.”

“How long do I have to journal before I get the pills?”

She laughed like I’d just told a funny joke.

After the session, I checked my phone and noticed I’d missed three calls from Vlad. I’d been ignoring his calls all day. It was almost like someone had died, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t even know anyone who could die.

Instead of hitting play on his voicemails, I opened Instagram. The algorithm must have been eavesdropping on my therapy session, because my first ad was for Hims and Hers. From what I could tell Hims could deliver a pill for a full head of hair and a rock-hard dick right to your door. Hers mostly helped with the anxiety and depression attendant with living with Him. Perfect. I hit Order. Well, it wasn’t quite that simple. I clicked the Help me with my anxiety! button and started a quiz.

In my mind, therapy should be a spa day for your brain. You should feel refreshed. People on the street should be like, “Girl, what happened? You got some kind of glow-up.” Instead, I felt confused and muddier than ever. I finished filling out the questionnaire to get the pills. Feeling unusually drawn? Yes. Not feeling social? Yes. Experiencing panic attacks? Yes.

All I wanted to do was collapse on the couch. Buffy the Vampire Slayer was all I had the energy for: my favorite comfort watch. Sure, I had some problems with the show. The basic premise, for one. But I didn’t want to be a vampire, so that worked. I wanted to be Buffy, not a demon inhabiting a human corpse. At least I didn’t have those stupid bumps on my head that all the vampires on the show had. The makeup people on Buffy were jerks for that.

Tyrone interrupted my TV watching with a text.

Tyrone: Feeling better?

Me: almost

Tyrone: Did you tell the city we killed the coyote?

Me: not yet

Tyrone: Wanna hang out?

Me: in a couple of days. xoxo

I needed to get it together before I risked biting anyone again. It apparently took a while for psych meds to really kick in. But he was right, I needed to tell Mr. Jarvis about the dead coyote.

The city offices were closed so I sent an email.

Dear Mr. Jarvis,

Tyrone killed the coyote that bit you. Let me know how you would like me to deliver it to you. I have porphyria and won’t be able to deliver it during the day. Please advise.

Tiffany Amanda Blair

Heaven wandered into the room. “I’m going to take these braids out before the SugarBoo,” she said. “I can’t get my hair redone, so I’m going natural.”

“Are you sure you want to go? Do you feel ready?” I didn’t.

“Of course I want to go.” She looked like she might bite me if I didn’t support this. “Are you trying to back out?”

“We have eternity, Heaven. No need to rush.”

“Nuh-uh. We are not skipping the first party this town has thrown after dark. Hell to the no!”

I made a noncommittal noise in the back of my throat.

“Even if you don’t want to go for yourself, you need to go for me. I need a wing woman.”

“What about the inspector? That was less than a month ago.”

“I’m not going to spend eternity beating myself up for almost draining one bean counter,” Heaven said. “And I guess you need to hear it—I forgive you.”

“I don’t forgive myself. I’m a mess. I can’t be trusted.”

“Get over yourself, Tiff. I’m going, and I don’t want to show up alone. I don’t know anyone in this damn town except for you, Vlad, and Santa Claus.” She shook her head. “That is not a well-rounded group of individuals.”

“Fine.” I’d never felt less excited to go to a ball.

Up in my feelings and staring out the living room window, I noticed a car parked in front of the mailbox.

“Doesn’t the mailman normally come during the day?” I called out to Heaven. “There’s a guy parked in the driveway.”

Heaven stopped messing with one of her braids, which she was apparently pulling out. “Do we a have a stalker?”

“Not that I know of,” I said, although my adrenaline spiked at the possibility. I might enjoy dealing with a stalker.

The driver of the car spotted us and we both ducked behind the curtain.

“Do you recognize him?”

Heaven shook her head. “If he’s a stalker, we might not. He’s probably been lurking. No one normal drops by at this time of night.”

“Grab something we can smack him with if we need to. Normal human self-defense measures. No teeth.”

The guy got out of his car. In a parka, a hat, and an overgrown hipster beard, no one would be able to pick him out of a lineup.

“Should I go upstairs?” she asked. “I haven’t been around people yet.”

I shook my head. “Try not sucking him dry. Sort of a trial run before you go to the SugarBoo.” Her grand debut into Valentine society was almost upon us. No, second. She had briefly met Bob the electrician without incident. Heaven’s bloodlust had simmered down to manageable levels.

“How long till the ball?” she asked.

“Next week. It’s the first Saturday in December.”

When I opened the front door partway, our stalker smiled and said, “Sorry to bother you this time of night. I just got off work and noticed your lights were still on.”

I nodded. He needed to do better than that before I decided not to smack him.

“Hey, I accidentally got your mail, a couple of bank statements and some other stuff that doesn’t look like junk.”

I took the handful of mail without saying a word.

“Grand Cayman, huh?” The man raised his eyebrows and looked hopeful that I would explain my apparent offshore banking activities. “What kind of business you gals up to, anyway?”

I downgraded him from stalker to nosy and pointed to the condemned building behind me.

He nodded toward the sign that we’d installed out front to replace the broken-down Valentine Bed-and-Breakfast sign. “We’ve all been talking about the new name. Radiance,” he said in a bold voice. “I don’t get it.”

“What’s not to get?” Heaven said over my shoulder. “I bet you were fine with it in Charlotte’s Web.”

He scratched his head at that. “Well, good talking to you girls.”

Girls—lol. If he only knew how old I was.

Once inside, I opened one of the statements. It was for a bank account registered to Tiffany Amanda Blair. A quick scan showed a balance of fifty-eight thousand dollars. Not bad.

Was this a windfall? Once again, I didn’t expect to inherit money from someone who had sold their identity. She shouldn’t have kept a bank account in her real name. Running Away 101 was: Liquidate your funds and pack them in a suitcase. Or maybe not. I’d never had any funds.

“What is it?” Heaven asked.

I showed her the statement. There were deposits, including regular ones from St. Nicholas Farms.

“Wait, what is Tyrone doing paying Tiffany?” I scanned the rows of numbers, blindsided by this development. On the one hand, I had money, but only because I’d found a secret stash that two people I’d trusted had hidden. Well, sort of trusted. Tyrone: I’d trusted that he was pretty much a saint. Tiffany: I’d trusted that she was probably dead. When you sell your identity, you’re supposed to stop using it. Those are the rules.

“Maybe he knows she’s alive and you’re a fake?”

I shook my head. “That would be so weird. He’s been going along with the idea of me being Tiffany this whole time. If he were lying, he’d have to be a sociopath or something.”

I mulled over the numbers. Growing up, I’d only had to learn to count eggs and scoops of flour. The bank statement revealed nothing, but something smelled rotten.

I found Vlad upstairs where he had started using one of the guest bedrooms as an office. We hadn’t redecorated this room yet. The fluffy mauve bedspread and tiny white desk didn’t exactly say Prince of the Undead.

“I have a banking question.” Nothing was sure to bring Vlad to life more than a question he knew the answer to. “Why would Tyrone be depositing money into Tiffany Blair’s account?”

He took the statement from my outstretched hand and studied it for a minute. “This is very weird,” he said, before handing it back to me. He continued making a fire, wadding up newspapers and tossing in kindling. “It looks like she’s blackmailing Tyrone.”

Blackmail?

Tyrone thought he killed Jeff. Maybe Tiffany did too?

“Couldn’t she just blackmail him and keep her regular life, though? People do that all the time.” This all raised the question: was Tiffany with a -y a grieving fiancée or something more?

He shook his head as he stared thoughtfully at the flames of the growing fire. “Not sure.”

“What about him? Doesn’t he know he’s sending money to Tiffany every month?”

“He probably has no clue who’s blackmailing him. All the blackmailer has to do is send a routing number and account number.”

This explained why Tyrone looked so tortured. He was atoning for a sin he probably hadn’t committed: taking care of me and sending money to a person who was confirming the lie he believed about himself—that he was a killer. Poor Tyrone.

And the blackmailer was Tiffany with a -y. It had to be. The name on the bank statement said it plain as day.

Tiffany, who I’d believed had died or suffered a terrible fate. A woman who needed to run under the cover of darkness to hide from the world. Maybe it wasn’t the world that was the problem; maybe it was her.

Tiffany Amanda Blair, a cheerleader, a volunteer, and owner of the best smile in the class of 2014—she was the problem. Jessica had mentioned Tiffany doing balance beam tricks on the railing with the big drop behind the school like she was taunting death. So maybe she liked things dangerous and risky.

Who knows, maybe all of Jeff’s dumb money-making schemes had actually been Tiffany’s ideas. The Bloodshot energy drinks might have been hers, too. I couldn’t help but recall the quote on the last can: “It takes a big man to cry, but an even bigger man to make him cry.” In this case, the bigger man might have been a small cheerleader.

“What do we do about it?” I asked Vlad.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

“Poor Tyrone,” I said, with a wistful glance in the direction of his farm. “Could we get Tyrone his money back?”

“Tiffenie, be more cautious. Someone is blackmailing him. Maybe for a good reason.”

I doubted that, but still. “That bank account is in my name,” I thought aloud. The wheels in my brain started turning. I remembered how Tyrone started running the Christmas fair to make ends meet because money was tight. Would he dial back the holiday cheer if he wasn’t being blackmailed? If the antidepressants deadened my vampiric desires, maybe we could meet in the middle.

“I want to get Tyrone his money back, Vlad.”

Vlad looked skeptical. “Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” I said. “And he doesn’t deserve to be blackmailed.” I pulled out my phone to dial the bank. Funny that I was going to have to protect Tyrone from Miss Best Smile of 2014.

It looked like the real Tiffany wasn’t a victim but an honest-to-God criminal. Who would have thunk? She had a schism between her authentic self and the person she was introducing to the world as well.

“You might be a nicer person than the cheerleader you’re impersonating,” Vlad said with a sly smile. “Imagine that.”

I laughed, but it was a hollow, who-could-have-imagined laugh. It’s not like Tiffany’s bad acts undid mine.

Grand Cayman Bank was unfortunately in the same time zone as Vermont and only open from 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., like it thought it was a small-town business rather than a no-questions-asked money vault for criminals. No matter, I set an alarm.

At 2 p.m. my alarm went off. I’d changed it to “Listen to Your Heart,” which I was trying to do. No jokes, please.

My room was filled with signs of the day, light sneaking in around the edges of the curtains and the rush of a car zooming down Maple Lane. I formed the covers into a tent over my head to block out the light. Under the protective cover of Aunt Mildred’s ugly bedspread, I dialed the number for Grand Cayman Bank. After an extensive list of menu options, I reached a banker. “How can I help you?” she said.

“Hello, my name is Tiffany Amanda Blair, and I have an account I’d like to close.”

After a brief conversation, she explained that I only had to file a written request with my account number and signature and let them know where I would like the funds released to.

Checkmate, Tiffany with a -y.

It was the long-awaited night of the SugarBoo Ball. Heaven was vibrating with excitement, and I was on the phone with the Cayman Islands again. My request to close the account hadn’t gone as planned, which didn’t surprise me. Had anything ever been that simple? But I wanted to resolve the problem before I saw Tyrone. It would be better to start on the right foot without the specter of Tiffany with a -y haunting either of us.

The banker pulled my information. “Miss Blair, here you are—”

I paused with my mascara wand halfway to my eye. “Yes.”

“Your account has been flagged. You’ll have to close it in person.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It seems that you didn’t have the appropriate ID the last time you came in.”

What the hell. How was I supposed to get to the Cayman Islands?

Now permanently distracted, I set down my makeup brushes and wandered downstairs in my robe and a messy bun that had migrated to the side of my head. Vlad was reading by the fire. Bob, Jessica’s electrician brother, was packing up his tools for the day. He might have been “a hot mess who you better not even think about dating,” according to Jessica, but he was doing a great job on the electricity.

“Heya, Tiff,” Bob said.

I waved in Bob’s direction and poured a glass of B positive from Vlad’s supply, not even bothering to hide that I was about to drink blood. Bob wasn’t the most observant guy.

“I’m having trouble closing that account,” I said to Vlad. “They want me to show up to the bank in person.”

He drew his brows together.

“Flights from Burlington to Grand Cayman start at $526. Even worse, flights are only during the day,” I said.

Vlad looked tired of helping me do favors for Tyrone. Bob, of course, was oblivious.

“You guys planning a midwinter vacay?” Bob asked.

Vlad looked at him. “Don’t you need to head home and get ready for the ball everyone is so excited about?”

Bob shook his head. “My ex will be there. I’m not ready to see her flirting with other guys.”

Vlad put his book down. “That must be very frustrating.” He looked directly at me while he said that.

Bob took one sentence as an invitation to stay and discuss the situation at length. He relaxed into one of the chairs by the fireplace and put his feet up.

“In my opinion,” Vlad went on, “your ex certainly shouldn’t be dancing, laughing, or bidding on any bachelors at the auction, given your recent divorce, and definitely not while you’re there.” Once again, his eyes were boring a hole through me. I chugged some B positive.

Vlad was being very prehistoric in his jealousy.

“I think you might need to get used to the idea of your ex living her life and moving on,” I said. “She’ll probably bid on one of the bachelors, and that is okay.”

Bob sighed heavily.

“It’s time to move on, Bob,” I said, staring right at Vlad. “Why don’t you auction yourself off or buy another bachelor? Have a fresh start.”

From the look on Bob’s face, that advice wasn’t going down well. He said, “I don’t want to give up. I’ve done some work on myself. I’m ready to be my authentic self with her.” He looked down. “It’s probably too late.”

Heaven’s advice came back to me. I was supposed to “Stop moping and be authentic.” And how many times had Dr. Rosetti told me to be myself? You can’t forge a real connection unless you tell them who you really are.

Maybe I should just come clean. Tell Tyrone everything—who I was, what I was, and that I was ready to solve his blackmail problem. That might take a while to digest, but if he could handle that, maybe we could fly to the Caymans and take care of the bank account together.

I could wear a wide-brimmed hat, oversized sunglasses. A parasol wouldn’t be out of the question. And there had to be a red-eye flight. Maybe I couldn’t sunbathe or snorkel, but the beach was probably still enjoyable at night.

Vlad stalked across the room and took my hand. “Let’s talk in private, Tiffenie.”

What was going on? This was my house. Bob should leave. Why was there always someone standing around looking lost? Had I started a collection?

“Tiffenie, I think you should let Tyrone be,” Vlad said, barely out of range of Bob’s hearing.

“Because he’s not you?”

“No, because he’s being blackmailed by Tiffany with a -y.” He paced to the other side of the room and back. “Do you not see how that is a problem?”

I shrugged.

“Red flag number one: It seems likely that he knows you’re not who you say you are and is going along with it silently. Red flag number two: He’s paying a blackmailer to cover up bad deeds.”

Okay, those were points, but Vlad didn’t know Tyrone like I did. “I’m going to the auction and I’m going to bid on the hottest bachelor in town. I came to Vermont for my happily ever after and nothing is going to stop me. Certainly not you.”

I bared my fangs at him, incensed that he might be right.

Bob, who was still hanging around, looked back and forth between us and laughed. “I keep telling everyone to come out here and meet you guys.”

Heaven walked downstairs to find me still in my robe, Vlad fuming behind the paper, and Bob droning on about Sheila, his ex apparently. Meanwhile, she was channeling Janelle Monáe in a menswear-inspired look.

“Why aren’t any of you ready?” She looked annoyed.

“Oh, I got distracted.” So far, I had mascara on one eye and a half-baked plan to go to Grand Cayman with Tyrone in March.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” She promptly went back upstairs and returned with the Arwen dress I’d worn to that Lord of the Rings–themed wedding. It was green and fitted, with tight sleeves that flared into a bell shape below the elbow. It came with a crown.

“Do you really think this is the right look for the ball?” I held back a laugh as I remembered walking down the aisle arm in arm with a balding computer programmer dressed like Legolas. We had been a pair.

“You’re the one who kept it. Besides, all dudes love Lord of the Rings.”

She had me there.

I did a bold cherry lip, mascaraed my other eye, and used enough blush to look not only alive but healthy.

Vlad walked in and gave me an up-and-down look. “You’re wearing that?”

“Do you have a problem with it?”

He scowled at me, and Heaven said, “That means he likes it.”

“I’m going too,” he announced.

“No, you’re not,” I snapped back. “You’ll get in my way.”

“I’m going.” He turned to walk toward his bedroom.

Heaven looked me dead in the eye. “It might be nice to have him there. It’s my first night out.”

Heaven wanted Vlad there? Okay, two things. One: She liked and trusted Vlad. Weird. Two: He might be useful, especially if I was distracted.

Also, she was nervous. How had I missed this? As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I saw her chewing her fingernails and reaching for her phone.

“If you’re coming, don’t wear any ruffly shirts!” I yelled down the hall at Vlad. “Those went out of style two hundred years ago.”

“Should I pick out his outfit? I don’t want him to look his age on Grand Risings.” She opened TikTok. “I did a GRWM, but maybe we could do one with you and Vlad too. And then I’ll do some shots at the ball.”

It hit me. Heaven was so good at connecting authentically with her followers, but sometimes she needed to set the phone down and connect with people in real life.

“Heaven,” I said, “maybe you should try to meet people without Grand Risings tonight. Just be yourself.”

“Did I just hear you tell me to be myself?” Heaven started laughing at my audacity, but set the phone down. She muttered, “I’m an expert at being myself.”

That made one of us.

Unlike Cinderella, I drove myself and two other vampires to the ball in a hearse.

When we arrived at the high school gym, the SugarBoo was already in full swing. The set from the play about all those women who thought they finally got a good job and then died of radium poisoning looked perfect. The giant, poison-coated clockface counted down to my happily ever after. Glasses clinked and people chatted amidst the tinsel-covered trees and twinkling lights. The entire town was decked out in its holiday finest.

Dr. Rosetti was wearing a velvet pantsuit and downing a themed signature cocktail. The SugarBoo was a bourbon and maple syrup concoction with a cinnamon stick. It smelled like bacon. Don’t ask me why.

I waved. “Hey, Dr. R.” Heaven was standing at my side, so I went through the appropriate introductions. “Dr. R, this is Heaven. Heaven, Dr. R.”

Recalling Tyrone’s comment that everyone was in therapy, I asked, “So is everyone here your patient?”

She nodded slowly. “More than a few. It’s a problem.”

“You’re like the town priest,” I commented. Therapy might as well be a religion, though you were supposed to look inside for answers instead of looking to God. At any rate, she held all the town’s secrets, including mine. “You should probably move to Burlington.”

She nodded. “Probably.”

“Heaven, what do you do?” Dr. R asked.

“I’m an influencer,” Heaven said with just the slightest hint of a pose. “It’s kind of killing me not to be recording this. I feel naked without my phone.”

Dr. R smiled warmly. “I’m glad to meet you. Don’t you feel like it’s harder to connect with a phone in the middle all the time?”

Heaven relaxed and said, “I’ve heard that before, actually.”

Gemma had yelled that loud enough for me to hear. Lol.

Dr. R smiled. “But I’m going to follow you. What’s your handle?” As Heaven spelled out RadianceGlobalLifeCoaching, Dr. R typed it into TikTok. With a smile, she said, “Got it, I’ll stalk you later.”

Heaven preened. “Where’d you find that cocktail, Dr. R?”

“Call me Eleanor.”

It was weird to see Dr. R at a party. Maybe it was me, but it seemed like Dr. R and Heaven should go out to dinner instead of starting a therapeutic relationship.

Across the room, I spotted Tyrone in a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt emblazoned with the St. Nicholas Farms logo. He smiled shyly and gave me a low-key wave. A couple of days ago, I had a strong plan and some confidence, misplaced maybe, but confidence nonetheless. It had been almost a week of no communication since our date from hell.

Looking nervously in Tyrone’s direction, I asked Heaven, “What do I do?”

“Take him out to the dance floor and grind up on him.” Heaven explained this like it was science.

“Grind up on him?” She made it sound simple. I knew some folk dances and was a competent waltzer. I’d been meaning to practice twerking ever since it got popular. It was on my list of things to do along with cancel unnecessary subscriptions.

Tyrone solved the problem for me. He walked across the room toward us. Like a normal person, he smiled and said, “Hey, Tiff. You know you can’t ghost people in small towns. It’s just not practical.”

I fiddled with the edge of the sleeve of my Arwen dress. “I’m sorry I disappeared after our night. I—”

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” I touched a hand to his arm, uncertain of what to say next. “I was embarrassed for getting so out of control.” To put it lightly. “I was too much.”

His lips quirked into an amused smile. “Tiff, if that’s all you’re worried about, relax. I’m fine.” Leaning in close, he whispered, “If you’re into kinky stuff, that’s okay. No shame.”

Oh, Tyrone. He was so sweet. If only I was simply kinky. I couldn’t still be biting people like it was the 1800s. I didn’t even do that then.

“Bring your checkbook?” he asked.

“Yes.” I smiled big. “And there’s something else. I have a lot to tell you. A lot.”

Jessica interrupted me with a tap on the shoulder and handed me a paddle with a number on it from a basket.

“What’s this?” I held the paddle up.

“It’s for the auction, you freak.”

When Jessica moved on, Tyrone said, “I just want you to know—” But before he could finish his sentence, the music changed to something fast-paced. For a second we stood as people went wild around us, leaving us unsure whether to finish our conversation or dance. Tyrone chose dancing. He shifted easily, moving with the music, not doing too much. He handled it like a human who had been born in the last forty years.

From the corner of the room, I saw Heaven pantomiming a dance move for me to follow. Was she helping me or setting me up? Either way, I knew my limits.

Vlad, in the ruffled shirt I had advised him not to wear, was heading my way across the room, intent on interrupting my moment with Tyrone. Luckily, he was waylaid by nonstop admiration. Stephanie blew off her dance partner and threw herself between Vlad and me as if we’d planned it. Get ’em, Steph!

I looked at Tyrone again and shouted over the music, “You want a drink?”

“WHAT?”

“LET’S GET A DRINK!”

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, he headed toward the bar, happy to oblige my request. I followed behind him, feeling anything but festive.

“Tyrone, I have to confess something. I don’t really drink—and I don’t dance, either.”

He looked amused. “You didn’t have to tell me that.”

“No, it’s worse than being a bad dancer. I’m not who I say I am. My real name is Tiffenie.” I pronounced it in the accent of my homeland, the word thick with the essence of who I was at my core, an eighteenth-century girl from a Transylvanian village.

I waited for Tyrone to respond.

The simple restatement of my name as it was meant to be said made my hair stand on end. It was a confession. I had undone the corset stays of my lies. I said it again. “I am Tiffenie.”

“What? I know.” He flashed me a look of concern. “Do you still feel a little off or something?”

I said it again. “Tiffenie.” Couldn’t he hear the difference?

Tyrone narrowed his gaze in confusion. I caught Vlad’s eyes on me, even as he was spinning another woman on the dance floor, and then quickly looked away from him to Tyrone. My ire spiked. If Vlad didn’t stay out of my business, I was going to use that paddle for something besides bidding on Tyrone.

“I just want us to be honest with each other,” I said.

“Don’t you think I’m being honest with you?” His voice bristled slightly.

“No, I want to be honest with you. I’m trying to tell you. I’m not the Tiffany you think I am.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m not nice and sweet and charitable. If fact, I’m not Tiffany at all. I’m a…”

With a big smile, he said, “What are you going to say—that you’re a vampire?” He laughed at the absurdity.

“Yes.” I gasped. “Why are you laughing? How did you know?”

“Jessica and I were joking about that after all the neck injuries.”

The conversation around us faded away. This was the moment I’d been building to. You can’t have true connection without authenticity. Heaven said so, and Dr. R, and Esther Perel.

Here I am, Tyrone.

I took his hands. His warm brown eyes crinkled at the corners with a smile.

“I love how funny you are,” he said.

I bit my lip in frustration. Slowly and deliberately, I explained, “I am the vampire Tiffenie. I am over three hundred years old, and I am just finding my footing. No one has ever found me to be funny.”

For a second, he looked like he wasn’t sure how to take it. “This is great stuff, Tiff. And you are funny. Stephanie and Claire can’t stop talking about it.”

“I’m dead serious, Tyrone. I bit your neck.” I traced my fingers along the mark I’d left. What more evidence did he need?

He leaned in, his breath tickling the baby hairs at the nape of my neck. “I haven’t had a hickey like that since high school.”

“That wasn’t a hickey. I bit you.”

He shrugged it off like the bite was nothing. “I told you, be your kinky self. I’m cool with it.”

I’d bit him and he still didn’t believe me. Was I that unbelievable?

“Baby,” he said, “right now, I just need to know that you’re gonna bid on me.” He smiled devilishly. “You’re going to bid on me, right? Because I want to go finish what we started, you sexy little vampire.”

Did he think this was role-play?

I nodded and smiled weakly. I would make him understand later, but for now Mariah B. Gary took the stage and tapped on the mic. “It’s time for everyone’s favorite part of the night, the SugarBoo bachelor auction! Gentlemen, take the stage. Ladies, get out your paddles.” She started singing “All I Want for Christmas Is You” as basically every man in Valentine walked onto the stage. This was not a Magic Mike–style auction, but a true charity event. Every dad bod in town was for sale.

Mariah took a break from singing. “Buy one of these guys for an evening and do your worst. Make him run errands, take your kids to soccer, or”—she shimmied her shoulders and threw the crowd a sexy look—“enjoy a candlelit dinner and…” She winked. “Just remember happy endings are not included.” She clapped a full-on grandpa in suspenders and a flannel shirt on the shoulder as she said this.

The grandpa laughed. “Unless you refill my prescription.”

Dr. Rosetti started laughing way too hard, so hard that she spilled her drink. The town’s vault of secrets appeared to be getting drunk.

Jessica flashed a smile my way. “Bidding?” she asked.

I nodded.

Mariah shifted from pimping out someone’s grandpa to a more formal introduction. “Let me remind everyone of the history of the SugarBoo bachelor auction. It started in the year of our lord 1987, when the maple syrup season was a bust because of inclement weather. The town council hosted the first auction to get the local farmers through the season. The tradition continues today.”

Vlad sidled up next to me. “Why aren’t you up there?” I asked.

“My seven hundred years of sexual experience would be wasted on these country folk.”

I raised my eyebrows. “That’s not true. No one could use seven hundred years of cunnilingus practice more than these women.”

He huffed.

“Plus, it sounds like these ladies are shopping for someone to fill in at the carpool or fix a leaky sink.”

Vlad’s body grazed mine and he whispered, “I’m still waging a campaign to chaperone you and fix your leaky sinks, not to mention use my considerable cunnilingus training on you.”

I couldn’t say that didn’t send tingles to places I wouldn’t currently admit, but between Vlad and Tyrone, my senses were spinning out of control. With an imperious tone, I said, “Love is not a campaign to wage. It is not war.”

He angled his brows. “Then you haven’t been paying attention.”

Mariah called out, “It’s time to start the bidding. Our first bachelor is Pete. He’s one of Valentine’s brave firefighters. As a master of the flame, he knows how to heat things up.” Reading from a card, Mariah added, “He also brews his own beer and belongs to the church choir.”

“How about him?” I suggested to Jessica, selfishly trying to get rid of my competition for Tyrone.

“Do you think he’d repaint my stairwell?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you’re into, but I gave him a BDSM manual a few weeks ago.” I caught his eye and waved discreetly. Pete blushed furiously.

Jessica started choking on her drink. After she collected herself, she said, “Maybe he can paint my stairwell in a ball gag?”

“Why not?” It seemed fine to me.

Jessica bought him for seventy-five dollars.

After a few more bachelors had taken the stage, the spotlight shifted to Tyrone. He walked to the front of the stage as a couple of older women hooted and hollered.

“Mmhmm!”

“Take me, Santa!”

“Santa’s coming tonight!” Valentine was showing the effects of the spiked eggnog. A little liquor, and I was seeing shades of LA.

I pushed closer to the front of the crowd.

“I’ll start the bidding at twenty-five dollars!” Mariah B. Gary shouted. “Do I hear twenty-five?”

I raised my paddle. Sure, I was a little confused about our convo, but I wasn’t giving up.

“Do I hear fifty?”

A woman who I had seen ordering grilled cheese and French fries for at least four kids raised her paddle. Too bad for her. I raised mine and said, “One hundred dollars.”

In the spirit of friendly competition, I made an I’m-watching-you sign with my fingers at my competitor. She stared straight into my eyes and held up her paddle. With a heart deader than mine, she said, “One fifty.”

That’s when Vlad raised his paddle. “Two hundred,” he said in a firm voice, loud enough to be heard across a battlefield, confident enough to inspire men to risk their lives.

My jaw dropped. “Vlad,” I cautioned.

“What?” He shrugged. “It’s for charity.”

“You jealous prick!” I whispered angrily.

“Yes. I’m jealous. I admit it.”

I raised my paddle to signal him to stop. “Two twenty-five.”

The mom of four who I was about to take down shot her paddle into the air. “Two forty.” A man who was probably her husband flashed a look of shock. “Really?” he asked.

“Well, I need someone handy for the laundry room project.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.” At that hollow promise I could see the fight go out of her.

I lifted my paddle. “Two fifty.”

Vlad raised his. “Two seventy-five.”

I shot mine up immediately. “Two ninety.” I bared my fangs and hissed just loud enough for him to hear. “He’s mine, Vlad.”

He took a took a step closer to me. While looking directly into my eyes, his gaze burning with heat, he held up his paddle and declared, “No, you’re mine, Tiffenie.” For Mariah, he shouted, “Three hundred.”

“Then why are you trying to buy him?”

Nose to nose with Vlad, the air between us charged with electricity, I raised my paddle again. “Three ten.”

“You know what I want to do with this paddle, Tiffenie?”

I cocked my head. Coyly, I asked, “What, Vlad? Explain.”

“I think we could skip the light taps. You’re sufficiently warm for a spanking. I know you like a little sting.” The words sizzled on his tongue.

He was right. What was pleasure without pain? But I stepped in again, so close that I would be able to feel his breath if he had any. “Back off, Vlad. You will never pink this ass again.”

Firmly and confidently, Vlad called, “Three twenty-five.”

“Love is not war, Vlad. You can’t win me like this.” But as I said it, I was overheated, from…anger and something more. Who was I kidding? I liked him jealous.

Almost at the tip-top of my budget, I gripped the paddle for dear life. In the spirit of reckless spending, I lifted my paddle and said, “Three hundred thirty-five dollars and sixty-seven cents!” This was the exact amount left in my bank account.

Mariah B. Gary gasped. “The drama!” She looked at Tyrone. “The tree farming business is good, ladies!”

“To the lady in the elven princess gown for—” Before Mariah could finish her sentence, Vlad held his paddle up. Loud and slow, with the authority of his title and his seven hundred years on earth, he said, “Ten thousand dollars.” He looked me directly in the eye as he said it.

I gasped and reared back. “You. You.” I shook my head and scowled, shooting lasers at him with my eyes. Vlad didn’t even glance at the bachelor he’d won. He just stood there looking smug. I pulled back my arm with the paddle as if to hit him, before thinking better of it.

Jessica fanned herself. “Is anyone else feeling heated?”

I glanced at Tyrone, who looked confused, which made sense. My ex was spending ten thousand dollars to send a message. A message to both of us, really. Hopefully Tyrone liked a challenge.

What kind of idiotic grand gesture was this?

Gasps could be heard throughout the gym at the outrageous bid, the loudest from Mariah B. Gary, who, after she’d caught her breath and fanned her face, repeated, “Ten thousand dollars! Valentine, meet your new daddy! Daddy,” she said in a very serious tone, “what’s your name?”

Vlad only had eyes for me, his gaze smoldering a path all the way from his blackened soul to mine. Without looking away, he said, “Vlad.” He dropped the name with all the subtlety of America entering a foreign war.

“Well, Vladdy”—Mariah looked right at Vlad—“you can have me instead if you want, or as part of the package.” She winked. “I’m available.”

It took all my willpower not to slap Vlad across the face with my paddle. He had followed me to Valentine, moved into my house, and now outbid me at the bachelor auction.

Jessica waved coquettishly at Vlad and did a shoulder shrug. To me, she said, “Your ex is sexy as hell.”

“Not once you know him.” Actually, he was. But I would never tell him that, especially after tonight.

There was a brief interruption as a woman charged up the stage and took the mic. She whispered to Mariah B. Gary, who said, “Linda isn’t on the program, but she should have been. Here we go, Valentine.”

In a pair of Carhartt double-knee loggers and a flannel shirt, Linda gave Mariah B. Gary a single nod of thanks. Damn right she should have been on the program.

Mariah flipped her hair imperiously. “Tell us a little about yourself, Linda.”

“I’m a fifty-eighty-year-old lesbian. I own a van. I’m a plumber.”

Fuck it. I held up my paddle. “Three hundred dollars.”

The place went deadly silent.

“Sold for three hundred dollars to the princess from Lord of the Rings! That’s it for our bachelor auction. Merry Christmas, Valentine!”

Jessica nodded in my direction. “I like your style, Tiff.”

I shrugged and headed to collect my date. I held out my hand for Linda and helped her down the stage like the true prize she was and said, “I’ve been looking for a plumber.”

Stick a fork in me because I was done. My two boyfriends were gonna go on a date. And the two of them were both giving me trouble. How much more clearly did I have to explain that I was a vampire? I had bit Tyrone in the neck and he still didn’t want to believe me. And Vlad—what was that, a grand gesture or an act of spite? It was like he’d never watched Say Anything.

Heaven gave me a side hug as we left the gym. “It’s okay. He’s cute, but I don’t know…seems like he’s got issues.” She dragged out the word issues into two long syllables to make it sound like a disease.

“Tyrone is a saint. I’m the problem.” I defended him without a second thought, but she could be right. It’s not that Tyrone didn’t understand what I was saying. He didn’t want to. Who would want to hear that the woman you’re dating is a vampire?

“I was talking about Vlad, but they both got issues.”

Dr. R popped out from behind Heaven and nodded her head dramatically to back up Heaven’s diagnosis. I was officially not living the dream.

My drunk therapist obviously couldn’t drive herself home. “Do you need a ride, Dr. R?”

“Uhhhhh…” She got stuck on that word for a long time like she forgot what she was doing. Then she blurted out, “Yes! I would love a ride.” She whispered, “I don’t handle alcohol well.”

“What? I never would have guessed,” Heaven said with a glance at me. “You have a lot of private information…You shouldn’t be drinking like this in public.”

Dr. R dramatically mouthed, “I know,” and laughed. “I would have been better off as a gynecologist. I know way too much about everyone. I’m sorry, I normally don’t act like this. You can have your next session for free,” she said to me, clinging to the exterior wall of the gym like it was the only thing holding her up. Heaven took her by the arm and shot me a you-owe-me look.

When Dr. R saw the hearse, she blinked hard. “Is this a—?” She started laughing in an unhinged, I’ve-been-holding-it-together-for-too-long way. “Tiffany,” she managed, “we gotta talk this through, babe. But first, come here.” She made a motion to give me a hug. I tried to resist but she wrapped her arms around me and swayed. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Then she buried her face in my shoulder and drunkenly confessed, “I needed a hug too.”

The hearse wasn’t that great for giving rides to the living. It had two bucket seats in the front. The back was a large flat expanse with a rail system. I’d taken the coffin out, but there were some Home Depot bags I’d never brought inside and a few throw pillows I’d meant to return scattered around. Dr. R started in with the laughter again. After she caught her breath, she braced herself against the car and blurted out, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone that you killed Jeff. That’s between you and me and…” She looked at Heaven. “It’s between you and me and Heaven and…” She looked over my shoulder into the shadows.

Heaven mouthed, “Who’s Jeff?”

I held up my hand and was about to tell her not to worry about it when I saw Tyrone standing in the shadows with a stormy expression.

“What is she talking about?” He took a few steps in our direction and stopped like his feet were too heavy to lift.

Now she’d gone and done it. Tyrone and his Jeff issues.

“Maybe we should talk later,” I said. “I want to get Dr. R home.”

I shut the back door on her. She’d shared enough for today.

Laser focused on me, Tyrone said, “Did she say you killed Jeff?”

Vlad had just unlocked his SUV. He glanced between his ride home and the unfolding human drama with impatience.

Dr. Rosetti undid the curtains in the back window of the hearse and looked out peekaboo style. Loud enough to be heard, she yelled, “Tyrone thinks he killed Jeff too. You two should straighten that out.”

The mercury was rising for Tyrone, emotionally speaking. “Tiffany? You know it was my fault. You were there.”

Dr. R nodded through the glass. “There we go. Uncover that truth.” She made some kind of witchy hand motions and lost her balance.

“Tell me what you think happened, Tyrone,” I said firmly. “I don’t think we saw the same thing.” Another group walked toward a nearby car, laughing and chatting. I waved and smiled like we were doing the same. Nothing to see here.

Tyrone took a deep breath. “Do you know why I went out there that morning?”

“Tell me again,” I said.

“When I bought the farm, I promised Jeff’s parents that I would keep him on, but I couldn’t. All he did was derail things and lose money.” Tyrone looked to the middle distance and gathered strength to tell his truth. “I was going to fire Jeff that morning.”

Made sense.

“Like usual, he hadn’t shown up when I needed him. He’d gone ice fishing instead.”

I nodded to show I was following.

“I stormed out there, mad as hell, walked onto the ice, and fired him, which pissed Jeff off. He got up and told me the company was his rightful inheritance and I had no business being there at all, let alone firing him.”

This all tracked.

“He walked right up to me and punched me in the face. I wasn’t going to take that, so I slugged him. We weren’t fighting for more than a few minutes before he went through the ice and…” He looked down at his shoes, shaking his head. “I couldn’t save him.”

And there it was.

Dr. R called, “Good job, Tyrone. You needed to let that out.”

I stepped in front of Dr. R to block her as best as I could and reached for Tyrone’s hand. “Tyrone, did you hear yourself? That wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”

Tyrone’s eyes became shiny with unshed tears and his shoulders sagged. He’d clearly been holding on to this guilt for a very long time. “But it wouldn’t have happened if—” His voice cracked.

“Jeff was an ass. You were entitled to fire him. He swung at you first. That was nothing but a horrible accident.”

Vlad rubbed Tyrone’s back. “Not your fault man. I’ve done much worse.”

I gave Vlad a warning look before he launched into one of his war stories. When Tyrone started crying, Vlad looked a little uncomfortable with the display of emotion.

“I would have killed him on purpose,” Vlad said. “I don’t understand why you’re sad about this.”

Vlad wasn’t joking. Jeff would have been toast long before he earned the top spot on Street Fighter II if Vlad had been around.

Tyrone dabbed at his eye with his sleeve. “You’re right. Jeff was a fucking ass.”

Dr. R clasped her hands together. “Awwww! Look at that!” With a dopey smile, she said, “These two…Merry Christmas, everyone.”

“It’s not Chrithmas,” I said, exasperated.

“Christmas lives in our hearts,” Dr. R said.

Vlad clapped Tyrone on the shoulder, casual dude style. “Come on, we’ll talk. You can catch up with Tiffenie later.”

“Vlad,” I implored, “don’t do anything.” He had better not hurt one hair on Tyrone’s head. I couldn’t handle any more blood on my hands. Not one drop.

“Tiffany,” Dr. R said as she opened the back door. “If two”—she glanced at the guys—“veeerrrry attractive men want to get naked and give each other sexual pleasure, that is their business.”

Tyrone huffed out a brief laugh at his drunk therapist.

“That’s not my issue, Dr. R,” I said. For all I knew, they would have sex. Vlad was a vampire, for God’s sake. As long as Vlad didn’t drain Tyrone. Of blood, that is. I could handle jealousy, but nothing more.

Heaven shut the back door firmly and said, “Let’s get this shitshow on the road.”

With a tight smile, all my hopes from earlier dashed, I said, “Bye, Tyrone.”

Tyrone looked lost and emotionally spent, but Dr. R was right. Getting all of the guilt he’d been carrying off his chest and into the air was healing. I wanted to be there for him, but after tonight, I suspected that he might not be there for Tiffenie Ruba, immortal vampire.

His limit seemed to be BDSM for beginners with Tiffany Amanda Blair.

Before I drove off, I sent Vlad a text.

Me: don’t hurt him. not even a nibble

Vlad: It’s okay. Relax. I love you.

I started the car with a heavy heart. I couldn’t even with these men. How was that supposed to be reassuring?

Vermont. Hallmark. Happily ever after. My picture-perfect dreams had gotten so messy. I steered the hearse past my favorite stores on Main Street. “All I wanted was to move from the big city to a small town and date a farmer. To live happily ever after, even if it was just for his lifetime,” I said.

Dr. R started laughing. “Say what?”

Heaven raised her eyebrows. “Neither of those fools is gonna make you happy.”

“Why not?” I exclaimed. “Why can’t things be simple?”

“How old are you, Tiffenie?” Heaven asked.

“I stopped counting.”

“I don’t know how you are this old and still so fucked in the head, but a man is not a happily ever after. What do you think you’re in, a Disney movie?” In an extremely judgmental voice—and I had to admit, as delightful as she was, Heaven was pretty judgmental—she said, “How many times have I said, ‘Good dick ain’t nothing’? That’s not a joke, it’s a proverb.”

Dr. R nodded emphatically. In a professorial tone, she said, “Relying on a man to provide your happily ever after is a vestige of a patriarchal society where women held little to no power and the best option for improving one’s station in life was marriage.”

Heaven said, “I don’t need you to PhD translate for me, doctor.”

It was so easy for these baby humans to explain how relationships should be. It’s not like I didn’t know things. Most women knew things. Even they acted contrary to their best interests. “I am an actual vestige of the patriarchal society to which you refer,” I said. “So is Vlad. Of course we are ‘fucked in the head,’ as you so eloquently put it, Heaven.”

Softer, Heaven said, “Just fix yourself first, Tiff. Some dude isn’t going to make you happy even if he is hot and owns a Chrithmas tree farm.”

In the back seat, Dr. R started singing “Hey sista, go sista, soul sista, flow sista.” Without a seatbelt, she slid backward. She giggled as she rolled across the back of the hearse.

Heaven glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t know if you should be asking her for advice.”

Dr. R tried to right herself, mumble-singing, “Gitchie, gitchie, ya-ya, da-da.”

“I have no words,” Heaven said.

“Don’t worry ladies. I’ve got this,” Dr. R said. She didn’t. A minute later, she lay down on one of the throw pillows and passed out stone cold.

“Dr. R,” I said, “what’s your address?”

Heaven shook her head. “Damn, this small town is messy. Not bad, but a real mess.”

“Dr. R,” I called into the back again.

No response.

I could text Jessica to figure out where she lived, but Dr. R might be too drunk to be alone anyway. Taking her to our place wasn’t ideal, but it seemed like the best option. Plus, after the craziness of the night, all I wanted to do was go home.

She was going to be our first guest at Radiance.

We pulled up to the inn. In the quiet of our driveway, Dr. R passed out in the back, Heaven and I sat absorbing the events of the evening for a moment. “You’re right, Heaven. I will try to work on my issues a bit. Whatever that means.” It sounded like such a cliché but I needed more work than our condemned inn, apparently.

After Heaven and I carried Dr. R upstairs and tucked her into my bed, I slipped out of the Arwen dress. Finding nothing of my own, I reached into Tiffany’s closet and grabbed an oversized black T-shirt that said No fear across the chest in bold, jagged letters. There were several of them, all with motivational sayings. This one read Second place is the first loser. Tonight, that resonated.

I always say that sleeping in a coffin is for posers, vampires who are just trying to throw their status in your face. Hey, look at me. I’m a vampire! There’s no reason not to sleep in a bed. They are objectively more comfortable and fit with a modern design aesthetic. But tonight, I needed a tight lid to block out the world. Luckily, no one had responded to my Craigslist ad: “Black lacquer coffin, velvet lining, lightly used, $3,000.”

I climbed into the coffin and lowered the lid. I didn’t even do my skincare routine.

Tiffenie!” I woke up to Vlad knocking on my coffin. “Are you in there?” His voice sounded distant on the other side of the lid. If I shut my eyes I could imagine he was very far away. I was deep underground, dead for real, done playing at life.

I shut my eyes, but he kept on. “Vlad, I would like to sleep in.”

He cracked open the lid. He didn’t look contrite, more like Cat after horking up a hairball.

“You’re mad?” he asked.

I sat up. “Of course I’m mad.” Now that I was awake, I could see that it was fully dark outside. “What time is it?”

“Late. Everyone else has been up for hours.”

The thing about sleeping in a coffin is that it completely fucks up your sleep/wake cycles. I mean, they’re designed for the dead. If you’re going to sleep in one, you need a familiar to wake you up. I’d forgotten that part. Also, they’re not that comfortable—no mattress and tiny pillows.

“Who’s here?” I said.

“Heaven and your therapist.”

“Where’s Tyrone?” I asked. “Is he okay?”

“Of course he is.” Vlad looked insulted. “I’m not a monster, Tiffenie.”

Then why had he outbid me? Why did he take Tyrone home? At the very least, he was a jealous monster.

Even hundreds of years into this existence, stepping out of a coffin felt like too much. Like wearing a cape to the grocery store, or pure white foundation and too much dark eye makeup in high school. Everything associated with vampires was too much, which was the core of my problem. There was no fitting in. I was too much. As practical as he believed himself to be, Vlad was even more than me.

Okay, the No Fear shirt was kind of extra too.

At the sight of my shirt, Vlad, his voice dry as toast, said, “I don’t know if you need to resurrect that trend.” He gave me a hand out of the coffin.

“That’s too bad. There are enough of them for you and Heaven too. Jeff, I’m assuming, had a collection.”

“I want to talk about last night.” Vlad squeezed my hand. “Do you understand why I did what I did last night?”

“Is Tyrone your boyfriend now?” I said sarcastically.

“Relax, nothing happened. We drank a bottle of whiskey and watched Twilight.”

I laughed. “You’re both leaving me for Robert Pattinson then. I understand.”

“Do you know why I bid on your boyfriend?” he asked again, sitting on Tiffany’s daybed and inviting me to do the same.

I refused and leaned against the coffin with my arms crossed over my chest awkwardly. The coffin slid backward and I somehow slipped and lost my footing. Vlad kept his face impassive while I floundered about.

“Tiffenie, the man is being blackmailed. You should’ve been trying to figure out why, not plotting to go on a tropical vacation and get his money back. If you refuse to protect yourself, I will step in. That’s what I did last night.”

I shrugged as if I didn’t give a damn. “Stop protecting me from other dudes, Vlad. I’m a vampire. I can protect my own damn self from creeps, and Tyrone isn’t one, anyway. Instead, try making me feel safe around you emotionally.” I’d caught Vlad watching a MasterClass saying something to that effect and it resonated.

Vlad blanched, probably because I’d just called him on something real.

“You’re right,” he said, standing up from the bed and walking toward me. “I can do better, Tiffenie. I love you.”

I arched a brow. He wasn’t going to get out of the doghouse with one throwaway “I love you.”

“I can’t watch you go on dates and snuggle with Santa Claus when I have been deprived of your company for twenty-five years. I miss you.” He sounded sincere, almost broken up about it.

But did I care, especially after his bachelor auction shenanigans?

He put his arms around me, pinning me against the coffin. My body responded to his nearness, as if it hadn’t gotten the memo that I was mad.

“I was just jealous.”

I could feel the tug of a smile in my cheeks. Why couldn’t I stay mad at him?

“I’ve missed you too,” I confessed. But I slipped from his arms and walked toward the door.

No one in the world knew me better than Vlad. We had lived through hundreds of years, through hopes, dreams, failures, and a lot of mediocre TV. Step by Step, Fuller House, all of the Law and Orders, two world wars, and all of the other history that didn’t make it into the books.

He caught my hand before I could leave. “I don’t want to go another twenty-five years without you.”

Tears came to my eyes. I understood. “I don’t know what I want at the moment,” I said. “I need a little space to breathe.” I laughed shakily. “Not that I can breathe.”

“I spent ten thousand dollars to make sure you’re mine, Tiffenie.” All of his intensity was focused on me.

Spending ten grand so I didn’t get a special date with Santa was such a dumb grand gesture. It missed the mark, just like us.

“I do love you, Vlad, but that’s not the grand gesture I need. You haven’t changed anything in three hundred years, and I can’t live in the Dark Ages. You can’t just buy your woman.”

I gave him a kiss on the cheek and turned to leave for real.

He gripped me firmly, pulling me in for an embrace. “I am changing.”

I pushed him away gently. “I know you think so, but even if that’s true, I need to figure out what I want. I’m in two imperfect semirelationships and my therapist needs my help as much as I need hers.”

I walked downstairs in my No Fear shirt and joined Dr. R and Heaven. Dr. R was sitting on the couch lacing up her shoes.

“Dr. R,” I said, “did you sleep okay?”

She looked like she’d been run over by a truck and was wearing sunglasses in the house even though it was probably 11 p.m. “I slept through an entire day. I haven’t been this hungover since—this is so unprofessional.” She hung her head in shame.

I shrugged. “No big. Privilege can go both ways. I’ve got you.”

Vlad’s footfalls sounded on the stairs. “Tiffenie, we’re not done talking.”

Dr. R looked up in surprise, probably not expecting to be caught in the middle of an argument. Heaven flashed a tired look, threw up a peace sign, and trudged upstairs.

Vlad’s voice was filled with emotion long held back. Ignoring Dr. R, he said, “We can’t live like this anymore, pretending to be human. I thought you would get used to our lifestyle.”

I gave Dr. R a private look to reassure her that she was safe with me.

Vlad gazed at me with intensity. “Don’t you want to be with someone who you can be your real self with?”

Dr. R pushed the dark shades up her nose and set her purse down like she meant business. “Would you two like a couples session?” She tapped the empty seats on the couch next to her. “Sit down.”

“We’re not a couple,” I said. “Let me give you a ride home.”

“I would love a session,” said Vlad.

“Who are you?” I squinted into Vlad’s face, so confused. “Couples therapy, really?”

“We need someone to help us with our communication. If you want to be with Tyrone instead of me, that’s your choice. But if you’re just with him because you don’t know how to be with me, we need to talk about that.”

What was going on with him?

“I want some joy, Tiffenie. I want someone to share my undead existence with. What is the point of living through a day if I can’t tell you about it? Texting isn’t enough. I need to touch you. I want to be with you and only you.”

“Vlad—” I held my hand up. Was he proposing, now, in front of Dr. R? What was he thinking?

“Let me take the doctor home. We can talk later.”

I searched for the hearse keys while Dr. R sat awkwardly on the couch. She looked unsure if she should get up.

“Where are the car keys? Has anyone seen them?” I patted my pockets down to no effect. “Are they in my jacket pocket? What was I wearing last night? Heaven, help me!”

“I’m busy!” Heaven shouted from upstairs.

“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying, Tiffenie.” Vlad walked across the room and took my hands in his. “No more secrets. Let’s stop pretending.”

Honesty always led to blood. Vampires hide in the shadows. Those are the rules. “Vlad, what are you doing? You said we could never—”

“Forget what I said. I’m doing this for you.” He looked toward the heavens and shouted, “WE ARE VAMPIRES!”

I looked at Dr. R in a panic and then back to Vlad. “Really, Vlad?” After three hundred years he didn’t understand. “I can be a vampire if and only if it doesn’t make everyone around us unsafe.” Dead serious, I looked into his eyes. “I like the idea of living in the open, but what are the rules?”

“You know the rules,” he said.

“Do you mean ‘Always listen to your coven leader, even if he is a stupid man from the Dark Ages’?” I stared him down with hands on hips. “Is that still a rule?”

He shrugged. We both knew it was.

“Only give the Dark Gift to ‘hotties.’ ” I air-quoted hotties. “Is that still a rule?”

“Well, that one isn’t really enforceable because it’s pretty subjective,” he muttered.

I wasn’t having it. I almost yelled, “‘Never reveal your true self to a mortal.’ Is that still a rule?”

Dr. R, who was listening intently said, “Those sound familiar.”

“You might have heard them in Interview with a Vampire,” Vlad said.

“Really? Vampires follow Anne Rice’s rules?”

“Or does Anne Rice follow our rules?” Vlad said. “It’s a chicken or egg question.”

“But either way, you can see how they’re restrictive,” I said. I collapsed on the couch and dropped my head between my knees.

Dr. R stood up calmly. “I’m going to get Tiffany a glass of water.” When she returned she sat down, and in a hushed tone, she said, “I knew this was a cult. Are you trying to recruit me?”

Heaven clomped down the stairs in a pair of boots. “OMG, Tiff. The keys were right in the coffin. They must have fallen out of your pocket. Wait, what did I miss?” she said as she clocked the tense looks on my and Vlad’s faces.

Dr. R looked to each of us in turn. “You all are taking this vampire thing pretty far.”

I turned to Dr. R and smiled sweetly. “Does doctor-patient confidentiality extend to people you’re not actually treating?”

Dr. R pulled two business cards out of her purse and handed them to Vlad and Heaven. “Welcome aboard.”

Officially done with everyone, I sent Vlad away with directions to drive Dr. Rosetti home without feeding on her. I offered to pay her for what had essentially turned into another session, but she’d insisted that we call it even. “Just forget I got drunk last night,” she said.

With the chaos over, I poured a glass of B positive and stared out my favorite picture window in the living room. I brooded broodily while Heaven cleaned up painting supplies. She’d been painting the walls of all the common spaces black, first upstairs, then downstairs. She described the color choice as “bold, elegant, timeless.” Maybe, but it was giving black lacquered coffin. It was also giving vampire and acceptance.

Ironic, I guess, given that I wasn’t willing to accept Vlad’s offer to live like vampires together. It might be nice, but Vlad was a prince. If anyone had the power to change the rules, to make life as a vampire less restrictive, it was him. I wanted to be a Hallmark vampire, not an Anne Rice vampire.

Forget Vlad. Forget Tyrone. Dr. R and Heaven were right. I needed to work on my own issues, whatever that meant. The house wasn’t the only thing that needed to be rewired.

My shirt provoked a thought. “Heaven,” I asked, “what is your most deep-seated fear?” Apparently done with paint cleanup, her arms were now filled with various salts: Morton, Epsom, rock. Why the salt? should have been my question, probably.

She flipped open the metal spout on the box of Morton salt like she was popping her collar and began pouring a trail of salt around the edge of the room. As I watched, she dumped the rest of the box in a mound in front of the door.

“What are you doing?” Everyone was going to track salt through the house.

“Cleaning.”

It looked like the opposite to me. “That was supposed to be for baking.”

She flashed me a look and I held up my hands. I wasn’t going to the mat over cinnamon rolls right now.

“I’m cleaning the negativity out of this place. All that arguing, and I have a bad feeling.”

“What is your fear, though?” I thought I knew the answer.

She stopped trailing salt through the foyer and said, “It was death. After I almost drowned, I—” She picked up a large black tourmaline crystal and sat down on the bottom step of the grand staircase. “You know how some people see a light and their family waiting for them when they die?”

“Yes.”

“I was dead for a minute, no pulse, but I didn’t see anything. No white light and no ancestors.” Heaven was as serious as I’d ever seen her.

“Maybe you forgot?” I suggested. “Or you weren’t dead enough, or your relatives hadn’t gotten the memo yet? We know G-O-D is real. Who else would always be smiting us?”

She laughed softly. “Yeah, but at that moment, I realized there might be nothing for me after this life, and it scared the shit out of me.”

“One of Jeff’s shirts says, ‘it’s not the pace of life that concerns me, but the sudden stop at the end.’ ” Jeff was becoming our resident philosopher, or more aptly, the No Fear company. I’m pretty sure they would be thrilled to sponsor vampires.

“Exactly. I went all in on positive energy to crowd out the darkness.”

I sat beside her on the stairs and gave her a firm side hug. A tear trickled down her cheek and plopped on the black crystal.

“Well, I had meant to soak these in salt water to activate them,” she said sadly. “I was thinking Epsom salt, but this works, I guess.”

“So what are you scared of now?” I asked.

“I guess I’ll think of something new. Maybe spiders.”

I shook my head. “Nah.”

“People?” she said.

That gave me pause. “Vlad’s scared of people. He thinks they’re out to get us.”

“Other vampires?”

“Eh. Same as people. There are good ones and bad ones.”

“Let’s go with nothing. No fear.”

“Do you want one of these T-shirts too?” I asked. “There are a bunch.”

She eyed it skeptically. “Maybe to sleep in, or if my other clothes are dirty.”

I insisted on getting her one.

Half an hour later, I was staring at my phone as I sat next to freshly washed crystals, incense sticks, and Heaven meditating in a circle of candles while holding an egg-shaped rock. She was playing music that I would describe as sounds of ancient healing, and her face had a look of peaceful determination and gritty contentment, if that was a thing.

Things weren’t perfect, and I didn’t know how to fix my life, but it was nice to see Heaven making peace with vampirehood, and even stretching beyond the fears and limitations that had held her back as a person.

When a car pulled up to the house, I assumed it was Vlad returning from dropping off Dr. R. I steeled myself. There was no way I was going to promise anything to him tonight. He could wait while I mulled things over. There was no deadline on eternity.

When I peeked out the front window, my stomach dropped to the floor. It wasn’t Vlad. The outdoor light shone like a spotlight on a Valentine police cruiser.

How many people had Vlad told our secrets to? Should I get ready to be run out of town with torches and pitchforks?

As I watched, Wayne Jarvis stepped out of the passenger side door in a cheap suit and a winter jacket that he probably bought at Costco. He was straight out of the movie Fargo.

I would’ve preferred torches.

A uniformed cop stepped out of the driver’s side door. I pressed my back to the window and tried to compose myself. “Heaven,” I said. “Wayne’s here. With a cop.”

Her eyes went wide. “Why?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I tried to stay calm for her, but it was definitely not fine.

Heaven blinked herself out of her meditative state and grabbed a spray bottle. She hit the switch on her Himalayan salt lamp and spritzed it with some sort of lavender mist.

“I’m keeping the demons out.”

“Let’s activate these too.” I took the bottle and spritzed my fangs. “Ugh—that’s disgusting. It doesn’t taste how it smells at all.”

Horror movie style, I heard their boots crunching the snow, then walking up the stairs, and finally echoing in the hollow space under the porch where they stopped just on the other side of the front door.

Get ahold of yourself, Tiffenie.

The doorbell rang, a new one that played a gong sound through speakers Heaven had installed throughout the house. Thank you, GoFundMe.

“Hello, Mr. Jarvis,” I said as I opened the door, my voice an eerie overlay to the fading sounds of ancient healing.

“Hello, Ms. Blair. I’m sorry to intrude in the middle of the night, but it’s urgent.” He said my name with no warmth, last name only, as if it would be easier to take me down if he kept it impersonal. As he stepped over the threshold, he left a booted footprint in the salt Heaven had just spread.

“Do you like the new deck?” I asked. “No more holes, huh?”

He gave a perfunctory nod. A look passed between Heaven and me. Something wasn’t right.

“What can I help you with?” I asked, wondering if showing a little fang would help or hurt in this situation.

“The illegal canid inspection.” He gestured to the police officer, who I now noticed had one of those metal poles with a loop on the end, the kind that dog-nappers use in cartoons—and in real life, apparently. “As you can imagine, people hide their pit bulls and what have you if they know we’re coming.”

Heaven spread the salt around with her foot, as if that would make the men go away.

“I emailed you,” I said. “Tyrone killed the coyote. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, but I have it here.”

“How can I be sure it’s the coyote that bit me?”

“Test it for rabies. I don’t know.” Frustrated, I said, “But either way, I’ve done all I can.”

“I have concerns beyond the coyote…Ms. Blair, can I see your ID?”

Every cell in my body froze. “Why?”

“Just a formality.”

“You didn’t ask for it last time.” He hadn’t. He’d chatted cheerfully about rotted wood without ever mentioning an ID.

“My fault,” Mr. Jarvis said, staring hard at my face. “It’s standard practice.”

Heaven practically growled. I put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “I’ve got it,” I said. “No big deal.”

“No one in town has seen you for a very long time. You have no family left here,” Wayne said calmly.

“That seems more like my problem than yours.”

“But you can see how that also presents a difficulty for me. How do I know you are who you say you are?” He flashed all of his teeth in the world’s fakest smile.

Smiling to show all of my teeth, I handed him my driver’s license. “See.”

He frowned at the plastic card, turned it over, and ran his hands along the edges like he believed it was a fake.

Heaven and I exchanged a look.

No Fear.

The cop inspected my driver’s license as well. “Where have you been for the last decade?” he asked.

My chest tightened. Vlad had been right all along. They were going to run us out of town. He had tried it my way and it was a failure.

“I don’t think I have to answer that. Isn’t your domain building code compliance?” I said, turning to Wayne. I bared my lavender-activated fangs.

Wayne laughed uncomfortably. “It is indeed. And from what I can see, I don’t think you’re going to pass that inspection.”

Nope. I was not going to take this one lying down. A man in a cheap suit with no charisma was telling me, a three-hundred-year-old vampire, what to do. Threatening to destroy my house, run me out of my own life. Sure, I could drain him, but that was a short-term solution. I decided to play nice. “I believe everyone in town knows that I lost my Jeff. The last few years haven’t been great.”

He nodded with his arms crossed over his chest like he knew there was more to the story.

“And then you moved to LA?” the cop asked.

“I always wanted to be an actress.” I looked away from the officer to Wayne. “Would you like to do your inspection now? Get it over with?”

Wayne smiled wolfishly. “Don’t mind if I do.” He turned to the cop and nodded. “You can wait in the car, officer. Thank you for your assistance.” He then took out a little notepad and started walking through the house.

I shut my eyes and centered my intention, my identity. I was Tiffany Amber Blair, a respectable woman born in Valentine, a woman who rightfully inherited this home and had the best intentions to fix it up. I did not have an illegal canid on the premises—we were all properly housebroken vampires at this point. Tiffany Amber Blair should have no trouble with a little house inspection.

Just like before the panic attack at Tyrone’s, my vision started fogging at the edges. I began to feel lightheaded. The porch had been repaired and Bob had rewired the house. We should be fine, but I didn’t feel fine. If I could just hang on for thirty minutes, be pleasant for this home inspection, and not kill Wayne, I would be fine. We would be fine.

I wanted to, though. I wanted to kill this man with every fiber of my being. He was too much. I was just trying to exist without hurting anyone, and he wouldn’t let me.

After he’d walked through the whole house, he said, “I have a few questions.” With purpose, he strode over to the fireplace and gestured to the walls that we had replaced. “What is happening here? I need to verify that the structure is intact after the chimney fire.”

“We removed all the plaster and none of the structure was damaged, so we replastered,” I said. “You can see that this is new.”

“I can’t clear this building without seeing the structure.”

“But we fixed everything.” It looked perfect.

“I recorded the entire process,” Heaven said. “You can actually see every step.” On her phone she pulled up a reel of the two of us peeling the plaster off the walls with Rihanna singing “Work, work, work, work, work, work” in the background.

With a smug little laugh he said, “That’s very cute, ladies, but I don’t believe this will satisfy the official requirements of the city code.” He pounded on the wall. “I need to be able to see the structure for myself and verify its integrity.”

“You can!” she said. “We removed the wall, checked for damage, and repaired it—all while being recorded.”

Wayne watched the video of the two of us dancing and goofing off, looking unimpressed. I wanted to slap the judgmental look off his face. But I bit my lip.

“Girls,” he said like he was schooling us, depriving the word girl of all its power, “this is not professional. This is not the way you pass an inspection.”

Heaven looked like she wanted to do more than slap him. She looked ready to make use of that coffin right now.

“And what kind of screws did you use on the deck?”

Tyrone had given us a box of screws earlier. It was still sitting around. “These.”

“The code specifies that you need to use galvanized deck screws.”

“Okay, so what do we do?” I asked. “If we have to, we can add more screws and peel back the wallboard.”

“You still technically have a few days, but there is the matter of the illegal canid. Something in this house bit me.”

“Like I said, Tyrone shot a coyote on the property. Would you like to see it?”

“Yes.”

Tyrone put the poor animal in our deep freezer. It made me sick to think of the coyote frozen stiff and lifeless in there. It had died to protect our lie. I had let it happen.

Maybe Vlad was right to tell everyone what we were. No one else would have to die. I was already dead. I should have turned to dust hundreds of years ago.

Heaven walked Wayne to the deep freezer on the back porch.

I fought my impulse to put Wayne in it. Keep it together, Tiffenie. Pass this one inspection and never worry about Wayne for the rest of his life, which will be relatively short.

The back porch was a little room off the kitchen, unheated with a lot of windows and all-season carpet. In the summer it might be nice (if we got rid of the carpet), a place you might put a small table where you could drink coffee, or at least drink out of a coffee mug, and read a book. But this time of year, it was nothing but a cold room filled with boots and coats, the windows covered in frost that crept all the way up the panes in a crystalline stained-glass effect. The off-white Frigidaire deep freezer was against the wall.

“It’s in there,” I said. My stomach twisted at the thought. I didn’t want to touch it.

Wayne nodded and lifted the lid. We only used the freezer for blood and the coyote. The blood was underneath the coyote and stored in a cardboard box. He shouldn’t notice it.

Tyrone had wrapped the animal in a blanket before putting it in the freezer. Wayne tried to peel the cloth away, but it had frozen to the fur. This was so undignified, so unnecessary. I didn’t know how he would determine if this animal bit him. I, of all people, knew that looking dangerous meant nothing. Sure, the coyote had teeth and a bad reputation, but that didn’t mean it was the bad guy.

Wayne narrowed his eyes. “So there was a coyote in your living room?”

I stared at him with dead eyes. What did he want me to say? If he didn’t want to play along with the coyote story, then this was it.

Heaven said, “Um, why not? We just got here. The house had been vacant. A lot of things were living in here.”

He grunted. “I don’t think this is what bit me.”

How could he tell?

“Why would you say that?” I growled. I bared my fangs and Heaven touched my arm, holding me back.

Wayne went saucer-eyed, and he took a step back, stumbling into the wall. “It was—”

“Say it, Wayne,” I said. “It was…”

“Just let me go. I promise I won’t give you any more trouble.”

Finally, I had the upper hand. A little respect. Why had he made me resort to this?

“That’s not true, Wayne. You will definitely give me trouble.” This man had pushed me far enough. I’d come to Vermont to rehab a country inn, to start a bed-and-breakfast, to date a handsome farmer, to live a quiet Hallmark fantasy.

“Wayne, you should have left me alone. Who was I hurting?”

“No one, ma’am,” Wayne said, his voice beginning to tremble.

“Don’t call me ma’am. That makes me feel old. Never call a woman ma’am.”

Heaven tapped my arm. “Tiff,” she said in a cautionary tone.

“The thing that bit you was a vampire, Wayne. Is that what you want to hear?”

He was shaking.

This was how vampires solved problems. Vlad had been right all along. Feed on people. Have a late-night snack with some sex. If you were really thirsty, there were plenty of Wayne Jarvises. If someone died, bury the evidence. Don’t tell the neighbors your business. Those were the rules. I should have been following them.

Before Heaven could stop me, I bared my fangs and sank them into Wayne’s neck. My whole life had brought me to this moment: feeding off a local bureaucrat, a pencil-pushing rule-monger who couldn’t stop picking on two girls, as he’d called us.

But we weren’t girls. He knew that now.

He went limp in my arms as I gulped.

Wayne represented everything that had been plaguing me. Credit card late fees, the fine print that you never read, inflation, bumps in rent, taxes. Wayne Jarvis was the fax machine in Office Space. He was officially my breaking point.

“Tiffenie, stop! You can’t kill that man. Everyone knows where he is. There’s a cop out front!”

Wayne and everyone like him. All of the rules and regulations. They had forced me into a box I didn’t fit into along with all my darkest thoughts. It was time to break the fuck out. I was done.

“Tiffenie!” Heaven screamed. “You can’t drain the city inspector!”

I looked at her but I couldn’t see her through the anger and thirst.

But she was strong and pried me off, yelling “Drop it!” like I was a dog that wouldn’t let go of a stick.

“Fuck,” she said, shaking her head at me. There was blood running down my chin and onto my No Fear shirt. “What are we going to do now?”

I slumped against the wall, spent and disappointed.

“None of it matters, Heaven. We can’t have nice things. We’re vampires.” There are castle vampires and there are rogue vampires. We were rogue.

She’d clearly had it with me. “Nope. Get your ass over here and help me figure this out.” Wayne was moaning and clutching his neck.

“Don’t kill me,” he pleaded. “Who’s gonna feed my cat?”

“We can take your cat,” I said. I would never let a cat suffer.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. I heard Vlad call, “Where is everyone?”

A second later, he stepped onto the back porch. “Tiffenie!” he said, taking in the scene with a look of shock. “What are you doing?”

“Being a vampire, like you wanted me to be,” I said, with a bloodstained smile.

“Fuck. This is no good.” Vlad paced the room and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up as he appeared to weigh his options. “We can’t just murder the people we don’t like if we want to fit in here. You know that.”

“I don’t care. I don’t belong here,” I said defiantly. “And Wayne is a horrible human being. You were right about everything, Vlad.”

Ignoring the city inspector sprawled on the floor, Vlad shut his eyes. I could see the compliment wash over him like a calm ocean wave. “That was nice at least. Say it again, Tiffenie.”

“You were right, Vlad. I admit it.” I narrowed my gaze. “You’re not getting turned on, are you? We are not Bonnie and Clyde.”

He smiled.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for three hundred years, for you to accept who we are. But this”—he gestured to Wayne—“this isn’t you.”

Wayne was still groggy and blissed out from the pleasure of the bite.

Heaven wiped his neck with a damp towel and pressed a clean one to the wound. “Okay, so we’re not killing him,” she said. “Love that, but what are we going to do with him?”

Vlad squared his shoulders and helped Wayne to his feet. “I’ve got this.”

“Thank you,” I said, unsure of how to feel. I didn’t want Vlad to clean up another of my messes, but I needed him. Heaven needed him.

As if he were giving Wayne a tour of the house, Vlad took him by the elbow and started walking him around. “You’ll notice the cabinets are original.”

Wayne blinked at the old cabinets as he bled down his button-down shirt. I hadn’t taken so much blood as to cause him permanent harm, but he definitely seemed lightheaded.

Vlad walked him all the way out front to the police car. The cop was sitting in the driver’s seat with the engine idling and the windshield wipers keeping the falling snow at bay. He was looking at his phone, completely oblivious. He’d probably been playing Candy Crush or whatever while I’d been trying to murder Mr. Jarvis. To live in that man’s simple shoes for one day…

The cop looked up from his phone, his expression shifting from vacant to “uh-oh.” At the sight of Wayne, his hand went to his gun. Cheetos crumbs showered from his chest to his lap. “What the—what’s going on here?”

Vlad smiled. “Good evening, officer. We’re just walking Wayne out to the car.” He was in full glamour mode, all of his intensity focused on the cop and Wayne. “Nothing bit Wayne,” he said. “He must have cut himself shaving earlier. He needs to be more careful.”

If this kept happening, we were going to have to come up with some new excuses.

“Duuuude,” the cop said.

Wayne dabbed at the wound with the towel.

“You should never shave with a dull razor,” Vlad said.

“What about the house?” I asked, confirming what I already knew.

“This structure is officially condemned by the City of Valentine,” Wayne said, holding the towel to his neck. “You need to vacate the premises immediately. Destruction of the property will occur as soon as possible.”

As the car pulled away, Vlad said, “We can appeal it.”

Heaven elbowed him. “Tell him to uncondemn the house.”

Alas, you can only convince a human of one lie at a time. Those were the rules.

Wayne and the cop took a left out of the driveway and headed back into town. Imminent disaster was averted yet again, but a storm was rolling in. Up until now, the snow had looked like movie-set fluff, the kind made for building snowmen and making snow angels. Now the howling winds turned each flake into a little knife.

“Are you okay?” Vlad asked. We’d only been outside for a minute, but his hair and shoulders were covered in snowflakes.

“Thanks for glamouring Wayne,” I said. “I just need a little time.” Maybe five minutes. Maybe a month. My confusion, anger, dashed hopes, gratitude—all my feelings were tangled like Christmas lights in November.

Vlad and Heaven nodded and headed inside, leaving me alone with my feelings. It was just me and the plastic statue of Santa staring into the distance with an unrealistically jolly expression. That smile suddenly pissed me off. What did he have to be so happy about? He was an ancient, stored-in-the-basement Santa, his coat faded to pink from the sun. With a guttural scream, I bear-hugged the plastic lawn ornament, intending to drop-kick him to the moon, but he was fused to a sleigh, which was tethered to reindeer. I was strong, but this was an awkward package. I dropped him back to earth and kicked him while he was on the ground.

Emotionally exhausted, I flopped onto the snow next to Santa, the two of us collapsed like fighters too tired to finish what they’d started.

Vlad might be able to cover up my mistake with Wayne. We might be able to appeal the condemnation of the house. But nothing could change that I was a vampire. Listening to one more Christmas song might actually kill me. What the hell was I doing in Vermont?

Going harder at being human was a failure. I only had one option left. Actually, it had been my only option from the start.

Vampires drank blood, existed alone in the dark, and definitely didn’t celebrate Christmas. What had I been doing? Celebrating a holiday that I couldn’t pronounce? Had I lost my mind? I was a bloody vampire—literally!

Coconut water wasn’t in my diet.

Energy drinks weren’t in my diet, not even Bloodshot-flavored No Fear.

I looked up to see Heaven standing nearby. I thought she was going to console me, but instead she said, “Don’t worry. I got that on camera.”

I laughed, but then I slumped over again. “What have I been doing decorating trees and dating Santa? I’ve lost my mind, Heaven.”

“You’re fine. Who hasn’t lost their mind over Santa Claus, especially a fine-ass Santa like Tyrone?” She pointed at the plastic Santa face down in the snow. “Girl, you might just have some daddy issues to work through.”

“No, it’s loneliness,” I said, still lying in the snow next to the plastic lawn ornament. “That’s what Dr. R said, but more of an existential loneliness than an I-don’t-have-any-friends variety.”

“Whatever. I call it like I see it and you gots daddy issues.”

“What does it even matter?”

I knew what I needed to do.

I needed to leave. Valentine wasn’t for me.

I’d misinterpreted the Happily Ever After hearse. I’d thought it was a sign, but everyone else saw it for what it was: a joke. It was taunting me. I’d been misreading everything, straining to make reality fit my fairy tale.

“Come inside, Tiff. It’s snowing on us.”

In the entryway, we stomped the snow off our shoes. I said, “Heaven, I need to get out of here. Do you want to come with?”

“Now?” She looked out the window. “I know we can’t die, but it’s really coming down out there. Didn’t you get that travel advisory alert on your phone?”

I was a vampire, and I laughed in the face of Mother Nature. “I’m not going to let some bureaucrat from the National Weather Service who decided to send an alert change my day.”

I hadn’t drained Wayne, but the next guy might not be so lucky. What was a little snow going to do to me? I couldn’t freeze to death. I couldn’t drown. It’s not like the snow was going to chop my head off or stake me.

“Tiffenie, there is no way in hell I’m getting in a car tonight.”

“Suit yourself. I’m sure Vlad will drive you when you’re ready to leave. Tomorrow maybe? Before the city knocks the place down, anyway.”

“I thought you were going to figure out who you were and what you wanted, maybe slow down a little?”

“I’m a vampire, Heaven. I guess I needed to come to Vermont to remind myself. Any figuring out I have left, I’d prefer not to do it while living on a condemned Hallmark set.”

Heaven accepted my decision and opted to stay in Vermont until the bitter end. “I like it here.”

Twenty minutes later, I had the back of the hearse packed. Cat was in her carrier, yowling in protest. I’d thrown in a few things but left most. Wayne might as well take a wrecking ball to my life. I left my baskets of anti-aging creams and my LED mask. I was a vampire. It was time to stop spending money on anti-aging products. Plus, I couldn’t find the charger for the mask anyway. And I left all of the bridesmaid gowns and coats I wore to parties a hundred years ago. What was I doing being in weddings for other women in the secretarial pool? They didn’t know me well enough to be my friend. They just needed a fifth bridesmaid to walk down the aisle with the groom’s weird cousin who someone decided had to be in the wedding.

It was just me, Cat, and some sweatpants. On second thought, I grabbed that jar of Crème de la Mer. J.Lo swears by La Mer, and she looks better than a vampire.

By the time I’d loaded up the car, it was covered in snow. Heaven and the weathercasters were right. It was coming down at advisory levels. I was trying to scrape the ice off the windshield while the wipers were going because it was a two-man job.

“Tiffenie, what are you doing?” Vlad walked out to the car, the collar flipped up on his overcoat.

“I’m leaving, Vlad. Some of the wisdom I’ve gained in this immortal existence is knowing when I’ve failed. And I have one hundred percent without a doubt failed at running a bed-and-breakfast in Vermont.” I couldn’t even believe that sentence had just come out of my mouth.

I would have liked to peel out of the driveway and leave some rubber on the road, but a couple of weeks of Vermont driving let me know that wasn’t a good idea. I would only make it into the ditch.

As I pulled out of the bed-and-breakfast at a reasonable speed, I gave the house one last lingering look. Heaven’s brand-new sign out front read Radiance. A Christmas tree twinkled in the front window. Vlad was watching me leave from the driveway, fuming.

According to Dr. R, happily ever after came from within. No Vlad. No Tyrone. I was going…to find myself. Destination unknown. At least I knew I was a vampire.

Cat meowed in the back. “Be patient, Cat. This could take a while.”

The radio blared with a discordant emergency alert beep. A loud robotic voice announced, “The National Weather Service has issued a blizzard warning. Be prepared for icy conditions, blowing and drifting snow, and significant accumulations. No travel advised in the state of Vermont.”

The devil was shaking my snow globe.

That felt about right. Flakes were coming down so hard and fast that the windshield wipers couldn’t clear the snow. A mile away from the house, I was driving in a whiteout. I couldn’t see the lines to know if I was on the road. If I stopped, something could run into me from behind.

Cat kept meowing, complaining about her stupid crate when a much worse fate awaited her if I didn’t keep us on the road.

“Shut up, Cat! We’re going to die if I don’t concentrate.”

Well, I wasn’t. But she could. And I couldn’t let Cat die. She had at least seven good years left.

Even going as slow as I was, I could feel the car losing connection with the road. As I approached a curve, I turned the steering wheel to no effect. The ditch was calling us home. I slammed on my brakes like you’re not supposed to do—oops—and the car spun out sideways until I slammed into something. Thankfully. It stopped me before I could crash into the river or, even worse, a quaint small business. We would just stay here until the snow died down.

“It’s okay, Cat. We’ll be fine. Just breathe.”

She howled.

What a dumb escape. I wasn’t even sure which direction I was aimed in or what I was jammed under. When there was a break in the snow, I could see I was lodged under the town welcome sign. Lol. Very funny, universe.

In that moment, I let go. I was powerless against the elements. I released my struggle and my desires. Going full Buddha, I contemplated the sign: Find your heart in Valentine!

One’s heart is not the same as true love. That one true love I’d been looking for all along was myself. I certainly couldn’t connect with someone else if I didn’t find my own heart. If you don’t love yourself, there can’t be a happily ever after. Those are the rules, for humans and for vampires.

Dr. R’s advice about learning to love myself wasn’t new. I’d lived through (19)90s self-help culture. I’d watched Sex and the City and Girls. Even Bridget Jones’s Diary encouraged this kind of thing and that movie came out more than twenty years ago. But I’d never actually internalized these thoughts. Was that what I’d come to Valentine to learn? Well, I’m listening, universe! I don’t need to be alive or be human, I just need to connect with my own damn self!

It wasn’t Valentine’s fault for not providing my happily ever after. It was my own. Valentine was a haven, a place where I could get myself together. Everything had been telling me that, but I had been misreading the signs to fit my own romanticized idea of a happy ending. I was such a dumb bitch. It had taken me three hundred years to learn what a 112-minute movie was trying to tell me. If Sandra Bullock couldn’t be happy with Channing Tatum until after she figured out her own shit, who did I think I was to skip the hard parts?

A pair of headlights shone through my windshield. They slowed to a stop next to my car.

Wouldn’t you know, Tyrone emerged from the car doing his best impression of Prince Charming. If I hadn’t already realized I was my own Prince Charming, I might have been susceptible.

He knocked on my window and I rolled it down. “What are you doing out here?”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you. Vlad called. He didn’t have chains for his tires, but he knew I would.”

“Don’t joke. You were already driving around in your pickup trying out your new snow tires.”

“Well, that too.” He laughed. “You just validated all of my purchases, so thanks for that.” He stood back and assessed the situation. “I can just hook up the tow rope and pop you out in a jiff.”

I patted the passenger seat. “Before you rescue me, sit down. Let’s talk.” We were well past overdue for a real talk.

It might be weird to converse on the side of the road in a snowstorm, but Tyrone ducked inside, bringing a flurry of flakes with him. Cat mewled pathetically at the gust of cold wind.

There we were, just me and Tyrone, in the protective bubble of the hearse, the snow coming down on us.

“So, uh…the last few days have been weird,” I said, stating the obvious.

“Can’t say I’ve been bored,” he said.

“You know you didn’t kill Jeff, right?” I said.

He nodded, but his expression was still etched with tension. “I know. I should have fired him in the office, not while he was drunk on the ice.”

“But that’s where you were.”

With a laugh he said, “Vlad told me I was being arrogant, thinking I was responsible for Jeff’s fate and everyone else’s happiness. He’s right. Who do I think I am?”

“A man.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I still think it’s my fault.”

The dashboard light illuminated his face, his kind eyes and full lips. “If only all men were as honorable as you,” I said.

But Tyrone wasn’t for me, no matter how delicious he was.

Maybe I appeared to be up to my usual bullshit, but something had shifted inside me. I wasn’t Tiffany with a -y. I wasn’t a Hallmark movie heroine. I was Tiffenie Ruba, immortal vampire with quite a few insecurities, which is normal.

My true self and the person I was presenting to the world had aligned. No more fuzzy edges or uncertainty. I was filled with clarity. In my power.

It was time to glamour Tyrone, not into loving me or anything. But someone needed to help this man with his finances. He needed to stop giving money to Tiffany Amanda Blair, and I was now in a position to help him. No more half-assed glamouring and messes Vlad had to clean up. I could do this on my own.

I focused all of my energy into a point and took his hands in mine. With disturbingly intense eye contact, I said, “Tyrone, you didn’t kill Jeff, so you need to stop sending money to your blackmailer.”

“Okay.” He nodded.

“Really? You’re cool with that?”

And it was a confirmed glamour! All that inner turmoil raging below Tyrone’s surface, the stormy sea of his soul, was calmer. His mind was nothing but puffy white clouds reflecting back peace and stillness.

I swelled with my success. Fuck a castle and a wedding. This was the feeling I wanted for the rest of my existence—self-acceptance, peace, power. I was Sandra Bullock at the end of the movie. No, I was me, a vampire who could do vampire things.

I didn’t bother informing Tyrone that I wasn’t a vampire. Why get into it? Plus, glamouring only works for one thing at a time.

“You deserve love and happiness,” I said, a little finishing salt on the work I’d done. He did. The man was the embodiment of Christmas. What was more perfect than that?

With the storm raging outside, I leaned in and gave him a sweet kiss. My soft lips pressed into his. He placed a hand alongside my cheek, soft and gentle but firm. Bringing me in for more.

If he’d really been a killer, maybe we could have worked out. But Vlad was right, I could never be with anyone as perfect as Tyrone. He might as well be a priest, and we all know how vampires and priests work. Not to mention that with his darkness gone, he wasn’t as hot.

My type: tall, dark, and tortured (emphasis on tortured).

I pulled away and said, “You’re too good for me, Tyrone. However, if you ever want to have an affair or sully your image, I’m here. Or if you kill someone for real, give me a call.”

He laughed.

“Oh, and call Jessica,” I said. “She still has a crush on you.”

“Really?” He gave me a stupid look, as if he hadn’t noticed. Men.

“Now take me home, would you?”

“I told you about getting snow tires. A set of Blizzaks would be a good idea.”

I nodded. I should have learned my lesson the first time, but some of us are more hardheaded than others.

As Tyrone and I pulled up to the house, Heaven opened the door. She poured two glasses of B positive before I’d even taken my coat off.

“Welcome home, Tiff,” she said.

Wayne Jarvis’s threat to destroy the house “as soon as possible” stretched longer than he’d likely intended. As it happened, the crane operator the city contracted with happened to be occupied on a job in a nearby town.

ASAP turned into the following week. Then, when he got back from knocking down someone else’s dreams in whereverville, Wayne caught a vile cold and couldn’t knock down the inn. Radiance would live for at least another week, probably longer because his cold was about to extend into the holidays and it’s not like he was going to work on Christmas.

“Could it be a Chrithmas miracle?” I wondered aloud.

Vlad looked around the house with a judgmental eye. “It’s still getting knocked down, so maybe.”

I gasped in horror. “Vlad!”

“Just kidding. I’ve grown quite attached to this place, but don’t delude yourself. It’s possible to live for years on death row, one mundane paperwork delay after another.”

Heaven walked in wearing a pair of painting overalls smattered in black paint. If anyone was in denial, it was Heaven. She’d thrown herself into a series of feverish home repairs that were bound to conclude on the eve of destruction. She flashed a big smile.

“Being a vampire suits you,” Vlad complimented her.

“It does, doesn’t it?” She did a turn and flounced her hair. She’d taken out her pink and gold braids and was wearing it in an afro. “I feel so alive.”

The irony. She might not be talking about sunrise as much as before, but the light was still bursting forth from her soul. Her spirit was too strong.

“Death isn’t nearly as bad as I thought it’d be.”

“Give it a hundred years,” Vlad quipped.

Ignoring him, she said, “Now, I need you two to move your lazy asses or pick up a paintbrush.”

“Why do you persist with renovations?” I asked. “All of your improvements will be destroyed as soon as the crane operator gets back to work.”

“I’m a maker. I’m making things. Making this room beautiful, making content. If it only lasts for a few days, oh well.” She swiped a thick line of glossy black paint down the wall. And then a few more, bringing to mind my Zen garden at Plasma4Life, except better. Raking sand was one thing, but at the end of this project, I could be entombed in the blackness of my own living room.

“As a vampire, I think you would understand how an end makes something even more beautiful,” she said.

She had me there. “Fine.” I picked up a paintbrush.

Several days later, she had made a time-lapse video of all the home repairs.

In three short minutes, I watched as we (mostly she) painted the whole house, reupholstered some furniture, and rolled a piano into the living room. Bob installed wall sconces.

It was a short ’n’ sweet transformation of a decrepit inn into a home that fit a vampire: sumptuous, sensual, dark.

Anticipation is everything. It’s true for public speaking, the dentist, sex, Christmas, probably even the destruction of your home. Anything that is big enough to be anticipated is bound to feel inconsequential when it finally happens. This is especially true of the holidays.

We were to have one Christmas in our inn before the town razed it, thanks to bureaucratic delays, an overbooked crane, and the usual December labor shortage.

Then I slept through it.

Of course I did. It’s a daytime holiday. Santa works the night shift (my only source of compatibility with Tyrone besides sexual chemistry). People wake up as soon as the kids open their eyes, eat pancakes, and open presents. Then they spend the afternoon watching Die Hard or Love, Actually or one of the new Lindsay Lohan movies. Go, Lindsay! I’ve been rooting for you. The only nighttime activity is the Christmas Eve church service. None of it is for vampires.

We woke up after the whole day was over. “Well, I guess that’s that,” I said.

“Vermont exists the rest of the year too, you know,” Heaven said.

“But does it?”

Vlad walked by looking rumpled and sexy. Had he gotten the memo that I loved him in sweatpants? He looked out the window and shook his head. “The damn snow.”

I nodded. “The road to town has one lane open, but that’s it. All of the highways are closed.”

His voice sounding as pent-up as he was, Vlad said, “I’m leaving now.”

“I don’t recommend it.” I was learning. Vampires aren’t exempt from travel advisories. A second storm was predicted. It was going to be a few more days before we should embark on any road trips.

“I’m going back to Utah when it stops snowing.”

“Vlad, are you okay?” I asked. “You’ve been very concerned about me, but what’s going on with you?”

He looked off into the distance like the horizon was calling to him. “I need to get out of here.”

He clearly meant get as far away from me as possible.

We ended up doing what all depressed people do on Christmas: We went to the bar. The tavern was in full Christmas regalia. Gary was still dressed as Mariah, the Christmas tree was lit, and the fireplace was crackling. I texted Jessica to come join us.

“Why so glum?” Mariah asked Vlad as she slid a neat whiskey across the bar. Heaven and I sat on either side of him, holding our hot toddies.

“I don’t celebrate,” he said. “I’m…not Christian.”

That was a mild way of putting it.

“Ah, hell,” he said in a fuck-it tone. “We’re vampires. Obviously, we can’t celebrate Christian holidays, even if they’re mostly commercial at this point.”

Mariah looked at me and mouthed “Is he okay?” in a very exaggerated way.

“It was a very disappointing…day for him,” I said.

“Extremely disappointing,” Vlad agreed.

Mariah rocked back on her heels and crossed her arms. “Honey, Christmas is always a disaster. What happened? Did you overcook the goose?”

“I’ve never overcooked anything in my life,” Vlad said. Easy to do if you’ve never cooked anything, I communicated to Heaven with my eyes.

“In-law troubles?”

Vlad stared into his liquor. “It’s like no one hears me.”

Heaven and I gently patted Vlad on the shoulders.

Jessica plopped down on the empty stool next to me and turned to face us. “My mother gave me a scale. To weigh myself. It was all wrapped up with a bow.”

Mariah shook her head and produced a plate of fries. “On the house.”

Jessica slid the fries toward herself and covered them in ketchup with reckless abandon. It was almost vampiric. I had to admire it. “She could tell I didn’t like the scale and she was all like, ‘Jessica, don’t be silly. Everyone needs a scale. And yours broke, right?’ ”

“Bitch,” Heaven said.

Tyrone walked up behind us and put a hand on Jessica’s shoulder. “Jessica, I can confirm that your mom is wrong. You’re what they call thicc, and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Heaven raised her glass and said, “To the one-hundred-seventy-five-pounds-and-up club.”

Jessica blushed furiously and started fussing with her hair as Tyrone took the seat to her right. “So,” she said, clearly trying to change the subject, “thanks again for helping with the ball, Tiffany. I just didn’t have it in me, and you did such a great job with the decorating.”

“My pleasure.”

“No, we couldn’t have gotten it done without you. You were a miracle.”

Our Christmas group therapy session was attracting a small crowd of malcontent citizens—an impromptu holiday support group. Everyone had a complaint:

“My kids have been sick for a month.”

“I racked up three thousand on the credit card for a bunch of stuff no one needs.”

Bob, the electrician, came out of his corner. “I spent all day plowing just so I didn’t have to be alone in my empty house.”

Another person said, “I’m Muslim. Do you know what it’s like to live in this town?”

“You mean no one likes Chrithmas?” I asked. This was a revelation. “We’re in Vermont. How can this be?”

Don’t believe everything you see on TV—I knew that was good advice, but I’d fallen for it again. Small-town America indeed contained all types. There was even enough room for me.

Mariah B. Gary went into preacher mode. “You have to accept it for what it is. You put a bunch of family together, add heat—conflict is bound to arise. Festivus is really the way to go. Celebrate around a steel pole, air grievances, forget the gifts. That’s the true spirit of Christmas.”

Tyrone shrugged. “I like turkey.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mariah said, “Last call!”

“What?”

“We’re closing early. It’s Christmas, ya know.”

“More to dislike,” I grumbled. Inspired by the spirit of anti-Christmas, I stood up and clinked my glass with a butter knife like I was about to give a toast at a wedding. “I would love if everybody came to my place for a party. Well, not my place. It’s ours.” I gestured to Vlad and Heaven. “We’ve been fixing it up for a month to pass inspection, but it’s been condemned. It looks pretty good, at least in the dark, and it would be a shame to never have anyone over.”

One thing that was true about small towns, everyone knew everyone else’s business, but I gave some crude directions just in case. “It’s the old Valentine Bed-and-Breakfast. It’s called Radiance now.”

“Radiance?” a few people muttered.

I looked at Heaven. “That’s her name. She’ll never open but she’s happy to shine her light on you for one night,” I said.

Heaven and I walked to the front door, hand in hand.

“By the way, we don’t have any food, so bring some leftovers if you wanna eat!” Heaven tossed off as we headed out into the snow.

Half an hour later, the after-party began. The house was beautiful. I had decorated it in Martha Stewart’s image, but in combination with Heaven’s vampire-core, it fell somewhat short and far to the left of Martha. The walls were casket black, except for the one covered in red-velvet wallpaper. The entire downstairs was giving Gothic library at Christmas vibes.

But while the library looked grand, most of the books were self-help titles, Harlequin romances, and the Cat Who…series. Three centuries of lowbrow taste. There’s a reason Vlad read history and I read so-called trash. That is where I found myself.

Tyrone arrived first with all the cookies that hadn’t sold at the Christmas fair. No shade, but they looked stale. That fair had finished a week ago. Jessica brought a tray of deviled eggs.

Mariah B. Gary brought herself. “I’m here, bitches! The party can start now!” she shouted.

Dr. Rosetti, Bob, Linda, and Pete, the fireman I’d given my BDSM book to, followed behind. It turns out that in only a month I’d managed to collect a solid bunch of misfit friends.

“Linda!” I said. “I bid on you at the auction!”

“Let me know when you want that date. Or if you need a hand sometime…” she said as she surveyed the reno work.

“Thanks, I would love that,” I said, too sad to tell her that there was no point.

The ambiance, the food, the company—it was everything I never knew I needed.

Vlad was the only one who wasn’t in top form. “Who wants to play charades?” he said.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Vladdy, dear, do you think you should put that drink down, maybe?”

He guffawed. “Tyrone, you know I can hold my liquor, right? You witnessed it firsthand.”

“It depends on what you mean by ‘hold my liquor,’ ” Tyrone said drily.

“Tiffenie is worried that I’m going to spill our secrets while I’m drinking.” He shook his head. “I might as well.”

I braced myself against a wall.

“Just so you all know, we’re vampires,” Vlad announced. “That’s why we only come out at night and all of that.”

Jessica started laughing. “You guys are great. I love it.”

Bob nodded like it made sense.

“No, for real, we’re vampires. I was born in 1367, the year of our lord, the second son of Vlad the Destructor.”

“Oooh!” Dr. R leaned forward. “This is so much better than Christmas at my mom’s house.” In an exaggerated stage whisper, she turned to the crowd and explained, “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure they’re just a cult.”

“We’re not a cult,” Vlad spat out, insulted by the accusation. “We’re vampires for real.”

He turned to me. “I can’t change the rules immediately, but we can pull a Harry and Meghan.”

“What do you mean?” I’d already tried baking and it wasn’t for me.

“We’re already doing it,” he explained. “Even if we can’t change the system, we can move to Montecito, or Vermont as the case may be, and make our own rules. I started that podcast. And you and Heaven—what is Radiance, if not a lifestyle brand?”

The whole world stopped for a moment. I had always imagined change as something drastic, maybe Vlad rewriting all the rules of vampiredom. No more serving the devil and perseverating on the Dark Gift. Instead, change looked like the scene around me, creating our own life, celebrating small moments in cozy spaces with friends. And when was the last time he killed someone? I actually couldn’t recall.

“We can start our own coven,” he said.

I looked at the group of people trying to follow his thoughts on covens and mouthed, “He gets like this when he’s drunk.” But inside, I was melting.

Dr. R was getting really into the coven idea. “You know, there aren’t enough third places in Valentine. We have the church and the tavern, but what if you aren’t religious or don’t drink?” She gestured to the group. “Just look at us. Valentine needs places to gather and exchange ideas without judgment. I don’t care if you want to talk about vampirism, you should have a place to do it. If you became an official vampire club, it would be great.”

Bob popped a cocktail weenie in his mouth. “What’s a third place?”

“A place where people can gather outside of work or home, a place where people know your name. We’ve been losing places like that for over a century. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that loneliness is on the rise.” Dr. R made eye contact with me. “Tiffany, I’m proud of you.”

“Does Valentine really need an official vampire den?” Vlad asked, clearly amused.

“We could call it an artists’ salon or even just a gathering place,” I suggested.

Heaven had been listening quietly. “I can work with this,” she said. “It’s called Radiance. I think that’s very flexible.” Heaven was in.

“Don’t forget both of you bit the city inspector on separate occasions and the house is condemned.” Vlad slapped his knee and laughed. “We’re just lucky no one’s going to jail.”

Everyone laughed uncomprehendingly as I pretended to do the same.

As the night was winding down, I found myself in the kitchen with Heaven, washing dishes besides cups for the first time since we’d arrived in Vermont. The sink was full to the brim with soapy water and plates. There was something beautiful about seeing the inn full of people, if only for a night.

“Thank you, Heaven,” I said as I took a plate from her. I dried it and set it on the dish rack with a satisfying clank.

“You’re welcome. Here’s another one.” She passed me another freshly washed plate.

I turned to her, holding the dripping plate. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this craziness. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. I was mad, but…” She absent-mindedly trailed a finger through the soapy dishwater. “I guess this is part of my journey. Losing Gemma was hard, but I know she wasn’t the one. You know”—she trailed her finger through the water again—“if I’m being honest, I wasn’t ready to be ‘the one’ for anyone yet.”

There was so much else to say, but for once I was out of words. I put my arm around her and hugged her.

She hugged me back. “I’ve got you.”

“I’ve got you too, Heaven. For eternity.” I laughed a little too hard, my words landing somewhere between a threat and a promise. I guess it was both.

The week between Christmas and New Year’s was officially the dumbest time of the year. Continued snowfall prevented travel and prevented the city from knocking down the house. I continued to binge Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Heaven had comments about the diversity representation, which were valid, not to mention the portrayal of vampires in general. Still, Buffy was Buffy.

Even though she’s a vampire killer, Buffy is my favorite. Beautiful, smart, great at cartwheel kicks, only kills the bad guys. And Angel—how is he not Vlad? Re-ensouled in the body of a hottie, loyal to Buffy, and atoning for centuries of wrongdoing? Ugh.

Just like Angel, Vlad left me at prom. Well, I guess bidding on the bachelor I wanted to date was the opposite of leaving me.

Midweek, Tyrone offered Heaven and me a sleigh ride and I came clean with him. “Your horses are scared shitless of me.” A couple of days later, I saw him and Jessica flying through the snow, the horses happy not to be dragging two vampires behind them.

Vlad and I kept a respectful distance from each other as we (I) thought through what we (I) wanted.

Not only was I falling in love with myself (what a relief), but I had close to ten friends now.

It was almost like when Buffy got an award at prom. (Dang, that prom episode really had an impact on me.)

Cat interrupted my Buffy marathon with a loud meow and Heaven walked into the room. She looked at the screen, and in a dramatic voice said, “Into every generation, a slayer is born.”

“Fun fact,” I said. “You know the best wood for stakes?” Buffy glossed over the science of stakes. Mister Pointy looked like something Kendra had purchased from the Halloween store. Real stakes were fire-hardened and with a handle that made them look like a cross. “The best ones are made of Chrithmas tree wood.” I cackled madly at the thought. What had I been thinking?

Heaven ignored me and continued. “The slayer will get her lazy ass off the couch and make things with me.” Looking deep into my soul, she asked, “What are you going to make, Tiffenie?”

“Heaven, you know I can’t with the crafts. It doesn’t go with my fangs.”

“Everything goes with fangs.”

“You’re wrong. I saw them on a what-not-to-wear list for 2025. Jojo Siwa had them on, I think.”

Heaven groaned. “Fine, you and Buffy have fun.”

“We always do!” I called after her.

It was ten minutes till the new year and I was all alone, ready to watch the ball drop over Times Square. The camera panned over the crowd—mostly tourists wearing 2025 glasses made of plastic and glitter and festooned in beaded necklaces that would be recycled for Mardi Gras in a few months. They were all mugging for the camera while Alanis Morrisette sang “You Oughta Know,” which had apparently been out for thirty years. But, really, such a beautiful ode to jealous rage was timeless. Ryan Seacrest and a woman from a morning show I’d never seen were seated on a platform in the middle of Times Square. He looked like he was dressed for a dog-sledding adventure through Alaska. The morning show woman was dressed in a skimpy dress and a fur shrug that barely covered her tits. It made me cold to look at her, and I didn’t even get cold.

Back when I was a child, men would dress in bearskins and dance through town to ward off evil spirits. Answering the door to fierce bear dancing—now that had been a tradition. Ryan’s parka paled in comparison.

“It’s only a few minutes to the new year,” Ryan commented.

The woman smiled through the pain, clearly shivering. She was a half-naked middle-aged woman acting excited about a teen pop star and using words like sus and rizz, trying to be forever young and on display in below-freezing temperatures, which was worse than being a vampire, if you ask me.

At 11:53 p.m., Vlad walked through the door. “Where’s Heaven?” he asked.

“She’s on her first date with Dr. R.” I was already planning their wedding, so hopefully they were having a good night.

The Times Square ball slowly lowered down the pole, indicating the beginning of a new year and the end of the old. If an entire crowd of people hadn’t been screaming, it would be hard to know it was exciting.

“Remember that year we went to Times Square?” I said, smiling at the recollection. We had kissed to welcome in 1910. A good year. Vlad had tried to share a virgin with me and I’d refused. It had been harder to find bagged blood in those days.

The camera scanned the crowd. “Where do all those people go to the bathroom?” I asked.

“They just have to hold it,” Vlad said.

On TV the mortals were singing “Auld Lang Syne.”

Vlad sat down at the piano we’d rolled into the room during Heaven’s panic reno and ran his fingers across the keys. With a cringe he said, “This needs a tuning.”

It would be destroyed with the house in a couple of days. Not much sense worrying if it was a little sharp.

He began to sing “Auld Lang Syne” in a melancholy voice along with the TV. How many times had I heard this song? Every new year since Robert Burns had written it. I remember when it was new. Even then, I hadn’t liked it. Better not to reflect upon the passage of time or old friends. Better not to listen to the song.

I muted the TV. What did any of this matter compared to eternity?

Vlad played the piano well and the sound filled the room and reverberated inside my soul in a way only music can, strumming the chords of feelings I didn’t want to acknowledge and definitely didn’t want to feel.

“Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?” Vlad crooned.

Tears pricked my eyes at the sentiment. My whole life was about saying goodbye to acquaintances or being alone and having no one to say goodbye to. Every goodbye emptied me a little more until there was nothing left at all. Vampires are lonely creatures by nature, but Dr. Rosetti was right—I could do better. The world didn’t have to whir past me.

All the people I’d met in Valentine—I would never see them again. Sure, they didn’t really know me, and I didn’t really know them, but we’d connected through the long nights of winter. Would they remember me in a few years?

I sat down on the piano bench next to Vlad, scooting myself as close to him as I could get. When his fingers stopped on the keys, I shook my head. “Keep playing.”

We two have run about the hills,

And picked the daisies fine;

But we’ve wandered many a weary foot

Since auld lang syne.

I looked at Vlad’s beautiful profile, the boyish hair curling around his ears, the freckles smattered across his nose from sunshine hundreds of years past. His kind eyes and strong hands.

This song was about us.

For three hundred years, Vlad had been there. Sure, I kicked him out and said “Goodbye forever” every few years, but he came back. He always came back.

His full, rich voice filled the house. We sang the last chorus together.

And there’s a hand my trusty friend, and give me a hand of thine.

Tears streamed down my face for all the goodbyes, but especially the most recent. Sure, a sentimental vampire is the biggest oxymoron in the world, but I was who I was.

Vlad lifted his fingers from the keys and wiped away my tears. “Tiffenie, I’m so sorry. I’ve been a naysayer for many years, always warning you against mobs with their torches and pitchforks, but you were right. You made friends. I didn’t think it was possible.”

“What’s next?” I made light of his compliments if only to stem the tide of my tears. “Do you think men and women can be friends?”

“No.” He guffawed at the absurdity. “I’m changing, but not that fast.”

“What about Heaven?” I asked. “Or Dr. R?”

With tenderness, he rubbed my back. “One thing at a time, my love.”

“In three hundred years, I’ve never really tried to fit in. I’ve just been paying the bills, existing, trying to fit into a box. This is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling part of a community.” What are you going to make? Heaven’s question echoed in my mind. Maybe I sucked at crafting, but I could make friends, even without a tutorial from Dr. R.

“Remember when we were first together,” I reminisced, “before you turned me?”

He smiled at the memory.

“I wanted to be with you because I was desperate to make my own way, to have independence. I wanted to read books and think big thoughts, to live a bigger life. You were the only one who saw that as a possibility for me.”

“I still do.”

“I know. Instead, I’ve been hiding, living a smaller life than I did as a girl. Until now. I want to live that life we imagined so long ago. I’m ready for it.”

His hands barely touched the keys. When he looked into my eyes, I saw the Vlad from long ago, a man filled with hope, not the jaded misanthrope of late. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asked.

“Were you serious about pulling a Harry and Meghan?”

“Yes, I want to be Harry and Meghan,” he said, with the utmost earnestness.

That was all I needed to hear.

“Three hundred years ago you asked me to be your vampire bride. We were so young and stupid. I wasn’t ready then. I wasn’t strong enough.”

He clasped my hands tighter and shut his eyes. “I loved you even more for walking away, Tiffenie. You were stronger than me. You have stood by your principles for over three hundred years.”

I looked up at his sparkling green eyes, softened with love. “No matter what, you have been here for me, through every move and every dumb job, every century. You kept me hidden from the parliament. You have been my only consistent companion. So many times, I would have chosen to be with you, if it didn’t mean choosing everything that went along with it.”

He mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

“I love you, Vlad. I have always loved you. There is no one who I would rather share every trivial detail of my day with for the rest of my existence.”

He cupped my face with his hands tenderly.

“You made me wait three centuries for a yes.” He threw his head back. “The torture! If we get married, promise you will continue. It has given me a reason to keep going for all these years.”

When I laughed, he said, “No, seriously.”

“I’m sure I can think of something.” I’d loaned my BDSM manual to Pete, but that was for beginners.

“Three hundred years of waiting.” Vlad was laugh-crying, all the emotions coming out at once. “And all I had to do was quit my job?”

“Either quit, or change the office culture.” I smiled. “I’ll take either one.”

“We’ll feel it out, but I promise it will be better.” He kissed me softly and then pulled back, his face radiant with joy. “We’re getting married!” he shouted. He picked me up and twirled me around. “You have made me the happiest man, dead or alive.”

The next morning, there was a commotion in the yard—the sound of heavy equipment, the rumbling of multiple pickups, and male voices saying things like “Jim, you can’t park there” and “Someone back up the trailer.” The crane operator was finally back from vacation, it seemed.

I put on my hoodie, tightened the strings until my face all but disappeared, put on a pair of Aunt Mildred’s sunglasses, and grabbed an umbrella to block the sun before running to the yard.

“Stop!” I yelled, stumbling down the front stairs while gripping the umbrella and sliding my hands farther into the sleeves.

One of the construction workers squinted at me for quite a while before saying, “What the—?” He walked toward me with a confused look. Not the kind of guy you’d ask for help with your homework. “This house is going down. You gotta get outta here.”

Snow crunched under my feet on the way across the driveway toward them.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I live here, along with my…” What should I call Vlad? Vlad emerged from the house dressed much like I was and joined me in the driveway. “I’m here with my fiancé.” I smiled at Vlad, not that you could tell with my face covered.

“Fiancé,” Vlad said. “I like the sound of that.”

“I’m here with my fiancé,” I repeated, mostly for Vlad, “…and our protégé!”

“Stop that now,” Heaven said. “Sister is fine.” Heaven had followed Vlad out of the house wrapped in one of the mauve bedspreads, only her face poking out. The workman looked at each of us in turn with a confused expression.

I channeled Miley Cyrus and Sandra Bullock, the two women I associated most with wrecking balls, and stood my ground. “This is my home. I filed an appeal and you can’t be here.”

I didn’t know if that was true but…oh well.

“Your appeal was denied. You know that.”

Vlad stepped in. “What about an auction? Isn’t the city obligated to sell the home if there are bidders?”

The guy looked annoyed. “I just drive the crane. I don’t fucking know.”

“You need to find out now.”

With some significant grumbling, he got on the phone and talked to someone for a few minutes, during which I reminded Vlad that I didn’t have any money for an auction and I wasn’t taking his. “I would rather go down under my own power than be rescued.”

He shook his head in annoyance. “We’re going to be married. It will also be your money.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” I said.

He looked at me like he was about to tear his hair out. Suddenly, a smile replaced his look of frustration. “Tiffenie, you are keeping your promise.”

“Torturing you with my principles?” I guessed.

“I love you,” he said. “I will never be bored.”

After hanging up the phone, the crane operator said, “You got your wish. There’s an auction, tomorrow, 5:30 p.m.”

The crane remained parked outside, the hooded executioner of our beloved house. What do you do with your last night of happiness? Can you possibly enjoy it? I thought the answer was no, but I was wrong.

Heaven, Vlad, and I sat in the living room in mismatched chairs. A feeling of near contentment settled over me. My family (?) and I were gathered around the fire, ready to get tanked.

I poured Vlad’s bottled virgin blood into three margarita glasses.

“I almost had a gift as well, not for you, Vlad, but for Heaven.” I turned to my new sister. “I was going to give you the deed to the inn before yesterday—”

“Oh, yeah?” She looked back and forth between us two old-ass white people. “What is this, reparations?” Then a funny look came over her. “I imagine white guilt probably hits different for you two, since you were there. Where were you during the Civil War and Reconstruction?” Heaven asked demurely.

“You know, I can’t remember,” I said, truthfully. “I think I was in Italy?”

“Well, that would have been a really nice gift if the house weren’t set to be auctioned off tomorrow,” Heaven said.

I shrugged. “I tried.”

“If you gave me the house, I would’ve pulled a Sandra Bullock,” Heaven said. “You know how in that one movie she lies in front of the wrecking ball?”

“Yes, and then she and Hugh Grant save a community center where old people do aerobics or whatever. Basically us.” If only. “It’s our story, except we’ll have to recast it. Rachel Weisz can play me—”

“What?” A look of amusement crossed Heaven’s face. “You think that’s who you look like?”

“It’s true,” I said. “A guy on the street told me that once.”

She shook her head. “Whatever. Just call me Issa Rae then.”

“Okay, so Issa Rae will play you, Rachel Weisz will be me, and who is going to play you, Vlad?”

Vlad said, “Tiffenie, I have a late Chrithmas gift for you as well.”

I turned to him, expecting him to present me with a wrapped bauble with a bow, a little package from Tiffany and Co. After all, he did owe me an engagement ring.

Instead, he handed me a file. “Not that sort of gift. I hired a private investigator in the Cayman Islands to track down Tiffany with a -y.”

“Oh,” I said, sincerely surprised.

“Now that you froze her account, she’s probably having less fun.”

I flipped through the file. Tiffany with a -y appeared to be living the good life off of ill-gotten gains.

“Thank you, Vlad. This was so thoughtful.” I clutched the file and beamed at him. He saw the real me, the quirky vampire obsessed with my false identity the way some humans are with their ancestors. This was better than 23andMe.

“Maybe we should go to Grand Cayman for our honeymoon, close out that account,” he said. “I would say that we could deal with Tiffany, but it seems she’s already getting herself in trouble. As far as the system is concerned, you’re Tiffany.”

Oh, the irony.

“When are you guys getting married?” Heaven asked.

I shrugged. “We’re not in a rush, right?” We had eternity.

“Have you even told anyone?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Just you. Who else should we tell?” Vlad had already moved on from this topic and had picked up a copy of the Economist.

Engagement announcements were traditional. Tiffany Amanda Blair and Jeff Powers, both of Valentine, are delighted to announce their engagement to be married. Even those two assholes had an announcement.

“Why do we need to tell anyone?” He looked up briefly from his reading, some article about the rules of war. “Our love is our business.”

“You’re supposed to change your Facebook status to ‘engaged,’ ” Heaven said in a “duh” tone of voice. “Put up some photos of your hands with rings, you two in sweaters gazing into each other’s eyes in a local pumpkin patch. That kind of thing.”

That sounded nice.

I might not have social media, but I did have a couple of people to tell. I sent Jessica a text:

Me: got engaged!

Jessica: Congrats!!!! To Tyrone?

Me: lol. no, got back with my ex vlad

Jessica: Drinks on me!

The offer of drinks with a newfound friend rested heavy on my heart. I looked around at the house that was never really mine. Vlad’s and my first task as an engaged couple would be to move out of this house that was just becoming a home and away from our new friends. Could we find a place we loved as much as Valentine?

Cat jumped into my lap and purred, more affectionate than she’d been in a month. I rubbed her head behind the ears. “I know, I don’t want to leave either,” I whispered.

Instead of being held in a public building with advance notice and lawyers, as I imagined was proper based on heavy TV viewing, the auction was conducted in front of the inn itself. We woke up early and dressed in ballcaps and glasses to ward off the very last rays of light as the sun dipped below the horizon. A handful of salt-crusted minivans and construction pickups pulled into the driveway. One man opened his door to get out and an empty Wendy’s cup did a lopsided roll across the driveway. Jessica arrived in an army-green puffer and a winter hat pulled low on her head.

The crane with the wrecking ball loomed over the pathetic scene.

“Today is my birthday,” I said to no one in particular.

“That’s right,” Heaven said. “Every day is your birthday. What is the Epiphany anyway?”

Vlad went into a long-winded explanation of the Magi and the first manifestation of Jesus.

“We used to make dumplings,” I said, getting to the heart of the matter.

In attendance at the worst celebration of the Epiphany ever: Wayne Jarvis, still in his cheap suit and a coat from Costco; Jessica; a guy I didn’t recognize; and the auctioneer, who looked like the man on the front of the Quaker Oats box. Oatmeal is a vile gruel that people dress up with raisins. Raisins are pure trickery. Even I know that.

While we were waiting for the Quaker Oats man to sell my house out from under me and/or destroy it, I griped, “What is the point of this? He’s just going to tear it down, right?”

Vlad sighed. “Tiffenie, I haven’t supported you as much as I could have over the last three centuries, always rescuing you instead of giving you the tools to save yourself in the first place. Not that I needed to give you the tools, but as your maker, I should have provided some mentorship.” He threw up his hands. “Anyway, I can see that I wasn’t that helpful.”

Was this really the time for speeches about himself? “Vlad, I love you, but can you tell me more about yourself later?”

“You aren’t listening, I’m apologizing for running in on a white horse all the time.”

“Oh, Vlad.” I sighed. “Maybe you didn’t help, but it wasn’t all your fault. The system wasn’t designed for a woman to succeed on her own and build wealth. I couldn’t even own property without a husband until recently. What I really should have done was marry someone and then drain him. Being nonviolent has really gotten in my way. My whole personality has been an obstacle to my success.” Next to Heaven’s ray-of-sunshine philosophies, I could finally see how negative and defeatist I had been.

“Shut up, Tiffenie.” Vlad took my hands while the Quaker Oats man talked to a local in a trucker hat nearby. “You haven’t let me finish. I promise not to ride in on a white horse anymore, after this.” He gauged my reaction. “I could give you the money. I want to. I want this for you.”

The Quaker Oats man cleared his throat and said, “Let’s get this proceeding started. You’re all here for an auction of this property, 623 Maple Lane, owned by the city of Valentine, Vermont.”

My heart was in my throat. I had been so proud of myself for the last month. Heaven and I had done something hard by fixing this house up and becoming part of the community. Not every vampire could do that.

The Quaker Oats man continued. “Be aware that this is a condemned property. The city is selling it as is, without inspection or guarantee of any sort. The house has been condemned for a variety of issues: exposed wiring, infestation of bats and other vermin, health and safety violations, fire damage, and a rotted front porch.”

He glanced up at the brand-new front porch, a puzzled look on his face.

“They used the wrong screws,” Wayne Jarvis said.

The auctioneer raised his eyebrows, but it was no skin off his nose.

The whole house looked pretty good, actually. Sure, it had the appearance of a haunted house, but it was decorated for Christmas. Radiance was a Hallmark Christmas gone wrong, a beloved piece of Americana. It didn’t fit in in the neighborhood, it struggled with rules, and it was getting pretty old, but it had a place.

A lightbulb went off in my head. Didn’t fit in, no rules, too old—this house wasn’t just mine; it was me. And Heaven. And Vlad. It was a house for vampires.

I pushed my way to the front of the group. The house lights glinted off the reflective numbers on the crane. “May I speak?”

“Ugh…” The Quaker Oats man looked confused. “I guess, but this isn’t a hearing. I don’t have the power to un-condemn your house.”

“Fine.” If it was a eulogy, then so be it.

I looked out at the small gathering of cold people who wanted to get this over with and hurry home to Hamburger Helper and lukewarm marriages. Fuck that. I took a steadying breath for good measure and cleared my mind.

“Good people of Valentine,” I said, “I inherited this home a couple of months ago. When I arrived, I found it cold, empty, and filled with bats. Today, I can say it is the warmest home I have known since I was a child. Heaven, Vlad, and I fixed everything using money we raised from strangers on the internet who love Heaven’s life advice, as well as mine, it seems.”

I cleared my throat. “At any rate, they hope to visit someday. Tyrone, across the road, gave us those screws that Wayne doesn’t like. Bob, Jessica’s brother, fixed our wiring and rode out his first holiday post-divorce with us. The bats moved into the barn because they didn’t like holiday music. We got rid of the fire damage. I don’t fully understand how she did it, but Heaven filled the home with positive energy and sunlight. The pink salt lamp looks like a sunrise. Tyrone killed a coyote to satisfy the illegal canid order. What else do you want from us? We did pretty well given the time we had. All in all, you have to admit this house looks great. And even if it doesn’t, it’s my home.”

Heaven looked down at her feet.

“I am proud of everything we did here. I’m proud of myself and I’m proud of you, Heaven. Maybe Valentine is going to take this home and destroy it right in front of us, but this house represents more than that.”

“Um, lady.” The Quaker Oats guy tried to interrupt me. “This isn’t really a speech occasion.”

“Don’t interrupt. I’m talking.”

Vlad shot daggers at Quaker Oats. “Keep going, darling. It’s beautiful.”

“When I came here, I was running short on belief. I was lonely. Now, thanks to Valentine, Heaven, and Vlad, I believe in something. I know that every day is your birthday, money comes to me, and good dick ain’t worth nothin’. But mostly, I know that I have power. Fuck your regulations. I am radiant!”

Heaven smiled. Everyone else looked confused.

“You can plow this house down, but I’ll still be standing, and so will my family.”

“Um…” the Quaker Oats guy said. “Lady, I’m sorry about your house, but it’s not my call. I’m just doing my job.”

I gave him a nod.

“If everyone is done talking, I’d like to open up the bidding.”

Jessica cleared her throat. “Hearing you talk gave me an idea, Tiffany. I have something to say too, an announcement to make.”

“What now?” Quaker Oats looked at his watch. “It’s not an actual funeral.”

Jessica walked to the front of the group and tightened her ponytail like she meant business. “I’m head of the Valentine Planning Committee and in charge of the annual award of the Valentine Christmas Miracle Fund. I wasn’t intending to announce the recipient until Valentine’s Day, but due to circumstances, I’d like to make the award early.”

My jaw dropped. She couldn’t be…

“Tiffany, you have been an asset to this community. You’ve only been here for a month, but you’ve volunteered for the elderly. You hosted a Christmas celebration for all of us with nowhere else to go. Valentine is not ready to lose you as a citizen. And we certainly shouldn’t be knocking your house down because a bunch of stuffy old guys won’t accept a video as evidence of your hard work. I’m delighted to get to know your family. I think you all are the new face of Valentine.” With a glance at Vlad and Heaven, she continued. “I don’t fully understand what’s going on here, but I like it, and Valentine needs you. As a community, we’re thirsty for more gathering spots, or third places, as Dr. Rosetti called them. Whatever you decide to call this business—a bed-and-breakfast, a salon, a coffee shop, or a cult—I’m going to be your first customer.”

With a flourish she added, “No one has deserved this award more since we gave Tyrone some money a few years ago to start his Christmas fair. You three are the future.”

Oh, the irony.

“At any rate, it is my honor to present you with the Christmas Miracle Fund. It’s pretty large this year after that bachelor auction. Tyrone brought in a lot of money, not to mention the baked goods sale.”

At that, Vlad smiled with true satisfaction. He had managed to give me the money after all.

My heart broke with every word Jessica spoke. I had found a place, no, I had made a place for myself. But I couldn’t take the money. I could, but I couldn’t buy a house with it. “Vlad,” I said quietly, “Wayne knows I’m not really Tiffany, and maybe some of the others. I don’t know if I can use that identity to buy a house, but I also can’t own property as Tiffenie Ruba.”

Vlad saw my face fall and my undead heart breaking to pieces. To get so close to my goal was almost worse than missing by a long shot.

He took me and Heaven aside for a vampires-only huddle. “No one knows that Heaven is undead.” He looked at Heaven. “Right?”

As what he was saying dawned on me, rays of sunlight shot through the clouds and into my soul like a corny picture with a Bible quote. All the pyrite and sunlight that Heaven never shut up about must have worked. That three-thousand-dollar salt lamp was worth every penny.

“Even better if you buy the house under your business name,” he said to Heaven. “The government doesn’t notice if businesses live forever.”

“Heaven?” I asked, my eyes shining with hope.

She looked at the inn. “So this would be mine, the headquarters of Radiance Global Life Coaching?”

“Absolutely. If you would have me, I would like to stay on in some capacity, but you can banish me to Provo if you want,” Vlad said, bowing his head in deference.

“I’m not stupid,” she said. “I want the leader of the vampires and his bride on the premises.”

On the Epiphany, January 6, 2025, I was born again not as a divine being but as a woman who knows her own power. I am not a girl born in 1996 who spells her name with a -y, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m Tiffenie. I drink blood but I don’t wear matte lipstick. I’m sort of into crystals and I never do the dishes, mostly because I don’t cook. And I don’t like garlic because it’s gross, not because it has magical powers or whatever.

I live in an inn with unclear branding (forward all questions regarding Radiance to Heaven) and will believe forever that I look like Rachel Weisz. (Not having a mirror can be a good thing.) I live with my best friend, who’s more like a sister, even if she calls herself my landlord, and my fiancé, whom I’ve been dating for three hundred years.

And no, there won’t be bridesmaids at my wedding.

Radiance Global Life Coaching is still working on its branding. Are we a bed-and-breakfast, an all-night coffee shop, or a blood bank? Who’s to say? Maybe we don’t need to define it. There’s too much focus on branding these days. Not everything needs to go in a box with a label on it. At any rate, today we’re hosting a wedding.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

“We are celebrating the marriage of Jessica and Tyrone in about an hour.” I spoke into the camera for a little GRWM on Heaven’s account. She had started outsourcing social media to me (at her own risk) so she could unplug for a day here and there. “So let’s get ready! I don’t like to use foundation, but I have some highlighter and some concealer for these undereye bags. A dramatic eye is always good. Swipe some liquid liner on your lash line and then”—I dug in Vlad’s wallet for a card and held it up—“use your boyfriend’s black card for a straightedge.”

After I finished applying a perfect swipe of eyeliner, I slipped on my dress and did a spin for the camera. “Let’s do a fit check. As you can see, it’s a Chrithmas wedding. I have mixed feelings about that, but I love Tyrone and Jessica.”

Vlad knocked on the doorframe wearing a tuxedo and looking like an absolute three-course meal. “Are you ready?”

“Almost. You need to sign this.” I passed him the card for Tyrone and Jessica. We had foregone the Target registry and were instead giving them all the money from the Cayman Islands account. Vlad and I had flown down to close the account and do the beach thing.

While Vlad signed the card—“Congratulations. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do”—I slipped on some shoes. “Vlad, will you help me with this?” I handed him a sprig of mistletoe.

He held it over my head and leaned in for a kiss. “After this is over, I’m going to rip this dress off of you with my teeth.”

“Yes, please, Vladdy.” I nuzzled his neck and smiled with the contentment of loving and being loved.

He pinned the mistletoe in my hair and said, “But in the meantime, Jessica needs you. She needs something old for good luck.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sick burn, Vlad.”

“Just kidding. I think she needs help with some sort of woman thing. Perhaps she’s having feelings,” he joked.

With a meaningful glance, I said, “I’ll send you then.” We’d been doing couples counseling and it turned out Vlad was more in tune with his feelings that I was with my own. Vampires aren’t well-adjusted, but at least the older ones have more practice.

Downstairs, the atmosphere was buzzing with excitement. Everyone was in their wedding finery. A high-school string quartet was as close to Yo-Yo Ma as you could get in Valentine. Guests were ordering themed drinks while they waited for the ceremony to start. The Santa’s Choice was a neat whiskey with a cookie on the side. There was one for Jessica that looked too sweet. The only virgin cocktail on the menu was the blood sourced from Utah, available upon special request only. It was called the Happily Ever After, natch.

THE END

Thank you to my agent, Pam Gruber. You keep me sane. To Jhanteigh Kupihea for acquiring this book and all the fun collaboration. I’m holding you to that steak and martini you promised. To Jessica Yang for all the hard work you put in on this project. Everyone else at Quirk, including Jane Morley for thorough and insightful copyediting and the whole marketing team: Nicole De Jackmo, Ivy Noelle Weir, Kate Brown, Gaby Iori, Christina Tatulli, and Scott MacLean.

To Silas, Daphne, and Lila for laughing at the original first chapter of this book. To Terrell for listening to me blab about plot over coffee most mornings. To my whole family for putting up with me writing on every holiday and vacation for the last year. Maybe that should be an apology instead of a thank-you.

Erica Holland, thank you for your friendship and for doing your best to keep my foot out of my mouth. Same to Liam Mooney. To all the writers at Smut U who have been a support network for me. You are the best community a writer could ask for.

Now, people who read parts of this book, plotted, drank coffee in my vicinity, listened to me whine, etc.: Cristina, Kristi, Colin, Kate, Meredith, Kimmi, Eileen, Roselle, Carly, Nikki, Denise, Ellie, Jennifer, Heather, Tam, and all the members of morning Zoom writing. Thank you so much to the romance community. I’m so lucky to be part of this network of badass women.

Oh, and thanks to Beyoncé for Cowboy Carter, which was on repeat through all my drafting. One of my greatest achievements of 2024 was being in your top 0.01 percent of listeners.

And of course, thank you to my readers.

When not writing rom-coms, author Sam Tschida (pronounced “cheetah”) is probably flipping channels between Dateline and the latest reality dating show. She braves the Minnesota winter with her four resigned children, two snuggly dogs, and one sizzling-hot husband. She doesn’t drink alcohol, never touches caffeine, and is always on time. Just kidding—did you read how many kids she has?

David Borgenicht Chairman and Founder

Nicole De Jackmo EVP, Deputy Publisher

Andie Reid Creative Director

Jane Morley Managing Editor

Mandy Sampson Production Director

Shaquona Crews Principal, Contracts and Rights

CREATIVE

Alex Arnold Editorial Director, Children’s

Jess Zimmerman Editor

Rebecca Gyllenhaal Associate Editor

Jessica Yang Assistant Editor

Elissa Flanigan Senior Designer

Paige Graff Junior Designer

Kassie Andreadis Managing Editorial Assistant

SALES, MARKETING, AND PUBLICITY

Kate Brown Senior Sales Manager

Christina Tatulli Digital Marketing Manager

Ivy Weir Senior Publicity and Marketing Manager

Gaby Iori Publicist and Marketing Coordinator

Kim Ismael Digital Marketing Design Associate

Scott MacLean Publicity and Marketing Assistant

Jesse Mendez Sales Assistant

OPERATIONS

Caprianna Anderson Business Associate

Robin Wright Production and Sales Assistant

WHAT’S NEXT IN YOUR TBR PILE?

Search our complete catalog to find the book that was made for you.

Find your perfect book!

Sign up for the Quirk E. Newsletter and get up-todate info on new releases, discounts, and exclusive giveaways. As a thank-you, we’ll send you a handful of free e-books to give you a taste of what Quirk is all about!

Sign up now!

Siri, Who Am I?

Alice Chen’s Reality Check

My Lady’s Choosing

Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires

My Best Friend’s Exorcism

Scope our site: Quirkbooks.com

Be our friend: Facebook.com/quirkbooks

Try our tweets: Twitter.com/quirkbooks