Copyright ©2023 by Jenna Walker

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or

transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places,

and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people
living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art: Forenics and Flowers

Formatting: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

ISBN-13: 9798392693788
 Dedicated to The Walker 4
Everything I do, I do for you.
Contents

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Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
“NEVER BE TOO MAD TO take their money,” Mother would say,
stacking bills of hundreds and fifties along the kitchen table, a
hand-rolled cigarette hanging from the corner of her scarlet
lips. “They will enrage you, they will belittle you. Think
themselves superior even when they need you. Take their
money and go.”
Another text vibrates in my pocket as I make my way down
Bourbon Street, Mother on my mind. Groaning, I check my
phone, unsurprised it’s another frantic text from Nicola.
Amerie couldn’t wait. Hurry. I’ll pay extra.
“Wow.” It’s all I can muster as I stomp down the street
because I can read between the lines. Amerie opened some
human’s vein and didn’t have my cream to heal it. Vampires.
The most impulsive creatures on the planet. It’s astounding
how they’ve survived this long.
Take their money and go.
Many a girl will be told on their first trip to the French
Quarter, never to go down Bourbon Street on her own,
especially past midnight. But this is my home, and shady folks
tend to stay away from girls with dark lipstick in velvet
hooded cloaks. And because of this, I’ve rarely had to use
magic to protect myself for most of my twenty-five years.
It’s not really the locals I’ve had problems with, it’s the
tourists that expect young women to show their tits in
exchange for plastic beads. Drunken buffoons that think I want
to hear about how many ways they can please me.
The last time I showed an overly aggressive bald man
exactly what pleases me, by pushing him down with a flick of
my finger.
“Two hours,” I had whispered as I walked across his back.
The spell had been cast with him sprawled out upon the
alcohol-covered street for 120 minutes before he had the
strength to get up, the yells in his Brooklyn accent somehow
barely above a whisper.
Sneering at the memory, my feet taking me farther down
Bourbon Street to Comey’s, a no-frills jazz pub where true
music enthusiasts sit to drink and not just listen to music, but
to feel music. Stepping inside, my eyes immediately catch
Oksana’s. Running Comey’s is her job, but her true passion is
being the vampire’s gatekeeper. They lurk inside various clubs
and bars throughout the French Quarter, whispering the
password to the upstairs speakeasy into the ears of captivated
tourists. It’s Oksana who allows passage upstairs once the
password has been repeated, ushering them where she’s about
to take me.
With the usual grimace on her face, she comes from behind
the bar, and we fall in line with each other. A jazz band goes to
town on the tiny stage as patrons sway in their seats or yell
over the music in an attempt at conversation.
“Finally,” she mutters in her English accent. That wispy
woman with a diseased disposition never hides her revulsion
for me.
My index finger points to her foot, an invisible bolt of
power zapping her sandal. She stumbles forward but pushes
her arm to the wall, catching herself.
“You good?” I ask, sprawling out my hands in a fake
attempt to catch her. Those thin lips sneer, but she’s not stupid
enough to accuse me of anything.
Once we reach the back of the bar, she reaches into her
pocket, producing a set of keys. I don’t need the password to
enter. I never will. Unlocking the door that says Employees
Only, she side-eyes me and then waves her hand for me to
ascend, her eyes saying, What are you waiting for? I clench
the inside of my cheek to keep from casting something I may
regret and turn away from her.
The narrow stairs widen as they spiral upward, and I stroke
the heads of the cats that lounge upon them as I climb. Passing
a Vampires On The Loose sign on the staircase wall, I make
my way to the second floor and slowly open the door with
Nightwalkers etched into the glass.
A vampire speakeasy with real vampires. You must stay
clever if you’re a vampire or witch these days, and New
Orleans, with its haunted reputation, is the perfect place to
hide in plain sight.
Just as I push the door open, I hear Nicola’s voice,
desperate, crying, no wait—pleading.
“Why isn’t it enough?” she wails as I walk in, her knees at
Cassius’s feet, hands clasped in prayer position, eyes rimmed
red. This is a first, and is that a stake on the ground next to
her? What is happening?
The clack of my boots causes her head to snap in my
direction, and she looks caught, embarrassed even.
“We had to turn customers away!” she hisses, jumping up
and stomping toward me, then has the audacity to reach for my
bag of products, but I slide it out of her reach.
“You’re so welcome that I rushed an order for you, Nicola.
I’ll remember your gratitude next time.” I flash the fakest
smile and step closer to her. “I’ll take my money first.”
Nicola’s dark eyes glint in the dimly lit room that was once
a Greek Revival condominium but now is a speakeasy covered
in black and white striped wallpaper like we’re standing inside
Beetlejuice’s suit pocket. Small tables line the walls where
tarot readings are as popular as the emerald flow of absinthe.
Licking her canines, sharp and dangerous, Nicola is
consumed with anger as she runs a jittery hand over her
platinum blonde hair. Whenever her nostrils flare like they are
now, I’ve learned the struggle to gather herself is real.
Candles cast shadows along the walls mixing the scent of
lavender with alcohol while a gothic song plays—a vampire
waltz, no doubt. We supernaturals are all about ambiance, and
my eyes return to the oldest, most ambient creature in the
room.
In a large Victorian chair, Cassius sits in the corner, staring
at a wall until his eyes meet mine. He’s usually playing some
melancholic tune on the baby grand piano in the corner of the
parlor, but tonight it seems I’ve walked in on more than one
crisis. And the stake I thought I saw is nowhere in sight.
I can’t help but pity Nicola’s first son. A sullen vampire,
with his long brown hair and perfectly sculpted face. If I were
a usual girl, my heartbeat would quicken every time his
attention was placed upon me, but I’m not usual—not at all.
The sulky vampire bit is old, as far as I’m concerned. Cassius
doesn’t look at me, doesn’t acknowledge my existence, which
is nothing new. My purpose here has nothing to do with him
and his river of sorrows.
I look away from Cassius, and my attention is drawn to the
reason I’m here—to the young man lying on the royal blue
couch in the center of the room. With closed eyes, he’s
breathing ever so softly, as if the life is barely left in him. His
long forearm lies across a coffee table where two fresh
puncture wounds pool with blood on the inside of his elbow.
Next to his arm is the glass of absinthe that put him to sleep,
the drink laced with one of my potions.
This is how I make the bulk of my living—selling potions
and creams to vampires. It’s a lucrative business, but I can’t
say that I love my job.
I sense the tension, sense the vampires are getting restless,
worrying the guy will awaken at any moment. And if he does
with two holes in his arm, they would have to kill him.
Thankfully I made it in time.
Amerie appears from the terrace that overlooks Bourbon
Street, a tiny vampire with smooth dark skin and lips the frat
boys find irresistible. “I couldn’t help myself,” she sneers in
her French accent. “Look at his face. Such a beautiful face has
the sweetest blood.”
My stomach turns, and from the sight of this guy, I decide
not to wait on the cash. I place the brown paper sack down,
pull out a cream, and hand it to Nicola. “It takes seven days to
cure the cream. You need to start placing your orders earlier. I
can’t keep up.”
“Bastian is back, we’ll be needing more than usual,” Nicola
says, and did she say Bastian? I clear my throat and search the
room for him, off guard at the mention of his name. It’s been
years since I’ve seen Nicola’s second “son” Bastian. Vampires
have this strange habit of adopting new vampires and then
calling them family while hardly knowing each other. Bastian
was around when I was a child, and I always wondered where
the only vampire that ever smiled went.
But he’s nowhere in sight, and my eyes turn back to Nicola,
who is spooning a fingertip into the jar, pulling a wad of clear
cream from it. Healing creams are known to burn the skin of
witches. Making it requires extra care, from collecting the
ingredients, to carefully filling each container. Something I
create that harms me, and the irony is not lost on me.
Kneeling next to the young man, Nicola hastily spreads it
across his puncture wounds, caressing his head like he’s some
kind of pet. Then she runs her flattened tongue along his
forearm, lapping up the residual blood.
I turn as if witnessing something I shouldn’t be seeing, a
discomfort that comes with my job, and take a deep breath as
something shifts in the room with heavy footsteps pounding
upon the floor.
There’s a man exiting Nicola’s office, a bag in one hand
while the other runs a thumb along his bottom lip. He watches
Nicola, eyebrows drawn together, and I take a breath to steady
myself, unsure if I’m lightheaded from watching Nicola lick
blood like a sexual wolf, or if it’s seeing Bastian for the first
time in fifteen years. He’s still as striking as he was back then
—even more so, it seems. But now mine are the eyes of a
woman looking upon him, not a little girl. And when his eyes
shift to me, I stand up straight.
“Aster,” he says, eyebrow arching. The dark brown locks of
hair sit in waves on his head, and his green eyes soften. It’s
true that some vampires pale when they turn, but it’s not true
for Bastian, who has managed to keep his deep tan. With long
legs and a lean body, he’s very dapper in a three-piece suit—
which would be overkill for any man that wasn’t a vampire,
but vampires can just get away with anything, can’t they? He’s
fine, and his walk tells me he knows it.
“Bastian,” I say, avoiding his gaze and stepping away from
him.
With searching eyes, he’s placing me as Aster the woman,
not Aster the child. It’s no longer the black-haired witch
making deliveries with her daughter. My mother has long
since moved away, but he smiles as recognition blossoms.
“All grown up.” And something flickers in his eyes as a
hand slips into his pocket.
“That is what humans do,” I say, and he laughs.
“I wouldn’t consider a witch a human.” He’s wrong, but I
don’t bother to correct him. Witches are supernatural beings,
yes. But our hearts must pump with blood, our bodies require
sustenance, we can be killed, and we can reproduce.
“A mere mortal, then?” I bow with a hint of an English
accent.
“Better.” His lips curve into an amused grin. “So you’re the
HBIC now?”
“You mean The Head Witch In Charge,” I correct, and he
nods and holy Maiden, Mother, and Crone, he is hot. And does
my face mirror my thoughts? Because he suddenly straightens
as if remembering why we are even talking in the first place.
“Your pay.” There’s a hint of hesitation when he hands over
the paper bag full of cash. I open it, eyeing the normal stack of
hundreds.
 “Said you’d pay extra, for the rush.” Smoke from a burning
stick of incense billows in front of me and I bat it away.
Nicola looks up from the young man, stewing. “You were
already on your way.”
“I’ll pay extra. Your words.”
This is not a typical business relationship, and every
supernatural in this room knows it. Without me, they couldn’t
get away with the amount of tourist blood they drink, and
that’s because over a hundred years ago my great-great
grandmother and her sisters struck a deal with the Vampire
King of New Orleans. Once upon a time, death was the only
option for vampire victims, so my ancestors believed they
were doing the right thing. We make untraceable potions that
incapacitate humans, and the vampires take enough blood that
does no harm. The enchanted creams we create heal the bite
wounds on the spot, and humans are none the wiser—
especially tourists who think they were momentarily lost in a
daydream while at that one speakeasy in the French Quarter.
In return, they pay me. They pay me well. If it weren’t for
me, they would have to revert back to dumping bodies in the
Mississippi, and with today’s forensics, that wouldn’t last
long.
Nicola distributes my products throughout Louisiana, but
some vampires have other arrangements for how they get their
blood, and I don’t ask questions. I do my job—what the
women in my family have been doing for years—with my
mouth mostly closed.
My eyes roam to the comatose boy’s arm. The punctures
are gone, the magic already having healed them.
“I had to run. Running is extra,” I lie. “Do you see these
boots?” Raising my skirt, I showcase my laced-up boots.
“Most dangerous with all the potholes.”
“Always taking advantage,” Nicola says through gritted
teeth, rising from the couch.
“Mother,” Bastian croons, running a tense hand through his
wavy brown hair. “Oksana is still turning customers away
downstairs. Let’s get the boy up and open for business.”
He grabs my hand, pushes a few hundreds into my palm,
then turns it over to his icy lips. “For the rush.” His breath is
cool against my hand, his black lashes blinking and his eyes
boring into mine while a soft kiss is placed upon my skin. “See
you around.” And he says it like a promise.
My hand slips from his, and I shove the hundreds and bag
of cash into my tote. Nicola is fuming, which isn’t out of
character for the hot-headed blonde. But this is different,
there’s a panic in the room.
Bastian turns from me and sits the boy up just as his eyes
flit open. “Amerie,” he says with a flick of his head, and the
beautiful French vampire bounces next to the boy, gently
running her hand up and down his thigh as he comes to.
Bastian pulls out his phone and dials a number. “Let them in,”
he says sternly into the phone—surely Oksana the gatekeeper
—as he unbuttons his suit jacket.
I pull the hood of my cloak over my head, pretending I’m
not at all intrigued by the obvious tension in the room.
Nicola’s head is in her hands as Bastian paces, all while
Cassius forlornly walks to the terrace and yes, it was a stake
on the ground earlier because it’s now in Cassius’s hand.
This is strange because vampires don’t usually have a
weapon that can kill them just lying around or in their own
hands, but it’s not my business. My business here is done. I
look at the college boy and can’t help but feel guilt, though he
won’t remember a thing, and he’s already smiling like a
complete goof at Amerie.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure, as usual.” I dip my head and
walk toward the door with the sounds of Bastian’s and
Nicola’s whispers behind me. I turn and meet Bastian’s gaze,
who gives a sharp, appreciative nod in my direction.
Back on Bourbon, there’s that sound—the sound of a
crowd yelling, laughing, living. Whistles blow from the lips of
locals, enticing you to enter their club. Young bachelorettes
dancing, their white veils bopping down the street right next to
men on business trips in suits and ties, fingers clamped around
Hurricane-filled Styrofoam cups. The Bucket Boys are
perched on stools in the middle of the street, with large white
buckets between their legs, slamming their drumsticks on top
of the plastic, their beats echoing throughout the Quarter. Their
mothers watch from the sidelines, laughing with each other,
holding their babies. Neon signs and jazz musicians line the
streets while every genre of music blasts from the various
clubs. Life sways through my bones. Bourbon Street. The
most alive street in New Orleans. Locals may try to hate it.
But not me.
The French Quarter is always bubbling over with people,
and I take a refreshing breath of clean air once I turn on Royal.
The smell of a hot Friday night on Bourbon is not for the
weak-stomached. First-timers often gag at the smell of
fermenting liquor and recklessness.
My shop sits on Royal Street, just around the corner from
the chaos, yet almost a whole other world. I enter through the
side door, up the stairs to my home that sits above my store.
Pulling my cloak from my red hairline and unlacing my
boots—while my cat Mercury greets me in the entryway—I
ruminate over the scene at Nightwalkers.
“You will never guess who’s back, Mercury.” I plop on the
floor, caressing his tail. Something coils in my stomach, a
warning that the natural revulsion I’m supposed to have
simply is not there. Because of all the vampires I have come
across and hate, I could never make myself hate Bastian
Delacroix.
“ROSE QUARTZ IS LOVELY AND all, but what I really need is
divine intervention!” my customer proclaims, clasping her
hands together and looking to the ceiling of my shop. “Jesus,
send me a man. And not just any man, a good man.” A smile
sits upon her bright pink lips, and then she winks at me, for
god’s sake. “Know what I mean?”
I do my best to nod as if I’m agreeing with her, but honey,
love is not the answer. It doesn’t matter what the answer is,
because it’s what most of my customers are in search of, so I
wrap her rose quartz necklace in lavender-scented tissue paper
and place it into a small velvet pouch.
Wildes Jewelry & Crystal belonged to my grandmother,
and though she is long gone, I work religiously, hoping that
wherever she is, she can see me trying to salvage what she
started.
After sprinkling dried rose petals in the pouch, I tighten it
and place it in her hand. “Wear it every day, and at night, place
the pouch under your pillow. Soon enough, love will find
you.” I close my eyes, envisioning two hearts cut in two, the
halves trading places and then being stitched back together.
My customers may not know the magic at hand, but I put as
much as I can into each stone, so their desires are worn around
their necks or hanging from their ears, unaware that life may
very well unfold just how they wish it to.
 She looks at me as if I’ve solved all the world’s problems,
as if I am Jesus Christ himself. But I’m not Jesus, I’m not a
miracle worker. I’m a witch that can do a whole lot, yet there’s
much I simply cannot do. Making two people fall in love is
one of them, but I can certainly help with opening hearts and
minds to it.
“What a magical city. I just love it here.”
Same. Yet, the magic of New Orleans wasn’t created by
witches. It’s just a natural phenomenon that occurred in a place
once considered an uninhabitable environment.
The woman walks out of my shop, her tight mini dress the
only thing on her body not moving, and once she gets outside,
she opens the pouch and puts the necklace right on.
No, love isn’t the answer. But you know what is? Financial
freedom. I scroll through my emails and all that’s there is bill
after bill, and I look around my shop and wish that witches
could create money. Then every problem of mine would be
solved. The pickup from Nightwalkers last night will pay my
mortgage, and once I distribute the coven elders their cut, I
will hopefully have enough to pay my utilities. I am the only
witch in New Orleans paying out the coven, and let’s just say
that witches really suck at money management.
I blow out my cheeks, putting my phone away. Back to
work.
And just as I place a phantom quartz in a glass bowl, the
bell tied to my shop door rings.
Pouring water over the quartz, I feel him before he even
enters—Bastian, walking through the door—and my eyes fix
on my garnet ring. Vampires aren’t supposed to come calling
on witches, and the silver dagger I keep in my boot at all times
warms against my skin.
“I come in peace,” he says immediately, raising his hands
in surrender, a sly grin across his lips. Tonight his attire is less
formal, dark pants and a crisp white button-up. His brown hair
still sits in waves, his natural sun-kissed skin luminous in the
twilight.
 Masking my alarm, I continue pouring water into the bowl
until it’s brimming. “Peace,” my voice drips with sarcasm,
because vampires don’t know the meaning of the word, and I
fix my attention on my work as he walks toward me. His
hands slide on the counter, and they are such typical vampire
hands. Long. Smooth. Ageless and perfectly manicured.
Decorated with two rings—one a gold signet on his right ring
finger with B.D. carved into it, and the other a pinkie ring
made of gold etched obsidian. It’s a stone for protection, and I
wonder if he has any idea or if it just looked pretty. Vampires
are extremely sentimental, always keeping tokens from their
long lives, so I surmise there’s meaning there.
His fingers tap until I’m forced to look up at him.
“Just out doing some shopping. I haven’t been on Royal
Street for quite some time. Nice place,” he says, eyes roving
over the deep purple walls I just re-painted last year. He
saunters past the display cases filled with handmade amethyst
and turquoise rings, agate bracelets, and amber necklaces.
I circulate my finger over the water and quartz filled bowl
until it stirs on its own. I’m free to be myself in front of
Bastian, something I find liberating, but also, I want him to
witness the simplest magic and to remember I’m powerful.
“I love magic shows,” he says and crosses his long arms,
feigning excitement.
I grab the bowl and place it in the window, realizing my
back is to him. “Never turn your back on a vampire,” my
mother had always warned, and I always heeded that advice.
But Bastian is playing some sort of game with me, and I don’t
want him sensing any fear. When I turn around, his arms are
still crossed and he’s leaning on the counter.
“Why do you put them in the window?” His eyes twinkle
with genuine curiosity.
I lean next to him, our faces dangerously close.
He. Is. Beautiful.
Masculine and confident, but not in a toxic way. In a way
that makes him approachable and charming. A way that makes
him too easy to talk to.
“Witches don’t tell their secrets to vampires.”
The corner of his pouty mouth curls up into a grin, baring
his white teeth. Bastian is different from the others, something
I’ve always remembered. He once pulled a quarter out of my
ear, that old magic trick not impressing my ten-year-old self
whatsoever. What was impressive was how he treated me,
joked with me—much to our mothers’ chagrin. Because there
was to be no joking, no laughing, and no friendship between
witches and vampires. He was a rarity for a rather solemn
species.
“The moon charges the quartz and water. We then use the
water for healing spells and blessings.”
He looks at me suspiciously because I’ve divulged insider
information.
“Oh, come on, you can google that.” I laugh because I
wouldn’t tell Bastian my real secret spells.
“Like a type of holy water?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Holy water is blessed by priests. I’m no priest.”
“I knew that,” he says with a mischievous wink. It sets
something off in me, like when you make eye contact with a
crush in high school. There’s a scar on his forehead that runs
from his hairline to his eyebrow, and it suits him, like it has
been there since he was born. I could get lost staring at him, so
I clear my throat.
“I’m closing up for the night. Will you be making a
purchase?” I’m certain that’s not why he’s here. But why is he
here?
“Can we talk? For a moment?”
I look at the time, sighing. “Okay,” I say, my defenses
pricking. My garnet stays pain free, enchanted to sting if I’m
in harm’s way. “Hold on,” I tell him then nod to the shop door.
“Lock,” I command, and the deadbolt turns. “Lights.” The
room dims. “Talk,” I say, turning to Bastian, and he almost
flinches as though I’ve put a spell on him.
 “Magic makes one so lazy,” he titters, and I roll my eyes.
“Energy conservation is vital. Talk,” I repeat, and this time
he knows he’s not under a spell, his chin nodding to his chest,
an eyebrow raising.
“Not a little girl anymore.” He’s speaking more to himself
and I blink incessantly, because he’s studying me and I don’t
like it.
“Yeah, you’re not as tall as I remember. Or as handsome.”
A liquid hot smile pulls on his lips, because he’s pretty
fucking tall and handsome and he knows it.
“Sure,” he laughs, amused by my tiny jab, his face fixing
on mine. It’s not like we knew each other well back then, but I
was a little witch, and all the vampires looked at me with
either disdain or curiosity. The little witch that accompanied
her mother to a bar in the French Quarter. Delta Wildes, my
mother sold potions and creams from one hand with a firm
grasp on me with the other.
“It’s been a long time, Aster. Since I’ve been back home.”
He looks out the window, as though a melancholy is taking
over him. I follow his gaze to a couple walking by the
window, hand in hand. “A long time since I’ve seen my
brother.”
Cassius surfaces from last night, sitting in his chair, an
entire room of vampires frazzled, yet he didn’t move. On my
visits, he’s always polite, but never friendly; beautiful in a
haunting way, in the way you’d expect vampires to be. But
Bastian is his opposite in character, and now, looks vulnerable.
A big vampire no-no.
Unsure where he’s going with this, I maintain silence as
Bastian straightens from his lean on the counter.
“What do you think of him?”
I laugh. “Uh, I don’t. We don’t know each other enough for
me to have an opinion of him. You’ve been gone too long.
You’ve forgotten how it works.”
 “How does it work, again?” Catching my eyes, he looks
almost innocent, like a lost boy, and I could almost soften. But
a witch can never forget how dangerous a vampire is. He’s so
fast, he could break my neck in seconds. So I swallow, my
fingers pressing into my throat.
“I drop off the goods—I get paid and leave. There’s no in-
between. We don’t even acknowledge each other on the
street.”
“Ridiculous,” Bastian sighs.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because we need each other. To survive.”
“I don’t need you to survive. I can do that on my own.”
“Hm. Seems you’re surviving because of the goods we buy
from you. The mortgage for this place and your upstairs
apartment seems a little high for selling twenty-dollar
necklaces.”
My feet draw back while I place a dramatic hand across my
heart. “My necklaces are not twenty dollars,” I scoff, but we
both know he’s right. I couldn’t afford this building with what
I make from my jewelry.
“Look, I have a proposition. I think you’ll find it
financially beneficial,” he rasps, cutting to the chase.
“We aren’t supposed to make side deals. That’s part of The
Agreement.”
“Fuck The Agreement. It’s antiquated and foolish. We
could benefit so much from what you create, and you could
benefit from what we’re willing to pay you for it.”
My mother’s face flashes in my memory. All the rules and
guidelines she entrusted me with before she left for Europe.
Sell the goods to the vampires, make your living, no
fraternizing, and no side or secret deals. Secret deals can make
things sticky, and this is very cut and dry. It’s well known that
any side deals mean treason has been committed. We must
never make ourselves vulnerable, and all deals must be
approved by the coven and vampire leaders. That’s The
Agreement, and it’s been enforced between my ancestors and
the vampires of New Orleans for one hundred years.
This shop and my upstairs home were once my
grandmother’s where my mother and I were raised. There’s
been a lot of mismanagement of the money for a long time, but
I’m in charge now, and I’m going to be financially secure if it
kills me. Our family shop, family home was placed in my
hands seven years ago to save, and it’s not something I take
lightly.
“So what do you want?” I ask, surprised by his candor, the
rules running through my mind.
He pulls an elegant hand over his mouth and looks out the
window again. “My brother is dying.”
“Cassius is dying?” It comes out flat, disbelieving.
“Not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. My mother
called me back from New York to save him. But I can’t save
him, not if he has no reason to live. Last night, he
threatened…” His jaw clenches as the memory of how undone
they all seemed last night at Nightwalkers surfaces, the stake
that seemed to appear and disappear. “He misses being alive.
He yearns for it. And so, I thought you could help me.”
“I can’t make vampires mortal again.”
“That’s not it. I want a spell or a potion. Or whatever it is
that you do. I want something he can take or chant that will
allow him to walk in the daylight again.”
At first, it’s a tingle, that familiar sensation inside my
wrists. But it slowly turns into a pull, as if each wrist has been
invisibly hooked from the mention of magic and the desire to
create it. This is my grimoire’s doing, tucked behind the
counter, pulsing at the request, causing a tug on the veins
inside my wrists. Spell work, magic, potions. They are always
asked of me, and it’s my nature to create them and my
grimoire’s nature to assist. I drop my hands to my sides in an
effort to get the blood flowing again, to make it stop.
“No spell of that kind exists—allowing vampires to walk in
the daylight.” I shake my head and meet his pleading eyes.
They are as light green as aventurine, good for prosperity and
luck.
“Then create one.”
It hits my chest, his request, and the blood in my wrists
thumps. They want to do it. “No,” I whisper to both Bastian
and my wrists. “I can’t. That’s forbidden. That’s big trouble.
Does your mother know about this?” My voice goes up too
many octaves, and I have to clear my throat.
“Hell, no!” he exclaims. “Only me and you. And eventually
Cassius. It’ll be our secret. Cassius and I can leave, swim the
waters of Fiji, watch The World Cup or go wherever the fuck
he wants to go, and he can live again.”
I’m tongue-tied, shocked at what he’s asking me, how
casual he’s going about it. I massage the inside of my wrist
with my thumb, a desperate attempt to stop the pull for magic.
I wish Bastian would stop talking, would leave, but he just
goes on.
“Cassius suffers, he suffers so much. I want to alleviate his
pain, to help him through it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen
him happy. Truly happy.” He looks out the window again and
then turns back to me. “I know it was you that created the lip
balm. That’s why I chose you. I know you can do it.”
The lip balm…the one I single-handedly created just for
vampires. Once applied, a kiss anesthetizes the skin so humans
won’t feel the vampire bite into their flesh. I think back to my
mother’s surprise after I came up with the idea, her goading
me to finish the balm so she could sell it to Nicola. And she
did, and she made a lot of money on it in the beginning.
Money that she spent on Chanel bags instead of the new
refrigerator we needed. But it didn’t bring in the steady stream
of cash my mother had hoped for, and that’s because humans
usually aren’t too keen on being bitten while they are
conscious even if they don’t feel it. It’s still used by vampires
and human mates, but that’s a rarity.
“The lip balm was a novelty that wore off. You guys hardly
use that,” I rub my other wrist, so uncomfortable with what
he’s asking.
 “It doesn’t matter how often we use it, it matters that we
have the choice.”
“Listen, no. Within these walls is where this request dies.
You can’t mess with magic like that. We don’t know what
could happen. What if I killed him? Then I would have a
swarm of vampires after my neck.”
“We’ll test it on me first. I’ll be the guinea pig.” He has
thought this through, and I don’t like it.
“Absolutely not. My coven would burn me for it. Allowing
vampires to be out during the day? You guys would be even
more dangerous than you already are. No.”
“What coven? You’re the only true witch left in New
Orleans. Why do you think we pay you so much?”
“I have a coven!” I say, crossing my arms in defense. But
Bastian is mostly right. I am the last pure-blooded witch left in
the city. The touristy witch shops stocked with a mixture of
gris-gris recipes and spell books made in China don’t count.
Witches only birth girls, we’re an entirely female species and
we haven’t been breeding much in the past hundred years. We
are few and far between, a dying breed.
Bastian leans in, so close I can smell his minty breath, his
hand falling on my shoulder, and I feel its coolness even
through my shirt. “I know what you owe for this place. A
building with an apartment and shop is an expensive mortgage
in the French Quarter, especially on Royal Street. I’ll give you
enough to pay off this entire building. You would never have
to worry again.”
It’s as though time stops. I make enough at the shop to eat
and pay most of my bills, and what the vampires pay me takes
care of paying the elders and most of my mortgage. Even
though this was my grandmother’s home, my mother
refinanced it so many times, we owe more than ever.
My heartbeat quickens and my wrists throb from the
demands of my grimoire, so I step back, because shit just got
real.
 And then, Bastian smiles because he’s caught me
contemplating. “Gotcha.” He winks, standing so close he’s
intoxicating.
“It’s time for you to go.” The thought of owning this
building free and clear is too tempting, but secret deals with
vampires would be nothing but trouble for both of us. I walk
behind the counter, brushing against my grimoire, silently
begging it to stop pulling on my wrists. It relents, and I sigh
with relief.
Bastian turns, placing both hands on the counter again,
arms spread wide apart. “You don’t want to pass this up. How
about I come by tomorrow with a prepayment? Then you can
get started. Sound good?” His cocky grin is punchable, a far
cry from the vulnerability he disclosed over his brother only
moments ago.
“Nope,” I purr, resting my face on my hand, and he raps his
knuckles twice on the glass countertop.
“See you tomorrow?”
“I’m busy.” It comes out as dry as fifty-year-old paint.
“Same time, same place?”
“I won’t be here.”
“Good talk.” He nods, seeming lighter, and I pull the smile
from my lips. His hands slide into his pockets as he walks
toward the door. Halting, he points to the deadbolt. “Unlock,”
he commands, but the deadbolt stays in position. He thinks he
has me, thinks I’ll cave, and I’m bewildered by his sudden
arrogance and want him out of my shop.
“Unlock,” I whisper, and he grabs the doorknob and faces
me.
“See, you have a gift! À demain!” French for see you
tomorrow, and my jaw clenches.
“No, you won’t!” I yell, but the door closes and I’m not so
sure. I lock the door behind him and then grab my grimoire, its
red velvet feeling warmer than usual against my fingers. I
march out of the shop and straight upstairs to my apartment.
 The candles in my parlor alight upon my arrival, the
Victrola playing Don’t Stop Me Now by Queen. I blow out my
cheeks as I set my grimoire on the coffee table—her cover
flying open as Mercury jumps on the table and meows.
“Winnie,” I say—the name of my grimoire, the Wildes
women’s book of spells handed down to me from my mother.
“I would appreciate it if you would stop pulling on me from
every mention of magic.” I rub my exhausted eyes, knowing
my words will do no good. “I can’t create that kind of magic,”
I say to Winnie and Mercury but mostly to myself. “Can you
even imagine what kind of consequences it could have? What
if other vampires got a hold of it? We can’t have a bunch of
day-walking vampires roaming the streets.” I’m trying to
convince a spell book and it’s not working, because I can
hardly convince myself. My curiosity is peaked, and Bastian
believes I can do it though I hardly believe I can.
Winnie’s pages fly open and stop on a transformation spell.
It isn’t right at all for what Bastian is asking of me, but it
would be a start. My stomach drops while my hand runs down
Mercury’s back, and my mind can’t stop thinking of the
aventurine eyes that offered me financial freedom on a silver
platter.
SOME BAYOU WITCHES RESIDE IN shacks, doling out palm
readings in the dead of night, nothing but a lantern-lit porch
and the sound of alligators slithering through the grass. And
there’re other bayou witches, living in mansions built in the
1800s, taking their morning tea in the parlor to the sound of
Debussy, dressed to the nines with nowhere in particular to go.
Aunt Violetta is just that kind, and one of the reasons my
mother left once my grandmother died. Aunt Violetta became
the elder of our coven and still believes that witchcraft could
remain refined with her teacups and saucers, the hand-painted
portraits of herself, the home that makes you feel as if you’ve
stepped back in time.
The rain pelts me as I trudge up her porch steps, the hour
drive to Houma a wet and nauseating one. I don’t have to
knock or ring the doorbell, the door always opens on its own
upon my arrival. The grand staircase is the only thing that
consistently greets me in this old house, that and the smell of
two-hundred-year-old wood.
“In here, dear,” her raspy voice calls from the parlor.
Violetta’s Federal style mansion sits amid the lush bayou
greens, far from neighbors or wandering eyes. Just as she likes
it.
I turn to the right, my eyes taking her and all her very extra
glory in. She sits with a teacup in her gloved hand, her curly
gray hair half up with a satin bow piercing the bun.
 She stares at me as if she has no idea why I’m standing in
front of her then takes a sip of her tea, the black lace glove cut
off at the fingers. “I hope the drive wasn’t too intolerable,” she
says as her cup clacks against the saucer. The drive is always
intolerable and even worse today because I’m nervous, but I
lie, sitting across from her, placing the cash on the small
breakfast table. Behind her in the grand dining room, the large
table is set for a party of at least twelve, and I wonder if she’s
entertaining tonight.
Sliding the bag of cash off the table and opening it, she
moves her brown eyes from the bag to me at least three times.
She takes out four of the stacks of cash, leaving me with the
fifth, sliding it across the table to me.
“What can I get you? Anything to eat or drink?” she asks,
the lines on her face seeming deeper than my last visit, her
hands moving a little slower. She rolls the bag of cash back up
and places it under the table, and my heart thrums against my
ribcage. I lick my dry lips and swallow because if I don’t jump
in and ask now, I won’t do it at all.
“No, nothing. Thank you. I was hoping I could talk to you
about the take.” I clear my throat as her eyes slit like she might
set me on fire. “More and more seems to be coming out each
visit, and it’s getting harder for me to pay my bills.”
Violetta crosses her legs, fluffing out her taffeta skirt. “It’s
so very unfortunate you can’t afford your lifestyle.” Her voice
sounds sympathetic, but there’s not a trace of sympathy on her
face.
“It’s not my lifestyle that’s becoming harder to keep up
with. It’s the fact that more and more of what the vampires pay
me is being taken out…” By you, I want to say but am quiet.
She is an elder and I must respect her at all costs, but she sure
makes it hard.
Her graceful hand slowly stirs more milk into her tea. “As
the leader of this coven, it’s my job to make sure all the
women are taken care of. As the True Witch of this coven, a
direct descendant of our founding witch, it’s your job to create
the potions and creams that keep us all afloat. You will get
your time to be cared for. I told you to move out of The
Quarter. That building is just too much for one woman to
afford. You can live comfortably in Metairie or on the North
Shore. All lovely places.”
My hands ball into fists, a wave of anger taking hold of me.
“That is my home. It was my grandmother’s home. It’s where I
do business, my shop is there. I promised to keep and take care
of it. It’s where the Wildes women will live forever.”
Violetta’s eyes drop to my stomach, and I instinctively
cover it, my jaw hardening.
“There is an order of things,” she says, and I know a lecture
is coming. “Maiden, mother, crone. The maidens care for the
crones. And I don’t see a child in your lap, making you a
mother, so until that day you will hand over my cut and I
won’t hear another word about it. Our coven was forged at the
feet of the hung women of Salem…” And now for the history
lesson. I buckle up for the story I’ve heard over and over my
entire life.
“Our ancestors watched their beloved mothers hang from
the gallows. Their collective rage and sorrow created the
magic, the coven that we are still today. Those three women—
one of your ancestors, the original and True Witch—led one of
my ancestors and one from the Howe family, to form a circle
of three impenetrable, unrelenting women. They bound
together and vowed to never allow another man to ever control
or have power over them or their daughters ever again. We
made our own family, not one constrained by blood but by
sisterhood. It was then our coven became family. Birthing only
women. Living a life without the need for a man. Being the
only dictators of our lives.” With an irritated huff, her angry
eyes meet mine.
“It broke my heart to see your grandmother bled dry by
your mother, and I did all that I could, but now it’s my turn to
be taken care of. I didn’t make the rules. This order has
worked for 300 years. We aren’t going to change it now. Do
your part. Make the potions and creams and be quiet about it.
And please don’t get me started on the baby business. I’ve
been in touch with your mother and she’s told me you’re quite
hard-headed on the subject.”
She said baby business. I don’t even want to think about
that. I can’t.
Fluffing her hair with one hand, she tsks, shaking her head.
“You are the chosen one, the one whose blood is the same
blood as the founding witch of our coven. It’s your lineage. It’s
hard but necessary work.”
I close my eyes, taking a moment to really consider
begging her. Because I’m prideful. I would rather break my
own back than fall to my knees. I’m reminded about my water
being turned off last week, how I used magic to turn it back
on. How dire things are becoming. My back is breaking and
I’m not the one breaking it.
“Please. I’m begging you to help me. I just need a little
more to live off of. I—”
“Witches don’t beg, darling. Please stop.” She licks her
bottom lip, uncomfortable with my vulnerability, the harshness
in her voice a warning.
The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth from biting my
tongue. How easily she can shut me down. How little she cares
about my struggle. It hurts and I’m embarrassed and wounded.
I’m to provide for her until she dies, and then her younger
sister, and then hopefully my mother. For now, I am at her
mercy.
Bastian’s words echo through my mind from last evening. I
think you will find it financially beneficial. That smirk, those
eyes, and I think about Cassius.
“You’re right,” I say, pouring myself a cup of tea. “And
Bastian has returned from New York. There will probably be
an increase in goods sold.” It actually won’t make a difference,
but now I need to pivot the conversation.
“Bastian Delacroix is the most decent of those pitiful
creatures,” she pipes, happy to be changing the subject.
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.” I clear my throat and sit up taller.
“I also noticed Cassius looked, well, he looked tormented.
Like he was suffering…more than usual.”
She titters, her red fingernails tapping the linen tablecloth.
“Cassius has been suffering since he was a child. It’s nothing
at all new.”
“Yes…” I nod in agreement. “But I was just curious if you
knew why. If you knew what happened to him to make him
so…depressed?”
“Good grief, girl. That boy is downright miserable and has
been since 1794 when he set the town on fire.”
I laugh because that is not what I expected, not at all. “One
of the great fires?”
“Yes, set by Cassius and some other young boys playing
with flint and tinder. Wind caught the flames and set a hay
store on fire. Two hundred and twelve buildings were
destroyed. People were killed. When Cassius’s father found
out it was his boy that set the fire, he orphaned him, got on a
boat back to France. He was cast out. Shunned by an aching
city. Never had a mother. He lived destitute and penniless until
he practically begged Nicola Delacroix to turn him. But that
made no difference. He’s been positively unpleasant for most
of his life.”
My back falls against my chair, the breath I was holding
slips out. There’s so much to digest from that statement, and
my aunt said it so nonchalant, so flippant.
“I didn’t know that. How did I not know that?”
“Well, it’s not well known, girl. If you google it, you won’t
see his name. We know it. The vampires know it. He’s lucky
in that regard. History forgot, but he can’t. He never will.”
He never will. But how could he? How could you forget
being the cause of one of the biggest fires in New Orleans’
history? How could you forget that your father abandoned you
when you were only a child? And how the fuck can I complain
about my life? I square my shoulders and smile at the woman
in control of so much of my life, sitting in front of me as if it’s
no big deal. And I see Bastian’s hands on my display case.
Obsidian and gold rings, a life he can offer me. Free from the
begging, the worry, the unknown.
I shake my head, and she eyes me, witnessing my internal
struggle.
“At least you don’t got it that bad,” she laughs and taps the
table, and I suddenly feel very sick because I can’t think of the
life that I could have. I need to focus on the life I’m creating,
the life I will have. But that doesn’t help the here and now. I
need to get out of here.
“See you in two weeks,” I say, rising with my measly bag
of cash. “I’ll let myself out.” I kiss each of her cold cheeks,
and she clicks her tongue at me.
“You have the strongest bloodline in New Orleans, you can
survive a little financial strife.”
I blow out a breath and feign a smile. “I certainly can.”
When my back hits the seat of my car, a sense of dread
washes over me—from the tips of my toes to the top of my
head. I’m leaving feeling worse than when I came. Everything
in my body seizes, my knuckles locking around my car keys,
my jaw widening as I open my mouth and release a scream I
wish could be heard all the way to the Mississippi Delta. But
only one person can hear it, and I meet her eyes from her
parlor window.
That’s when my car starts, the keys still in my hand, and
it’s Violetta’s way of telling me to be on my way, don’t cause a
scene, get the hell out of here. The curtain swings closed, and
she doesn’t give a shit that I’m struggling. In fact, she’s never
really given a shit about me or my mother. Her greed has
grown with her age and there’s nothing I can do about that. It
stings, being in a coven yet so alone.
I WASN’T FIRM ENOUGH. BASTIAN knows it. I know it. His offer is
too enticing, especially after my trip to Aunt Violetta’s earlier
today. And so, in an effort to avoid him, I locked up the shop
early and got dressed for a night out. It doesn’t matter what
night of the week it is, the French Quarter is always ripe as a
Georgia peach, luscious and full of flavor.
My thigh-high boots clunk along the worn concrete as I
take Toulouse St. to Bourbon. I decline the call from my
mortgage company’s 1-800 number that I know by heart. On
the other end sits a man or woman, hating their job, having to
constantly harass the late mortgage payers. It’s 8:58 p.m., for
god’s sake. Nice try, fuckers!
I pass a group of young ladies twerking in the street for a
gaggle of fraternity boys, whose jaws are wide and hungry.
Standing tall in front of this display is The Jazz House, one of
my favorite music spots. I wink at one of the twerking girls as
I enter the House, a gothic piano piece sending chills upon my
flesh. It was here my mother first took me for good jazz, it
being only minutes from our shop.
“Evenin’, Aster,” Ronnie the hostess greets me as she grabs
the menu. I raise my hand to decline, already knowing what I
want.
“Oh, but we got new specials tonight, baby,” she says and
takes off toward my usual spot in the back.
 “Thanks,” I say as she lights the candle on my round table
and I settle into the leather booth. The room is dark with all
the light focused on tonight’s artist, a man working his own
kind of magic on the piano keys in front of a velvety curtain
mixed with hues of yellow, red, and burgundy. “I’ll have some
alligator bites and a lemon drop to start,” I say, placing my
purse on the table and wiping my hair from my face.
“You got it,” Ronnie says, and I sit back, allowing myself
to relax. I pull out my phone and look at my texts, the last one
from my mother, a picture of her feet in a new pair of
Louboutin heels, and the question: you like?
Yeah, I like. I like a lot. But that’s not my life since she left
me to run the family business and live out her dreams with
some guy in Prague. She feels she can finally do all the things
that having a daughter held her back from doing, and I’m
handling things just fine without her. In fact, she rarely asks
about the business or the Agreement; most of our interactions
through text are about mischievous spells she’s cast or
whatever beautiful new thing she’s acquired, material or male.
That’s because she trusts me. Trusts me not to make secret
deals with vampires. Having taught me everything I know
throughout my entire life and picking it up easily and eagerly
has left me powerful with many responsibilities.
Responsibility being the key word here because I’m in control
of my family’s legacy now, and it’s a weight that I hold up
every day.
I’m not a crybaby. I know that she should be free to live her
life on her terms. But leaving me to not only run our family
business but to salvage it as well, makes me feel like I’m being
buried alive at times.
They aren’t black I text back with a shrugging lady emoji
and then slip my phone back into my purse.
“Did you order me a Bloody Mary?” a familiar voice
whispers, and Bastian slides into the booth next to me. “See
what I did there?”
I close my eyes for a long moment, taking an annoyed
breath. “Hilarious.” I open my unamused eyes. “So clever.”
 “Tough crowd.” He winks, taking the menu in his hands,
his cologne more pungent than yesterday, his thigh grazing
mine.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I followed your scent.”
I lean back, not sure if he’s telling the truth.
“Mint and obstinacy, in case you were wondering.” He
peruses the menu, not looking at me on purpose. When he
slaps the menu shut, his eyes meet mine. “Okay, I followed
you.” He cracks a smile, but I don’t break my death stare.
“Next time I’ll make sure to leave when the sun’s still out,”
I sneer, my index finger tapping on my garnet. “I don’t like
you tracking me.”
“I apologize. You know…” He inhales deeply. “Your eyes
may be the bluest I’ve ever seen, like two turquoise that want
to kill me.”
I squint, instincts full of suspicion, not believing his
bullshit. “Why are you always dressed like you’re going to a
business meeting?” It’s May in New Orleans—another
sweltering summer is just around the corner. Tonight he’s in a
deep burgundy dress shirt with the sleeves folded up, his thick
veins embracing his forearms like vines.
“This is a business meeting.” His tone turns serious and
gruff as the piano envelopes us then suddenly rolls into
silence, the song ending, the patrons clapping.
Ronnie approaches with my lemon drop, her eyebrows
rising at the sight of Bastian. “What can I get for you, baby?”
she asks with a smile that reaches her eyes, and Bastian orders
a brandy then crosses his leg, his ankle casually resting on the
opposite knee.
“All right,” she says and walks to the bar.
“I came here to avoid you. And here you are, taking up all
the space in the room.” My foot is tapping the ground, the urge
to spill my drink on his lap growing strong. I down the whole
thing instead.
 “Okay, look. I’m sorry. It’s just that I want this to work so
badly and—what do you mean, I take up all the space in the
room?” Intrigued, his eyes twinkle in the candlelight.
I hate that I’m in public and can’t make myself vanish. But
it’s true. Bastian commands an audience just by existing. I saw
it in Ronnie’s eyes. I see it in the eyes of the bartender and the
older couple sitting in front of us, stealing glances in our
direction.
“Never mind. I’m leaving.” I grab my purse, but his fingers
wrap around my wrist. Cold, to be expected. Soft, not to be
expected.
“Please wait,” he begs. “I brought you something.” He
releases me and lifts one ass cheek, pulling something from his
back pocket, while a fresh song seems to grow louder along
with my anticipation. His hand reappears with an envelope
between his fingers.
“Your prepayment.” He slides it toward me with a steady
hand, and I snatch it, lifting the flap and peeking inside. My
stomach plummets as I suck in. It’s a blank check for one
hundred thousand dollars.
“All you have to do is write in your mortgage company’s
name. And that’s just the beginning. You’ll be paid in full once
the spell works. And if it doesn’t, you get to keep that.”
“Potion.” The word falls from my lips, spellbound by the
check in my fingers. “It would have to be a potion.” And now
I’ve just slipped. His breath hitches because I’ve just bred
hope, and I wish I could take those words back.
“Potion, of course. Whatever you say.”
“You don’t even know how much I owe on my building.”
“It doesn’t matter. Money, I have plenty of. I have only one
brother.”
I close the envelope. The music, trilling in my ears. My
stomach turns from the drink and no food. I wouldn’t have to
worry, ever again. Violetta could take all she wanted. If
something ever happened with The Agreement, I could keep
my home and shop, and the pressure to reproduce would
lessen. I could live as myself, not just Aster, the Royal Street
Witch, with generations full of expectations to uphold.
Vampires have it easier. They get lonely and they can just
turn someone into a mate or family member. Witches are a
dying breed, with an obligation to bear daughters to keep our
lineage alive. Women like my poor mother, forced to have a
child she didn’t really want. Forced to raise me when she was
practically still a child herself. And what did she learn from
that? Nothing, because now she’s pressuring me to do the
same. Her voice echoes in my head. “Just pop out one, Aster.
One and done. Two or three would be better, but at least one
for now.” I don’t want to be forced to do anything anymore.
“Brandy and gator bites,” Ronnie says, interrupting my
thoughts and placing the items on the table.
“Thank you,” Bastian says, raising his glass to Ronnie as
she winks then walks away.
There’s something about him that makes it easy to forget
he’s a vampire. He’s jovial and pleasant, so very different than
the others.
I toss a gator bite into my mouth, trying to play my
nauseated state off.
“I hear they taste like children,” Bastian whispers, his glare
sinking into me, onto my neck.
“Chicken, I think you mean chicken,” I breathe out,
feigning boredom. But it’s impossible to be bored sitting next
to a man like him. He watches the vein on my neck pulse and
then looks at me, gathering himself, and it hits me—no,
reminds me. Bastian is a vampire. Bastian drinks blood. “You
must not be from around here if you didn’t have gator bites…
before…” Before you died, I want to say, but he gets my drift.
“It’s complicated.” He sips on his brandy, looking at the
bartender who waves at him. “You couldn’t come on
Burlesque night?” He bares all his teeth.
“A vampire could be more dangerous during the day, don’t
you think?”
 “Cassius isn’t a danger to anyone but himself.” His arms
spread across the top of our booth, and we are so close,
someone could get the wrong idea.
“And the humans he needs to feed on,” I add, looking up at
him through my lashes, and his stare is borderline
uncomfortable.
It’s unfair really, how beautiful they stay. Their only
sustenance—blood and alcohol. I wonder how old he is and
how old he was when he was turned. I wonder what is pushing
him. Why is this so important? His offer is becoming more
and more tantalizing, and to be honest, it’s terrifying me.
“Why do you think daylight will cure his pain?” I want to
tell Bastian I know the root of his brother’s agony, but I don’t,
keeping Violetta’s conversation tucked inside.
“Because it’s all I have left to offer him. It’s my last resort.
Because it has to.” Bastian’s eyes pin me against the booth, the
sincerity, the depth, palpable. He really wants this.
“I have a question. The answer will determine my
decision.”
He slowly nods, skeptical yet hopeful.
“It’s obvious you love your brother. But why are you
willing to risk our lives for this potion, to save him?” I whisper
it, my heart pounding in my chest because I’m actually
considering this. And we could both die because of it.
His eyes scan my chest, most likely picking up on my burst
of adrenaline. “I know what’s most important to you. Your
family home and your business.”
Grandma’s fingers were on mine, her voice was barely
above a whisper when she said, You’re a descendant of the
great Sarah Wildes who watched her step-mother hang. You
are a true witch. Don’t lose our home. Don’t let our name be
forgotten with time. Bastian is right.
His voice hardens with his intensity, with the sputter of his
words. “Do you know what’s most important to me? My
family. My brother, especially. I love him like I love no other.
Let’s save what we love most together.”
 It’s quite convincing, the passion in his voice, the veins in
his throat so tight they could burst. Yet, it’s still so hard for me
to say yes.
“If he’s so important to you, why haven’t you come back
all these years?”
“Just because you haven’t seen me doesn’t mean I haven’t
come back. But this time I’m here to stay as long as I need to.”
“It’s so risky. I don’t even know if I can do it.” This is a
vulnerable thing for me to say, and the words almost catch in
my throat.
“No risk, no reward.” He leans toward me, sensing I’m
close to giving in.
“Risks threaten our very existence.”
And then he smiles, a deep genuine smile, and my heart
rate peaks. “Ah. Come on. Risks make life more interesting.
Let go.”
Let go. As if it were so easy. As if my own family members
wouldn’t turn on me if they found out.
“And Aster, I believe you can do it. I believe in you with
every drop of blood in my body. I remember looking at you
when you were a girl, thinking something special was inside of
you. My mother even told me back then, that you would be
powerful. You can do this.”
Stunned, I down his drink and close my eyes tightly while
he chuckles with amusement. The sentiment isn’t what has me
shaken—my whole life I’ve been told that I was going to be
powerful; it’s his admission, it’s that the vampires could see
it…all those years ago.
A powerful witch, indeed, yet still struggling with the
legacy she has to fulfill.
Well, not anymore. I’ve been left on my own, caving to
demand after demand for other elder’s benefit. Tonight, I’m
making my own rules. If they want me to fulfill a legacy and
financially support them, I’ll will, but I’ll do it my way.
 Grabbing the envelope from the table, I fold it and place it
in my purse. “If we’re going to do this, we can’t be seen
together.” My heart is pulsating from what I’ve just said, my
mouth suddenly very dry.
“Well, look who’s all business now.” He cracks a smile,
trying to hide his victory.
I settle my pumping blood and grab a hold of his collar,
pulling his ear close to my lips. “I’m not dying for you,
Bastian Delacroix. I’m not dying for anyone.”
My hand slips from his collar and he leans back, his
perfectly defined eyebrow arching in appreciation or surprise.
I can’t tell, but I hope it’s both.
“Noted.” He pulls a money clip from his front pocket,
slides out a hundred-dollar bill, and places it on the table.
I pop a gator bite in my mouth. “You’re right. They do taste
like children.”
He grins and straightens his collar, his demeanor sobering.
“It needs to happen sooner than later. I’ll be in touch,” he says
and walks out of The Jazz House, hands slipping into his
pockets, head leaning to the side like James Dean. I motion to
Ronnie for another lemon drop. I have a hundred dollars to
spend here and a check for a hundred grand in my purse.
IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS SINCE I’ve seen Bastian. Two since I
wrote my mortgage company’s name on the check he slipped
me and sent it off. I made a deal off the cuff and a little too
rash, and the second thoughts steamroll me by the hour. What
I’ve agreed to is perilous, but if I can pull it off, my house will
be paid for and the risk will have been worth it.
I keep seeing my vampire-loathing mother’s face in my
mind. Aster, we don’t associate with parasites. How many
times had she chastised me when I was a child? After smiling
up at Nicola and Cassius, their beauty taking my little girl
breath away. If she found out, she could disown me and strip
me of my powers. Our coven, though sparse and slacking on
organization, could kill me for treason, I would love to think
Aunt Violetta would let no such thing happen to me, but I’m
not at all convinced after our visit, and her sister, Rosemary, is
even less caring than she is.
“Last one,” Chantal announces as her dainty fingers tie a
price tag on a malachite ring. She’s a coven cousin, which
means we don’t share blood, but she’s more of a sister by heart
and thankfully, a faithful employee. Queen plays over the
speakers as Chantal sings along under her breath.
“Nice,” I say as I finish sorting stones that a little girl
jumbled up while her mother shopped.
 “Coming to my show tonight?” She stands, places the ring
in the display case, then scrunches her big honey hair. Chantal
sings at a few clubs throughout New Orleans, and though I’ve
seen several of her shows, she’s always annoyed that I’m not
at every one, front and center.
“Can’t. Have a spell to work on.”
“Uh-huh.” She gives her best unamused glare and I wink at
her, trying to dodge any inquiries about what I’m up to. “Sure
you don’t have one of them boys slidin’ through the back
door?”
“Maybe after the spell,” I lie.
“Did Marky finally leave you alone?”
“After I blocked him,” I say, blowing out my cheeks.
“And Charles?”
“I told him to stop showing up on my doorstep so he told
me I was a miserable bitch and that was the last I heard from
him.”
“Damn. Any new candidates for the bun that’s supposed to
be in your oven?”
I look up from my stones, the question I loathe most in the
world plaguing me. “You can help the cause too, you know.”
But she just smirks and shakes her head, a curl flopping
right on her nose. “Nope, I’m not a Wildes. It’s your baby
everyone wants to be born.”
Everyone. Aunt Violetta. The coven. My dead
grandmother. My mother. Most of them dispersed through the
bayous of Louisiana, with only a handful of us actually in New
Orleans. Daughters forced to have daughters to keep our
bloodline alive. The earlier the better, the more the merrier,
and I’m not ready, not even close. So I say nothing, and she
gets the drift. It’s not a subject I like to talk about, and who
would?
“Send me a picture of his abs, for the collection,” she
teases. Grabbing her phone, she opens the album Boy Toys and
shows me her latest conquest.
 “Freckles?” I say, squinting to get a better peek of the
palest ass cheeks I have ever seen, littered with orange dots.
“From head to toe, girl,” she laughs, sticking her tongue
out. “It was like I was fucking a work of art.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say, remembering the many
body parts I’ve seen in her album. Every color, shape, and size
—the girl is not picky.
Grabbing her backpack and patting me on the head before
walking to the door, she proclaims, “Life is more than working
all the time.”
“Yeah, well, Violetta is bleeding me dry. I don’t understand
why she’s taking more and more money every visit.”
“She’s the greediest witch in the coven. And because most
of her sisters are dead, she gets the majority of it. Lies by
saying she’s spreading the wealth, but she’s really lining her
pockets. That’s what Jade told me.”
“And she’s Aunt Violetta’s favorite right now. Wow,” I
sigh, and Chantal tilts her head sympathetically.
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown. I’m sorry you’re a
True Witch. One day it will be worth it. I love you,” she says
and walks out the door.
I slowly exhale, knowing what must be done so she doesn’t
catch on. I hate lying to her, but I’m also obligated to protect
her.
And then there’s Jade. Violetta’s current favorite of our
coven because she’s had not one but two daughters and she’s
two years younger than me. But that’s not what I’m worried
about. What I’m worried about is her ability to read minds,
which can prove to be very dangerous for me and my present
situation.
So I place my cloak over my shoulders and pull the hood
over my head, locking up the shop. My feet skip down Canal
Street, taking me where they need to go, jumping on the St.
Charles Streetcar, just as it takes off for the Garden District.
It’s not long before the bustle of downtown is behind me and
the quieter, more refined New Orleans sprawls ahead.
 I chose Lafayette Cemetery No 1 because there’s less
riffraff in the Garden District. Before it closed for renovations,
it was flooded with tourists and tour guides, whom you can
always spot by the grand umbrellas that shade them from the
Louisiana sun.
The night is muggy and laden with stars as I snap my
fingers, causing the wrought iron gate to disappear for a mere
second, long enough for me to slip through.
The concrete path is crooked and uneven, and it’s dark—so
very dark—yet my boots seem to know just where to step. So I
follow my feet, knowing one must be quick at night in the old
graveyards of New Orleans. Spirits are restless, and the dead
wait for no one. I respect the spirits that rest here, but I don’t
have time to meddle with them.
I blink, and something shifts in the corner of my eye.
Whipping around to the Society for Destitute and Orphan
Boys’ tomb, I see Cassius leaning against the old grave with
his head hung low. He must know I’m here; vampire senses
are more heightened than mine, yet he does nothing to conceal
himself. I consider walking straight past him, the entire reason
I’m in this predicament, and keep on my path, but his head
slowly rises and our eyes lock.
If sadness were a bullet, I’d be lying on the ground, soaked
in blood from the sorrow in his eyes. My mouth parts and my
feet halt, frozen by him and the attention his presence
demands. And he does something he’s never done before
outside of Nightwalkers. He nods his head at me ever so
slightly, gently acknowledging me, and I’m in shock, because
usually Cassius Delacroix only looks through me. I nod back,
my lungs catching because there’s something about his
solemnness that makes him so utterly breathtaking. He turns
his back to me, his white shirt glowing in the night, and I have
to look away, my eyes meeting the tops of my boots. By the
time I look back up, he’s gone.
It takes me a moment to gather myself—the slow unfurling
that Cassius can cause mortals is not lost on me. He’s sullen,
and humans—women especially—want to nurse his internal
wounds, yet they have no idea that he is unfixable. He will
always have the heart of an abandoned boy, a shunned boy,
unless Bastian is right that my potion can actually help him. I
search for his trail, but he’s nowhere in sight, and I must hurry.
Once at the center of the cemetery’s four quadrants, I stomp
three times, close my eyes, and raise my arms toward the sky.
“I, Aster Wildes, descendent of Sarah Wildes, call upon a
spirit to guide me on a mission.”
Gusts of wind caress my face, my eyes opening to that
familiar spark that forms into an orb in front of me. Glowing
green as the Emerald City, and I smile at how easy witching
has become for me. I lean toward the spirit whose bones lie
somewhere in this cemetery. And with a grateful heart, I
whisper its mission, so lingering ears hear nothing. The orb
takes off, and I follow it, knowing only a witch’s eye can see
it, and the sooner we get out of the cemetery, the less likely
that is to happen. We walk through the Garden District up to
First Street, turning right. The pavement is riddled with cracks
and potholes, but my feet know how to maneuver around them
without having to look down, and it’s because of the orb’s
glow.
A mission like this could take hours, but the Garden
District is large enough with mansions filled with families, so
the odds are in my favor. I follow the orb, wondering whose
soul it is, whose grave I called it from. I feel its good
intentions, its desire to please me, and in return, I will pay for
it with gratitude, and that’s all it covets. My gratitude and an
opportunity to do my bidding again.
Under a canopy of oak trees, atop slabs of broken concrete,
my little orb stops in front of a purple mansion, floating in the
air for a few moments to let me know, this is the one. I pull my
hood over my eyes and look to the ground, my feet walking up
the porch steps until I reach the front door, the orb still in
charge until it brings me to my desired location. I peep
through the window because the lights are on, with sheer
curtains drawn, and I’m unsure what I’m walking into.
We don’t move quickly, my little companion and me. We
move like honey, every footstep confident and intentional, so
when the emerald orb, circling and glowing, floats right
through the front door, I take a deep breath and grab the
doorknob, twisting and gently pushing. Once over the
threshold, I’m reunited with my orb, and I immediately hear
the shouting.
A man and a woman engaged in a battle of words.
“You want a mother, that’s what you want,” the woman
cries. “I’m just supposed to feed you and clean for you and
birth your children!”
“Never satisfied,” is all I hear from the man as the woman
lists off all the ways her life is not her own. The orb ascends
the stairs and I follow, my head low, but my eyes like a
hawk’s.
“Light as a feather,” I whisper to my feet, so no sounds are
made walking up the old stairway. I don’t pause, I don’t look
around, I stay on course with the orb, and once I reach the top
of the stairs, I hear it.
Why I’m in these strangers’ home.
The orb turns down the hall, the cries getting louder and
louder as I get closer and closer. I slip through the cracked
door of a room, and in it sits a white crib with a baby boy, no
more than one year old, his cries amplifying when I enter. The
orb glows over his head, and his eyes shoot up with a look of
fear washed over his baby face.
My hand rests on his crib while the orb dances above,
momentarily distracting him from his cries for mommy or
daddy, who are too busy fighting downstairs to hear him. The
baby pulls himself to sit, meets my eyes, and decides to wail
once more.
His face is slick from tears, patches of red on his cheeks,
blonde hair matted to his head. Pulling the handkerchief from
my pocket, I slowly reach into the crib and run the
handkerchief over his wet cheeks and eyes, absorbing every
tear on his soaked face. He resists, twisting his face away from
me. Once I have collected as many tears as possible, I roll up
the handkerchief and place it in my pocket.
 “Little one,” I whisper while blowing on my fingers. “You
are safe. You are loved. You are well.” My fingers touch the
crown of his head, and I gently drag them over his tiny nose
and down to his chin. The crying ceases, his eyes growing
heavy with peaceful exhaustion.
Once the orb and I are outside the house, I whisper it my
thanks for its service. The tears of a baby are not always easy
to find if you don’t have any babies in your life, and orbs can
find things so much easier than witches can. It glows brighter
for a moment and then turns back to the cemetery where it
came from. I look up to the bedroom of the child and pour all
my good intentions into the home, hoping that some sort of
peace can be restored. I turn on my boot and make my way
down the street.
Once I’m safely home, I pull out Winnie, the tear-filled
handkerchief, and begin a spell that numbs the senses of
surrounding witches, especially Jade’s mind reading. A spell
that’ll hopefully keep me safe from my dealings with Bastian
because another rule will be broken, another step I can never
come back from.
IT’S A GLINT OF FANG that catches my eye as Bastian appears
while I sit inside Caged, a goth bar in the Quarter. The red
lighting reflects off his face, his jawline looking sharper than
usual, and when he smiles, I see it again, and it’s like a bag of
bones settle inside my stomach, the damage two teeth can
cause, the danger of it all.
Women of all ages dance inside the numerous cages that
line the small room, while plaster gargoyles look on as if
they’re ready to feed.
“It’s the HWIC,” he says, and I snicker, drumming my
fingers on the bar, trying to avoid eye contact. Bastian leans in
to whisper in my ear as the new bartender’s patent leather
dress squeaks by us. “You look well.”
I finally look up at him, not pleased that he’s once again
speaking to me in public because Chantal is in the bathroom,
but I’m taken aback by his stark white T-shirt and…jeans.
He’s actually wearing jeans. I look up and down again in
disbelief. “Is that denim you’re wearing?”
“Ha. Ha,” he answers dryly as his head follows a young
group of ladies to the bar, and it becomes apparent that
tonight, he’s on the prowl.
“Why are you speaking to me? Did you forget you’re not
supposed to speak to me in public?”
 “You’re always alone,” he says, ignoring my question as he
stares at my drink and the empty seat next to me. “You could
use company. Let’s start working on our arrangement. I’ll be
by at midnight.” His eyes make their way to the girls again,
and I’m offended that he’s telling me he’s coming over, not
asking me.
“I’m not always alone, for one,” I say which is mostly a lie.
“And for two, witches are solitary. We don’t need a pack of
incesty fuckwads always surrounding us to keep us company.”
Which is true. Vampires are so annoyingly co-dependent.
Bastian clutches his chest as if I’ve shot him in the heart.
“Ouch, that hurts.” He says it almost seriously, until his top lip
curls up and eyebrows rise with amusement. “I can’t deny that
it’s true. Except for the incest part.” He looks confused and
entertained, and he opens his mouth to speak just as a hiss
bellows between us, and it’s coming from the throat of my
cousin.
Bastian backs away as she sits in the empty seat, an
agitated look on her face.
“Why you here?” she asks Bastian as if she knows him, but
she doesn’t. She does know he’s a vampire, though—
something witches can sense.
“Cousin, he’s just—”
“Passing by,” he whispers curtly, aware he’s in front of two
witches now. He nods, excusing himself. “See you…around,
Aster. Cousin.” He walks to the end of the bar and stands next
to the group of girls, quickly striking up a conversation with
one.
“He’s Nicola’s son, back for a while.” It’s obvious I would
know him from my visits there dropping off product, but I also
want to cover my tracks. Vampires and witches are meant to
have a natural repulsion for each other, one that is evident on
Chantal’s face. I don’t have it like she does, though a devious
smile envelops her.
“He is so fuckable. It’s really such a waste.”
 I slowly look down the bar at him, now laughing with a
black-haired girl. “He is,” I catch myself saying and then
shake my head. I want to tell Chantal about what I’m doing,
but once I do there’s no going back, and I don’t want to hear
about the terrible mistake I’m making. But mostly, I don’t
want her to be in any kind of danger. The less she knows, the
more I protect her. I look again at him, his finger caressing the
girl’s knee, his eyes upon her so intensely, like he wants to
know her life story. It’s an unspoken rule to look the other way
from vampire and witch dealings. See a vampire feeding on a
human in an alley? Look the other way. If they see us ripping
the toenails from a man (who most likely would deserve it)
they are to do the same. We aren’t to meddle in each other’s
business, but the way Bastian is looking at that girl causes a
swelling in my chest with a wave of fluid anger I can’t quell.
Who the fuck does he think he is? Telling me he’s coming
over and not asking me?
No. No, that’s not how this arrangement is going to work,
and if I’m going all in then I better start putting my foot down
now.
I close my eyes and focus on the black-haired girl—on the
pit of her stomach, on the acid that lies there, on the deep
purple lipstick smeared across her lips.
Boil…boiling fiery heat, up and up and boiling, raging up
and over. Eyes opening, a current shoots between her and me,
and she’s suddenly on her feet, an overwhelming feeling of
repulsion consuming her, the thought of another second
speaking to Bastian, turning her stomach. She yells something
to her friends and bolts out the door. I chuckle as I stir my
drink.
I meet eyes with Bastian, and he glowers at me with
suspicion. I just turn back to Chantal who is typing feverishly
on her phone. I should be ashamed, I should be worried
because I’m crossing every goddamn line, but I just don’t
fucking care right now.
“Let’s dance,” I tell Chantal, downing my rum and Coke
and pulling her toward the small dance area. Right as I’m
about to pass Bastian seated on his barstool, I lower my lips to
his ears.
“I think your girlfriend found you revolting.”
He licks his lips, not meeting my eyes, sipping a clear
liquid.
“I decide when you come to my house. I’m busy tonight.
You may come over tomorrow at sundown. Be prepared to
answer some questions.” The corner of his eye briefly meets
mine before I move slowly to the dance floor. Chantal grabs a
hold of my hands, and we move our bodies to the music with
an alcohol-induced freedom.
He’s watching me and I like it, so I sway, a tight smile on
my lips, and now his eyes are hungry, glaring at me and my
god, he’s so sexy. And I see it again, danger, emitting from his
body. Clenched jaw, flared nostrils, breathing heavily. He’s no
longer the fun vampire I don’t understand. He’s dangerous,
and it should open my eyes to what I’m getting involved in,
make me hesitant, yet it doesn’t. I only want more and I’m
grinding my hips and I can’t break free from him. His gaze is
so intense. I’m trapped like prey, and it makes my heart race
from fear and excitement. His fingers dig into his thigh, his
tongue slides across his lips, and I’ve drunk too much and I’m
causing a scene. I close my eyes and when I look back over at
him, he’s gone.

Bastian shows up at sundown the next day, just as I instructed,

and when I open the door, I’m prepared for him. I’ve been
looking through Winnie for at least an hour, trying to get an
idea of where to start. I’m at a total loss, having never created
a potion like this before, but I know the first step is getting to
know Bastian and more about vampires.
“What’s wrong with denim?” he asks, and it tickles me,
how he says it, hands in the pockets of his slacks. There’s
nothing wrong with denim, it’s just that vampires are
annoyingly formal most of the time, and I admit, I liked seeing
him dressed casually. But I keep my face emotionless,
ignoring him as he has ignored me.
“Right on time,” I fold my arms across my chest and lean
against the doorframe.
Tonight, the intensity in his eyes isn’t quite as strong as last
night, with a far more relaxed air around him.
“You put a spell on my conquest, and you laughed at my
jeans.”
“Did I?”
“Were you jealous?” He says it slowly, his tongue wetting
his bottom lip, stepping closer.
Heat rises to my cheeks as my toe slides up the back of my
other leg. “Now that’s much funnier than seeing you in
denim!”
His lips split into a sneer and he shakes his head. “Right.
Are you going to invite me in?”
Jerking my eyes toward the inside of my house, I widen the
door, and he slips in beside me.
“Up the stairs and straight back,” I instruct, locking the
door.
Following him up to my apartment and into my living room
fills me with a combination of regret and a strange sense of
exhilaration. Can I really do this? Can I actually follow
through with it?
He stops at the bookcases filled with vials of herbs, books,
and oils lined from floor to ceiling. My grandmother’s spells
hang in gold Victorian frames, dried flowers wrap around the
crystal chandelier, monstera, snake plants and ivy grow from
pots in every corner of the room. I’m nervous as he studies the
space as if I’m being judged by the enemy in my den. A snake
in my grass.
“So this is literally where the magic happens?” His hands
slip into the pockets of his slacks as he gazes upon a tall shelf
of books.
 “Most of it.” I can’t help but smile, and he looks at me
coyly.
“And what’s going on over here?” he asks, pointing to a
shelf on my bookcase, one line with dead plants.
“Oh, it’s a project I’m working on,” I say, scratching my
throat. Why didn’t I move those out of here? I’m a damn good
witch, but I can’t seem to grow plants without the help of
magic. It’s a flaw that plagues me.
“It looks like a plant morgue. Are you torturing the poor
things?”
“It’s a project.” I need to change the subject, immediately.
“Let’s get started. I’ve got a few questions. If they seem
redundant or have obvious answers, don’t be offended. So
much of what we know of vampires comes from rumor or
folklore. I need to know some of your inner workings if we
want this potion to work.”
His eyebrows pull together, processing what I’m asking—
and that’s for his secrets, the kind vampires like to keep
witches confused. I’ve done some of my own research, but
still need information straight from the source.
“That’s tricky,” he whispers, the first time I’ve seen him
hesitant.
“You’re in my house, asking for my magic. Things are a
little trickier for me.” My hand rests on my hip, and I’m
suddenly reminded of my mother. I promptly slide it to my
side and grab my notebook and pen to keep my hands busy.
“You’re right, you’re right.”
“I am. And it’s not anything crazy. I just don’t want to kill
you in the process.”
“Yes, please don’t do that,” he laughs and rubs his chin. I
sit on the couch and he follows suit, turning toward me, and I
try to keep my most professional face on.
“Okay. It’s only a few questions. I know that garlic isn’t a
real threat. What about silver?”
 “Silver is no threat. We just prefer gold.” Eyeing his rings, I
want to ask if they have a special sentiment, but I press on.
“Stakes through the heart. Do they have to be wood?”
“They do,” he nods. “Wood is holy, the most natural of
resources. Once inside our bodies, we can’t fight it.”
“What’s the real process of turning a human into a
vampire?”
“A vampire must bite the human, then the human must
drink the vampire’s blood. It’s the mutual exchange of blood
that turns humans into vampires.”
“We’ve always thought there was more to it than that,” I
say, skeptical.
“We like to keep witches on their toes,” he laughs.
“Have you ever made a vampire?”
His eyes meet mine in a solemn way, almost whispering his
answer. “No.”
“Have any vampires been able to endure the daylight? Any
that you’re aware of?”
“Supposedly the first vampire could walk amongst humans
in the daylight. But we mutated over time, and I have no idea
why. Evolution? Drawn to the darkness? I honestly have no
idea.”
“Interesting,” I say while writing. “During the day? How
do you stay away from light?”
“Look at you.” He points to the pen in my hand, moving
fastidiously over my notebook. “Thank you for this.” He tucks
his chin to his chest as if his own words have made him
uncomfortable, and I just blink because saying ‘You’re
welcome’ feels odd. Thankfully he continues.
“We stay away from the light by sleeping. Near sunrise we
succumb to the deepest of sleep, it is essential for us to rest.
Some of us still sleep in coffins because they’re sealed from
the light. That’s if we don’t have basements, custom beds, or a
cement-sealed room. Anyway, we are tucked away in darkness
during the day.”
I take it in, unsurprised by his responses. I had been told
almost everything he’s saying from my grandmother but was
never sure if it was fact or rumor. “And what happens when
you’re in the daylight? Do you spontaneously combust? Catch
fire?”
His jaw tightens, a sardonic grin on his lips. “We burn.
Turn to ashes. It’s not spontaneous.” His fingers begin to tap
on his knees as he contemplates more. “First the top layer of
skin turns to embers and it burns deeper and deeper. And if it
gets to the bones, well that’s as if gas has been added to a fire.
There’s no stopping it.”
An image forms in my head, one I hope never to see.
“What kills you?”
A sinister look draws across his face, and he rubs his
middle finger and thumb along each eyebrow. “A broken
heart.”
“Come on,” I say, and he grins.
“You now know it all. Daylight. A wooden stake to the
heart. The exceptionally rare occasion of bleeding out, which I
have never witnessed or known a single vampire it happened
to. And then there’s a witch’s poisoned blood…”
Yes, there’s that, something we’ve never discussed. A
blood curse my ancestors created to protect ourselves against
anything that wished to consume us. I don’t look at him,
pretending to write more notes. “You don’t have to worry
about that.”
“Neither do you,” he bites back, and I look at him. My
blood is cursed, yes. If a vampire bit me, he would die on the
spot, and all the vampires of New Orleans know it. We are
protective of our flailing livelihood and are no fools.
“No other poisons are fatal that you know of?”
His head slowly moves side to side in confirmation.
 “What about infectious diseases? Can you catch anything
from a human or vampire?”
“No, nothing infectious or sexually transmitted can attack
our cells. We can’t procreate, we can’t catch or spread
anything.”
Must be nice that condoms aren’t required, but I keep that
thought to myself and press on. “How often do you need to
drink blood?”
“We can go four days without feeding but by the fourth we
are famished, starving for blood and anything will do. That’s
why in the quarter we drink just a little every other night or so
—your potions allow that. We can be sated, and the donor is
none the wiser, not lightheaded or sick from blood loss. It
works nicely.”
I clear my throat, often uncomfortable with my role in
vampire feedings.
“All right, just a little more information about you
specifically. When were you turned?”
His head jerks back, surprised at the personal question.
“Oh, uh it was 1956.” He crosses his arms and sits up straight.
“Wow, you’re not that old in vampire years. How old were
you when you turned?”
“I’m fairly young for a vampire. I was twenty-six years
stupid.” His head jerks as if he’s tasted something bitter.
“Why do you say that?” I run the pen along my lip,
enthralled.
“Young, stupid, and beautiful. Three dangerous traits to
possess in that time.”
I wait for more, but he just stares at me with those eyes.
Lifting a hand slowly, he places his index finger on my hand,
pushing it and the pen out of my mouth.
“Please? It’s most distracting.” A vein in his throat pulses
and I look down, wetting my bottom lip with my tongue, and
he swallows.
 “Who turned you?”
Clearing his throat, he makes a face like it hurts to speak.
Why do the personal questions make him so uncomfortable?
“Nicola. We met at a bar and she turned me and that’s all
there is to that.” Clearing his throat yet again, he adjusts his
legs.
“You don’t like talking about this, do you?”
“Nope. Next question.”
“She just said, ‘Hey, wanna be a vampire with me?’”
Those eyes are intensely on my mouth and then he inhales
deeply.
“It was a life I wanted and one she wanted to give me. It
was a simple decision for me.” And he gives me a look,
begging me to drop the subject.
I lean back, intrigued but resigned to let him off the hook.
“Okay, I think this is enough for now. I’ll let you know if I
need more. You’re dismissed.” I stand up and he stands with
me.
“Dismissed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m the guinea pig, remember?” He points to his
chest with both thumbs and it’s cute.
“I haven’t started working on the potion yet.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just hang. You don’t know when you
might need me.”
“It won’t be tonight.”
“Awww, come on. Let me stay. I cleared my calendar for
the evening.” His feet slide in my direction, and as he
approaches me his face tenses, his words dripping slow like
honey. “I won’t be in your way. I just want to be a part of it.”
Hypnotic, that’s what he is, and he knows it. And I allow it
because maybe I’ll have more questions, and having him here
will make it easier to get them answered.
 “If you’re going to be here, no talking. Unless I talk to you
first. Okay? You can sit…there.” I point to my black velvet
chair that’s out of the way, and he lets out a triumphant sigh. I
walk up to the ottoman and push it against the chair and show
it off like Vanna White sans a smile on my face.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Plopping down with a groan, his long
legs stretch across the ottoman.
“The witch at Caged with you last night? She’s your
cousin?” He pulls his phone out and sets it on his lap.
“Chantal is a coven cousin. A descendent of our founding
members. She’s a witch, but not a Wildes.”
“And you’re a Wildes, the descendant of the head witch of
your coven?”
“Yes. Chantal is a Howe. I don’t know what a sister’s love
is like, but I suspect it’s close to how I love Chantal.”
“She hates me. You don’t see many real witches in Nola
much these days. You two are quite a pair.”
“You’re our story’s villain. And I’m betraying her.” I run
my finger around Winnie’s edges, guilt an overwhelming ball
in my throat.
With darkened eyes, Bastian takes a long breath out, his
thumb running along his fingertips, his chin almost touching
his chest. I make a vow not to reveal anything else to him
tonight, hating how words seem to tumble out when he’s
around me.
“All right, no talking. You’re not supposed to watch a
witch’s spell work.” I walk to the long oak table I use for
potions, perfectly separating my living room from the kitchen.
I open Winnie, hoping I can actually concentrate with him in
the corner of the room.
“I won’t even look. I just want to be the tester. Just be on
hand if you need me. Oh, hey.” His voice changes to syrup,
and my eyes move to him.
Mercury, that damn traitor, has jumped in his lap, and his
fingers are stroking my baby’s back.
 “Get down!” I yell, nerves coating my throat.
“He’s okay,” Bastian croons while he rubs under Mercury’s
chin, and fuck if that’s not his favorite spot.
“You eat my cat, and I will kill you.”
“Whoa. I don’t eat cats.” He laughs and shakes his head.
“What’s his name?”
“Mercury,” I say, while the traitor just lies flat along
Bastian’s lap, and I am just really disappointed in him at this
point.
“Mercury as in the planet or the chemical?”
“As in the legend.”
“Freddie?”
I arch an eyebrow and point to the Freddie Mercury Funko
on the shelf not far from Bastian’s head. “Is there any other
Mercury?”
“Absolutely not. His vocal range was operatic. And he was
just so free, you know? So free to be himself. I really loved
that about him.” And then he starts baby-talking to Mercury
and I’m speechless. So I let him stay. As I tirelessly try to
create a spell that feels impossible. But he loves both of my
Mercurys’ so I let him stay.
BASTIAN COMES BACK THE NEXT night and the night after that
until he’s practically spending every evening at my house. At
first, I hardly spoke to him, worked around him,
uncomfortable with his presence.
He arrives in the early evening and it’s almost like he
doesn’t need to drink blood at all—sitting quietly, scrolling
through his phone, and petting Mercury the Traitor as I
research a thousand different ways to create a spell that’s never
been created before. I catch him watching me a lot, and I
suppose it’s because he’s catching me watching him too, but
it’s just too bizarre, a vampire in my home. His smell in my
living room, his laugh filling my walls. A few nights ago he
brought treats for Mercury, and now The Traitor comes
running every time he hears Bastian’s voice.
His evenings begin at my house, and I’m naturally curious
about where they end. I watch for signs of the predator he
really is, and it usually happens every few nights a couple of
hours into his visit. It comes on slow at first and then his
breathing tenses, his nostrils flare tautly—like he’s fighting the
urge to inhale. He licks his teeth a lot, and his hand will lie flat
against his stomach like he’s checking it for a pulse. A hunger
builds and builds until he can take no more and that’s when he
jumps from his seat and clears his throat, saying, “Let’s call it
a night.”
 As for the spell, I’ve gotten a base that could be viable, a
mixture of oils and herbs, but not that special ingredient that
will give it wings. There’s a freedom that comes with creating
a potion for a dead person because toxicity isn’t a factor. I’ve
considered using human blood since they can walk in the
sunlight, but blood magic is complicated and should be a last
resort.
I thought I’d feel pressure with him lounging in the corner
of the room, but I must admit with each night that passes, it
feels nice to have someone around. Maybe he was right about
being alone all the time, maybe I’m not as solitary as I
thought. Or maybe there’s just something about him…
Clearly, he’s beautiful to look at and only gets more
charming with each day that passes. He has little quirks that
make me chuckle, like how he laughs so loud at YouTube
videos he watches on his phone and always tries to show me
before I shut him down. Or how he’s shown up in joggers the
past two days and I never thought they looked good on guys,
but I’ll be damned if they don’t look like they were made for
his long ass legs. I find myself wondering how many streets
those legs have walked upon, where in the world they have
traveled. I wonder what it’s like to be immortal, to know that
you will never get cancer, never die in a car accident, that you
will never grow old. And this could all be considered research,
but I’m actually just very nosy.
“Is it strange?” I ask. “Leaving for so long and coming
back to people you once knew that have now grown older?”
Jumping from his seat at the sound of my voice, he glides
his hand along the wooden table as he inches near me. Myrrh
is burning for focus, but the way he’s approaching is so very
distracting, yet I can sense his urge to speak, to be heard.
“Strange…yes. Time moves differently for me than for
humans. So, seeing you, for example, it didn’t seem possible
for you to be so, so grown. Feels like a few years, not fifteen.
And, well, you’re not a little girl anymore.” He plops on the
stool next to me, placing both arms between his legs, his feet
swiveling him slowly. He moves so languidly, as if he’s
comprised of nothing but fluid, and then his eyes steal my
attention, a smolder emitting from the green orbs.
“Definitely not,” I say and clear my throat because he’s
doing that sexy vampire thing and I need to remember they
can’t help themselves. Vampires are predators that use their
sexuality as a weapon.
“Where were you? Why did you leave?”
“Ah, well. I was everywhere. I have real estate investments
all over the world. The past few years I went back and forth
between California, New York, and London.”
“Such a grown-up,” I say because he suddenly speaks so
dignified. “Real estate investments all over the world,” I
mimic in an English accent.
A smile cracks upon his face, and he drops his head with a
shake. “Thanks for putting me in my place.”
“No wonder you can drop hundreds of thousands for a
potion,” I say, and he shrugs.
“I left because I had been in New Orleans for most of my
vampire life and I needed a change. I’m back in my house in
the Garden District now.”
“The Garden District?” I’m surprised.
“You should visit, anytime.” He winks, and I look away,
closing Winnie because his winking at me set my blood
aflame, and it’s like tiny embers are burning on my skin. I
quickly call it a night, but it doesn’t keep him from coming
back the next night.

When he arrives, he sits on the stool immediately, and I

should send him back to the chair, but the truth is, I like him so
close to me. I like our conversations, I like learning about him.
It surprises me, but I think about the Bastian I knew from my
childhood, and how I loved the way he winked at me, how
those feelings are still deep inside me.
“Did you recognize me when you first came back?” I ask,
pouring my base potion over a dove’s feather.
 “It took a minute…to register. It was a crazy night, that
night was.” His eyes leave mine, going somewhere solemn.
“He threatened to kill himself that night, didn’t he?”
“Yes.” He wipes a hand over his mouth and looks to the
ceiling. “He pulled out a stake.” He eyes me, electric and
sharp as though he’s confessed one of his own sins.
I sprinkle Mugwort in my cauldron because his eyes are too
intense, and he’s just told me a secret I’m sure I shouldn’t have
been told. Bastian’s words from when he first visited my shop
resurface, he misses being alive. And it all makes sense, my
last trip to Nightwalkers, Cassius with a stake in his hand,
Nicola crying in front of him, Bastian taking charge.
“You know, in the human world if someone is threatening
suicide, we get them professional help, not a potion. You
really think this will make a difference?”
A face, so beautifully cut, so full of emotion, full of hope
and heartbreak. “Yes. It’s all I want in this world, for this
potion to work for him. I can’t lose him…” His head turns to
the floor. “He’s all I have.”
How can I respond to that? Whether this potion works or
not sits in my hands.
Bastian must sense my hesitation because he reaches for
my arm and laughs quietly. “But no pressure.”
I shoot out a muffled breath. “Oh yeah, none at all. What if
he tries before I finish?”
“He’s promised me, promised to give me time to figure
something out, something to make life worth living for him.
I’ll do everything I can to stop him.”
He wants to sound nonchalant, trying to lift some of the
pressure, but the truth is, he would have never come to me if
Cassius wasn’t serious.
“What if I create this potion and Cassius refuses to drink it?
Or worse, he opens his mouth and tells on us?”
“Cassius would never betray me like that, but also, he will
take it. Who would pass up the opportunity to walk in daylight
after a couple of hundred years? Not Cassius, no. He needs
this and he will want it.”
“And if it works, then what’s your plan? You can’t walk in
the day in New Orleans.”
“No, I thought about that. We’ll leave. Travel the world.
Cassius adores South America. We’ll go far away and no one
will know.”
With my hands in my lap, a sudden weight making it hard
to work overcomes me.
“Luck, love, and lust are such easy spells. This is so much
more than I realized it would be. I feel like I’m getting
nowhere.” A sigh leaves my lips and Bastian looks at my
hands.
“Those hands do remarkable things. I know you can do
this.”
I stare at him, half wanting to kick him out, half wanting to
hug him for the words of encouragement. It’s not often I hear
words like that. But we don’t know each other that way.
Giving compliments and encouragement. We are supposed to
be sworn enemies and what the fuck is going on?
“You look like I just slapped you across your face,” he
says, resting his knuckle under his nose. And after a few more
moments of silence, he looks at the ceiling. “Oh she’s
spiraling, okay. I’ll just take a step back.” He gets up like he
just read my thoughts, hands up as if he’s under arrest. “Do
you want me to leave? I’ll leave.”
“Yeah, probably for the best. But I’m not spiraling. I just
need to concentrate.” And I rub my temples. I need something
for a headache that just hit, and I need Bastian to just go.
“I’ll keep any positive thoughts to myself from now on,” he
says once I’ve gotten him outside. He saunters down the street,
turns, and places his hand over his heart. “Just this last one.
Believing in you has been one of the easiest decisions I’ve had
to make in the past seventy years. And I’ve made a lot of
decisions.”
 “That doesn’t help,” I mutter to myself and wonder why he
has so much faith in me and what I’m going to do about it.
HAIR. A PROTEIN COMPRISED OF keratin that grows inside the
follicles of the skin. Historically and presently, hair is a key
ingredient in much spell work, and it dawns on me that I need
some of Bastian’s for my latest idea.
After I freaked out on Bastian, I came up with my first
potion. A generic one I knew wouldn’t work but I had to start
with the basics. Two early mornings ago, I watched smoke rise
from Bastian’s fingertips as we placed his hand in the rising
sun, and it was deemed a failure. I prepared him for the worst,
so it wasn’t a great surprise, but the poor guy still had to hide
in my bathroom until nightfall. The bright side is that I finally
feel the creative juices flowing, and I need a lock of his hair.
You up? In the Garden District and have an idea I want to
work on today. I just need something from you.
The text bubble appears immediately, and relief hits that
he’s still awake being that it’s early morning—just the time
he’s usually settling into sleep.
Just getting ready to lie down. Come on by. 2362 Camp St.
Bastian’s house sits on a corner, his front yard so large, it
splays along two streets. The iron gate keeps passersby out,
elegant and tall, and I stand in front of it, my finger hovering
over his name on my phone. And just as I’m about to tap it,
my phone rings, his name in white letters flashes across my
screen, and goddammit—I jump.
 “I’m here,” I stammer, as if I’m in a confessional, needing
a reason to be at his front gate.
“I’m opening the side gate. The front door is unlocked.” As
his voice echoes from the receiver of my phone, the iron gate
on the side of the house slides open and I walk through it and
up the front steps. The yellow house is massive, and I wonder
if that’s what keeps him in the Garden District. Does he like
being out of the rush of the French Quarter? Does he like his
privacy? And private it is, with windows encased with white
shutters, and I can’t help but wonder how the light doesn’t sink
through.
I open the front door, a burst of nerves chasing down my
throat. It’s not pitch-black inside, but there are definitely
multiple layers of something on the windows keeping the
natural light out. The sun hasn’t risen completely, yet I quickly
close the door to not let a single ray inside.
I hear him before I see him, whistling, and he turns a
corner, and it makes me step back. I didn’t expect him to be in
sweats and one of those tight, white tank tops, no, not at all. I
didn’t expect his feet to be bare and for him to just ooze a
casualness I could never possess.
“Hey there,” he says, approaching, and my eyes shoot up to
the grand staircase I’m standing next to, anything to avoid
looking at him. “You caught me just in time. Welcome.” He
nods, and I allow a tight smile on my lips.
“I didn’t peg you for a yellow house kinda guy.”
His hair is wet and slicked back, his skin dewy from a fresh
shower. “Yeah, I’ve got some renovating to do. I’ve been gone
awhile.” He leans in as if he’s telling me a secret. “Though I
admit, I still kinda like the yellow.”
He smells like spring so I lean back, looking up at a crystal
chandelier that never sees sunlight, and that almost seems like
a crime. “It’s…huge.”
He shrugs. “I like my space.” And at that he turns in front
of me, licking his full bottom lip.
 “I, uh, won’t keep you long. I just need some hair. So I can
work on the spell today.”
Bastian smirks and runs a cool hand through his dark hair,
almost black from being wet. “How much hair?” A suspicious
eyebrow arches.
“Not much. Don’t worry.”
“Scissors are in the kitchen,” he says, placing his hand on
the small of my back, and my spine straightens because it’s
just so natural for him. And why am I not repulsed? Why does
his hand feel like it fits right in the small of my back like a
missing puzzle piece?
“Hair is used for a lot of love spells, right?” Bastian winks
as he guides me down the hall, and there’s jazz in the air.
“Yes, but mostly balding spells.”
His feet halt, hand slipping away from my back. “You
better never—”
“Jeez, come on!” I start walking again, keeping my
distance because his hand on my back felt…lovely.
“Through here,” he says once he starts walking again, and
the jazz in the air grows louder.
The kitchen—yeah, the kitchen. Now I’ve seen many a
Garden District kitchen; I’ve snuck in through countless back
doors and been led to various kitchens—a modern witch’s
spell room—and this one is really no different. Grand white
cabinets, a glossy marble floor, white granite countertops with
a massive island in the center.
Bastian walks to the island, slides out a drawer, and
brandishes a large pair of shears. “Be gentle,” he says as he
places the scissors in my hand and hops on a bar stool.
“So cooperative,” I coo, approaching him. Discomfort hits
me, the realization that I’m getting close enough to not only
cut Bastian’s hair but to touch it. Chewing on my lip, I place
myself between his wide legs and raise the scissors to his hair.
“Not much, right?” He ducks away, and I can’t help but
laugh.
 “No, it’s not much!”
He straightens back up, his eyes boring into mine, and I
hope he didn’t hear me gulp as I grab a piece of hair, wet and
slippery. His thighs seem to tighten around my waist, but when
I look down, they are barely touching me. My eyes drop to his
crotch, right in front of me, and my breath hitches and then he
asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah, be still,” I respond, tightening the hair in my fingers
again. That crisp sound of haircutting swings Bastian’s hand
up to the spot on his head while I set the shears down and step
out from his legs.
“Now if I suddenly fall in love with you, we both know
why.” Bastian swivels on his stool, a serious look upon his
face.
“Or if you suddenly go bald, we both know why.”
I place the hair in a velvet pouch, shoving it in my purse
when the room fills with a song, a song I love so much my
shoulders pull back.
“Creole Love Call,” I say, closing my eyes. “I fucking love
this song.”
“Oh, it’s a jam.”
I open my eyes to Bastian standing, walking to the wall,
and turning up the volume.
“The way it builds…” he says, and yes, the way it builds.
“It’s a subtle crescendo, one that could be missed if you’re
not paying attention.”
“That’s because it starts out kinda lazy like. Like that jazz
that’s just too cool to care. We would dance the hell out of this
song back in the day…” Then he looks surprised by me. And I
don’t know why, but something pushes me to surprise him
more. I grab his hand and spin under his arm. His eyes squint
and he doesn’t set my hand free—no, he only holds on tighter.
“You Lindy?”
“A little.” It’s not common for girls my age to know the
Lindy Hop, but I nod, hand still in his, suddenly aware of the
contact I initiated.
“Well, then come on. It’s not often I get to cut a rug these
days.” And he spins me and I draw right into his embrace, a
cool hand on my waist and the other clasped around mine.
And we move smoothly and slowly to the rhythm of the song,
and my bones feel like they could fly right out of my body.
My hand sits on his shoulder, and I have to look up to see
his eyes. Because so much of dancing is in the eyes, the
direction taken, the moves you’re about to make. He leads me
and I let him, with my chest pressed against the thin cotton of
his shirt, my fingers resting on the smooth skin of his shoulder.
At first, we are quiet, learning each other’s style. I step
incorrectly a time or two, but then our eyes meet, and his
squint with curiosity.
“Who taught you?”
And I’m twelve years old again, in my mother’s arms, her
tapping my feet with hers, directing me where to go. And I just
miss it so much. Dancing with my mother. Dancing like this.
“My mom loved to dance. She said dancing is conversing
with your body.” I spin myself out for some air, but he pulls
me right back in.
His fingers tighten around mine. “Well, she’s right.” He
looks up for a moment and then back to me. “Nicola calls her
the Wild Witch, all the vampires do.”
That instant protective shield closes in on me, a need to
stand up for my mother when her behaviors are underserving
at times. “Not just the vampires. Seems like all of New
Orleans does.”
He spins me, slowly out, then pulls me back in, but instead
of clutching my waist, he wraps his arm across my entire
lower back. “Why? What did she do?”
There’s a gentility in his expression and the way he’s
holding me, and I shake my head to clear my mind. “My
mother doesn’t like to conform to anything. I mean, being
forced to have me at eighteen didn’t help. Only made her rebel
more.”
 “Forced to have you?” His upper lip cinches into a slight
snarl. It’s so easy to forget he’s a vampire, but there are flashes
like this, a snarl or a growl that remind me what he drinks for
fuel.
“How was she forced?” he asks, jarring my thoughts, and I
shouldn’t tell him, I would be stupid to give my enemy more
of our secrets. So what do I do? I tell him. I open my big fat
mouth and tell him because we’re dancing and he’s looking at
me like he actually sees me, and I give zero fucks about family
secrets right now.
“Witches must reproduce. She wasn’t ready to have me, but
she did, forced by her coven because we are on the verge of
extinction.”
“I’ve heard that. Do you have any siblings? To help with
the bloodline?”
“No, my mother was truly grateful she had to have an
emergency hysterectomy after me. My birth was close to
catastrophic for both of us. The upside was she wouldn’t have
to birth any more children. She named me Aster because she
said I came like an asteroid.”
The brightest ball of fire, my little Asteroid.
I clear my throat, needles pricking my tongue from the
memory.
“I can see that,” he says with a wink. “And your father?”
“If the relationship works then the fathers stick around. But
for me, I have no idea who mine is. We are encouraged to
procreate with good matches, then erase their memories. Love
and relationships complicate our lives. Make things tricky.”
He pauses, his bare feet coming to a stop, his head tilting
with interest. “Tricky?”
“Men tend to make things very tricky, yes.”
And he spins me, faster than any human could—the
strength and speed that vampires possess is something I must
always remember but tend to forget.
 “I see,” he says, ignoring that he just took my breath away.
“And does that mean you have to…reproduce soon?”
What is wrong with me? Am I drunk? Spilling this kind of
classified information is not like me. I step back, our hands
swinging between us, and look him straight in the eyes,
because divulging that was a mistake for two reasons. One,
I’ve just let a vampire know our vulnerability, and second, I’m
getting too comfortable with him.
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I think I have the answer.” And at that, he pulls me in tight
and we move together, quicker, in unison, and I try not to
smile at how fluid we feel, how I like the way his hands feel
against my body.
“We could do this, ya know, do this in a real club. Go
Uptown or even Frenchman Street.” His grip tightens, his hard
stomach against mine before he spins me out and the air is
light around us. I have to be sensible and level-headed. I can’t
get caught up in a friendship with him, not with everything
that’s at stake.
“You’re very beautiful,” he states, his jaw set tight, his face
so earnest.
It softens something inside of me, how vulnerable he lets
himself become, so I smile.
“So are you, like a male peacock, in a sea of females.” It’s
a vampire thing and we both know it. Their beauty is what
pulls humans in, like moths to flames. His lip curls in a
pleased way, his thumb caressing my hand, and I’m struck
with how dangerous this can become—is already becoming. I
must stop it.
“We can’t complicate things,” I force out, and he blinks
rapidly.
There’s something about sweat that’s beautiful, how it
forms on the surface of skin, the shiny beads almost glowing. I
didn’t think vampires sweat, or I never really thought about it.
But the sweat gathering inside the indentation of Bastian’s
throat is a glimmery sight, and I want to watch it dance down
his chest. I don’t get a chance.
“Right,” Bastian says, creating space between us but not
letting me go, and the music builds, that crescendo we spoke
of, and we dance with more intensity than before, anticipating
each other’s move, a step ahead of one another and I close my
eyes. I can feel where I’m going and I don’t open them until
I’m dipped in his arms, his face inches from mine, the music
ceasing, my heart booming. I stand, and in total silence, show
myself out. Thankfully he doesn’t follow me.
I tell myself the entire ride home that it’s normal to have a
crush on vampires. They are constructed for humans to have
crushes on them. It’s to be expected, yet I’m still disappointed
in myself, in the way I’m feeling.
So, I fight the urge to smell his hair as I pull it from the
pouch and place it next to the boiling water, but fuck if I just
want to know how it smells before it’s burnt, so I pull the
pieces under my nose, the smell of mint clearing my sinuses,
the hair now dry and so very soft.
Time to cease, I say to myself and drop it in the boiling
water. Time to cease the ruin that finding a vampire attractive
brings. It’s like a disease really; it spreads and devours from
the outside in, and I won’t be diseased. I allow myself a few
minutes of him taking up space in my mind, and then I let him
and his stupid fucking sweatpants go. I’ve got more important
things to focus on.
THE HAIR DIDN’T WORK, AND it’s been two weeks. Two weeks of
Bastian lounging on my black velvet chair, wrapped around
Mercury’s little claw. Two weeks of countless tests and trials,
of Bastian drinking copious potions that may or may not have
lasting side effects. This early afternoon he drank a concoction
of his own blood and spit mixed with an incantation I really
thought would work, but he remained the same and I felt like a
failure.
“Okay, I think that’s it for now. I need to re-group and
concentrate,” I say, sitting back on my stool.
“We need a drink,” Bastian announces and jerks his head
toward a bottle of Chantal’s tequila on the breakroom
refrigerator. Desperately needing a change of scenery, I
decided to work in the shop kitchen tonight.
“Tequila? No thanks.” I scoff, knowing full well that I
should not be under the influence of anything around him, but
it does sound appealing, the clear liquid in the bottle. Salt and
lime.
“Come on, live a little,” he says with a wink, and the irony
isn’t lost on me. I slide off my stool, grabbing limes, salt, and
two shot glasses. Just a couple, to loosen me up. Because I’ve
hit such a substantial wall, I’m starting to doubt myself. I need
to be free from my mind, if only for a couple of hours, to
imagine or construct a new plan. Bastian’s blood, spit, and hair
hasn’t worked, nor a dove’s feather, nor every herb and oil I
can possibly think of.
My brain is on overdrive as I walk through the kitchen door
out to my private courtyard and hear Bastian’s feet hit the
floor, following me outside.
I place the two glasses on my wrought iron table, twist the
lid, and sloppily pour two shots. Pulling the knife from my
boot, I meet eyes with Bastian, and they seem to alight. But he
says nothing, just watches me with a keen eye as I slice a lime
into quarters then hand him one along with a shot.
“No chasers?” he says with intrigue, and I roll my eyes.
“Who needs chasers?”
“Not me.” He takes a seat and sprinkles salt on his hand. I
do the same, and he raises his shot glass with a quick
“Cheers.” We click glasses, lick our salt, and down the shots in
unison. I suck on my lime far longer than he does, then pry it
from my teeth with a long fingernail. His eyes are on my
hands then my lips and then on my eyes.
“Another,” he whispers, and I do it. I do it when I know I
shouldn’t, but my gaze doesn’t leave his, not for a second as I
pour again and drizzle more salt on my hand. This time, the
salt licking is slower on both ends, as I watch his wet tongue
glide across his hand, and there’s a pull on my stomach at the
sight. I want to close my eyes, to look away, but I can’t, I
fucking can’t because he’s goddamn mesmerizing and I really
hate that about him. I lick my salt and take the shot, finally
closing my eyes because his are glowing green even in the
dark of my brick lined courtyard, only one gas lamp on,
hanging from the corner of my building.
Belly warmed, I forgot that tequila makes me hot, but
tonight my clothes will stay on.
“Just one more and that’ll do me,” he says as he grabs the
bottle, and I sneer at him because he only poured for himself.
“Excuse me?” I point to my empty glass.
With the audacity to look surprised, he pours mine full and
I grab it with a huff, though I already feel that slow spread of
liquor across my body and I can’t remember when I ate last.
Hours and hours ago, yet I won’t be bested by him.
With three shots down in a matter of minutes, a lazy calm
overcomes me. Clearing my head, clearing my head—that’s
the mission, so I look up to the stars and the moon and smile.
“I really did think there was a man in the moon once,” I
say, my head back, my hair gently dancing with a breeze.
Bastian inhales, slow and deep, and my head jerks up
because he’s smelling me, he’s smelling me or my hair, and I
can’t forget that he lives off the likes of me—humans with
blood-filled veins. Even if I’m a witch, I’m very much alive
and mortal and even though my blood can kill him, it doesn’t
stop his desire for it.
He looks almost caught in the act of something, but he
literally hasn’t moved a muscle since our last drink—his legs
are still sprawled out in front of him, hooked at the ankles, his
elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “I’m sorry. It’s
coconut? Right? Coconut shampoo? I didn’t peg you for that.”
At this point, all I can do is laugh because I wouldn’t peg
myself for that either. “Makes me think of vacation. Though
I’ve never been on vacation as an adult. So I buy tropical
scented products because I think that’s what vacation smells
like.”
“You’ve never been on a vacation?” He stares, exasperated,
and I sit up. So many lines are being crossed, but I’m starting
to think maybe Bastian isn’t the enemy I was raised to think he
was. Other vampires, definitely. But maybe not Bastian.
“When I was a kid, we went to the bayou to visit family for
a few weekends. My grandmother took me to Disney World
once, but my mother got in trouble for enchanting one of the
rides not to stop, so my grandmother made us leave.”
“Your mother did that?” he laughs.
“Yeah. She was more trouble than I was. It was the teacups.
This little girl stuck her tongue out at me, so my mom kept her
cup spinning until my grandmother had to scream in the crowd
to make her stop. That was the last vacation I ever had.”
 Bastian blows out his cheeks as his long fingers drum the
table. “Where’s your mother now?”
“Fuck if I know. She travels the world while I run the
store.” I sneer at that. At my mother getting to live out her
dreams while I’m weighed with the responsibility to not only
keep the family name alive but the family business as well.
But I’m paying my dues, and every witch before had to pay
their dues.
Why does it hurt me so that she left? Why is it like I’m
being cut open when I have to talk about her? And why is he
looking at me like he’s so interested? Okay, I’m spiraling.
Fuck. But his eyes, they are hypnotic, and I need to pull my
shit together, yet I still whisper, “Aventurine.”
“Adventurian?” he mumbles, eyes squinting.
I lick my lips and rub my eyes, wondering why I said my
nickname for his eyes, but liquor is quicker so I swallow. “No,
Aventurine. It’s a stone. The same color as your eyes.”
He leans in, his ass sliding back in the chair, his knees
bending as he pulls closer to me. “You like my aventurine
eyes, do you?” He’s teasing and I slit my eyes. But I do. I
really, really do.
“I should sew your mouth shut,” I laugh. “It’s funny
because I can.” I giggle more.
“Do you want to marry me and my aventurine eyes?” he
sings, and I groan, bewildered that he would say something
like that.
“Our children would be ravishing. With your red hair and
my aventurine eyes. In fact, that’s what we’ll name our first
daughter. Aventurine. I like it. It sounds like a feminine form
of adventure and it has meaning. The eyes you can’t get
enough of. She will run the world.” It’s very matter of fact like
this can happen—no, this will happen.
My mouth hangs open from what just spewed out of his.
The silence thick between us, thick as the humid Louisiana air
because I don’t know what to say and I don’t even hate what
he said. Not even a little. I know what’s happening here, I
know if I let him, he would kiss me. He would fuck me. I
know I would like it. Alcohol is amplifying so much, but that
dance in his kitchen crosses my mind. His arm around my
waist, it’s all dizzying, really, so I laugh, because what kind of
words can follow up those?
“You can’t have children,” is my response and it sounds
cold after what he’s said.
An almost wounded look crosses his face and he sits up
straighter, clearing his throat. “Right,” he says and downs
another shot.
Vampires and witches can’t flirt. We aren’t even supposed
to speak. I almost say something, but he speaks first, mischief
heavy in his voice. “I wanna see a trick.”
“Huh?” I say, feeling more than tipsy and confused.
“Make a kangaroo appear or a strike of lightning, right
here.” He points to the center of the table.
I lean in and slowly say, “I’m not a monkey. I don’t do
tricks.”
“I’ve seen little things you do. Move lock switches, stir
water. Maybe your magic isn’t as powerful as I thought.”
If cutting him would scar, I would have done it. He’s
different now—arrogant, and I want to make him bleed.
“Reverse psychology won’t work on me either.” But as soon
as those words leave my lips, I want to show him, to prove
myself. I don’t trip myself on the whys. Tequila won’t let me.
“I can’t make a kangaroo appear. That would be stupid.”
“Well, what can you do?”
“I can conjure, make potions and spells. I can’t create life;
there are laws of nature, things that we simply don’t have the
power to do. And there’s cosmic law—things we shouldn’t do.
We can’t create things out of thin air. Your kangaroo would
have to come from somewhere. We can’t create money, and
we can’t cure disease. We’re stronger together, that’s why it’s
beneficial to have a coven. And we need other witches to
accomplish certain things, otherwise, we deplete our powers.
And I don’t owe you shit. You don’t know a thing about
magic.” I inhale after my alcohol induced word vomit and lick
my teeth.
He just slides forward in his chair, creating a temple with
his fingers and says, “Make a believer out of me.”
And those words are all it takes for me to defy every
known witch law. We aren’t supposed to prove our powers to
anyone or thing, but it’s his lucky day because I’m drunk and
feeling mischievous myself. “Fine,” I blurt, “scoot closer.”
Those tempestuous eyes smile with victory and he stands,
pulling the heavy chair closer, its feet groaning against the
brick the only sound between us.
“I can mentally take you back in time. Only for a few
seconds, only to a moment you want to revisit.”
His head cocks, an eyebrow rising. “You’re kidding me.”
“We’ll see together, through your eyes as though I’m in
your body and you can live a moment over again.” I can
hardly believe the words coming out of my lips. This would
get me punished by Aunt Violetta, and maybe that’s why it’s
easy for me to break the rules. She only cares when rules are
broken. Fuck that. I’m going to show him a little magic, what
I’m capable of.
“Yes, please. Let’s do it,” he says with the excitement of a
child, and my heart feels like it’s beating inside my ear.
I take the deepest of breaths, centering myself. “I’m going
to need to touch your face and you’ll need to keep your hands
off me. I’m serious. Do not touch me.” I peer up through my
lashes, discomfort swarming between us. I’ve already danced
with him, cut his hair, and now touching his face feels even
more intimate.
“That’s fine. I don’t bite…when I’ve had dinner.” A grin
sits on his lips, and my unamused expression forces him to be
serious because it’s like a bad vampire dad joke. My hand
rises, hesitates, and pulls back, then rises again until my
fingers slide up his cool cheekbone. Drawing my fingers to his
hairline, I press the palm of my hand to his cheek. It’s strange
but familiar at the same time. As much as I can protest, I’ve
come to know Bastian—fuck, I’ve come to like him. But that
doesn’t mean I can go soft.
“Seriously, I will fuck you up,” I warn, barely finishing the
sentence because he laughs, my hand still against his cheek.
“I have no doubt that you would. I’ll be good. Don’t
worry.”
I give a steely smile along with more instructions. “Close
your eyes, and don’t open them until I tell you to.
Understand?”
He nods, before slowly closing his eyes, and it’s not lost on
me that he doesn’t give any demands. I could stake his heart if
I wanted to, I could cast a spell that could turn him into a
mosquito I could squash. But for some godforsaken reason, he
trusts me and I’m not sure if I should commend or reprimand
him for it. The alcohol must have something to do with this
blind trust we have in each other at this moment. I take it for
what it is and press harder into his smooth cheek.
“Now think back, to a place in time that you want to revisit.
Some place that evokes good memories, someplace you could
visit over and over again. A moment you could re-live
forever.” His jaw tightens beneath my pinky and he breathes a
sweet tequila-filled breath out.
“Okay,” he whispers so softly I could mistake it for the
wind.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath as the incantation
leaves my lips. “Retrosum. Retrosum. Retrosum.”
And…
It’s loud, the sound of machinery almost like a bicycle
chain amplified. I’m seeing through Bastian’s eyes, but it’s not
the hands I’ve grown to know. These are the small hands of a
boy, clutching a metal bar in front of him as the car—no, roller
coaster car—that he sits in inches up a steep incline. It’s
bright, so bright with a blue ocean to the right of us and a
parking lot and mountains to the left. We reach the top of a
white roller coaster and then dive down, down, deeper as
fellow riders scream. His eyes go to the ocean and the sandy
beach, and next to him, a boy not much taller, but visibly
older, with the same green eyes and wide smile. He screams as
the roller coaster takes another dip and then another. Wind rips
through his hair, and I feel it, I feel Bastian’s little heart
beating, his mouth open wide from pure exhilaration. The
scent of waffle cones and salt fill the air, while their
contagious giggles bounce off the tracks. And the sun, it’s so
warm and…different than the New Orleans sun. The air isn’t
as thick, it’s almost—
I’m in the air, ripped from Bastian’s memory, flying until
my back slams into the brick floor of my courtyard and air
sucks in my lungs. Pain burns across my back while my head
snaps up to meet bared fangs and blood-soaked eyes.
I am an idiot.
SCARLET TEARS OF BLOOD AND agony streak down Bastian’s
cheeks, pouring from his eyes. He’s seething over me with
fangs that would love to plunge into my neck only inches
away, so I take no chances.
“Ignite,” I whisper, pushing my sprawled hand toward him.
A wave of electricity forms at my fingertips, and in a second,
sends Bastian through the air until he’s plastered against my
ivy laced brick wall as if he were light as a bubble, not a man
of almost two hundred pounds.
He’s not here with me, not entirely. He’s still in the
memory that I drew him to, his eyes searching with a pained
expression on his face. I hold him steadily against the wall, his
arms pinned to his side, and say in a low, strained voice, “I
told you not to touch me.”
After what feels like minutes of heavy breathing, he looks
at me. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally able to focus on the here
and now. “I’m so sorry. I…did I hurt you?”
“No.” The pulsating pain in my shoulder blades makes me
a liar.
“I…it happened so fast. I’m sorry. I don’t know what
happened.”
I never felt his hands on me, just a force that shoved me to
the ground, the unhuman speed that only vampires possess
knocking me on my ass. It doesn’t matter how it happened. I
let my guard down and I could have died. What the fuck was I
thinking? To prove something to a vampire that’s shown a
little interest in me. That’s not who I am. I harden my hand
that’s holding Bastian against the wall, and he winces.
Blood tears still spill down his face—he’s still visibly
shaken by the scene on the roller coaster. “I didn’t expect it…
to feel so real.” He clenches his eyes closed, and I almost feel
sorry for him.
“Where was that?” I ask, and his eyes spring open, his
beautiful face so blood soaked, I shiver. I’ve never witnessed a
vampire cry before. It’s fascinating.
“An amusement park on the beach.” Voice cracking, chin
dripping with blood. “California,” he whispers.
“And the boy?”
“The boy?”
“Who was the boy next to you?”
“Jesus, let me down so I can wipe my face.” But he can’t
command me. He’s broken my trust.
“Who was it?” I demand, wondering if I really have the
right to, but something is telling me to get these answers, that
there’s a purpose to this. A pain sparks in my hand, a warning
that I’ll need to put him down soon. I can’t hold him for much
longer.
“My brother. Okay?” He’s getting angry, and seeing him so
distressed unsettles something inside me. I drop my hand and
Bastian slides down the wall, immediately wiping the tears
from his face.
“What happened to him?” I massage my hand to quell the
aching.
He’s got blood all over his hands now, smeared across his
face as he tries to wipe the tears away. “He died in an
accident.”
Of all the places he wanted to go to the most, it was a
memory with his older brother, his dead older brother.
 “I need a napkin,” he says staring at his filthy hands, his
head hung low.
“Wait a minute.” I free fall in thought, ideas bubbling faster
than I can keep up with. Cassius wants to die and he’s the only
brother Bastian has left, and not even a blood brother. Bastian
is willing to risk his life—both of our lives—to save Cassius
from death. From the pain of death he knows from losing his
real brother.
A brother’s love.
My mind spitfires as Bastian stares at me dumbfounded.
Desire. Not the kind comprised of lust, but the covetous
kind, the kind that makes you do things you wouldn’t usually
do. The risks you are willing to take for it, the kind with a gut-
aching need. I think of the baby’s tears in the Garden District.
Tears of sorrow for protection…then…tears of blood…
Bastian scoffs and leaves the courtyard as all these thoughts
are pummeling me, not making cohesive sense, yet growing
inside. And I turn, following Bastian through my back door
and into the shop kitchen.
He’s heading to the paper towels, and my heart about stops.
“Don’t wipe your face!” I yell, and he turns to me, eyes
still bloodied on the inside, the red and green flashing like
Christmas lights.
“What?” he says, irritation slick in his voice.
“Blood tears of desire and love…wait!” I huff and run to
the closet, grabbing a muslin cloth and running back to
Bastian, whose standing wide-eyed and shaken in the kitchen.
He looks at the cloth as I approach him, breaths heavy with
emotion, so I move slowly, not wanting to startle him, but I
need to get close.
“May I?” And I’m raising the cloth to his face, unsure why
I’m asking, but there’s something so vulnerable about him,
how he’s standing, hunched shoulders, forlorn eyes, and I
remember he just saw his dead brother for the first time in…I
don’t know how many years.
 “Yes,” he whispers as I move in, a low incantation leaving
my lips.
“Madeo sanguis. Sanguis madeo.” I place the cloth on his
cheek and wipe down, then up and down again, while the
crimson liquid sullies the muslin. “Sanguis madeo. Madeo
Sanguis.” Pressing the cloth to the other side of his face, I
wipe up and down against his cheek. “Close your eyes,” I
whisper, a pulling inside of me, having never seen Bastian—
let alone a vampire—so passive, so broken. He slowly closes
his lids, blood caked around his lashes, and I pull the cloth
along his eyelids. Vampire blood is safe to touch. They carry
no virus, no disease, yet I’m still surprised at how I’m not
recoiling from wiping it. My mind is wandering, taking me
from the spell, so I focus on his desire as I repeat the Latin
words for blood and soak over and over until the muslin is no
longer white, but a deep scarlet red.
“You’ve got an idea,” he says with closed eyes, and it
sounds like the real him is coming back, the hopeful him.
“I do. You can open your eyes.” And they are no longer
rimmed with red, the irises once again stark white, the skin
around them slit. I think of the tequila, how it got us here, but
I’m no longer feeling drunk. I’m feeling empowered, almost…
optimistic.
Bastian plops on a stool with a sigh, exhausted, and I’m
suddenly full of energy.
“Well, you showed me,” he says, rubbing his temples.
I spin, the bloody muslin feeling hot in my hands. “Your
brother, huh?” I could get angry all over again, but I only have
myself to blame.
“My brother died when we were young, and that moment,
the first time we rode The Giant Dipper, is a moment I could
live over and over again. And you made it happen.” His eyes
glimmer as he pinches his lower lip between his fingers,
contemplating. “You sure you’re okay?”
And the pain is still there but for some pathetic reason, I
pity him, so I shrug. “I’m no weakling.”
 “Yeah, I know,” he smiles warmly, and wings take flight in
my stomach, and that’s when I tell him to get out.
MY FINGERS TINGLE AND IT’S a sign. I feel it’s a sign down to the
pit of my soul, but I’m cautious, I don’t jump to conclusions.
I’ve been wrong before, I have. But this time feels different.
I pull my latest concoction from the fridge and give the
glass jar a swirl. It’s red from Bastian’s blood tears, oily from
my spell, spicy from the herbs, and ready to be test driven. I
soaked the muslin in the oil for eight days and seven nights. I
chanted over it, freeing the tears of Bastian’s desires. The
desire for an unbroken brotherhood, the desire to salvage what
he once lost. I spent countless hours pouring my own desires
into the incantation and I sealed it with my own saliva, so the
spell can only be mine and never stolen.
Bastian sits at the breakroom table staring at my hand as I
swirl what he’s about to consume. It was still dark out when I
called him, the words, “I’ve got it this time,” drawing him to
my house immediately. And here he waited, hiding in my
bathroom, sleeping in my bathtub while I worked at the shop,
counting the hours until we could safely test it.
“It looks…oily,” he says with disgusted hesitancy.
“It is…oily,” I whisper back. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” I
pop off the cork and give it a whiff. “It’s going to be quite
disgusting. But I think it will work.”
He grabs for it, his pinky ring glistening under the kitchen
lights, but I pull it back to my chest. “Like we agreed, just a
hand in the sun. One of your perfect little fingertips!”
He laughs in a most sexy way, eyes sparkling with
anticipation, and then nods. “Yes, I got it.”
I look at my phone, 5:45 p.m., but dark in the kitchen, the
shades drawn shut, because outside the sun still sits in the sky,
awaiting our experiment. I place the bottle on the counter and
his hand slides up to it, slowly spinning it between his fingers.
He’s studying it, his eyebrows squinting, his head tilting.
“If this works,” he says, eyes fixated on the thick liquid,
“I’m going to have to kiss you.” And that’s when his eyes dart
to mine and the air between us stills, and I allow myself to
acknowledge that, yes, I would really like that, I would.
“If this works, you’re going to have to pay me.” I smirk,
because even if I want him to kiss me, he can’t kiss me, and
we both need to remember this is a business arrangement.
His head cocks and I run the pendant on my necklace back
and forth across the chain around my neck, my eyes finding
his lips. What would it be like to kiss them? His cupid’s bow
so defined, his bottom lip like a pillow of flesh. The thought
pushes a bolt of fire through my insides, and then he winks at
me.
“Bastian,” I warn, but he picks the bottle up, holds it in the
air, and squints one eye, as if he’s looking through the eye of a
rifle.
“Bottoms up?” And his hair is so perfect today, styled
brown waves that look messy in a sophisticated way and I hate
that I’m looking at his hair at a time like this. He pulls the
bottle to his wet lips and with a swiftness, knocks it back.
I lick my lips, my heart strumming in my chest, pressing
my hands into my cheeks.
He gags, bringing the back of his hand to his mouth, his
fangs elongating, his breathing labored.
I back up because I’ve seen those fangs before—when he
about killed me the last time we were in my courtyard
together. He shakes his head and swallows, showing restraint,
fists clenching, mouth forced shut.
 “Are…you okay?” I ask, my head leaning down as I try to
meet his eyes. His head pops up and he takes a deep breath as
his hand slams down on my counter, fingers sprawled wide.
“I think so?” His tongue runs along a fang and the
adrenaline is thumping and it’s making me nauseous. He takes
a deep breath and closes his eyes and mouth.
I quietly give him the time he needs to let the potion run
through his veins. Hoping, hoping, this is it. Goodbye
mortgage. Let it be, let it be, I chant in my head, and when he
looks up at me, his fangs are gone and his breathing is steady.
Air escapes my lips, a sigh of relief, and that’s when he nods.
“Let’s do it.” He strides to the back door, and I run after
him, prepared to remind him.
“I know,” he laughs, “Just the tip.” He winks and I shake
my head, reminded of the last time we did this. When he felt
the fire burning his fingers before the sun even neared his
fingertips, when the smoke rose from his hand before he set
foot outside. I open the door, hold my breath, and walk
outside. Turning to face him, I feel the sun spill over me,
something I’ve long taken for granted.
His long fingers inch more and more out the door while his
hand shakes. “No burning so far,” he reports, and I stay silent
as if my words could jinx it. His foot slides closer to the sun
that’s made its way onto the kitchen floor. He’s wearing Vans
today as if he plans on being out, casual Friday.
When his nail hits the sunlight, my hand jolts up to shield
it, but it doesn’t need shielding. He keeps pressing forward
until his bare hand glimmers in the sun and his mouth
whispers, “Fuuuck.”
Our breaths hitch in unison. “You gonna keep going?” I ask
because I’m cautious, but not Bastian. His Vans slide onto the
brick, then his face, and in seconds, Bastian Delacroix is
standing in front of me, sunlight in his eyes, and he’s never
been so heavenly—not ever—and my hands cover my mouth
and I scream.
 He crashes into me, wrapping his arms around my torso,
and lifts me in the air. I don’t push him away; the exhilaration
overwhelms me, and I knock my head into his chest while he
twirls me.
“You fucking did it.” It’s a whisper first and then he’s
yelling it as he sets me down, and I jump on top of my lounge
chair and scream.
“I fucking did it!” And we stare at each other for a moment
before he looks up to the sky, arms down, palms up.
Aventurines are close, but man—they are even more brilliant
in the sun, and he laughs, laughs so loud, and I cackle right
along with him. I’m going to be okay. I’m going to be
financially secure and I did it on my own.
The tears flow and I’m okay with it. I am okay with crying
from happiness and I let myself just feel it. I don’t negate it. I
don’t diminish it. I accomplished this, on my own, I did it.
“Seventy years, seventy years!” He takes another deep
breath, arms stretched out wide, face to heaven. Then he looks
to me. “Come on.” Hand extending to me. “Let’s go out.”
Grabbing his hand, I step down from the lounge chair. “I
don’t know how long it’ll last.”
“It’ll be dark soon enough,” he says, checking the time and
then running a finger through his hair. “The sun feels so good.
The sky…”
I bet he wants to cry, but he shakes his head back and forth
and places his fist to his mouth. “Thank you,” he says and
grabs my other hand so that we are standing directly in front of
each other, and we’re connected, our own small circle.
“I don’t know how long we have.” I pull my hand from his
because it feels too good.
“There are hundreds of dark corners in the French Quarter,
and I know every one. If it wears off, we’ll find one.”
“It’s risky, being seen out there…”
“Give me this time. Give me this time, and then we’ll
figure out how long it lasts. And you get paid, and I’ll talk to
Cassius. Deal?”
“I can’t be seen with you.”
He grabs his hat and sunglasses from his back pocket,
something I made him promise to wear when he’s out.
Although as he puts them on, I doubt they will serve their
purpose of disguising him. He does not blend in.
“Get your shoes on.” He looks down at my bare feet and
then leans down to my ear. “Come on, let go.”
So, I decide to let go. I’ll let go for today and just for today
because in a couple of hours this will be over. Bastian won’t
be hanging out at my house anymore. I’ll figure out the length
of time the potion works and then we’ll move on from this.
We’ll say our goodbyes. Cassius and Bastian can travel the
world together. And I’ll have my shop and I’ll have security
and a life of my own.
“It’s so different. You don’t realize it until it’s gone.” He’s
wistful when he says it, looking up at the glowing flowers
hanging in pots from the balconies. “The colors…how the sun
hits…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, he doesn’t have to. We’re
walking down the middle of Bourbon Street with Styrofoam
cups in our hands, the Hurricane already creating a buzz in my
mind. “Just one,” he had said and pulled me into the Hurricane
Shop where colorful flavors spun in machines along the walls.
“Let’s be tourists.”
We drink and drink some more, dancing down the hot and
crowded street as Bastian yells, “Blinded by the lights!” He
stops at a cigar shop as I wait outside, dizzy from the liquor
and the worry that someone might recognizes Bastian. I pull
out my phone and try to focus on the time. We’ve been out for
an hour, and sunset is another hour away.
“Has it always been this beautiful?” he asks as he jumps
down from the step and lights his cigar. I look at the musicians
playing in the street, the bucket boys slamming their sticks
against the plastic bins, the metallic beads strewn across the
street, glimmering every color of the rainbow, and I nod.
 “Yes, it has. It only gets more beautiful.” I can feel my
smile all the way down to my soul, and I’m feeding off his
energy. I’ve never seen his teeth this much before, his grin is
so wide it disappears behind his Ray-Bans.
“Thank you.” He bites the red straw and then slurps up the
icy alcohol, and I just nod. And that’s when his hips sway back
and forth and his shoulders follow and we dance in the street
until sweat falls down my back and wets my hair, and this is
what it feels like to let go.
Then he stumbles like he’s lost his balance, but we aren’t
even walking. His drink falls to the ground, icy red liquor
spreading around our feet, and I grab his elbow.
“You okay?” I look up at him.
With squinting eyes, he says, “Huh?” as if squinting eyes
equals better hearing.
“Are you okay?” I pull his sunglasses down for a peek. His
eyes are droopy, and his mouth slowly opens while it travels
down to my ear. “It burns,” he whispers, and my eyes widen,
my fingers digging into his elbow. “Aster, it burns.”
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” I yell over the loud tuba being
played inches away. Head shaking, he pulls the hat from his
head as if that would give him some relief. He’s becoming
disoriented right before my eyes.
“No, no.” Groaning, I stand on my tippy toes, pulling the
hat back down over his head. “Where are your dark corners?”
I look around, but with so many people shoulder to shoulder, I
can’t think, can’t think of a spell to cast, can only imagine a
vampire dying in the middle of Bourbon Street and that would
mean the ripping of my throat. I grab his hand and pull him
away from the crowds to the dark side of the street, thankful
for Nola and all its shade-baring terraces.
What’s the darkest place that’s the closest? Eyes scanning,
heart thumping, and I wish I could stop time but that’s not how
most magic works.
My mind goes to Lafitte’s—the oldest, darkest bar in the
French Quarter. The back is close to pitch black, even in the
daylight, and we’re only minutes away. I grab his hand and
pull him in that direction—which requires passing Comey’s—
with great hesitation. Thankfully no one that works the night
shift is lounging out front.
“Almost there,” I say, looking back at him, his silence
ensuring me that this is an emergency because he rarely shuts
up.
 Lafitte’s is cool and dank, and the moment we step inside I
can actually breathe. I pull Bastian straight to the back, past
the opened shutters, past the brick fireplace that’s three
hundred years old and around a corner where a piano sits.
Come nightfall, the area will be crowded and lively with a
pianist taking requests. But for now, it’s just us.
I pull off Bastian’s hat and sunglasses and grab his chin
between my fingers. “Still alive-ish?” I ask, looking for any
markings or burns. Partying on Bourbon Street was just
another stupid decision, and I’ve been making a lot of those
lately.
With a hand through his hair, he pulls his chin from my
fingers and nods. “That was nothing,” he coos. “I’ve had
closer calls than that.” He grins and pulls his T-shirt from his
wet chest in an attempt to play it off. I believe him but can still
see the calming of his nerves in front of my eyes.
“That was so…”
“Fun,” he interrupts quickly, but I just shake my head and
grab a rubber band from my wrist.
“Stupid. That was so stupid. And I knew it, I knew it could
happen.” I pull my hair up into a high ponytail, so overheated
and tipsy that I feel sick.
“It’s fine.” Bastian pulls out his phone and looks at the
time. “We just have to hang out here until sunset. Less than an
hour. It’s fine.” His eyes betray his fear, but I don’t point it out.
“Yeah well, you’re not the one vampires and witches will
kill over this, so I can see why you’re not too concerned.”
“Stop.” He grabs my hand. “Nobody is killing anyone.
We’re still celebrating. Let’s get some drinks while we wait.”
“I can fix it. I can lengthen the time. It won’t take that long,
I’m sure just a little longer curing. And you guys can plan it so
you know how many hours you have out.”
“You’re a goddamn witch genius. Now here,” he says
pulling a twenty out of his pocket. “Get us something to drink.
I just need a couple of minutes, but I’ll be fine.”
 When I come back with two beers, Bastian is more relaxed
with his arms sprawled across the booth, an ankle resting on
his knee. Upon seeing me, he sits up and takes the drinks from
my hands.
“Hey, I apologize. I need to remember the risks involved
for you. I just wanted to celebrate together.” The seriousness
in his tone makes me uncomfortable, so I plop next to him and
shrug.
“Thanks, it’s cool.”
“It’s cool? You looked like your head was going to
explode.”
“Yeah well, you burning alive on Bourbon Street next to a
witch would have looked even worse.”
He blows out his cheeks and picks up his beer. “Well,
cheers.”
We clink bottles.
“It’s happened before…a lot?”
He swigs on his beer and then looks to the ceiling as if he’s
mentally counting every occurrence. “Enough to know I never
want to burn alive.”
We fall silent, so much to digest from what’s happened
over the past couple of hours. The high and the low and then
suddenly in the back of Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, Bastian and
I lock eyes and it’s as though the exact same thought is
running through our heads.
“You did it, you really did it.” His hand clasps over my
knee and shakes it, and the thrill transfers to me. “Can you
believe it? Can you actually believe it?”
I sit with my mouth open, trying to find the words, because
no, I can’t believe it. “I think it hasn’t fully hit me yet. I didn’t
let myself get too hyped about it… I was skeptical.”
He squeezes my knee again before he leans back in the
booth. “I wasn’t, I knew you would figure it out. And now,
you’re gonna need a check.”
 I pretend the fact that he actually believed in me doesn’t
make my ears hot, make it harder to swallow.
“You just have a fat bank account to do with what you
please?”
“Perks of being a monster.” His eyes float to the dark
ceiling. “I can’t wait until tomorrow, to do it again. It was…
everything.”
“Uh, slow down! I’ve got more to figure out and you
shouldn’t do it every day. There could be side effects….”
“I’m not, I’m not. I mean, Cassius is going to—you have
saved his life.”
He wets his lips and leans closer to me, and I’m reminded
of his vow of a kiss so I pull my phone out to check the time.
He pushes it down, and my ponytail whips my cheek while he
inches closer to me.
“Bastian,” I whisper, looking at his fingers over my phone.
“You don’t want me to? Tell me you don’t want me to.”
I’m hot, so hot that I pull my hand across my wet forehead
and lick my parched lips. His would fit on mine, so cold and
dead and everything I can’t have.
“I’m getting some water.” I stand, pulling my hand away,
and slip my phone in my back pocket. I weigh the impact
kissing a vampire could have as I grab a plastic cup and fill it
from a large dispenser at the end of the bar.
Chantal’s wanting prickles my memory from the night at
Caged. He is highly fuckable. The damage has most certainly
been done. I’ve crossed the line by creating a potion. Bastian
and Cassius are going to be out on adventures far enough
away…
Then a hauntingly desperate voice fills the bar. It’s almost a
whisper, but it’s so wanting, so defeated, so…Freddie.
His voice croons throughout the bar, pulling me from my
internal negotiations. Freddie Mercury’s voice is so vulnerable
—almost a whisper but not quite, followed by a chorus of
voices through the quiet. It’s Somebody to Love and it’s my
absolute favorite Queen song, but I never told Bastian that.
He’s leaning against the jukebox, arms crossed, his face
vacantly beautiful. The scar on his forehead glistens, a
reminder that he was once human and how flaws can be
breathtaking. I swig back the water, my feet aware they are
still on the hard cement, not walking to him or away from him.
The piano comes in, the only instrument playing as Bastian
walks up to me and offers his hand.
“May I interrupt your misery for a dance?” he laughs and
pulls me against him, and I do not fight it. I’m Jell-O and he’s
the spoon. A hand wraps around my waist while the other
firmly holds mine. And he pulls me close, so close our bellies
touch and this is not like when we danced at his house. The
gloves are off. I’m putty in his hands.
“You know what Freddie does to me,” I tease as we move
slowly back and forth. There’s no fancy spins or hops because
this time our eyes are glued to each other’s. This time I’m
melting.
“Are we still letting go?” His skin is so smooth up close,
like a real-life Instagram filter, and I never noticed before the
small beauty mark, just above his lip.
“Why did you choose this song?” I sigh like all the life is
leaving me. This is the song of my heart.
“When he says that he’s all right, over and over again.
When he talks about wanting to be free, out of his prison cell
—” his eyes roam over my eyes, my mouth— “It’s always
struck a chord inside of me. I thought maybe you might feel
the same way sometimes.”
“I grew up knowing my mother was counting down the
days until I was eighteen and she could be free again. I’ve
wanted someone to love since I was a little girl.” I can’t help
but laugh because here I am, dancing with Bastian again,
thinking of my mother again. How easy it was for her to leave
me, how much I miss her.
 “You don’t have to be so alone, Aster.” His eyes seem wet
and so stunning in the pitch.
“I know.” I nod repeatedly with my feet rocking back and
forth while his fingers rub the back of my hand, up and down.
“I know…” I don’t want to talk about it anymore, so I go
silent as the guitar solo wails on.
His tongue runs along his lip, and he lowers his mouth to
my ear. “You did it, Aster. You made the potion. You can do
anything. You are powerful and the world is yours.”
We lock eyes as he inches away, and I want to cry and
smile at the same time. My head rolls back, almost heavy from
the wins of the day, and I say something before I think.
“Thank you for believing in me.”
Disbelief crosses his face and then emotions fog his eyes,
emotions I can’t read, and it builds and this feeling in my
chest, this desire, this wanting to break out of my prison cell,
to actually let go, the normal heaviness feeling a tick lighter. I
find myself sinking closer to him and he’s sinking closer to
me, lips wet, inching toward mine, and it builds until it’s
almost bursting and finally, finally his lips are on mine and I
can’t fucking breathe.
I’ve been kissed before, but not like this. Not one that I
wanted so badly, one that was suppressed by a sense of duty,
to finish a job and then go our separate ways. And the thought
of this being almost the end of the time we’ll spend together
makes me want it more.
His arm tightens around my back while our hands unclasp,
and mine slides up his arm until it reaches his neck. Our
tongues find each other’s, exploring, rolling while our mouths
so gently move together and I moan, my heartbeat thumping in
my ear. His lips taste like beer and salt and I grab a fistful of
his shirt, pulling his chest closer to me, everything in my body
tensing, my lips tingling with bliss, my heart seeming to sigh.
“Get it!” A drunken voice yells and we both still, lips
pulling apart, eyes upon a couple cloaked in Mardi Gras beads
entering our sacred space, their laughter flitting between the
walls sounding amplified. And the song ends, the piano stops
suddenly, and I’ve just realized what I’ve done.
I search the room for anyone besides the drunks that just
walk in, but it’s only them, Bastian, and me, and suddenly it’s
far too crowded. I start to step away, but Bastian grabs my
hand and pulls me back.
“Don’t,” he says, “Don’t ruin the moment with your logical
thoughts.”
But I have to.
Because witches and vampires can’t kiss, can’t catch
feelings…can’t be a thing.
Yet I find myself stepping back into his arms and he wraps
them around me, and it feels good and almost right. I fight it. I
look out the rickety doors onto Bourbon Street where night has
almost fallen. I press my hand against his hard chest and slide
it up his neck until I’m pulling his head down to mine. And I
kiss him this time—a hard, intense kiss goodbye, and now he’s
the one moaning in my mouth, squeezing my hips so tightly,
pressing his groin against me. I pull back and meet his wanting
eyes, beating green, full of desire and so I whisper because
even though he could be using me, I used him too.
“I’m going to fix the potion, you’re going to pay me, and
we are never going to touch again.”
There’s surprise on his face when I step away, and a
smooth whistle leaves his lips as he shakes his head.
“Cold blooded,” he whispers with an antagonized grin and
runs his thumb and index finger up and down his chin.
A piano key is struck, and I look to the musician who just
arrived, ready to entertain the patrons of the night, and that’s
my cue that night has fallen. Bastian is safe to be on his way,
and I’ve got a potion to fix. The kiss was fever-inducing and
breathtaking, but I’m not the type of girl that swoons.
“Letting go wasn’t so bad,” I say with a wink and walk out
as the pianist starts playing Benny and the Jets.
 Bourbon Street is cacophonous, but I walk alone, quiet in
my own thoughts. People are everywhere, and I’m solo with
what feels like a concerto of emotions playing in my head. So
much to take in, so much to consider. I did it. I made the
potion and now I will be financially free.
I pass Comey’s, trying not to look guilty in any way.
Oksana leans inside the door frame, her thin face not
acknowledging me as if I’m invisible. But I’m not invisible,
my cheeks are on fire, my head running with all that
transpired.
I kissed him back. I kissed him and I loved it. I loved his
lips on my mine, the way we moved, how precisely we fit into
each other. And it’s not just how perfectly we arranged, but it’s
that I actually like the man behind the kiss. I like how much he
loved his true blood brother and how he would do anything to
save his made brother. I like how his eyebrows cock when he
jokes, how his entire arm folds around me when we dance. I
like how I can tell him things, how he listens to me. How he
knows to put on a goddamn Queen song for me, and not just
any Queen song, THE Queen song. I like the person he is…I
like Bastian. And now I have really, really fucked up.
“YOU MISSED MY SHOW AGAIN,” Chantal drawls as her fingers
make circles on the glass jewelry case.
“Someone has to clean that, you know,” I say, swatting her
hand away.
With flattened fingers, she waves her palm over the glass,
the fingerprints disappearing, then flares her nostrils at me.
“Careful,” I whisper as customers enter the shop. I smile at
them.
They graze around for a few minutes while Chantal puts on
her best saleswoman voice. Thank God for her, because I am
such a shitty salesperson. Oh you don’t want it? No problem,
be on your way then.
But Chantal loves the thrill of sales, of pitching her voice
up high, in feigning interest on the minute details of why the
tourists are here and oh, how much they adore our little city.
Truthfully, I’m on edge and just want to run upstairs, bottle the
potion and move on. Move on with my life, move on from
Bastian.
It’s been four days since we kissed and he’s been plaguing
my thoughts, tormenting my days with memories of a kiss, and
I’m just really disappointed in myself. I can usually say I don’t
swoon, but I swooned—I swooned big time. And when he
texted me last night the lyrics to Somebody To Love, I sat on
my bathroom floor as Mercury pawed me and just stared at my
phone for a solid thirty minutes. I typed and re-typed my
response countless times until finally I came up with a bare
bones answer.

I’ve adjusted the potion. You should have three hours of

daylight per dose. You’ll need to test it first.

Will you test it with me?

No.

Come on. One last dance.

I didn’t respond. What could I say to that? And I haven’t

heard from him since, but I am fully aware he’ll want the fixed
potion and could show up tonight.
Chantal rings up a customer as I slump in my chair, caught
between a sinking feeling of Bastian being out of my life soon
and the elation of not caring if I sell necklaces or not. That it
won’t make or break me. That I could close up shop and visit
my mother if I wanted to. But what’s in Prague for me? What’s
out there besides the life I have here? Bastian and Cassius will
be off, frolicking in the daylight around the world soon
enough, and I will still be here where I belong, alone again.
And it hits me like dragonflies caged in my chest trying to
break free. I don’t want my life to go back to the way it was
before Bastian came into it.
“Fuck it,” I whisper and look up as Chantal leans across the
glass counter, a pinky in her mouth, scrolling through her
phone.
“Huh?” she says.
“What time tonight?” I ask, and a smirk lifts her lips.
“Ten.”
 “I’ve seen your ass sing plenty in my life, you know?”
“Seeing this ass is never enough,” she says and twerks right
on my display case.
“Shit…” I laugh and smack her ass. Walking back to the
kitchen I text Bastian.

One last test, I have sample vials ready.

The text bubble pops up immediately, and I watch until his

response comes through.

Meet tonight?

I’ll be at Chantal’s show on Frenchman. I’ll bring the vials

and text you after her show..

Can’t get you off my mind. See you tonight.

The vials clink in my purse as I get out of my Uber, and just

the thought of them tucked away in there makes me feel guilty.
The poets for hire giggle amongst themselves, their chairs
lining the sidewalk, typewriters in front of them on TV trays.
Tattooed fingers remain ready to type up a custom poem at a
moment’s notice. If I was social, if I wasn’t such a solitary
creature, I would know them—would wave as I passed. But
instead I nod and walk into The 60/30, where Chantal is
already on stage with her opening number.
I order a rum and Coke at the bar then settle into a stool
close to the wall, my eyes meeting my cousin’s, and she winks
in greeting. With unquestionable talent, Chantal is like so
many of the musicians of New Orleans. But Chantal isn’t just
a singer, she’s a performer—in her purple corset, fishnet
stockings and thigh-high boots, she has all the bodies swaying
back and forth, singing Say My Name by Destiney’s Child. Her
all-girl cover band backs her on the tiny stage, and I watch her
sing with a spark of jealousy in my veins, envious of her
freedom and wondering if she knows the truth. And the truth is
that watching her live her dream is like a blinding reminder
that I was never allowed to have dreams—and I am a shallow
bitch after all, aren’t I? Yet it’s true. I was born just to keep my
legacy alive, keep the shop running, pay Aunt Violetta, and
have a child, and it will just be that way for the Wildes women
for all eternity.
Ashamed, I fake a smile as Chantal approaches once her
show is over, her brow sweaty, her post-show high contagious.
She hugs me, skin slick, and I hold her for a moment and
push out the awful things I hate most about myself.
“I wanna be Chantal when I grow up,” I whisper in her ear.
“Don’t lie,” she laughs, and her bandmate Asha walks up
behind her and bumps my shoulder.
“Finally!” Asha yells—too loud for my liking, but I’m
playing nice tonight so I feign another smile.
“Worth the wait,” I say and raise a glass. We tap each
other’s, and Chantal is so energized she might just float away.
“Jade!” she screams, and Jade puts a finger to her lips—as
if shushing Chantal has ever worked.
But, fuck. I haven’t seen Jade since I put the spell out,
protecting my and Bastian’s thoughts from her mind reading.
Jade knows she’s not purposely supposed to be digging around
in our minds, but things can pop out, especially deep secrets,
so one can never be too careful.
“Jesus, Chantal!” Jade says and then looks at me as she
shakes her head. “How do you put up with her?”
I swallow, playing it cool, and stir my drink. “Patience and
alcohol.”
 Jade laughs, raising her beer. “On that note, cheers!” We
clink glasses, and I look at her white tank top, her large chest
probably full of milk for her second child. “Don’t worry,” she
whispers in my ear. “I pump and dump.”
“I’m not worried,” I laugh because that hadn’t even crossed
my mind. The fact that she’s already produced two children at
the age of twenty-two does though. And Jade really is so even-
tempered and low-key, but with a very Laura Croft aesthetic.
A witch that looks like a video game character with an easy-
going personality.
“Let’s go dancing!” Chantal yells as if she didn’t just dance
on stage for an hour straight.
“Gotta get back to the babies,” Jade says, and I’m relieved
she’s leaving. I don’t want to spend any extra time with a mind
reading witch when I am so guilty of a crime against the
coven, spell or no spell.
I look at my phone. It’s still early, so I nod to Chantal, and
we make our way down the street, slipping into the first place
that’s packed with bodies and music.
I grab a seat in the back while Chantal and Asha push to the
front of the stage. I scan the packed club—bodies filling the
tables in front of the stage and lining the walls, dancing to Top
40 Hits.
I feel a little bothered about running into Jade, but our
circle is very small. I’m bound to run into her, and the thing is,
I really like her. I can’t help but feel like I’m betraying my
own, so I take a deep breath and look across the bar.
And I see them.
Cassius first, seated with his back against the bar, an elbow
leaning on the bar top, his expression bored. The guy sticks
out in a place like this, all dressed up with his long hair
perfectly parted down the middle and his aura of gloom.
And next to him is the man comprised of total opposite
qualities. Bastian leans down to whisper in his brother’s ear
and then looks back to the band, bopping his head and
swigging from his beer.
 I should be annoyed because Cassius is here, but seeing
Bastian is like seeing a glass of ice-cold water in a desert. He’s
refreshing and everything I want right now, and I just need to
admit to myself how much I want his hands on me again.
I don’t look away, curious if they’ve spotted me before I’ve
spotted them, but they are communicating yet barely moving
their lips. I’m reminded of the old days, back when Mother
was in charge, and it occurs to me that the only times I’ve ever
seen Cassius smile is because Bastian is the cause. I feel their
bond from here, feel the comfort Cassius has, sitting next to
Bastian, and it’s almost mesmerizing to watch.
He smiles. He actually fucking smiles and then he shrugs.
Bastian grabs the back of his brother’s neck and shakes it a
little, and Cassius shares a grin full of teeth and have I ever
seen his teeth before? Here it is, first-hand—witnessing the
brotherly love that means so much to Bastian. It catches me
off guard and I wonder if Bastian has told Cassius yet, if that’s
why he’s brought him.
I suppose the staring is a bit much because Bastian cocks
his head and then looks right into my eyes, across the room,
and thank God the place is so dark because I go red hot inside
and I’m sure my cheeks are the same. He lifts his beer in
cheers, a small grin on his lips, then takes a sip, his expression
turning serious, his eyes not leaving mine.
Licking my lips, I nod at him while Cassius stands and
whispers in Bastian’s ear, and I get the feeling that he didn’t
expect to see me here. I pull my hair behind my ear and try to
focus on Chantal and Asha dancing, and how the fuck am I
supposed to meet Bastian with Cassius and Chantal here? I
feel pinned against the wall and suddenly aggravated so I
down the drink, hoping it will relax me.
My mind wanders to the night in my courtyard, when
Bastian cried his blood tears, and I’m yearning for that night
right now and the kiss—that fucking kiss at Lafitte’s, and
Chantal’s yelling my name and I’m going to need to bolt out
of here.
 “Another?” a guy in a button-up collared shirt and jeans
asks me. “What are you drinking?”
“I’m good,” I say, focusing on Chantal.
He’s silent for a moment, and I finally look into his eyes
because avoidance isn’t making him walk away.
“Okay, so I won’t bother you. I just watched you walk in
with your girlfriends—”
I laugh at that because who says girlfriends anymore? And
his lips seep into a smile. “Something funny ’bout that?”
“No, continue,” I say because now I’m curious.
“Okay, I saw you walk in with your friends and I thought,
wow. You know I’m not usually into goth babes, but you—
wow.”
“Goth babes?” Now I am laughing, and my hand reaches to
flick his cowboy hat up. He’s handsome in a rugged way, with
leathery tan skin that makes his blue eyes pop. “Well, I’m not
usually into cowboys.” Just vampires these days, and my eyes
flit to Bastian who is watching with a predator-like intensity
that fills my gut with helium. He’s whispering in Cassius’s ear
now, his expression turning grim.
“Well, maybe that needs to change.” He pulls a pen from
his back pocket and scrawls across a napkin. “I’m here for a
few weeks from Nashville, playing some bluegrass on
Bourbon. Come see me.” He slides so close to me, too close,
and slips the napkin in my jean pocket. “Please.”
Letting him do that was stupid because I’m not interested
in him at all. I try thinking of an excuse, but before I spew
some random bullshit, an elegant hand with an obsidian ring
rests on the guys shoulder, and I look up to Bastian leaning
down to the guy’s ear. “That’s my seat,” he says so seriously I
almost believe him.
The guy wrinkles his nose in defiance, but the moment he
sees the face that the voice is coming from, his demeanor
changes. “S-sorry, man,” he says, popping up like a kernel of
popcorn. “Just restin’ my legs.”
 “Uh-huh,” Bastian says and slides his hands in his pockets
as the guy leaves the table.
“May I?” he asks, nodding toward the open stool.
“It’s your seat, right?”
He sits, looking to his brother as Chantal dances near the
stage. This could get awkward.
“Really?” He’s not amused at all, and I tilt my head trying
to keep my expression serious.
“Really, what?”
“Flirting in front of me?”
“Uh, he approached me.” I rest my chin on my hand. “You
jealous?”
He leans in, a little too close, and takes a moment to
breathe me in. “You smell like fucking heaven.” His lips brush
against my ear, making my lips part, my breath stalling
because I wish that Bastian was the cowboy and I could
actually call him and fuck him and do all the things he wants
to do with me. But he’s not.
“Of course I’m jealous.”
“I like those words,” I say, catching a glare from Cassius.
“Did you tell him?”
“Are you kidding? He’s going to need a PowerPoint
presentation before I approach him.” He cocks an eyebrow.
“You like that I’m jealous?”
I take a deep breath. “Brought two vials of the potion, in
case you wanted to try with him.” I pat my purse.
“I want to try with you.”
He’s so intense and it’s startling because Bastian is usually
so laid back and cool and the opposite of intense, yet there’s
something electrifying about it.
“What’s he doing here, then?”
He sighs and looks over to Cassius, who’s attention is
solely on his phone. “He needed a breather and asked to come
with. I omitted the fact that I was meeting you. So this is just a
‘surprise.’ He runs his thumb along his bottom lip. “He’ll have
questions, but he’ll know everything soon enough.”
“Soon enough…” I repeat, falling into thoughts of what the
future holds.
“I was trying to be a big boy and be patient, but I was kinda
going crazy. I’m happy I ran into you before you texted.”
“That’s a problem, Bastian. That’s a real problem.”
His tongue presses against his top lip and I want to taste it
again. I want it in my mouth, and I am in trouble. Maybe if we
just fucked, just let it happen, all the desire will fizzle out, but
something tells me it would only fuel the flames.
“And when I do find you, you’re flirting with Tim McGraw
over there, and we couldn’t be any more different.”
I try not to grin, but I can’t help it. I open my mouth to tell
him that Tim McGraw isn’t my type, but Chantal approaches
with two beers and a scowl on her face.
“Why?” she asks, placing a beer in front of me. She’s
visibly drunk, her eyes red and watery. “I get it, you’re fucking
hot and sexy but you can’t hang with us. Okay?”
Bastian stands and laughs. “You think I’m hot and sexy?”
“Fuck, everyone in this room thinks you’re hot and sexy.
So pick someone else to smile at like that, because it won’t
work on us. You’re off limits.”
And there it is. The smile sinks from my face as I eye
Bastian, and he feels it too. Cassius is watching us from the
bar, and now I can’t breathe.
“Is he bothering you?” She looks at me for answers and I
have none.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, clutching my purse.
“Wait.” Bastian grabs my wrist and that’s when Chantal
stands up straight.
“Don’t you fucking touch her,” she yells, and I think HEAT
and pour a flaming sensation into my wrist, and Bastian lets go
as if burnt. Across the bar, Cassius stands, and I hate the way
Bastian is glaring at me.
“Let’s go,” I say as I grab Chantal’s hand, my face warning
Bastian to just let us leave. And he does, his face void of
emotion, yet his hands ball into fists.
“Why does he think he can just touch you like that? You
can’t touch her!” Rage is billowing up inside of my cousin, but
thankfully Bastian turns and walks away.
“I should beat his ass,” Chantal yells because Bastian just
crossed a major line, and I can’t take it back.
“Next time.” I feign a laugh, pulling her into a hug, and
pray she’s drunk enough to drop it.
“Yeah, you know I could—” and she punches an opened
palm and then pulls her head back with a wide-mouthed laugh.
My laugh echoes; I’m relieved she’s going to move on and
hopefully forget the whole encounter.
I order her an Uber, kiss her drunk ass goodbye, and listen
to her yell my name as the car takes off down the road. I open
my phone and text Bastian.

No more tests. This was a mistake.

“YOU REALLY BELIEVE THIS WAS a mistake?”
I only texted him minutes ago and now I turn to see him on
my street, in front of my building, stepping softly toward me.
The street is rather quiet, with a few people walking on the
other side, gazing in the art galleries, window shopping.
I cross my arms and stare at him. “There’s no right answer
to that question.”
“Let’s go with how you feel, then. Because I want my
hands on you. All over you. And that doesn’t feel like a
mistake.”
I look up to the sky, the stars twinkling above us, a light
breeze causing the hairs around my face to dance.
He keeps moving closer and my stomach spins because I
can’t tell him the truth, that yes—I want his hands all over me.
Any surface that has skin, that’s where I want his hands.
“Is it Tim McGraw? Are you in love?”
I breathe out as he stops in front of me. “Tim McGraw isn’t
my type.” I pull a hair from the corner of my mouth.
“Thank God. I just can’t compete with cowboys.”
He’s so endearing, and a piece of my heart cracks and I step
back because he’s chokingly close.
 “It’s not Tim McGraw and you know that. Chantal is a
prime example. We can never BE.” Heat rises to my cheeks,
the anger building inside me.
“We’re two adults. We can do as we please.”
“You know that’s not true.” I’m exasperated, my chest
rising and falling.
His eyes scan the street as if he’s contemplating a move,
possibly a kiss.
“Come inside,” I huff, opening my front door, moving us
away from any wandering eyes of the French Quarter,
especially vampires.
Once in my hallway, my back leans against the wall, my
arms crossing. My heart palpitates from the energy between
us, the look in his eyes.
“We can just quench this thirst, for now. We see what
happens.” He whispers it, an effort to calm me, but it only
enrages me more, probably because it’s all I want to do.
Quench the thirst. Kiss him again. Feel him against me.
His hand reaches up, index finger running along my
waistband and then slowly dipping into my jean pocket. He
pulls out Tim McGraw’s napkin and rips it to pieces, his face
serious, his eyes boring into mine. “Just a taste. Just to see.”
“That’s the problem with a taste. I might not be able to
stop.”
“Then don’t.” And it’s like a magnetic force, his lips
slamming onto mine, his hand pulling the back of my neck
closer. Chest against chest and I pull him into me, grabbing his
waist, feeling him against me.
His tongue dips in my mouth and I take it like I wanted to
ever since Lafitte’s and every goddamn minute since. A groan
escapes his lips, and his fingers dig into my hips and I want
them to dig deeper, dig deep into my flesh.
We pull apart with heaving breaths, and that’s when I see
his canines elongate and he presses his eyes closed as if there’s
pain and pleasure. It makes me hot, the danger, the glimmer of
sharp enamel, and I only want him more.
I bring my mouth back to his and now kissing is dangerous
but hotter, the pointy teeth grazing my lips, and one word
comes out of his mouth, quick and intense.
“Bed,” and aventurines are going to be the death of me and
I grab his hand, pulling him up the stairs, Mercury scrambling
under our feet.
Bursting through my bedroom door, our flesh burning, I
feel it immediately. A wave of electricity, pulsating throughout
the room. Air moves through my fingertips and I wonder if he
can feel it too, but he says nothing, just peels off his jacket and
eyes the bed, his fangs digging into his bottom lip and I think
it could very well pop.
“Careful,” I warn. “The curse.” My blood and his fangs are
a deadly combination, but he doesn’t look the slightest bit
concerned.
“Take your clothes off,” he growls in my ear, gently
pushing me. I fall backward on the bed, looking up as he pulls
his shirt off and unbuttons his pants. And now it’s a dance.
Quick, quick, slow. Quick—I pull down his pants. Quick—I
rip off my tank top. Slow—I lie back, undoing one button at a
time of my high-waist jeans, and he watches, his eyes
famished. Bastian might be fun and games in the outside
world, but right now, in this bedroom, he’s commanding and in
control.
And I fucking love it.
A deep sigh escapes my lips and there’s a rattling on my
wall, picture frames teetering as if they may come crashing
down. It doesn’t stop us. Standing in front of me, with a
heaving chest and a desire I can almost touch, he leaves me
careless about anything else but the man before me. He’s
sculpted in his black boxer briefs, hard lines and edges, bulks
of muscle that aren’t too big nor small.
His hands slide up my jeans, grabbing the waistband and
pulling them off. Bastian is hard and radiant and there’s no
time for foreplay—there’s only wanting. A wanting that
consumes me, caged over rules we didn’t create. And now all I
want is him inside of me and I can’t wait another minute.
“You ready?” he asks and runs a finger over the outside of
my panties before ripping them down. He knows, by my face,
by the way I’ve opened my legs wider. “Yeah, you’re ready.”
“I am,” I whisper, but he shakes his head and leans on top
of me. “I want to see all of you.” He kisses down my neck,
warm and wet, and then flops next to me, placing an arm
behind his head. Eyes locking with mine, “Get on,” is all he
has to say. My hands pull down his boxers and I straddle him,
his words igniting a fire inside me so hot I could burst right
now before he’s even inside me. But before I slide him in, he
reaches up and grabs my chin. His mouth curls up, as if
victory is his.
And it’s a tender moment that feels rushed, but rushed in a
necessary way. We aren’t holding back, we are yearning for
each other. Just a taste, that’s all this is. A taste so we can go
our separate ways, and the bed vibrates under us. Magic is in
the room and I’m not summoning it, it desires to be here and
so I let it, and I honestly don’t think I could stop it if I wanted
to.
His fingers slide up my stomach until they reach my
shoulders, pulling down the straps of my bra, freeing my
breasts. “Fuck,” he whispers at the sight while his cool hands
slide down to my hips, urging himself inside of me and I give
in, filling myself up with all of him, and I feel like I’m coming
home. Like this is where I’m supposed to be and why do I
want to cry? Why does this all feel so perfect and foreign at
the same time? The air between us so thick, a chemistry
pulling us together.
Those hands slide up to my breasts as I rock on top of him
while his thumbs graze my nipples, and he says, “I’ve been
waiting for this view.” He thrusts up and I seize, and his
fingers touch me, the intensity making my legs quiver. Our
hands clasp and I say his name, and the elements pulse around
us. Earth. Air. Fire. Water.
 There’s something building, building beyond ecstasy, and I
cry out. Every petal, every spell and candle vibrate as though
they have their own electrical current, desires of their own.
I lean down, kissing his neck, his ear.
“What’s happening?” Bastian whispers, fangs scraping my
neck as he moves inside me.
“Power,” I say, and as if we are in a fairy tale, the spells on
my desk rise to dance through the air around us, the candles
ignite, their lazy flames casting the room with a golden glow.
Petals I keep in bowls on my nightstand swirl over our heads
and I pull up, my hair becoming weightless, twirling around
my face as the pleasure builds and builds.
Bastian sits us up and we rock together, tongues twisting,
pressure building. “Do you feel that?” he whispers. “Holy
shit.” His eyes dance around the room, awed by the magic that
has a mind of its own. “Sorceress,” he says before he kisses
me again, fingers stroking me, and it’s the last straw as we
both erupt. All of it—every petal, spell, every love poem and
gris-gris bag—rises with our moans, and as we catch our
breath, it all comes crashing to the floor.
I’m shaking in his lap and his head falls to my shoulder. I
want to pull him closer so this won’t end, this spell won’t
break, but his breathing only becomes more labored and his
entire body tenses, the muscles freezing, his legs squeezing
beneath me.
“Wha—” But once our eyes meet, I still.
“I have to go,” he pants, fangs brushing against his bottom
lip, eyes aglow in an animalistic way. He needs to feed. He
needs blood and he can’t have mine. Lifting me off him and
sliding me onto the bed, struggling to restrain himself, and
something inside me sinks, absolutely plummets. Vampires
want blood after sex. It was a rumor, but now I can see it’s
more than that, and he can never have my blood, not a single
drop.
Grabbing the sheet, I pull it up to cover me and whisper,
“Go.” Deflated and conflicted beyond words, I release him and
he jumps up, sliding his underwear and jeans on—a torn yet
hungry look on his face. Once he grabs his shirt and shoes, he
hovers over me, lips nearing mine, but clenches his eyes and
kisses my forehead as if he’s lifting a thousand pounds.
He utters something like “Be back,” in a gruff, low voice
and then bolts out the door.
There’s a silence that cuts after what just transpired, and I
don’t know if I’m still high from being with him or
heartbroken that he needs to run out and drink blood from
someone that isn’t me. The jealousy filling my gut aggravates
me. I don’t have any claim on him and this only highlights yet
another hurdle in whatever this is. That was a taste and all I
want is more.
I AWAKEN EARLY, FLASHBACKS OF the night causing my skin to
flush. It’s still dark outside but there’s breathing beside me and
there he is. So still, as if he were carved by an angel’s hand,
only his chest rising so slightly. A vampire that owned me in
the night, that I willfully gave myself to…and then he left.
Should I regret it? Crossing the line that’s been forbidden to
even consider?
I run my hand over my eyes, a weight of sadness
overcoming me, because even though I don’t regret it, I know
it has to end. What a fucking shame something so powerful
could never be.
My fingers yearn to follow the lines of his bare chest, to
run along his nose, to kiss his lips. Instead, I rise because last
night was the last time we touch like that, and it’s a
heartbreaking revelation.
Spells are scattered about the floor, rose petals crunching
under my feet, the evidence of what supernatural beings can
invoke.
Needing fresh air, I make sure the shades are secure then
pull on a robe. It’s twilight, and I usually relish this time
between night and day, so I make a cup of coffee to cry my
sorrows over and sit on my terrace that overlooks the
courtyard, the courtyard I first drank with Bastian, first saw his
soul when I went back in time with him.
 I wiggle my fingers through the thick air, the brick wall I
once had Bastian captive against in my line of vision. The urge
to text Chantal envelopes me. You won’t believe this, but I
fucked the highly fuckable vampire. But I can’t text her, I can’t
tell anyone because this is forbidden and the anvil that’s sitting
on my chest only reminds me of that. I can never tell anyone
ever, and his fingers laced through mine can only ever be a
memory, not a dream for the future.
Help me to forget, forget this feeling. I call upon my
ancestors, the witches before that had to sacrifice so much
more than giving up a guy they liked. They sacrificed their
lives, their loves, some, their own children. I can get through
this, sisters—help me through this.
But as I plead, a hand slides down my chest, and my
pleading fingers jump to cover his.
How quickly I gave up on my plight. How am I going to do
this?
I let my head fall against his hip as he purrs behind me, that
smell. That goddamn smell.
“You came back.”
“I’m sorry about that,” his says, sliding into the chair in
front of me. “I wasn’t prepared, let’s say.” He searches me,
and I see his eyes for the first time since last night and I realize
I missed them. He leans forward, taking my face in his hand,
his thumb brushing my bottom lip. “What was that? All the
stuff flying around your room? Did you do that?”
“No, not on purpose at least. That was our energy.”
His green eyes pierce mine. “Our energy?”
“I’m a magical being. Strange things happen when my
energy mixes with other supernatural forces.”
“That’s usual for you?” His dark hair is disheveled in a way
I’ve never seen before, in an intimate way that only lovers see.
“No,” I admit. “That’s never happened before.”
“That’s what I thought.” He tilts my neck, licking his lips.
“We are a force, you and I. I’ve never experienced anything
like that in my life.” He closes in on me, his wet lips brushing
mine, the softest kiss that comes across as an invitation.
“The sun will be up soon,” I whisper, and he slides back in
his chair, his eyebrow lifting.
He pulls something out of his pocket and dangles the vial
of potion in front of me.
“You sure about that?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer, just
opens the vial and downs the potion.
“I want to see the sunrise and I want to see it with you.”
And when I say nothing, when I look away, he asks me, “Are
you upset?”
I stand and walk to the terrace, my back to him and eyes
toward where the sun will be rising in minutes. “Nope.” I
swallow, and then his hand pulls across my waist and his firm
chest presses hard against my back.
“You’re like a strike of lightning. Like an electrical storm,”
he whispers in my ear and when I allow seconds and seconds
to pass, he slides his hand down my hip, wrapping it around
the waistband of my robe.
“Did you find someone to quench your thirst?” His fangs
run along my chin. He can never bite me and that’s the
ultimate pleasure for vampires, and why is that bothering me
so much right now? I straighten, pushing his arm off me,
turning to look up at him. Frustration creases his forehead,
angering his beautiful face.
“So now you’re the jealous one?”
“I’m not, just don’t like when men have to jump out of my
bed once they’re done with me.”
“I told you, I wasn’t prepared. I am now.” And he grips my
waist.
“It was only supposed to be just a taste.” I turn back
around, but his arms are drawn out along the terrace, caging
me, and I’m glad I can’t see his face. His chest is pressed
against my back, his erection against my ass, and I try not to
grind against it.
 His lips lower to my ear, his breath, warm and wet, setting
a blaze on my skin as he whispers, “I’m gonna need more than
that, I do apologize. But you see, I don’t think a taste will
satisfy me. And you?”
I’m silent when his fingers slide up my stomach, through
the space between my breasts, until they wrap around my
neck, my head tilting back against his shoulder. His index
finger pulls my bottom lip as it drags to my chin, and his other
fingers gently squeeze my neck. My breath hitches and then
his wet finger drags down my neck in the most slow and
taunting trail. He pauses at my chest bone, and I’m so tense,
coiled like a spring that wants to break loose.
“Hmm?” he asks as if I could actually reply right now. I
can’t string a sentence.
And then his hand travels to my breast, massaging it,
holding it, and I can’t even move and I don’t want to.
Fingers travel inside me, and I’m wet and wanting—and a
satisfied sound trills from his throat. It’s hard to breathe, hard
to think, with him pressed against me like this. I want more, I
want him, and just as I suspected, I wasn’t going to be able to
stop.
His other hand pulls the back of my robe to the side then
strokes my ass and he whispers, “Tell me you want more too.
Just tell me.”
I swallow as he rubs himself on my ass, ridiculously slow
and electrifying, and my entire body feels raw and sensitive.
And his touch is more than I thought it would ever be. The
tenderness, the control, the soft and sensuous strokes.
“I want it,” I whisper, and he pulls my chin so he can kiss
me from behind, vicious and consuming, his fingers getting
me ready, his dick hard against my ass, and then he plunges
into me and fucks me on the terrace as we both watch the sun
slowly and gloriously rise.

He wants breakfast, though he hardly eats. He tells me he

wants to sit at a restaurant and smell the bacon sizzling, the
sweet aroma of warm maple syrup. He wants to experience the
buzz of a busy morning, the clacking of utensils, the pouring
of coffee. So I take him to The Ruby Slipper on Magazine
Street, where we are less likely to be recognized by any
witches and we are safe during the day from vampires.
Still, Bastian wears his hat and glasses, and I think a
disguising spell might be in order, but no. No this is ending
soon enough. And it stings, it does, because he’s grabbed my
hand just now as we follow the hostess to be seated and I don’t
pull away. In fact, I hold on tighter and then he looks back and
he winks at me.
“Steve will be right with y’all. Can I get some coffee
started?” she says, clasping her hands.
“Yes, please,” he says so politely I could pinch his cheek.
My head tilts, eager to see through his eyes, wanting the
details of his first breakfast in a restaurant in however many
years. “Is it what you expected?”
“I think I’m taking it in.” His eyes float around the busy
dining room, where children are laughing, grandparents are
sipping coffee, their day just beginning. “You would be
amazed at the difference sunlight makes on details. There is
nothing like natural light, no filter, no LED, nothing.”
We sip our coffee, something I’ve never seen him sip, and
the way his finger hooks through the coffee cup looks like a
piece of art. Obsidian ring, magical fingers, what they did to
me this morning… I look away.
“I can taste it.” His voice is ecstatic, a nostalgic look
pulling on his face. “It’s faint, but usually it tastes like
nothing.” When our eyes meet, his excitement over the faintest
taste of coffee has entranced him.
“Well, you have the human ability to walk in the daylight,
you will probably have some other abilities like taste, too.”
“I can’t believe it,” he says, sipping again, and there’s a
flutter in my stomach. Maybe it’s from how beautiful he is in
the daylight, or maybe it’s because I’ve done something that
still has a deep thread of apprehension running through me. I
try to focus on the good as I take a deep gulp of coffee and
slide it back on the table.
“What have you wanted to do so badly, that you haven’t
been able to do all these years?”
He looks to the ceiling in thought, then raises three fingers.
“Three things. First, see the sunrise.” The corner of his lip
pulls up, and my whole body flushes.
“Check,” I say, copying his grin.
“Breakfast.”
“Well, it’s no jazz brunch, but check.”
He nods, leaning back in his seat. “And the beach. I miss
days at the beach.”
I clear my throat, the future with us separated looming in
the distance. “Well, I guess you and Cassius will have to check
that one off.”
He’s quiet as his eyes squint, tongue running along his
bottom lip, elegant fingers tapping the table. “Yeah, guess so.”
“We’ve gotten so carried away that it actually worked, that
we’ve forgotten why we did it in the first place.”
“Cassius,” he whispers and takes a deep breath. “I know, I
know it’s not for me. It’s for him, but this is just…” He raises
his palms up, still disbelieving it’s real, and neither can I,
truthfully.
“You’re confident he’ll be accepting?”
“Oh, yeah. How can he not be? He hasn’t seen the sun for
much longer than I have. He needs this boost, to shake him up.
He needs change.”
But I’m not so sure. A feeling in my gut tells me that
Cassius will be slow to warm to the idea, but I’m hopeful I’m
wrong.
“He’ll be willing to just leave? How will Nicola react?”
Bastian lifts the hat off his head and runs his fingers
through his hair, eyes scanning the restaurant. “She’ll be
happy to see him go. All she wants is for him to get out of this
self-loathing stage. She will throw us a going away party.
C’est la vie.” He smiles at the thought but then grows serious
and looks at me.
“You’ve made leaving…complicated.”
Flashes of his body against mine invade my thoughts.
Complicated indeed, yet I’m great at avoiding conversations
I’m not emotionally ready to have.
“What’s complicated? I have enough vials of potion to last
a year between the two of you. And then if you need more,
you’ll just have to come back so I can make you cry again.”
He scoffs, but Steve the waiter brings our eggs cochon,
shrimp and grits, and Bastian doesn’t take his eyes off me.
Once Steve leaves, he grabs my hand from across the table.
“It’s so easy, huh? To forget? To move on?”
My hand feels trapped in his, so I pull it away and say what
I think I should say. “We just fucked. It’s not like we’re going
to play house. Now see if you can taste your grits.”
His eyes slit, head cocking to the side. He grabs his spoon
hastily with the hand I just rebuffed.
“Now that it’s fixed, I need to pay you.”
I just nod, because just thinking about that final payment
and all it means makes my stomach float.
“You sure it’ll have the same effect on Cassius, even
though you used my blood?” It comes out very business-like,
very matter of fact, so I answer accordingly.
“What matters are the blood tears of desire, not whom they
belonged to.”
He shovels grits in his mouth, and I feel guilty for upsetting
him, for ruining something he hasn’t done in decades. Part of
me can’t believe that I can have such an effect on him—HIM.
“I’m sorry,” I sputter out. “It’s not easy for me. Not at all.
And it’s more scary than anything. What has transpired over
the last twenty-four hours is fucking terrifying, but also…”
Fuck, I’m hesitant, but he can sniff it out like a dog and it
goads me.
“Say it,” he orders as if he knows.
Dragging my nails along my skull and leaning in, I slither
my other hand across the table, this time caging his in mine.
“Electrifying. Something I could get addicted to. Something I
could want every day of my life. Yet I know how this ends. So
I have to close myself off to it. But please, don’t get the
impression that it didn’t mean anything to me. It meant
everything.”
I can’t believe I allowed the words to slip out of my mouth,
and he blinks repeatedly, taking it in and turns his hand so
mine falls into his, and he rubs his thumb along my fingers.
“Well, that certainly made up for the playing house
comment.”
And I sigh. “So can you taste the grits?” I ask, and he rolls
his eyes.
“A little.” His lips seem to pale right before my eyes, and
my heart flutters a little.
“We should get you back soon. Your three-hour window is
almost up.”
“Yeah, I’m getting tired,” he says in a low voice, and I
realize this is usually the time he’s sleeping. His eyes are
drooping, drunk-like, and I wave for the bill, not wanting a
repeat of the other night on Bourbon Street.
We Uber to his house in the Garden District, his face
plastered to the window, silently taking it all in. The way the
sun trickles through the oaks, the breeze wrestling the leaves
amid the cloudless sky. It’s like I’m noticing it through his
eyes as well, the pops of the thick white petals on the magnolia
trees, ferns spawning from cement walls.
Once in front of his house, he sighs at the sight—in its
daylight glory.
“She’s magnificent,” he says and turns to me. “Come
inside.” It’s almost a command, but I step back to create some
space so I don’t get ensnared.
“I’ve got to open the store,” I breathe out. His cheeks are
gaunt so I reach up to feel them. “Don’t take this the wrong
way, but you look like shit. Do you feel okay?”
A chuckle escapes his lips as he leans on his fence. “Yeah,
it’s because I should be asleep by now. We need sleep like you
do, to recharge and regenerate, otherwise we grow weak and
nobody wants a weak vampire.”
“I certainly don’t,” I say, pushing a hair from his brow, my
heart squeezing because the simplest touch feels so intimate—
but that’s what we are now. Intimate. We’ve crossed the line of
friendship. “You need rest and to get out of this sun. Call me
later.” I want to kiss him, but it’s daylight and what if someone
is lurking in his house? These vampires have no boundaries.
He places his hand over mine and nods. “It meant
everything to me too. But the difference is that you see this is
a problem and I don’t. Good thing I’m an excellent problem
solver.” A squeeze of my hand and I pull it from his, turning to
walk away.
“I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go.”
“Get out of the sun,” I say, shaking my head and hiding my
smile.
WORK IS A BORE COMPARED to the last twenty-four hours of my
life with Bastian. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like
if every day was like that. Having someone that saw me—truly
saw me—and desired me. Someone to witness my life and fill
it with pleasure and electricity and connection.
I go about my daily routine. I sell jewelry to tourists, I cure
potions for Nicola, I text Chantal and my mother. I am lonelier
than I have ever been. I sit at the cash register and realize that
it’s only been a few hours since I left him at his house. I yearn
for his fingers digging into me, his fangs pressing so
dangerously against my skin. My blood would kill him, yet the
memory of them running across my bare shoulders ignites a
fire inside I can’t snuff.
I wonder what he’s doing. If he’s still sleeping, if he’s fed.
Where he got sustenance after he left my bed last night. I
wonder if watching him feed would bother me, would disturb
me, if I could handle it. Suddenly filled with more questions
than I have a right to ask and careless, that’s what I’m
becoming. Careless like—like how Bastian seems careless too.
Taking risks, giant risks, like the pursuit of not only my
potions and magic, but…me. If he’s so careless with this
delicate of a situation, how is he in his nightly life? Am I the
forbidden fruit he must taste? Just another conquest in a never-
ending life of conquests?
Knock, knock. Whatcha doin?
 A text comes from my mother, and I feel like I’m caught,
heart dropping to my knees. I run to the shop door, closing out
the sounds of the horns being played outside, their song
suddenly overwhelming me. I sit back at the counter and hold
my phone for a few seconds, staring at her words, her piteous
check on me.
I type, Maybe if you were here, you would know, but
quickly erase it, a hammering of guilt pounding me for
betraying her, betraying my grandmother.
Working on Nicola’s latest order. I’m tired.
If I tell her I’m tired, maybe she will leave me alone. And I
am tired, but it’s the orders I’m tired of. The demand for a
potion that knocks out unknowing humans while blood gets
sucked from them. It’s an old-fashioned way to live and
vampires are just always so old-fashioned.
There are animals and blood banks, so there has to be
another way around what I’m a part of. Is this my purpose? To
bow to vampires? Take my rations and then birth a child to
make a nonexistent coven in my life happy?
You know these are good deeds and what happened when
we stopped. You are saving people. Don’t forget that.
It’s always her response, and I admit, it soothes me. Once,
in 1925 after an altercation between my great-great
grandmother and Franklin Maltese, Vampire King of New
Orleans, the witches went on strike and stopped producing the
creams and potions for the vampires, and the murder rate
soared. People in New Orleans went missing, their
dismembered bodies washing up along the Mississippi if they
were lucky. Guilt-ridden from witnessing all the death, my
great-great-grandmother ended the strike on the terms that we
would deal with Nicola instead of Franklin, and we would
continue the still unethical but less deadly practices and
produce the creams again.
I know, Mother. I know.
And then she responds with questions about business, and I
don’t want to answer those questions. How I’m going to
explain the fact that I’ll no longer have a mortgage soon is
really beyond me, but I will cross that bridge when I get to it.
I don’t want to talk to her about business; I want to talk to
her about what I’ve done—about how Bastian is so much
more than I thought, about how besides having sex, we are
friends. But I can’t say a word. One thread, one sliver of
information and she would keep tugging and tugging until it
all unraveled. I can’t tell her we are friends because she would
ask why, and it all started with a potion that should never have
been created. So instead of answering about business, I put my
phone on do not disturb, slide in my Air Pods, and let Freddie
Mercury serenade me.

It would be a lie to say I wasn’t waiting for Bastian to text me.

In the last twenty-four hours, I have checked my phone more
times than I would ever admit. And when the text finally
came, I ignored it for three hours. And then when another one
came, I ignored it for another two, and that’s when my phone
rang.
“Come over,” was all he had to say, his voice playful yet
thick in the way only Bastian can seem to pull off. Funny and
sexy. Commanding yet respectful.
The St. Charles streetcar was surprisingly sparse, the
breeze on a humid night welcome. New Orleans heat is
nothing to joke around with and the only thing I don’t love
about the city. I think about an amusement park on a
California beach—what it must feel like. A place Bastian
seems to long for.
Through the side gate
I look up from his text message and swallow, wondering
what his plans are for tonight. Making my life even harder is
definitely an option. I don’t ask him what for or why because I
want to see him. I miss him. I miss him every second.
 The side door is a gate, massive in black metal, a large
knocker of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth. Music
trickles from the backyard, where this door opens to.
“Hello, darkness.” He smiles, looking down at me.
I let out a slow breath, taking him in, wishing I was one of
the drops of water running down his bare chest. He tilts his
head, inviting me through the door into a slice of paradise. A
thick blanket of grass crunches under my feet next to a very
modern rectangle pool, lit a deep violet. Multiple fire pits are
peppered through the yard, their flames licking the magnolia
scented air.
“Wow,” I say as I follow him to a stone bar that’s outfitted
with a grill, refrigerator, sink, and lit candles scattered about.
“How the other half lives, huh?”
He grabs a beer from the fridge, his black swim shorts
clinging to his thighs, his ass, his…
“Did you miss me?” he asks, walking up to me and placing
the beer in my hands.
“Nope,” I say quickly, looking up at his breathtaking face,
his chin the closest thing to me, his scar glistening.
“Did you know that when you lie, one of your eyebrows
rises, just a little?”
“Nope,” I lie again because I do know that, and he points to
it.
“Did it again.” And he takes a swig of beer, contemplating.
“You’re a heartbreaker, am I right? How many hearts have you
broken?” he asks, eyes turning to suspicious slits.
“I’ve lost count,” I say, looking up through my lashes. And
I’m not teasing, I’m being honest. I’m the product of a mother
that has spent her entire life chasing a happily ever after
fantasy, and I know better.
I take a sip of the beer, trying to make some space between
us, but he steps even closer to me, hand sliding to my hips. I
slip the beer on the bar, the bitterness unappetizing.
 “Are you going to break mine?” He’s sincere and it hurts a
little, so I respond delicately and slowly.
“Yours isn’t mine to break.”
He’s hovering over me, and sweat is beading on my
forehead.
“Not yet,” he says and presses his lips to mine, kissing me
slow and intentional. His fingers dig into my back and my
hands find his wet hair, knuckles clenching around the thick
waves.
When we need air, he whispers he missed me and I want to
say it back, I do.
“Why am I here, Bastian?” is all I can seem to say.
A smile cracks on his face and he shakes his head. “On the
bar,” he says, nodding toward an envelope with my name
written upon it so beautifully it could be a tattoo.
I check my surroundings, per usual, witch rules ingrained
in my psyche, then say “Come,” and the envelope shoots into
my opened hand. I know what it is before opening it, but
there’s something about seeing a wire transfer receipt to my
mortgage company for two hundred thousand dollars that
makes me uneasy.
“You paid off my mortgage already?” My heart seems to
still, a panic piercing it.
“Payment for services rendered,” he says, a smile reaching
his eyes.
“I know I should be happy. But I can’t help but feel like
I’ve whored myself out for this.” I pull my hair behind my ears
as the crickets seem to chirp louder just to mock me.
“Have I ever treated you like a whore?” His eyes look hurt
or angry. Maybe both.
“No.”
“No. You are a powerful woman and are being paid for
your gifts. Can’t you make anything easy?”
 “I want to be happy, but something is eating away at me
about it. Like it’s wrong.”
“Jesus, your moral compass is quite surprising. Be happy,
you earned it.”
I sigh, folding the envelope in half and slipping it into my
purse—the purse he grasps with his hands and places on the
bar. And it takes a moment, but a wave of exhilaration does
finally come over me. A little late but appreciated. Two
hundred thousand dollars. I can’t believe it’s real.
Then there are lips kissing my neck, my shoulders, fingers
pulling on the straps of my tank top. “You’re hot,” he
whispers. “Let’s cool off.” His head tilts to the pool and it
looks so refreshing, I can’t help but smile and nod at the offer.
“Just get this off,” he says and pulls my shirt over my head,
and my hands find themselves on his chest, feeling the beat of
an undead heart. I pull down my skirt and kick off my sandals,
and he grabs my hand, pulling me to the pool.
“On three. One. Two. Three.” And we jump, the water
instantly cooling the fever that was rising inside of me. We
pop up together, laughs on our lips, and he pushes his hair
back on his head and freestyles to the shallow end. I go under
and then pop back up, smoothing my hair back, wiping the
water from my eyes.
He leans back, elbows resting on the ledge of the pool,
cocking his head to the side, watching me like I’m prey. I look
down at my wet bra, and panties, realizing I want to be preyed
upon.
“Get over here,” he says and it’s like a magnet is pulling
me toward him. I stand, pushing my hands straight down,
commanding the water to coil in my palms to create jets that
push me toward him. I keep a straight face, the use of magic
always a thrill, but even more so when I can share it with
someone.
“Impressive,” he says with hungry eyes as I approach, close
enough to embrace him.
 “Want to see something cooler? A trick my mother taught
me?”
“Do you even have to ask?” Which is the response I was
expecting. I swim up to him and stand, a little nervous since I
haven’t done this move since I was a child in a Florida hotel
pool.
“You’ll need to put your arms around my waist.” I grab his
arms as he smirks and guide them around me.
“As you wish.” And he’s just so satisfied.
“Now, you’ll need to keep your feet very flat, okay? Lock
your knees and don’t let go of me.”
“Oh shit, okay.” Excitement gleams from his eyes, his face
plastered into an infallible smile, teeth clenched. Leaning
down, he whispers in my ear, “I won’t let go,” and my
stomach rolls like waves. He’s so cute when he’s excited.
“Hold on tight,” are the last words I speak before closing
my eyes and breathing out. I place my palm on the surface of
the water, respecting its power, sending it my gratitude, asking
for its energy to transfer to mine.
And we slowly rise, water beneath our feet, power turning
the pool into a water fountain and we are standing at the top.
It’s a lot for me to control on my own, so we only have
seconds, but it’s enough time for me to open my eyes to
Bastian’s face, filled with awe, as we float ten feet above the
ground, water moving beneath our feet.
That awe on his face, that’s something I rarely—if ever—
get to see. Witches are unimpressed with each other’s magic
and humans can’t know the truth, so this—this is exhilarating.
“You are so cool,” he whispers, arms tightening around my
waist.
I feel the power depleting around me, my arms weakening,
so I lower us back down, waves ripping around us.
“How do you do it?”
I blink, my powers hard to explain. “Witches are energy in
human form. We move the energy that constantly flows inside
our flesh out of our bodies, joining it with natural energy.”
“But there are limitations?” he asks, and I nod.
“Every action has consequences. There are costs to magic
—limitations, of course. I could only hold us up for seconds. If
my mother or Chantal were here to help, we could stay up for
minutes.”
“Does it hurt?”
I laugh. “Hurt? Well, yeah. It can deplete us if we hold on
for too long. Weaken us. The night in the courtyard, my hand
hurt for two days after holding you against that wall.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he whispers, looking me
up and down. His grip loosens around me, but then he pulls
me in, crushing me against him. I wrap my legs around his
waist and kiss him hard, my breasts pressing against his chest,
the waves breaking over the pool sides, my body on fire for
him. Hands sliding up the outsides of my thighs, breaths
labored and wanting, and I squeeze my legs so tight around
him, they ache.
“What you do to me…” he groans, and I catch his words in
my mouth, covering him with kisses and moans.
Then he’s pushing my thighs off of him, breaking away, as
fangs slide out and his breathing quickens. Eyes throbbing
with need, trying to catch his breath, he grips the side of the
pool.
I step back, pressing my fingers to my pulsating lips, giving
him a minute to gather whatever battle is going on inside of
him. My hand slides away, but he grabs it, placing it back on
his neck.
“It’s okay. Just needed a breather. I’m fine.”
My fingers explore his wet hair as his breathing regulates,
his chest moves slower. “So are fangs like dicks? They come
out when they’re turned on?”
His incredulous look is amusing and then he laughs.
“Something like that. They come out when I’m aroused,
hungry or in danger. It’s instinctual.” He taps on the side of his
head with his index finger.
“So what are you now?”
“What do you think?” he asks, picking me back up,
grinding me into his pelvis. I feel him, hard, wanting me.
Wanting my blood too, no doubt.
“Can I touch one?”
With slight hesitation, he nods.
I run my finger along the smooth enamel, letting the pad of
my finger touch the sharp end.
“Do you want to drink blood when you’re aroused?”
“Yes.”
“Do you always drink whomever you’ve slept with’s
blood?”
His eyes look to the calming waves, deliberating. “Yes,” he
says quietly, both of us knowing he can never have mine. “Can
you make a spell to undo it? Like how you created the
potion?”
“No, the spell is bound to protect us. It can never be
undone. You can never taste me.” I wrap my legs around him
tighter, almost sad that I can never give him something he
desires.
“I can taste other things,” he says and places a hand
between my thighs, and I take a sharp breath, his fingers
rubbing against my panties. I let my head fall back, dipping
my hair in the water, my fingers locked around his neck. He
can never taste my blood because he’s a vampire and I’m a
witch and we are not allowed to intermingle—my blood would
kill him. I lift my head back up and meet his eyes.
“I would’ve never acted on this if you hadn’t talked me into
it. I’m worried you’re dangerous, careless, and impulsive. And
I don’t want it to get me killed.”
His fingers slide away from my panties, but move up my
stomach and stop over my heart.
 “Well, tell me how you really feel,” he laughs.
“Dangerous? Yeah. Impulsive? Sure. But not careless. I’m
coded to covet, and it’s ingrained in me to deny myself what I
want. And just know, I’ve wanted you since I first saw you at
Nightwalkers. I knew I had to have you and I knew this could
never be just business between us. So please know that it’s
been a battle of will every day since. I’m not careless. I’m
careful. Especially for what’s precious to me. And right now,
that’s you.”
I place a finger at the corner of his eye and trace it down
his face, the same route I’ve watched his blood tears fall. His
tongue rests on the tip of a fang, his hard chest moving in and
out so slowly. He’s earnest and honest and I want him. I pull
him by the neck toward me and gently brush his lips against
mine, slowly taking his tongue in my mouth, swallowing his
moans down my throat where I can keep them forever.
“Let me,” he groans and looks down at my panties. “Let
me,” he whispers again and it’s all I need to hear.
So I lean back, floating on top of the water, my hair
swaying around me, arms above my head. He pulls my legs
over his shoulders, slides his face between my thighs, pushes
my panties to the side, and tastes me where it won’t kill him.
I WAKE, SHROUDED IN BLACKNESS, in a bedroom with a steel
door and windows shuttered from a sliver of light. I’m
engulfed in sheets of satin while he sleeps next to me, though I
can’t see him. I run my leg across the bed until my toes meet
his kneecap and let it linger there, still mystified that what has
transpired between us is real. Because last night he brought me
to his bed, and what they say about sex with vampires is no lie.
Three times he’s been inside of me, three times I felt
something I’ve felt with no other, three times I never wanted it
to end.
And now I have no idea where my phone is or what time it
is, so I whisper “Sight,” and the room lightens in my vision.
There he is.
Lying on his side, hand under his cheek. Eyes closed so
peacefully. I’m tempted to run a finger along his hand, but I
bite my lip instead.
“Phone,” I beckon, and from the corner of the room my
phone rises and floats to me.
It’s 9:52 in the morning and my shop is supposed to open in
eight minutes. This is not who I am. I am organized and I’m
never late. I’m letting things fall between the cracks and I need
to get my shit together. I consider asking Chantal to open for
me, but there would be a text requiring an explanation. Girl,
what are you up to? She would text with a crooked eyebrow.
No, I will just have to open a little late.
I sit up, but his hand grabs my waist and squeezes.
“Not yet,” he whispers, his chest bare and smooth, his eyes
heavy with fatigue.
“I have to open the shop.”
His other arm reaches across to grab me, so I retreat and
fall back as he pulls my back to his chest. “Chantal will be
there in an hour.”
“Just a little while longer.” And his leg swings across my
body, locking me in his embrace, and it feels too good. To be
so wanted, so desired. I close my eyes and swallow and let
myself feel the moment.
“Call in sick. You can take a bath while I sleep, order food,
relax. Have you seen my bathtub?”
“You’re a snob,” I say and entwine my fingers through his,
chuckling, because who do you call in sick to if you own the
place?
“It’s a great tub.” He shrugs, but his eyes are closed again
and now I see why vampires are so vulnerable when they
sleep. It’s like he’s drugged as he fights to stay awake, but his
body goes limp and I slide out from under him.
I could lie in his arms all day while he sleeps, but there are
a thousand reasons why that’s a bad idea, so I grab my clothes
and walk to the bathroom.
He’s right. It’s a great tub.
White, all white everywhere—which is odd for a vampire
—with a separate standing shower that’s big enough for five
people. There’s a round chandelier with dangling crystals and
lights so bright my eyes have to squint, but I realize I need to
adjust my sight. “Off,” I whisper.
I dress quickly, the offer to stay and soak in the tub
enticing, but I need to get to work before Chantal shows up. I
splash water on my face, pull my hair into a bun, and hope my
breath doesn’t smell too terrible.
 He doesn’t hear me walk in the room; my phone’s
flashlight shines on his face and I decide that he is careless, no
matter how he wants to twist it. Leaving a witch in his room
while he sleeps is careless and there’s no way around that.
Another mark against this indiscretion, and I say his name
more forcefully than I meant to.
Red eyed, his head pops up and he frowns when he sees me
dressed. “If you must go,” he says sitting up, resting his elbow
on his bent knee.
“The owner can’t call in sick,” I say and plop on the bed
next to him, grabbing his chin and pulling him in for a kiss
because I am just the most inconsistent person. Annoyed one
minute, smitten the next. “I am a very important
businesswoman,” I whisper into his mouth.
“Indeed,” he says and kisses me harder. “Can I get you an
Uber?”
“No, I like the streetcar. Don’t walk me out,” I say and rise.
But he gets up and grabs a remote by his bed.
“I’ll call you later.” And with a press of a button, the top of
his bed slides to the side, revealing another bed underneath—a
vampire’s bed. A modern day coffin.
“Oh, I see. The bed I slept in is just for when you have
guests.”
He sneers with a shake of his head. “The living tend to find
this a little…claustrophobic. It’s also a fireproof, weatherproof
hiding space. Want to try it out?” He hops down on the second
bed and pats the mattress.
“Sleep tight,” I say pulling my purse across my chest.
And he starts singing Somebody To Love as I walk out the
door.

“NO PICTURES ALLOWED!” Cherry screams at a couple

snapping selfies inside of a cage. Their faces stretch from the
embarrassment of being caught and probably from the shock
of Cherry’s booming voice coming out of her tiny body. The
inside of Caged is known for its “no pictures” policy, and
Cherry is a loyal enforcer. She’s a live version of Tinkerbell,
with her pixie cut and mouth of a sailor. It seems impossible,
the volumes that tiny body can reach.
“Fucking tourists,” she sighs then bites her nail while she
waits for my order. I’m distracted because a text came from
Bastian asking where I am.
“Ah, a Chastity Belt,” I say, and she turns to the slushie
cocktail machine and dispenses my drink.
Caged, I respond.
I want to see him. I miss him and it’s only been a day. He
worked at the bar last night, I know this because he felt the
need to text me that he wasn’t available, as if we were dating,
as if he owed me an explanation. But the only explanation I’m
waiting on is when he’s going to tell Cassius about the potion.
There’s an uneasiness inside me, and it all depends on what
will happen once Cassius knows. How long do Bastian and I
have left to play this little game, until he’s gone from my life?
I got an email from my mortgage company that my loan
had been paid in full, and this—having a drink with my
favorite bartender in the quarter—is my celebration. Because I
must celebrate in silence, but dammit, I’m celebrating.
“Where’s your fuck boys? I haven’t seen you breaking any
hearts lately,” Cherry says, leaning on the bar.
I stir my drink and laugh. “I’ve been too busy for fuck
boys. I’m ready for a real man.”
She slaps the bar, her mouth wide with disbelief. “Shut
up!” Another flash comes from the dance floor, and like a
hawk, Cherry turns toward the crowd of people. “Rocco, go
find out who’s takin’ pictures!”
Rocco, whose real name is Justin, but Rocco is more fitting
for a bouncer, saunters over to the dance floor, investigating.
 “It’s not like we don’t tell everyone when they walk in!”
And her eyes flit to the entrance, softening immediately, then
crinkling with a smile.
“Hey, handsome,” she says, and Bastian slides onto the seat
next to me.
“Cherry Pie,” Bastian says with a wicked grin and my
stomach drops to the floor. Am I feeling jealous? Was that a
pet name? He’s wearing a button-up shirt, royal blue, with the
sleeves rolled around his forearms, and there’s something
about when he dresses up…
“Aster,” he nods, and I cock my head and cross my arms.
“That’s my Cherry Pie,” I say, and Cherry nods in
agreement.
“I was hers first, hunny,” she says and opens a beer for
Bastian without him having to order it. He’s only been back in
New Orleans for a couple of months, yet he’s already
established new relationships with locals. I wonder how many
of the girls he’s met in this bar have been brought home to that
fancy bed.
“Ouch,” he says, sipping on his beer. “Rebuffed, yet
again,” he winks at me, and my eyes roll.
Cherry gets called for a drink order, then his finger tickles
my leg under the bar. It starts as a chill along my thigh, then
suddenly my entire body has goosebumps, all from the
slightest touch of a finger. The wanting, the need for him, the
pull inside me is getting harder and harder to deny and that is a
very bad thing.
I place my thumb in my mouth, running my tongue along
the nail and he leans in.
“I wish that was my thumb.”
“I’ve come to a conclusion about you, Bastian Delacroix.”
“Oh, please tell me.” He rests his temple on his fist and I
straighten my skirt.
“Well, you told me that you weren’t careless. But here you
are, with me, inside one of the busiest bars in the Quarter. And
you allowed me, a witch, to be in your room while you slept. I
could have slit your throat. I could have opened the shades.
Yet you let me waltz around while you slept like a baby. That’s
what I call careless.” It comes out a little brash, but he’s not
offended—just looks annoyed.
“The Quarter is quite small and there are no laws against us
speaking in public. As far as being careless by allowing you in
my room while I slept, well, has it ever occurred to you that
maybe I trust you? That I know you wouldn’t do anything to
me while I slept?”
“But I could have.”
“But you wouldn’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I trust you. You should try trusting someone
sometime.” And now he definitely is pissed and pulls a deep
swig from his beer. His green eyes, slits of fire, his full lips
folded inside his teeth.
The truth is, I’m not used to this. A man being honest with
his desire for me. And I wonder how a vampire can trust so
easily, what he could possibly see in me that makes me
trustworthy. But he’s right. I wouldn’t hurt him. I’m not that
vicious. I like him.
“I’m telling Cassius tomorrow.” He turns away from me,
eyes straight ahead and it stings, it does. Because once he tells
Cassius, this really ends. I push him away and I fight it, but the
truth is I don’t want it to end. I want to grab his face and run
my fingers through the tresses of his thick hair and tell him.
But that IS forbidden. So I speak instead.
“You’re right. Maybe I should try trusting someone.” And
he almost falls out of his seat.
“What the fuck?” With a vicious laugh, he shakes his head.
“Women.”
“You mean, witches,” I whisper and run my finger along
his leg.
 “Don’t touch me,” he says, but a smile cracks on his lips.
“Hey, I got an idea. Let’s skip all the resisting, all the back and
forth, ‘No, we can’t. We shouldn’t’ and just go to my place.”
He turns to me and everything in my body seems to be
pulsing. “I’m tired of begging, Aster.” His eyebrow raises, his
dominant side surfacing, and anyone else I would laugh and
say, Too fucking bad, asshole. But not him. I’m not tired of his
begging, will never tire of him begging to take me to bed, so I
lick my lips and I decide right then and there to succumb to
what I want, what my body wants.
“Fine. But tonight I’m the one in charge.” I down my drink
and face him.
“Well I won’t argue with that,” he says, eyes eager, face
stern. “I want to kiss you so fucking bad right now.” He
whispers it, his breath tickling my ear, and I look up to see
Cherry’s eyes on us. Two scrutinizing slits.
Careless.
He notices and pulls away. “Can you meet me at my house
in thirty minutes? I have to run to Nightwalkers.”
“For blood?” And something exchanges between us,
because I already know the answer.
I grab his wrist under the bar. “Don’t kiss her.” It’s an
order, not a request.
“I won’t.” With sincere eyes and a dutiful expression, he
walks out.
I’m all liquid inside, my temperature rising like a feverish
child. Someone pinches my arm, and I turn expecting to see
Bastian, coming back for another word. But it’s Jade and the
fever extinguishes, my temperature going frigid. Did she see
Bastian and I talking?
“Look, it’s a witch in the wild,” she says, sitting next to me.
“Hey mama, what are you doing out tonight?” Grabbing
my pendant, I slide it back and forth along the chain. Jade eyes
my nervous hand and bites her lip.
 “Running errands. You okay?” she asks and I nod as
Cherry walks down the bar, popping her gum.
“So that was the real man you’re ready for, huh?”
“What real man?” Jade asks and I could have a stroke right
here. I gather my breath, and my thoughts, exhaling with a
fake laugh.
“Oh, no,” I say to Cherry, then turn to Jade. “Bastian
Delacroix was here, the one that just showed back up in town.”
Jade’s eyes swing from Cherry back to me, knowing we
can’t discuss vampire and witch business in front of a human.
“All troublemakers, those Delacroix’s,” Jade chuckles. She
winks at me and it’s code. Code for “If only Cherry knew
vampires were off limits.”
But not to me apparently. The traitor that couldn’t keep her
hands of the sexiest Delacroix in New Orleans. I wink back,
swallowing hard, hoping I’ve gotten away with being careless.
Just the thing I accused Bastian of.
I leave a walking flesh bag of nerves, telling myself I
should call it off. I shouldn’t go to Bastian’s. But find myself
knocking at his door, practically begging to be let in. Because
I want him all over again. And not even Jade’s or Cherry’s
skepticism stops me.
I slept with him again, as promised, and it was just as mind
blowing as every other time, and I wonder if something this
powerful is even capable of lasting. This time magic undressed
him, magic slid his fake bed for all the humans aside,
revealing the secret bed only vampires and I know about. And
magic allows him to see who I really am, what I’m truly
capable of.
“What you can do—the magic. Was it taught to you? Is it
natural?”
We lie together, the coffin bed opened, cuddling like a
couple of lovers and I don’t hate it, not even a little. My head
on his chest, his arm around me, tickling my arm back and
forth. No, I don’t hate it.
 I look up to him, his tan skin velvety under mine. “Both.
Most comes naturally, but as children, especially teens, we
must learn to control it. Spells and potions are taught, but
being able to do things, like undress you, I can just order it
with a word or sometimes with my mind and it happens.
That’s natural.”
“I’ve seen a lot in my life, but nothing like you. You’re a
puzzle I want to put together.”
I rest my face back on his chest so he can’t see my
expression. But his finger finds my chin and pulls it up so our
eyes meet.
“Do you always turn from emotions?”
“Do you always say everything you’re feeling in the exact
moment?” Our serious faces quickly dissolve to smiles as we
stare each other down.
“Only when mesmerized.”
“I’m not all that mesmerizing. You know the plant morgue
on my shelf? Those are the plants I try growing without magic.
And they are dead.”
His eyebrows pull together, scrutinizing. “A witch that
can’t grow things?”
“My secret is out. Have I fallen from my pedestal yet?” But
he only shakes his head.
“Aster, do you like being with me? Because I suspect that
you do.” His arm slides down my naked side and grips my hip.
“No. Hate it. Every minute of it.” But my eyes belie the
statement, and he squeezes my hip again with a force in his
eyes. “When I’m not with you. I’m probably thinking about
you. There. Is that better?” I lie back this time, crossing my
arms over my bare breasts, staring at the ceiling.
His finger glides along my arm, his eyes thoughtful. “I just
think there’s something here. Something more than just
sleeping with each other. More than just a taste.”
The best taste I’ve ever had. And the sad part is Bastian is
free to have his fantasies and live a charmed life. That’s not
my reality.
“There is. But you’ll be leaving soon. And I’ll still be here.
And that’s just how it has to be.” I turn on my side and now
it’s him looking up at the ceiling. “So we’ll enjoy it while we
can, right?”
He grabs my hand and runs it along his chest. “Yes,” he
agrees softly, and I slide my foot up and down his calf. “I’m
speaking with him tomorrow.” His voice is short, like he’s
already had enough of me.
“I’m not heartless, you know,” I say, placing my chin on
his chest, looking in his miraculous eyes. “I just know how
this ends. I’ve seen it a hundred times before with my mother.
With her affairs, especially with married men. You are like a
married man. Unavailable. I have to be careful with my heart,
with my livelihood.”
“I get it. There’s nothing careful about giving yourself to
someone,” he snorts. “It’s one of the riskiest things a person
can do. But the most rewarding, right?”
“Such a romantic,” I say, and he groans but turns on his
side and brings his lips to mine and kisses me so softly, so
carefully.
“Has someone broken you?” It’s a whisper between our
mouths, coming out of his like poetry. “I’ve been broken.”
“I can’t be broken. I’ve got a legacy depending on me.” I
want to tell him about the child I’m supposed to have,
supposed to have already had. That my mother is getting more
and more impatient with me. That Violetta is pressing in on
the both of us. But instead, I grab his hair and press his lips to
mine so we can both forget that he’s been broken and I’ve
never allowed myself to even get close.
I HAVE FAITH IN MY work, but none in Cassius. And though
Bastian seems to believe that Cassius will be overjoyed by the
potion I created, I know better. And so, I’m a wreck, so
nervous I feel like vomiting every time I envision Bastian
telling Cassius about the potion.
“What’s wrong with you?” Chantal asks as I count the
hours until sundown.
“Nothing? Nothing,” I say an octave too high and she
shakes her head.
“I came by last night. Where were you?” She pops her gum
in an innocent way, but because I’m guilty, my body flashes
hot and I look down at the citrine necklace in my hand.
I was in Bastian Delacroix’s bed, I want to say.
“At Caged,” I say instead, thinking fast. “Jade was there.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to come?” Her lips are open,
suspicion crinkling her forehead.
“I just went out to see Cherry and Jade happened to be
there. I’m sorry.” I make a sad face, real guilt coursing through
my heart, a sorrow beating inside me from all the lies.
It’s on her lips, I can read her. She wants to say, You’ve
been acting weird lately. But she shrugs instead, turning on her
smile when a customer walks in, and I’m saved for the time
being.
 After closing, I go up to my apartment and wait for the sun
to go down.
Chantal’s questions cut me. Lying to her cuts me and now
I’m feeling worse than I did than earlier. Working on spells is
the only thing I can lose myself in, so that’s what I do.
Reading about the two forbidden spells, the ones no witch can
ever practice without immediate repercussions, is fascinating
enough to derail my mind for the time being.
The first is actual time travel, one my mother had warned
me about before.
“Going back one second in time could change the outcome
of the universe and it’s never, ever to be tampered with,” she
had said as she tapped her finger on my nose.
“I want to meet Elvis,” I had said, having grown up on Blue
Hawaii and Viva Las Vegas.
She curled her lip in true Elvis fashion and said, “That’ll
never happen, baby.” In her worst, deep and shaky Elvis
impersonation.
The second forbidden spell is necromancy. Raising the
dead, though dangerous and banned, has always piqued my
interest. It’s gruesome and mysterious, and I’ve often
ruminated over how it’s done.
Paging through Winnie while Mercury’s tails flops around
my fingers and researching necromancy is interesting enough
to keep my mind at bay until there’s a pounding on my door.
That’s when my heart stops.
I jog to my front door and open it to Bastian, breaths
labored.
He seethes as he walks past me with blood on his lip and
messy hair. “He said no. He said never.”
There’s a stab to my chest, fear seizing my heart. “Will he
tell?” I chase him up the stairs into the parlor.
He looks at me incredulously, as if I shouldn’t have the
audacity to worry about us getting caught at a time like this.
“No. God, no. He would never.”
 “What did he say?”
He’s pacing, disbelief quaking him, and heat rises to my
cheeks, my heart racing in a frantic rhythm. Bastian went in
blinded by his hope, his desperation, but I’m not surprised.
This feeling of my heart sinking is disappointment.
“He said what we’ve done is irreversible and…” He finally
looks at me, really looks at me, catching himself from saying
too much.
“And?”
“All stupid shit.” His voice lowers and he sinks into the
chair, leaning back, his legs long and wide. “He’s livid.” His
gaze meets mine as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Come
here,” a hopeless whisper begs, and I can’t resist.
I walk to him as he reaches up, grabbing my waist and
sliding me on his lap.
Slowly, he drags the back of his hand across his mouth,
blood leaving a streak. I push his hair from his face, eyeing the
gash.
“He hit you?” My finger taps the cut on his lip.
“It’s fine. It’ll heal soon.” But that’s not why I’m worried. I
press my mouth to his head and just let it stay there as we take
in the reality of what’s happened. “He’s going to need a new
dining room table. It was quite a scuffle.”
My lips pull back, envisioning how bad a vampire fight can
get. Two strong creatures are no match for some wood.
His eyes squeeze shut and I want to speak, but something
tells me to stay quiet. Something is building inside of him.
“He’s just going to die, and he’s okay with that…but I’m
not.”
“Did he say he’s going to do it soon?”
His breathing grows labored again; his fingers tighten
around my waist.
“Bastian, what did he say?”
 “Not yet! But he will! He always follows through. He
carefully thinks everything out, meticulous to a fault. He will
do it. And I can’t take it.” His head drops to my chest, his
brown hair grazing my skin, and I suddenly want to explode.
“We did it for nothing.” The words are quiet and clipped
and my jaw locks. “Risked everything, for nothing.” I think of
my mother, my grandmother, the disappointment over what
I’ve done washing over me. The stake in the middle of the
bayou, where witches have been burning their own kind for
years, my face in flames if the coven ever found out.
My legs try to stand but he grabs me harder, not letting me
go. Our eyes meet, his rimmed red, mine, smoking with anger.
“This is nothing?” He gestures between our bodies with his
finger, an anguished look upon his face.
I stare at the ceiling. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Your paid-for home is nothing?”
“Don’t be an asshole.” And this time I cast his arms off me,
and stand. “You said you wouldn’t make me feel like that.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” he says and moves forward, elbows on
knees, his head in his hands. “Fuck!”
Reckless, that’s what we are—and I keep trying to pretend
that we aren’t because it feels good, being reckless with him.
But that’s not how real life can be.
“Fucking Cassius,” I whisper, pressing my index fingers
into my forehead. “Maybe you just need to let him go.”
And the look I get in return actually casts a ribbon of fear
right into my soul.
“I will never do that. Cassius is all I have, he is everything
to me. I’ve lost one brother, I won’t lose another!” His voice
vibrates with anger and I take a step back, having never seen
him this upset before, and I hate it, I do. But I’ve put so much
on the line and I deserve to know the truth. So I seize the
opportunity and ask him the question he’s dodged in the past.
“What happened to your brother?” It’s expected to grieve
the ones we’ve lost, but I suspect the loss of Bastian’s blood
brother is why he clings to Cassius.
Blood lines his eyes instantly so I know it’s tragic. He
stands, an internal conflict consuming him, and then he sighs. I
cross my arms and wait.
“I have lost every person I loved from my human life. That
is the fate of a vampire. But there are things that happened in
my human life, a loss so deep, an internal gutting that’s carried
over and will haunt me forever. So I’ll tell you how I killed my
brother if that assuages your anxiety over getting caught.”
Fangs slide out of his mouth while I ignore the dig. With
my body growing heavy, I fall into the couch because there’s a
pain in his eyes and that’s what he meant when he said he’s
been broken. He paces in front of me, hand squeezing the back
of his neck, voice shaking in a way unfamiliar to me.
“We grew up near Sacramento, California. Heavy rains in
the winter mean fast river currents in the spring. Back then
was different from now with today’s helicopter parents that
don’t let their kids out of their sight…times were different for
us. There were two rules—get home before dark and never go
to the river alone. We had snuck there before, but this day was
the first of spring and I was itching to catch a rainbow trout. It
wasn’t the first time we snuck there, but this time I begged
him to take me. It had been raining, and the river was gushing
and the bank was muddy. Luc went to get a closer look
because it was so loud, so fast. And he slipped.”
I open my mouth to speak, the sorrow pulling across his
face making me want to go to him, but he puts up his hand as
if to shush me before I’ve said a word.
“I stood there, watching him slide down the muddy bank,
down into the water. I watched the river take my brother away,
screaming for him, while he screamed for me, not knowing
what to do. His head and arms dipped up and down through
the current as I ran alongside him, but the water was too fast
and he was out of my sight in seconds. I stood there, Aster.”
He falls on his knees in front of me. “I remember thinking that
my dad was going to kill us, kill me. That we were going to be
in so much trouble. I stood there for too long before getting
help.”
I run my thumb along his jawline, an ache forming in my
chest. A pain for his pain.
“When they found him, found his body, my father took his
belt to me. Threw me down the stairs. Broke my arm and gave
me fifteen stitches.” He grabs my index finger and runs it
along the scar on his forehead. “I deserved all of it.” A blood
tear falls down his cheek, and I wipe it away with my thumb.
“You know that’s not true.”
“Luc was better than me, always wanted to please me,
always did things for me. He was the purest heart, and I was
the fuck up, the one that didn’t take life seriously. And he’s the
one that ended up dead, robbed of life at fourteen years old,
and I’m here for all eternity.
“And Cassius, he became that big brother I needed, that big
brother I lost. I know it’s fucked up and dysfunctional. But
how can he leave me? I can’t lose him.” And another blood
tear falls and I sink down to hold him. Because I don’t have
any words that can comfort him, no it will be okay, or Cassius
won’t die. Because I don’t know what will happen, but for the
first time I realize this unfavorable outcome affects Bastian so
much more than it affects me.
“I’m so sorry, Bastian. I don’t know how to fix it.” His
green eyes open and close, blood-tinged and helpless.
“You don’t have to fix it.”
He looks like a boy to me now as I wipe the blood from his
face. He stills, watching me tend to his bleeding eyes, his
fangs sliding back up. I wipe his ceramic face, cheekbones so
perfectly chiseled, lips so pouty and full. “It wasn’t your fault
that your brother died. You were a child. Your father should
have comforted you instead of beat you. If I could change the
past, I would.” My blood boils at the thought of a man beating
a broken boy, and it’s my nature to fix things to create spells or
potions to heal. But my hands are tied on this one, so all I can
offer is comfort.
 “Of course, you would,” he says and grabs my wrist. “You
came along and changed everything.”
If someone was watching from the outside this would look
like a precious moment between two lovers, not a forbidden
relationship between a vampire and witch, and all the feelings
swarm around me and I just want him in my arms. I pull his
face to mine and kiss him, so tender, so gentle, that I pull back
to take a breath before I move in for another. His arms encircle
me, needing me, pulling me tightly against him, like I’m a life
raft.
Falling on the floor and falling apart within each other’s
grasp, I whisper, “I didn’t want you to go anyway.” That had
been the plan all along and I can finally admit the truth. I
would have been devastated if Cassius accepted the potion and
they both left together.
He whispers, “I’m not going anywhere. But promise me,
promise it’s you and me. That’s the new plan. I stay and we’re
more than just a taste. We see where this goes.”
And I don’t know how it’s possible, how I’ve broken down
my barriers so completely, but I’ve found myself committing
to only him through whispers while making love, promises to
keep it quiet, to enjoy it while it lasts. Because it can’t last
forever. I will embrace what’s budding for now, watch it
bloom, and mourn its death. Because it will indeed die, so for
now, I promise.
THE FIRST TIME I SAW blood running from Bastian’s nostril, I
froze, wondering if vampires still got nose bleeds. We were
dancing on Frenchman Street, to a Zydeco band playing on the
corner. Sweating hot, under an afternoon sun, I wondered if
the disguising spell I put on him was malfunctioning, so I
reached up and touched it. Thick and warm, real blood,
something the disguising spell wouldn’t cause.
Disguising spells are a creative way for witches to have a
little fun. I still saw the same Bastian Delacroix in front of me.
But everyone else saw a shorter, blonde man with shoulder
length hair.
“What?” he said wiping his nose and then looking to his
thumb. “I’m bleeding?” He held his hand up to his nose to stop
it.
“Does that ever happen to you?” I yelled over the music,
and he just squinted his eyes and grabbed my hand with his
free one, pulling me away from the crowd, away from the
music.
“No,” he said, and I ducked into a bar to grab some
napkins, my heart suddenly racing. I looked up to the sun
beating down on us while Bastian wiped the blood away and
smiled at me.
“How sweet,” he had said, wrapping his arms around me,
kissing my lips. “You’re concerned.”
 And I was. I tried to shrug it off as a fluke. Some strange
happenstance. But now, as Bastian and I lie next to his pool, as
I watch blood run from his nose again, my body tenses.
“Shit,” he says grabbing a towel, sitting up and wiping his
face.
“Again.”
“No worries.” He throws the towel on the lawn and lies
back.
“Has it happened since the last time?” The last time was
three days ago.
He sighs, sensing my trepidation. “No.”
I sit up from the lounge chair as Bastian’s finger trails a
drop of water down my shoulder. “It’s the potion,” I say,
wracking my brain on why it’s happening.
“Maybe,” he says, sitting up next to me. “But it’s hardly
any blood.”
“Bastian. That’s not good. Anything else new happening?”
“No, nothing. Don’t freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out. It’s my responsibility that my
potions do no harm. Unless that’s the intent.”
He laughs at that and stands. “Now, that’s funny,” he says
and picks me up in his arms. “I wanna see you wet.” Eyes
squinting with mischief, he tosses me into the pool and I allow
it, suddenly so hot.
I pop up and while staring at him, tie an invisible rope
around his chest and pull him in with a clench of my hand.
Something isn’t right with the potion, and I have to fix it.
But he entrances me, over and over. I lie awake at night, trying
to predict how it will end, how my heart will be broken, and I
can’t picture him not being in my life. I love being by his side
next to his pool or dancing on Frenchman. A taste has turned
into so much more.
“Were your eyes this green when you were alive?” They
are more breathtaking in the sun, lighter, glowing aventerine’s.
 “They were. Luc’s were even greener.”
I’m pulled into his arms, disbelieving there was another set
of eyes out there greener than the ones I’m looking into. “I still
can’t believe this is happening. That I’m allowing this.”
“What’s this?”
“Whatever you call this,” I say waving a finger between us.
“Dating? Going steady? Boyfriend/girlfriend?” He
squeezes my ass as I scoff.
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Yes, you are,” he laughs. “You’re mine.”
“Stop. I’m not anyone’s.”
“God,” he says with a push. “You are hard to crack.”
Swimming toward the pool steps, I know what I have to
say. “This can’t be boyfriend/girlfriend bullshit.” I step out of
the pool.
“I know you like me.” He looks up to the sky with a squint,
his hand shading his eyes from the sun, his long torso so
golden and glistening. “I know you wanna be my girl.”
I towel myself dry and check my phone. “Your time is
almost up, Vampire.”
“Say it! Say that you’re my girl.”
I grin with my mouth closed because he’s so ridiculous yet
completely endearing.
“You need to get out of the sun, and now I’ve got a spell to
fix.”
“You’re gonna say it one day, baby girl,” he yells as I open
the sliding glass door. “You’re gonna shout it from the
rooftops!”

Shout it from the rooftops, I think as I go over the

ingredient list for the potion. Why I’m looking at the
ingredients makes no sense. I know them all by heart. And
there’s nothing I can change, nothing I can alter that will take
away the nose bleeds yet keep the ability to be in the sunlight.
Wanting to believe it’s a coincidence is wishful thinking if he’s
never had them before.
“Your mom’s on the phone,” Chantal’s voice echoes, and I
slam Winnie closed.
“Say what?” I cry, because my phone is sitting on the
counter next to me. I look through the doorway as Chantal
enters my living room.
“She says you’re not answering her calls or texts, forced
me to come over here so you can talk to her.” She holds her
phone up to my face, and I bite my lip and glower at her while
she shrugs, sinking to the carpet to pet Mercury. I grab the
phone from her hand and place it to my ear.
“I’m alive,” I report.
“What the fuck, Aster? I’ve been calling you for two days
straight. Texted at least five times.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I say, and Chantal’s eyebrows rise with
interest.
I flop on the couch and slap Chantal’s hand away from
Winnie, my heart rate speeding. I hid the spell under
Enchantments, but I’m still paranoid.
“Wha—you’re just ignoring me?”
The truth is, yes, I’ve been ignoring her. The affair I’ve
fallen into has me riddled with enough guilt without having to
lie to my mom about where I am and what I’m doing.
“Did you need something?”
“Yeah, I need you to answer me when I call or text you.” If
voices had color hers would be a raging scarlet. I feel the heat
through Chantal’s phone so I inhale slowly. I don’t want a
fight.
“I’ve been really busy. Everything okay?”
She’s silent for a moment, gathering her anger like seeds.
“Yes, everything is fine. It started as me just checking on you.
But when you didn’t respond, I thought you were dead.”
 I laugh, and she laughs with me. My mother would be able
to feel if I were dead, and we both know it.
“Chantal told me you took a cowboy’s phone number, so I
was just—”
“Fuck, this is about a baby,” I yell and shove the phone
back into Chantal’s face. “You told her about the cowboy?”
“I was honestly just trying to pacify her,” Chantal whispers
through gritted teeth, pushing the phone out of her face.
I put it back up to my ear. “Listen, I’m not up for this
conversation—”
“Your cousin Meryl is pregnant. She’s three years younger
than you. Aunt Violetta had to call and rub it in.”
“Good for Meryl. Another witch will be born.”
Chantal’s mouth grows wide. “That kiss ass,” she whispers
with a head shake.
“Doesn’t that relieve me from some of the pressure?”
“It doesn’t, Aster. You are the purest witch left, a gift. I
need a grandchild. You need a child. It’s not that hard. If I
could do it, you can do it.”
I cackle at that, at the burden I was to my mother. The wild
witch with a kid on her hip. She resented me, until she could
run out of here as soon as my grandmother died, as soon as I
was legal.
“All right, I will go fuck a drunk on Bourbon Street tonight.
How’s that sound?”
“Jeez, don’t fuck a drunk. Make it a street performer, at
least,” Chantal whispers and I kick her, right in the shin, and
she points her finger at me, sending a bolt of electricity down
my thigh.
“You bitch.” And I’m shaking my head, the pain pulsating
down my entire leg while my mother…my very own mother
lectures me. The most irresponsible witch, woman, breathing
thing on the planet lectures me about the coven.
 “Violetta and Rosemary are getting impatient. There will be
consequences.” Rosemary is Violetta’s sister, the second in
line to be the coven elder, and if she thinks she’s going to bully
me too, she’s got it wrong.
“I look forward to it,” I remark because who does my
mother think she is? I don’t want to have a daughter only to
resent her like my mother resents me. I don’t want to feel
trapped, and I don’t want to turn an innocent child into a
burden.
I listen to her talk, blah, blah, blah. I promise I’m making
moves toward a pregnancy, and I say goodbye when it’s over
and throw Chantal’s phone at her.
“Do you see why I was avoiding her?” I shout.
“I never thought she would force that on you. I really
thought she would be cooler about it.”
“What would happen if I just didn’t do it?”
“Girl, I don’t want to know the answer to that question.
They don’t play. They’ve inseminated witches before. And
you’re a Wildes. You can’t change who you are. You know
you will love your baby. Just have one.”
“Oh my God, not you, too.” I sink to the couch, feeling
utterly helpless. Chantal sinks with me, wrapping her arms
around me.
“Not me, too. I just love you. I don’t want them to force
you into anything. They’re getting desperate. And you haven’t
been with a guy in months. There are no prospects?”
Bastian’s glimmering face floats to my mind. My mouth
goes dry, the desire to tell Chantal my secret growing. Instead,
I lick my lips and shake my head. “No,” I lie because there’s
one I can’t seem to get enough of.
Love isn’t necessary for a witch to have a baby. It’s actually
frowned upon. We can reveal who we are to men we love and
trust, but if the relationship fails, and it usually does, we have
to black out any memories of witchcraft. Doing so is a great
disservice to a man you once loved, leaving holes in their life,
and that’s why we are urged to never tell them and to use our
magic around them only in dire situations. This means you can
never truly give yourself to someone. If only vampires and
witches didn’t loathe each other, they would be perfect mates.
Both with secrets to share, both knowing we must keep them.
So, it’s encouraged to find a strong, handsome man, one
with intelligence, one who has empathy yet a vein of mischief.
To bed him down and then end it. Raise your child, do your
duty, and then you can live your life once your legacy is
fulfilled. It’s a suffocating prophecy.
“What’s going on with you?” Her eyebrows shoot toward
the heavens, her intuition on point.
“Nothing,” I lie again, a rush of blood pounding in my
head. “This is just overwhelming me so much.” It’s a half lie,
yet I still feel guilty. Completely overwhelmed, yes. But she
only knows part of it.
“I’m sorry, babe.” Chantal kisses my cheek, and I’m
relieved she’s dropping it at that. I meet her brown eyes and
push back that lump in my throat, the prick in my eyes that
begs to break free. I won’t cy. I never cry.

Lake Pontchartrain Causeway is the longest bridge in

America, and Bastian has never seen it by the light of day. I
step on the gas as we get on the causeway, city behind us,
water and clouds before us. He grabs my hand over the
console of his car, and I can’t help but smile, his soft fingers in
mine, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand.
“Do you love being my chauffeur?” His eyes are sparkling,
a crisp white T-shirt making them seem lighter. Jeans, because
he’s relaxed and not keeping up the mysterious charade that’s
encouraged at night by the Nightwalker family.
“I love this car,” I confess and squeeze his hand because
today I’m driving his 1957 Cadillac, letting him enjoy the
view. It’s fun when we go out amongst people, but I especially
love when it’s just me and him. Holding hands and singing
Queen together while I drive.
This is becoming more frequent, and I don’t want it to stop.
Bastian loves to fuck me, but he also loves just being with me
—and that’s what has caused a pulling on my heart and cement
in my stomach. That we want to be together more and more
every day.
“Even in the day you can’t see any land in front or behind
us. Just water everywhere.” He props his other hand on the
door, biting his thumb.
“Yeah, it used to scare the shit out of me when I was a kid.”
He drops his hand from the door and places his attention on
me. “The first time I saw you scared was the day you rushed
me to Lafitte’s.”
“Yeah, because you dying on Bourbon Street would have
meant my death as well.”
“Oh, that was all you were worried about?” He crooks an
eyebrow and I choose to ignore him.
“What scares you?” I ask.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “When you tell me that this is over.
That’s when I’ll be petrified.”
My head turns to meet his eyes, his rawness cutting into
me.
“Vampires aren’t supposed to be this endearing.” I look
back to the road but raise his hand to my lips and kiss it gently.
“I like it,” I whisper, and he laughs.
“What we do, we do in darkness. It doesn’t mean our hearts
have to be dark.”
Maybe he’s right, but I’ve always hid behind a dark heart.
“Thank God your mom taught you how to dance. Gave me
an opportunity to get close to you.”
I exhale a deep breath, remembering the dance, him
holding me close. Our hearts beating together. The feelings
that arose during those few minutes, us both feeling the same,
but only he was bold enough to act on it. The memory is a
sweet one, but my mother’s disapproving glare enters my
mind and I grip the steering wheel harder.
“There’s a pain in your eyes when she comes up.”
I suck on my teeth and consider my response carefully.
“Well… She has hurt me. She always chose men over me.
Left me to fend for myself. It’s complicated.” I keep my eyes
on the road, feeling his eyes on me.
“I get that. And it’s easy to let that hurt eat away at you.
Allow it to make you fearful of love. Sometimes the people we
love do things that hurt us that have nothing to do with us. My
mother hurt me every time she allowed my father to beat me,
but it was because she was the weak one.”
“She was,” I whisper because his words make sense. “I
want to change. It’s not so easy.”
“I get it, I get it. It’s complex. I’m lucky Nicola took me in
like she did. Gave me her last name and has been my mother
longer than my birth mother was.”
“And you love her the same?”
He pulls his arm across the top of the seat and tilts his head
in thought. “It’s different. Though I love Nicola very much.
She gave me this after I was turned.” He points to the ring on
his finger with his initials. “She told me I was a Delacroix and
she would teach me and protect me. That I was her son for all
eternity.”
“Then you’re lucky, you got a second chance.”
“Yeah,” he says and looks out the window, silencing
befalling us for a few seconds. “That day in my kitchen, that’s
when I knew I wasn’t going to be able to give up. I knew I had
to have you. I’ll always thank Delta Wildes for teaching you
how to dance.”
“Same.”
“I knew it!” he yells out, rolling his window down. The
humid air fills the car as my hair whips my face.
 “It’s not a rooftop, but it’s just us and the gators in the lake.
Tell ’em you’re my girl.”
“Are you fucking crazy?” I keep my eyes on the road, my
lip curling at how ridiculous he is.
“Do it. Here, I’ll go first.” And he pushes his head out the
window and shouts as loudly as he can— “SHE’S MY GIRL!”
“Lord, you have lost it!” I yell, and he pulls his face next to
mine, kissing my cheek, then whispering in my ear.
“Do it, please. Tell the gators you’re my girl.”
First I laugh, but soon my whole body tingles from his
breath on my ear, his desire for me to say those words, words
that aren’t allowed. I can’t be anyone’s girl, especially his. But
that doesn’t change how I feel about it, and the feelings that I
have for him can’t be denied or rationalized away. Desire, lust,
friendship, but something more and it’s dangerous territory.
His hand slips in between my thighs, pressing on my shorts
with one finger.
“I’m your girl,” I say quietly, my face serious, my heart
racing.
“A little louder. The gators can’t hear you.”
I scoff and look at him, and he rubs me and I shake my
head, my proverbial white flag.
“I’m his girl.” My mouth is raised toward the open
window.
“One more time, make it count.” His finger presses harder
over the denim, the touch causing my leg to shake.
“Do you want us to crash?”
“You always keep us safe,” he says and kisses my neck.
“Come on.” He looks at me, eyes twinkling, and I want to
please him, to give him what he wants. I’ve never wanted to
do that for a man before in my life. I want to tell the truth, so I
do.
“I’M YOUR GIRL!” I shout out the window and he falls
back to his seat, clapping his hands, saying YES way too many
times.
“I knew it,” he smiles, his fangs out from excitement.
“You’re my girl.”
And I am…for now.
BLINK THREE TIMES IF YOU want to sneak into the bathroom to
fuck.
I can’t help but smile at my phone, so I look up and take a
deep breath, staring at my reflection in my shop mirror. Stop
yourself, Aster. You’re going to drown. I pull the smile from
my face and text him back.
Don’t do anything stupid. I slam my phone down and pack
up the creams I’m dropping off at Nightwalkers, and it’s the
first time I will see Cassius since Bastian told him about the
potion. And yes, I’m anxious. Bastian trusts Cassius implicitly,
but I’ve got no reason to trust him with my secret, and this is
the part of our arrangement that I didn’t think through, the
possibility that Cassius would say no.
Once inside Nightwalkers, Amerie quickly shoos me into
Nicola’s office where business is usually done, you know,
when young men aren’t bleeding out on a couch. I close the
office door behind me, and the vampire is seated behind her
outrageous oak desk, her blonde hair up in a tight bun with
two tendrils coiled on each side of her face. Candles flicker on
shelves behind her chair, making her skin glow the color of
twilight. The old damask wallpaper peels from the walls,
giving it an intentional creepy look, and in a satin chair the
color of a ruby sits Cassius.
 His feet are propped on the other side of Nicola’s desk, his
hair in a low ponytail at the base of his neck, and he’s scrolling
through his phone without looking up. I set my bag next to his
boots, but he doesn’t falter—his burgundy vest adorns his
ethereal body, a handsome vampire whose bad side I am on.
“My pockets are glad I didn’t have to rush the order,”
Nicola quips as she writes in her log.
Cassius groans, still not acknowledging me, and I want to
respond to Nicola’s dig, but instead I pull the sleeping potions
from my bag and place them on the desk.
“How’s your mother?” Nicola asks, her need to create
bogus small talk grating.
“Enjoying her time in Prague.”
“Her Instagram post said she was in France.” Nicola stands
with a phony sympathetic look on her face.
Dear Lord, why does my mother have to flaunt her shit on
Instagram?
“She’s still very much the Wild Witch,” I spout as there’s a
knock on the door. “I never know where she’ll end up.” I
almost whisper it now, as the door slowly opens.
“Mother?” Bastian says but looks right at me as I bite my
bottom lip. God, suits seem like they were designed with him
in mind. Lean torsos and long legs, always a vision in black.
“Yes, love?” she says, looking at him with adoration in her
eyes.
“Hello, Aster,” he says, buttoning his coat, and I jut my
chin in his direction because hearing him say my name so
seriously makes every vein want to burst.
“Hello,” I say and look back to Nicola.
He slides up to Nicola and in a serious tone says, “Franklin
is here.” His eyes dart to me, then back to his mother in a tense
exchange.
“Franklin?” She looks surprised, put off. “What?”
 It takes me a moment to recognize his name, and I look to
Cassius for any kind of reaction. He shrugs at his mother and
brother then looks back to his phone. Franklin, The Vampire
King, is here for an unexpected visit.
“I can finish up with Cassius,” Bastian says, staring at his
brother, whose disdain is obvious.
Vampires will never allow a witch to be alone with them
during a business transaction—something I’m suddenly
grateful for. Cassius alone with me wouldn’t be ideal right
now.
“Money’s behind the desk, count the potions,” Nicola says,
turning to me. “Thank you for your services.” She leaves the
room with a sense of urgency.
Bastian walks behind Nicola’s desk and my hand is
restless, opening and closing over and over as he counts each
small bottle. When he’s done, his eyes lift to meet mine and he
steals a wink before placing the potions into a cupboard along
the wall. He pulls the usual bag out from under the desk and
slides it over to me.
“You know what’s funny?” Cassius says, his voice soft,
gaze still connected to his phone screen. “That you drank a
potion constructed by a witch that made a deal with you
behind the back of her coven. A witch that betrays the trust of
her own kind. All that female empowerment, and she’s
actually a traitor to her fellow females.”
My fingers sprawl out while Cassius finally looks at me. I
choose my words carefully. I don’t want a fight with Cassius,
but I won’t show weakness either.
“I’m not a traitor, I’m a survivor.”
Cassius’s feet fall to the floor with a thump, and Bastian
rounds the desk to stand between us.
“You know nothing of survival,” Cassius groans and
stands.
“You know nothing about me. I have no regrets for creating
the potion, just who I created it for.”
 “Aster,” Bastian says, giving the faintest shake of his head.
I scrunch my lips and tighten my jaw in defiance.
“Oh, was that me? Did I foil your little plan?” Cassius
slides around Bastian so that he’s no longer separating us.
“The whole plan was for you!” I seethe at his audacity.
“Let it go, Aster. This is not the place for a fight.” Bastian
looks at me with a vulnerability in his eyes, and I take a step
back.
There’s a quick inhale from Cassius’s lips as he’s caught
off guard for a moment, gazing upon the two of us, our one-
sided conversation, how closely we stand next to each other,
an intimacy we didn’t try to hide.
“Oh, Bastian,” Cassius says and slides one hand over his
mouth, wagging his pointer finger in his brother’s face. “You
dumb motherfucker,” he says then clenches his forehead
between his fingers. “You’ve given your heart to someone that
doesn’t have one.”
Bastian’s face pales between us, and he stumbles back to
lean on his mother’s desk.
And for once, I am silent from this accusation, because if
my mother is known as the wild witch, then I’m certainly
known as the heartless one. One would think a witch would be
okay with that title, and under usual circumstances, I would
be. But not when it comes to Bastian. With Bastian I want to
be all heart. And now I really need to get out of here.
The sound of my footsteps is the only one in the room as I
walk to collect my money—not even counting it, just shoving
it in my messenger bag. Bastian coughs and it draws my eyes
to him, and he coughs again and my arm falls to my side as I
whisper his name.
There are screams that cannot leave your body. Screams
that grip you by the throat, like a curse that never breaks, like a
spider that never spins a web. They settle in your bones,
seizing your veins, locking your tongue. Rattling inside your
chest, they convulse inside of you, freezing your blood so that
nothing pumps, nothing can escape.
 This scream is held prisoner inside me while blood sputters
from Bastian’s mouth, spraying onto my neck as his eyes roll
back and his knees collapse underneath him. Cassius softens
the fall, catching Bastian under his armpits, and they slide to
the floor together, blood trickling over Bastian’s lips down to
his chin.
“Baz! What the fuck?” Cassius says as I kneel in front of
them.
“Bastian?” I cry out as Cassius looks at me for answers.
“Leave,” Bastian orders, his eyes unfocused, his forearm
wiping his mouth. He lifts his head to meet my eyes as more
blood drips from his mouth. “Aster, leave.” There’s a gurgling
in the back of his throat and now I can say that for the first
time, I’ve seen Bastian scared.
“I’m not just leaving you like this.”
“Now!” he booms.
It’s not every day I take orders from men, but the way that
Cassius is looking at me, the way Bastian is commanding me,
pulls my legs up as if my legs are in charge and I have no
control over where they go.
Bastian sputters more blood, his head falling back.
“Baby…” the word escapes my mouth and I wish I could
take it back, an affectionate name for someone I care so much
for, and how can I just leave him like this? How can I walk
out? I’m sure I can stop it, I’m sure I can do something to fix
it. It’s the potion, it has to be, and it’s my fucking fault and I
can’t undo any of it.
“Go,” he demands. “Get out!” He leans back against his
brother, the blood ceasing, but he’s so pale. Anger coils inside
because I can probably fix him, but if someone came into this
room with two vampires on the floor and a witch standing over
them, there would certainly be trouble for me. And I can’t
think straight. If I go, I can think, I can think and then come
back if I need to.
I force the thoughts away as Cassius pulls a flask from his
back pocket, his eyes dark and treacherous, but also…terrified.
 “I’ve got him,” Cassius reassures me, and it’s shocking.
“I love you, Brother,” Bastian says to Cassius, sounding
close to drunk, as Cassius brings the flask to his brother’s lips.
“Always catching me when I fall.”
I clutch my heart and leave the room.
I HAVE SET EYES ON Franklin Maltese, Vampire King of
Louisiana, twice in my life. These are not the circumstances
that I would have liked to see him a third time. He sits in the
corner of the room, his soot-colored eyes upon me
immediately, his head turning as he studies me. And it hits me
why Bastian ordered me away like he did. Franklin finding out
our secret would be lethal. I swallow and straighten, imagining
an iron rod along my spine.
The vampire boy on his lap is typical for Franklin Maltese.
Young—as in barely eighteen, and new—as in just recently
turned. His reputation for young, fresh vampires is well known
throughout the Quarter, and just when the newest muse catches
on that he’s only to say yes, the boy is quickly replaced and
often never seen again.
I need to get out of here.
Nicola whispers in his ear and I cast a sound spell, but my
magic is weak—my mind is on Bastian, lying on the floor of
his mother’s office.
Witch, delivery, Delta’s daughter is all I can hear as I walk
toward the entry door, deliberately taking slow steps to not
draw attention to myself or anything that’s going on behind the
door I exited. My heart drums against my chest while an
uncomfortable sweat glazes across my brow. I hear the
Vampire King say something about a tasty fuck, and I turn to
him as he licks his lips, his long, grey hair still as greasy as I
remember it, his eyes intensely on me. I push through the door
and let out a breath, my fingers wiping the sweat from my
face.
I skip down the steps two at a time and burst out of
Comey’s, a fire raging inside my throat as everything that just
transpired hits me. Bastian, the potion, the Vampire King
seeing me leave Nicola’s office. If he goes in there, if Nicola
goes in there and sees Bastian vomiting blood, I am done. My
feet fly me down Bourbon Street all the way to my front door
where I collapse as soon as I’ve locked it. With hands
clenched over my mouth, I obsess over the outcome at
Nightwalkers, if Bastian is okay, and the fact that I will have
to banish the potion I created, the one that brought me Bastian.
After I’ve taken a few minutes to just digest what’s
happened, I pull out my phone and text Bastian.
Contact me ASAP
But what if he doesn’t have his phone? What if he’s still
lying on that fucking office floor? No, no, the blood in
Cassius’s flask will have surely healed him…I hope that’s true.
I hope Cassius will heal him and forgive me for what I’ve
created, for what I’ve done.
Pulling myself from my floor, I shuffle to my couch,
propping my phone on my chest, staring at it. I will Bastian to
answer me, but that’s nothing I have control over, and all I can
see is his blood-soaked lips telling me to leave, to get out, and
the words of love he spoke to Cassius as I left. It stings,
Bastian clinging to his brother instead of me, but it’s to be
expected and only solidifies the bond that Bastian has with his
brother.
And so, I lie on the couch, my toe tapping the cushion, my
thoughts racing and frantic, and one minute moves at the speed
of twenty and I’m going to lose it. Mercury nudges his head
against my cheek, but I don’t even have the strength to pet
him, so he just settles on my chest, his purr a constant
reminder that I’m breathing and hoping that Bastian is doing
the same.
 After two hours I’m sick and it’s three in the morning, and
I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. Two days ago I was yelling I
was Bastian’s girl outside my car window, and now I don’t
know what’s going to happen between us. My stomach rolls,
waves of nausea pummeling me, torturing me. So I stand and
trudge to the garden where I pull a handful of valerian, good
for sleeping.
A witch that can’t grow anything, and I run to the kitchen
and rip the Valerian to pieces, my fingers in an anxious frenzy.
I grab butter, sugar, and vanilla and mix them in a small bowl
until they are smooth. With thoughts of Bastian running
through my head, I sprinkle the valerian into the mixture and
whisper, “Some rest for me, until he’s free.”
I pull my intention cakes from the cupboard—a plastic
container of cakes I always have ready for any occasion—and
with a sadness in my bones, spread the frosting across the top
of the square piece of cake between my fingers.
I exhale and take a bite as I sway to the couch. The fatigue
hits me quickly with only one bite doing the trick. I place the
cake on the coffee table and succumb to the sleep I enchanted
to take me away.
But sleep offers me no sweet escape, no blackness to fall
into, nothing but Bastian’s face against mine. I dream of him
in ultraviolet, us in the sunlight, his mouth exploring me, his
hands running through my hair. We are nowhere and we are
everywhere all at once, but we are together—we are one and
we are free.
I stay in this state, this awakened dream, and relish being
with him until the lights go so bright I can only see white, until
the white turns to smoke. The smoke is coming from my boots
and my boots are on Bourbon Street and I’m on fire in the
middle of the street—right where the holy rollers hold their
signs on Friday nights—and everyone is watching me burn.
But I can run; on fire I run to Comey’s and blood is dripping
down the balcony of Nightwalkers onto the streets, and I look
up to Cassius and it’s his tears causing the blood to pool
around my boots. I scream for Bastian and I’m still on fire, my
skin turning into sticky bubbles across my cheeks and my
fingers reach up, my flesh smearing on my fingers and I can’t
scream. Because I realize I have no tongue.
I jolt awake to Chantal’s voice and it’s now that I want to
scream, but I take a moment to assess where I am. On my
couch, and nightmares aren’t real.
“Aster,” her voice whispers. “Aster, it’s after one o’clock.”
I sit up quickly, opening my eyes to my cousin’s concerned
expression. I fall back on the pillow and take a breath while
my eyes adjust to the sunlight.
“Are you not opening the shop today?”
“Let me think,” I say, placing my hand over my face and
then all that happened hits me and my hand jolts to my phone,
still on my pillow.
I hold my breath as I unlock and scroll through my text
messages. Still nothing from Bastian; my text has gone
unanswered and now it’s daylight.
“Have you heard anything from the vampires?” I ask
Chantal as she scrutinizes me, pulling on her earlobe.
“Nah, why would I hear from them?”
“Just wondering,” I sigh and feel like I could cry, and I hate
that feeling.
“Jade and I walked past Comey’s around two a.m., there
was nothing unusual going on. People on the terrace, the jazz
club was busy. Why?” Chantal looks around the room, eyeing
my intention cake, dropping a fingertip in the frosting and
placing it on her tongue. “Sleep?” she asks, and this time I sit
up slowly, unhooking my bra that’s digging into my side.
“Yeah, I just…” Think fast, think fast. “I made a delivery
there last night and the Vampire King was there.”
“Holy fuck!” Chantal exclaims. “He hasn’t been to the
Quarter in forever, forever, forever. He must have been gone
when we passed. I’m sure Jade would have been able to hear
him. She’s told me his thoughts are loud.”
 That’s a relief. Jade’s mind reading really does come in
handy. If something crazy went down, she probably would
have heard.
“Yeah, maybe he was gone. It shook me, seeing him. Then
I overheard him tell Nicola I looked tasty as fuck or tasty to
fuck.” I cringe at the memory.
“Gross,” Chantal says, her tongue hanging from her mouth.
“Well, let him just take a bite and see what happens.” Her hand
affectionately rubs my leg, and something in me stills from the
kindness in her, in her love for me.
“Right?”
“I think it’s weird he stays away from New Orleans. It’s the
best spot for vampires.”
“I think it was the witch’s strike. He knew he was hated,” I
say, having to feign small talk, pretending I’m not unglued
inside. “Mother also said he prefers the bayou.” I remember
the first time I saw him inside a cigar shop on Bourbon. My
mom whispering in my ear, “Do you know who that is?” And
now I don’t want to talk about him anymore because—
Bastian. An excruciating ache pounds in my chest at the
thought of him and I don’t know how I can survive the
daylight without knowing if he’s okay.
“I’m going to rest a little bit more, then I can open. Don’t
worry about today. I’m probably going to close early.”
“You’ve been strange lately, and I can’t tell if you’ve been
miserable or positively pleasant.” Her eye cocks in her
questioning way, and I scoff.
“It changes pretty quickly, huh?” I quip. “Yeah, I’m just
happy as a clam.”
But whoever said clams are happy? They live their lives
inside a shell until they are pried open against their will and
feasted upon. That’s me. I’m a fucking clam. I’m dizzy and I
swallow, the sight of the intention cakes nauseating me, and I
fall back, taking deep breaths.
“I feel like you’re pulling away from me, like something’s
going on.”
 I attempt to keep a straight face, to not give myself away,
so I just shake my head, because fuck, she’s right. She’s
getting more suspicious and my stomach drops.
“No, no. I’m just feeling a lot of pressure and just need to
chill. I’m fine.” I lick my lips and silently beg her to not press
me any further.
“Okay, you rest, because it looks like you need it.” Moving
my hair from my face with a red polished finger, she looks
upon me with pity, and I feel pretty pitiful. Guilt pummels my
chest because I’m lying to my best friend.
Yet the moment she leaves I pull for my phone again,
checking my text messages, Nightwalkers Instagram and
Facebook pages as well as Nicola’s personal page. No new
posts or texts since yesterday, and I don’t think I can take
much more. My feet hit the floor with force and I change my
clothes quickly, plotting the route I will follow for some kind
of sign that Bastian is okay.
I pass Comey’s first and look up to Nightwalkers empty
balcony, locked up, closed until sundown. Inside Comey’s,
music plays, though it’s fairly empty which is usual for a
Wednesday afternoon.
Oksana and I meet eyes, and I mask my surprise. She’s
usually not on until later in the evening, and so my head falls
into a tailspin. Is there a reason she’s working a different shift?
I look for some kind of sign that something is amiss, but she
just breaks our eye contact and walks behind the bar as if she
hadn’t seen me, as if I were invisible.
The St. Charles streetcar seems hotter than usual, stuffier,
too many people. Sweat drips from my ear lobe to my neck
and I blot it with the collar of my shirt, my mind seeing
Cassius crying blood from my dream. So much blood it spilled
over onto the street, and why would Cassius be so broken?
What could cause so many tears? I blink and tell myself it’s
not real. That I’ve dreamt that my grandmother died and
turned into a dead man’s thumb, but that didn’t happen and so
I shouldn’t dissect this dream. Shouldn’t overthink the things
my dark mind concocts.
 Jumping off the streetcar is a relief, but only for a moment
because each step toward Bastian’s house causes my heart to
stammer against my chest in a fashion I’m not accustomed to.
It hits me that I don’t worry much about people I care about.
And that’s because I care about so few people. And what kind
of person am I, really? But this worry is so heart-wrenching
that not having to worry about someone sounds sublime right
about now.
I round the corner of his house, not knowing what I’m
looking for exactly, because I can’t just go in. Can’t just see
for myself if Bastian is okay. But there’s a car in the drive that
stops me, an older Alpha Romeo, jet black with the top up, its
silver edges gleaming under the sun. It’s a car I’ve never seen
at his house before and what could that mean? Who is there
with him? The worry sickens me and feeling for him was the
biggest mistake of my life because this…this is torture and
witches don’t do well with torture.
My phone is wet in my sweaty hand and it’s almost three
o’clock, but the night is so far away. Knowing I can’t stand
and just stare at the house, I walk slowly by it, looking for
some sign of whose car it could be. My feet take me outside of
Lafayette Cemetery not far from Bastian’s house, and I lean
against its cool cement walls and watch all the well-to-do men
and women leave The Commander’s Palace, one of the oldest
and most upscale restaurants in New Orleans. The suited men
laugh as they tip the valet and open the car door for the women
in heels, and I wonder what it’s like to have a normal life. Free
of vampires and spells and the crushing demand to have a
baby.
Cement scratches my back as I slide down the wall, my
eyes unable to part with the show in front of me. Full bellies
and day jobs and Netflix and wedding engagements. What
must it all be like? Would I trade it if I could?
“You okay, my baby?” a woman with a lace umbrella over
her head asks me, her ballet flats padding closer, her full skirt
swishing around her.
“I’m good,” I say and struggle to my feet, my balance off
kilter, and she offers a water bottle. Her umbrella reveals that
she’s a tour guide and has seen plenty a fainting tourist under
this Louisiana sun.
I turn from her water bottle, from my favorite cemetery,
from The Commander’s Palace—where the turtle soup is the
best I’ve ever tasted but have only tasted it once because for so
long I’ve been a party of one and that’s how I liked it.
I can’t go home. I can’t sit there so close to Nightwalkers,
wondering and waiting, so I go to The Vintage. A coffee shop
with big cozy chairs. I order beignets and café au lait and I eat
myself into a stupor, refreshing my social media every ten
minutes, watching my messages come through, but none from
Bastian. One from my mother.
Macaroons in Paris!

One from Chantal.

Type “Penis” if you’re alive.

I smile and want to reply, I’m alive, but I may have killed
Bastian Delacroix. But instead, put an eggplant emoji and
place my phone face down on the table. I go over the possible
scenarios.
The Vampire King found out and Bastian was killed and
now I’m being hunted. Nicola found out and Bastian is in big
trouble and now I’m being hunted. Bastian is sick. Bastian lost
too much blood. Bastian is dead.
And now I don’t feel any better, only worse, and if only I
could cast a spell to make time speed by, but that’s against the
rules and I’m already on a slippery slope with going against
rules. So I lie my arms across the table and rest my head upon
them and just breathe. Focus on breathing and that Bastian is
alive and that everything is okay.
When the sun first hints at setting, I’m off the chair at The
Vintage and I’m on the streetcar and I’m in front of my house,
my heart hoping that he’s waiting in front for me. But it’s just
some kids smoking in front of my shop, and I cast a spell so
their cigarettes won’t stay lit as I unlock my door and try to
decide what my next move should be. But then I hear
something, a sound in the courtyard, a scraping on the brick,
so I push through the back door and scan my yard, holding my
breath, praying it’s Bastian, alive, and not the Vampire King,
come to kill me.
UNDERNEATH THE GLOW OF THE gas lamp, Bastian lies on my
lounge chair, arms folded behind his head, feet crossed at the
ankles. He sees me, eyes torn from the sky onto me and he sits
up, bringing his feet to the ground, straddling the lounge, so
agile, so soundless.
My feet guide me in slow and deliberate steps, hands at my
sides, hair blowing in my face. He doesn’t smile, nor do I; he
doesn’t speak, nor do I. I just reach him, pulling my hair out of
my face and straddling the lounge, sitting directly in front of
him, scanning his face for any new marks or scars, the scent of
his cologne filling me with need.
No new scars, only perfect skin that any woman would
envy, intense eyes that still shine in the gas lamp’s orange
glow. I swallow before I speak, not wanting to sound too
desperate but then realizing I don’t care if I sound desperate—
I only care about the man in front of me.
“I was worried.” I say it softly and his chin falls so that our
foreheads touch.
“I know,” he sighs and pulls his head from mine. Tipping
my face up, that need growing, his awareness of my feelings,
my worry for him, my concern, all of it ignites inside of me. I
press my lips against his and we’re all deep breaths and moans
until he falls back on the lounge and I crawl on top of him. He
pushes my hair behind my back, running a finger down the
side of my face, and I have so many questions—about our
future, the potion, where we go from here—but all I want is
him as close to me as possible. Before questions can be
answered, before discussions of what’s happened transpires, I
need him right now. My hands are unbuckling his pants while
his are pulling my dress up, and soon I’m riding him under the
stars with the deepest sense of gratitude that he’s okay. He’s
okay.
And when we finish, I lie on top of him, breathes heaving,
hearts beating. My cheek against his shirt, the muscles
underneath moving up and down.
“And here I thought you’d be angry,” he whispers in my
hair then inhales deeply.
I lift my head, my chin resting on his chest, and he caresses
my cheek with a fingertip. “I was so scared something
happened to you. The Vampire King or Nicola found out, or
you were really sick. I’ve been a wreck.”
Simpering, he tilts his head, studying me in that way I’ve
come to love. “I drank Cassius’s blood and was able to hide
out in my mother’s office for some time. Franklin wanted to
see me, since it’s been years…I had to take my shirt off and
wear just my jacket.” He laughs. “Which is something I can
thankfully get away with. But I could hardly converse after a
couple of hours and needed blood and rest, so Cassius said I
had barely slept the prior day and took me home.” His finger
runs along each of my eyebrows down the bridge of my nose
as he recalls the previous night of horror with so much calm.
“Vampire blood is only needed for rejuvenation, so that would
have been a hard clue that something was wrong. Cassius took
me home, fed me, and stayed with me. I slept all day and woke
up in a panic, knowing I had to get to you.
“You had to get out. I know you wanted to help. But if you
had been caught in the room with me like that…”
“I know,” I say. “I was shook at first, but I realized later
that you were—”
“Protecting you.” He brings his lips to mine and our lips
slide along each other’s, tasting and relishing.
 I pull away for air and his head plops down on the chair. “I
don’t need protection,” I say, and he scoffs, rolling his eyes.
“Well I—”
“How are you now? All better?”
He smiles at my purposeful interruption and licks his
bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m fine. Was a little weak earlier, but I’m
okay.”
“Did a beautiful woman give you sustenance?” Ugh, I
sound like a teenager, the jealousy is downright embarrassing.
“Stop,” he warns, and now I’m even more embarrassed.
“Can you describe to me what happened? Because Bastian,
the potion, we need to get rid of it.”
“Huh?” He sits up abruptly, forcing me to sit up with him,
his head shaking, his hands on my arms. “No, Aster. No. It
was just too much. I did too much. We’ll lessen the dosage.
You can fix it.”
“I don’t know if I can. Every ingredient works just right so
you can walk in the daylight.”
“No, no you can fix it, baby. I know you. I know you can.”
His fingers dig into my shoulders, and I stiffen and pull away
from him.
“That’s not how it works. Look at medications for humans.
Everything has side effects. I don’t think there’s anything I can
do.”
His head drops as he pulls on his bottom lip, a fang resting
on it that I hadn’t noticed slipped out.
I lift his chin to meet his eyes. “Bastian, what would have
happened if you hadn’t stopped coughing up blood? Could you
die from that?”
With a groan, he buckles his pants in a feeble effort to buy
himself time, so I follow suit and pull my dress back around
my legs and sit up. He stands, pacing back and forth, his hand
squeezing the back of his neck.
“Well?” I ask, and he glares at me.
 “Probably. I’m not sure. If I bled out, lost massive amounts
of my blood, I could probably die. But that was hardly massive
amounts.”
“Yeah, but it started as a nosebleed. What if it gets worse?”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“I don’t mess with ‘what ifs.’ What ifs are dangerous for
witches. It’s what we’ve been waterboarded and burnt for. We
need certainty. And what about Cassius? I’m sure he’s just
chomping at the bit to kill me now.”
He squints his eyes in pain and shakes his head. “He would
never do something like that—”
“Oh, he doesn’t hate me? Hate what I’ve done?” I’m
yelling now, the territory seeming more and more dangerous.
“He’s angry mostly with me. But he’ll get over it. He’ll be
—”
“No! It’s over, Bastian. No more. I can’t fix it and I can’t be
on Cassius’s bad side. I’m already on my own coven’s bad
side. Chantal is on to me, and I hate lying to her!”
The lounge chair catches him as he falls back, burying his
head in his hands. And he’s silent for a long time, digesting the
end of something exquisite. Exquisite and dangerous.
“And there’s something else, there’s the fact that if
something…happened to you…because of me. If you died, or
got really hurt…I couldn’t live, I couldn’t live with myself,
okay?” My hands wring against each other with such force my
fingers lose feeling. And there it is, laid bare and open. The
absolute truth, the agony of the day. The torture of the
unknown and worry that Bastian was hurt or even gone
forever.
His head pops up, those silken lips swollen and wet, those
piercing eyes filled with fevered anguish. “Well, it’s finally
nice hearing it’s not just the fear of the trouble you’d get into.”
He swipes angrily at his nose and I could strangle him. “That
you actually might care about me.”
“Oh shut up! You know I care about you—”
 “I don’t want to live a life where I can’t be in the sun!” He
stands when he says it, towering over me. His stupid
suspenders catch my eye, my breath stalling from his words.
I point a finger at him, chastising him like a child. “We did
this for Cassius, not you. This wasn’t about you. You were just
fine without it.”
“I wasn’t fine. I wasn’t.”
“You can’t have both! You can’t live forever and be rich
and do whatever and whomever the fuck you want to do AND
go out in the sun, okay? It wasn’t supposed to be forever.”
“We never agreed on that.” He takes a step toward me, but I
take a step back. “Don’t you love it? What we’ve started?
What we can do together?” He grabs my shoulders and places
his head on mine. “Don’t you love me?”
The trees rustle around us, and the sound of a tuba playing
in the distance coats my ears and it’s all I can hear. We can’t
talk about love. We can’t fall in love. We are sworn enemies
and I pull my head from his, grabbing his hands from my
shoulders, and look him in the eye.
“We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
I turn around, my heart pummeled to a corpse, and walk
into my house, leaving the door open because I don’t want to
shut him out, but I do need space. I sit at the kitchen table and
do whatever the opposite of thinking is. Staring off with the
drum of my heartbeat in my ear, that’s the opposite of silence,
and I’m exhausted. And helpless. And want Bastian to come in
here and hold me.
Like he’s heard my thoughts, in he walks and he looks
exhausted and his color is off. With hunched shoulders he
pulls on his jaw.
“What is that supposed to mean? You can’t do this?” His
thick arms lean on the counter, ankle locking over ankle.
“I can’t discuss this anymore. I spent the day in hell. A
brutal dumpster fire, and you didn’t contact me. I didn’t know
if you were alive, I didn’t know if you were in trouble. So I
don’t want to talk about the fucking potion anymore.”
 A beep comes from his cell phone and he pulls it out of his
pocket, reading whatever notified him. Elegant hands, waves
of brown hair, aventurine eyes. All I want is him.
“I have to eat soon.” He straightens and takes a deep breath
in. “You look tired. You need a good night’s rest.”
I nod, my hands flat on the kitchen table. They look smaller
than usual, weaker and feeble. I don’t feel so powerful
anymore. “Bastian,” I whisper, and he looks at me, a flash of
concern pulling on his face. “Will you lie with me? Just for a
little while?”
Slowly, his hand rises over his heart and he nods,
whispering, “Yes.”
Our hands entangle as I lead him to my bedroom, kicking
off our shoes, no words between us, while we climb on my
bed. He lies on his side and pulls my back against his chest
while his arms wrap around my waist tightly. Our chests move
in unison as his thumb rubs the back of my hand, smelling my
hair, then he places a soft kiss on the back of my head. I can
tell him that I don’t need his protection, but cocooned in his
arms makes me feel so safe. I slip away into a dreamless sleep
until he slips away from me with a hunger he can’t ignore.
Motionless, I let him go as he brushes his lips against my
forehead, his thumb rubbing along my cheek. My eyes feign
sleep, not wanting him to go but also not wanting to talk about
the potion or what woman he will entice for blood tonight. It
cuts more and more, the fact that he has to play that game in
order to eat, and I try to ignore it. Because it’s a warning sign
I’m in too deep, so I let him go and will count the seconds
until I can see him again.
MY ALARM FIRES OFF ITS dreadful sound the next morning.
There’s a message from Bastian that says:
Meet me at Du Monde before work for a proposition. 9
AM?

Which means he has or is going to take the potion and can

he ever just listen? My finger hovers over the keypad,
realizing that yesterday stirred something inside of me,
something that made me understand he’s much more than a
fling, much more than a guy I love to sleep with—so much
more.
I get dressed quickly so I can meet him and then work as
soon as we’ve finished.
Café Du Monde in the morning should be safe enough to
not be seen by anyone, but it’s still risky and it’s like he craves
risk, can’t get enough of it. And I can’t get enough of him so
who is the foolish one here? I pass the artists outside of
Jackson Square, bright images pushed together to create pop
culture icons on canvas, skeletal mermaids and cats playing
instruments. People browse, deciding what piece of New
Orleans they take home with them.
Under the famous striped canopy of green and white, my
lover waits for me, sipping on a steaming cup of chicory
coffee, a plate full of powdery beignets sitting on the round
table in front of him. Café Du Monde is world famous with
bodies cramped around small tables really designed for no
more than two or three people, yet most shove five or six.
He leans in the chair with a leg outstretched, a hand in his
jean pocket, Ray-Bans across his eyes. There’s a sensuality he
doesn’t intentionally emit, yet there it is, an aura around him. I
inspect him for paleness, any signs of a bloody nose, but his
tan skin looks so healthy, and I exhale.
“You came.” A slow smile spreads cross his lips, his white
teeth peeking out.
“I came.” I sit across from him and he pulls his long body
upright, his hand grabbing a strand of my hair, twisting it
between his fingers.
“My beautiful girl, with all the power in the world.”
I wish he didn’t turn my insides to puddles, I wish I didn’t
lean forward but I do, and he drops the hair and runs his finger
up my chest and neck and under my chin, as if he’s inspecting
me.
“I took too much. I know that now. I pushed the limits and I
didn’t consult with you and I’m sorry. I just—I just didn’t
realize how much I missed it. How much I would love
experiencing it with you.”
“Bastian—”
“Let me finish, I have lots to say.” I lean back, crossing my
legs, trying not to focus on how much I love when he’s
wearing sunglasses and white T-shirts.
“You’re worried about Cassius, you think he hates you.
Look, there is no one I know in this entire world that’s as loyal
as Cassius. He has and will come for me any and every time I
need him. We spent the entire night talking and he knows the
risks that both of us took for this potion and because of that,
he’s promised he won’t end his life. So, first I just want to say
that even though it didn’t work the way we had intended, your
potion worked. Cassius understands how much I love him,
what he means to me and what I did to save him. He’s
promised not to go anywhere or do anything that would break
my heart.”
I nod slowly, digesting what’s he’s saying, hearing the
excitement in his voice.
“So thank you, Aster. From the bottom of my heart, thank
you for that.”
I open my mouth to speak, feeling a chip of that weight
lifted, but he raises his hand and says, “I’m not done.”
I smile with my mouth closed, allowing him to finish
speaking as his leg nervously shakes back and forth.
“The beach. It’s the only place in the world I want to go.
Santa Cruz, California…with you. Come with me and then I
will have done the three things I’ve wanted to do in the day
light. I realize we could go anywhere in the world, but I want
to go to the place I was with Luc last. Please, go with me.”
It’s my nature to protest, to say no, to say that I can’t. I
want to say yes with everything inside me but it’s not so easy.
“I have my shop.”
“You deserve a vacation. Excluding failed Disney trips, I’d
say you’re long overdue.”
I tap my nail on my tooth, enamored that he listens to me,
remembers my stories. California. No humidity, roller coasters
on the beach, that sparkle in Bastian’s eye that only daylight
ignites. And I suddenly want him to be pulling on my hair
while he slips inside of me in a hotel room across the country,
and I look down to my lap to keep the feelings at bay.
“What are you thinking?”
“About the shop,” I lie.
“You can afford to close it for a week or two.” He wiggles
his eyebrows and forms a temple with his fingers.
“When?”
He licks his lips as if victorious. “I would need some time
to arrange it, to make sure the bar will be okay. Amerie went
to Japan, so they are short-staffed. I will talk to my mother, I
just wanted to make sure you said yes first.”
“Well, I haven’t.” I squeeze a beignet between my fingers.
With calculating eyes, he watches me bite into the fluffy pastry
as white powdered sugar snows around me.
“But you want to?”
I chew my beignet, the sweetness hitting my tastebuds. I tilt
my head and look to St. Louis Cathedral as if pondering
deeply, and he sits forward, pressing his thumb along my lip,
wiping the powdered sugar, then puts his thumb in his mouth.
“Irresistible,” he mutters, and I swallow hard and try to
remember what we were discussing.
“I’m concerned about the potion, about it harming you.
About you becoming dependent—”
“You’ll keep me safe, and I told you—I overdid it. Lesson
learned.”
“I was terrified…that I would lose you, lose whatever this
is. I hate how that felt, the helplessness, the fear of the
unknown.”
He grabs my hand with a swiftness only capable of the
supernatural and I instinctually try to pull away, but it only
causes him to tighten his grip. “Come away with me. Where
we can be free to be us. No hiding. No cares. Just you and me
and adventure. And then the potion gets retired, used only on
the most special of occasions.”
I can only imagine the freedom of dining somewhere with
Bastian day or night, free from fear of being caught, living life
one day at a time with nothing more to do but enjoy myself. It
sounds too perfect. And the fear of losing Bastian has only
rooted my feet deeper into this affair, realizing what he’s
become to me, how much I care about him. How I’m not ready
to end this or lose him, not even close. And he’s willing to
give the daylight up after this trip, and that’s better than what
he said at my apartment about not wanting to stop.
“You figure out the details and let me know,” I say, and he
lets go of my hand and makes a victorious fist that pounds the
table. “But when we get back, the potion is retired now that we
know it can be dangerous. We have to draw a clear line in the
sand. And you are not to take the potion until we go.”
He nods profusely.
“There’s a lot I have to figure out. What I would tell my
mother and Chantal for one. Who would take care of Mercury,
if closing the shop is even a smart idea…”
“You figure those things out and I will arrange everything
else. And when we get back, we’ll reassess.” His serious
expression melts into an exuberant smile and I wish I could
kiss him, but just sitting here with him in the sun is risky
enough, since I didn’t perform a disguising spell.
“I wish it didn’t have to be like this, hiding everything from
other people.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” I warn, knowing what’s possible for
us, and being in the open isn’t possible. “I better get to work,”
I say, and he brings his fingertips to his lips, places a slow kiss
on them, then presses those fingers against my cheek.
With a swoon, I graze my cheek and wink at him, for the
first time in so long, excited about what my future could bring,
despite the fact that it’s against everything I should be doing.
Walking back to the shop, I think of my mother, how I miss
her. How I wish I could share this with her. I’m going to
California and I can’t tell anyone. There’s a sweeping
loneliness that goes with living a secret life, and it
encompasses me all at once. She was my best friend and worst
enemy once upon a time, but now she’s like a star, always
there but so very distant. We grew up together, sneaking ice
cream for dinner when my grandmother was working
downstairs in the shop, watching Dangerous Beauty over and
over every time her heart got broken. And it was broken often.
Despite the fact that she’s let me down time and time again,
I still yearn for her approval, for her to tell me it will all be
okay. And with as many mistakes as she has made, I wonder if
she would understand what I’ve done. But she’s wild and
unpredictable and I can’t tell her, because I wasn’t supposed to
form feelings for a vampire. A business transaction is one
thing, but an affair with an enemy is something else. To her,
vampires are the lowest form of scum, the most vile of
creatures. She wouldn’t understand. And a cold laugh escapes
my mouth at the irony that the heartless witch has outdone the
wild witch, for the first time ever.

Are you coming over tonight? I text, and I’m feeling a little
desperate here. I need a taste…

Come to Nightwalkers and get one.

You know I can’t do that.

Nicola is in Savannah for a couple of days. It’s just me and

Cassius here.

My eyes reach the ceiling, knowing it’s not a good idea.

But I want to see him. I—goddammit, I miss him. It’s been
two days since he crept in my bed, and lately, every minute
apart feels like an hour, every hour a day.
Since Amerie has gone to Japan, he’s had to work nightly,
and I wouldn’t dare go to Nightwalkers when Nicola is there.
Mercury meows in my face as I push him away,
deliberating. Oksana will be there, but she won’t know why
I’m coming; it could be business for all she knows. If it’s just
Cassius and Bastian it must not be busy, but there has to be at
least one other bartender. And that’s how your head talks your
heart out of doing what it wants—logic.
I’ve always used logic in most of my decisions until
Bastian came along with a secret deal that changed both of us.
My stomach flurries from how the light gleamed on his face at
Café Du Monde, how his smile reached his gratuitous eyes.
And there’s my heart making the decision and I pull on my
boots and finger my hair into a quick side braid.
Oksana looks surprised when she sees me, her mouth
forming an O when our eyes meet.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she purrs when I enter.
“Some quick business,” I prattle, my face smooth as stone
so as not to give away anything. She walks to the back, opens
the door, and I glide past her without another word, a sinking
feeling in my stomach. She’s going to tell Nicola I stopped by,
I’m certain of it, yet it doesn’t turn me around, it doesn’t stop
me from my lover calling for me. I’m knee-deep in some shit
that I don’t want to get out of.
NIGHTWALKERS IS BUSIER THAN I expect, and I search the room
for Bastian but instead lock eyes with Cassius. He does not
have a surprised look on his face, just a disapproving one. A
woman I’ve never seen before is behind the makeshift bar
lighting absinthe on fire.
There’s a break in the crowd and I see him. Lounging in a
red velvet chaise, adorned in a black three-piece suit, his legs
casually crossed over his knee at the ankle. He laughs with an
older woman as she sips on her martini, and then his face
sobers as she leans over to whisper in his ear. That’s when our
eyes meet, as a lady undoubtedly whispers sweet nothings into
the ear of a dapper vampire. His lips curl—that dangerous
smile writhed its way into my cold witch heart. How did I let
this happen?
I hope the electricity can only be seen and felt between us,
because it’s so vivid to me, so palpable, this pull in my gut for
him. My eyebrows rise and then he’s whispering to the woman
as he rises, buttoning his suit jacket, eyes never leaving mine
until he’s in front of me and my breath is stolen from me.
“I thought you wouldn’t show,” he says and I side-eye him.
“I shouldn’t have. Oksana suspects something, and
Cassius…”
“No,” he says, straightening his tie, the blood red shirt
underneath his vest making him look gothically handsome. He
slips his hands in his pockets and I pull mine behind my back,
the urge to touch him so strong I need to restrain myself.
“Yes. They both gave me stare-downs when they saw me.”
“That’s just their faces,” he laughs, the lines around his
eyes smiling. “Follow me.” And he turns on his foot, past the
bartending, past a tarot reading, over to the terrace door. He
flips the sign from Ten Patrons At A Time to Terrace Closed.
“Ladies, the terrace will be temporarily closed for a few
minutes,” he says as he takes a step through the door. Two
women, both in long maxi skirts, stand from the patio
furniture, and walk inside as I step out.
“You’re getting sloppy,” I say as he walks to the iron
terrace gates. I follow him, his gaze on Bourbon Street below
us. How many times have I looked up to this terrace? With
unknowing humans being a meal for vampires? How many
times had I met eyes with random vampires looking down at
me, window shopping for their next victim? But never have I
ever actually been on the terrace, where the music blares and a
flashing police light casts Bastian’s face in blue. I place my
hand on the wrought iron close to his, and his pinky runs along
mine. I look into his eyes, and there’s a longing there and I’m
overwhelmed that it’s for me.
“It shouldn’t have to be this way. Us, hiding like this.”
“It’s always been this way, vampires and witches hating
each other. And those rare occasions when they’ve
intermingled and things ended more fucked up and disgusting
than before. We can’t change it,” I say with a shake of my
head.
“Yes, we can. We can be the change.” His pinky hooks with
mine as we both look across the street.
“Your head’s in the clouds, Bastian.” I don’t want to hurt
him, but I have to stay grounded. I can’t let this get out of
control, although everything in my body is telling me it’s
already happening. Because these feelings, these feelings are
ripping me apart and I just want to crush my lips against his.
 “The air is better in the clouds,” he whispers, his green eyes
squinting as he looks through the window of the speakeasy. “I
know you feel the same way about me as I do about you. I
know you love me.”
My mouth falls open, but nothing comes out. Saying these
words out in the open is so dangerous, but him telling me that
he loves me makes it feel like there’s a cinderblock on my
chest. Like I’m being burned alive.
“I know you feel it. Your blood is pumping like a tidal
wave right now, I can hear it, can smell it. You love me.”
“Bastian, stop.” And fuck, I want to hold him, I want to
kiss him, but the only thing that can touch is the graze of a
pinky and that’s our reality. We can never truly be together so
why should I let go? Give him all of me? To only have it
ripped away and one of us end up dead?
He grabs me, his hand pulling my head to his shoulder, his
nose inhaling my hair.
“Bastian,” I whisper, looking through the window to see if
we’ve been caught. No eyes are on us and he wants more and
this is so dangerous. Coming here was the worst idea.
Bastian pulls from me and looks in my eyes. “Follow me
wherever I go. Do you understand?” It’s so unusual for Bastian
to be so commanding, but when he is, I listen. Something
inside of me has to, it wants to.
“Yes,” I whisper, and he turns in front of me, opening the
door, and we walk inside. Bastian claps his hands, scanning
the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have the special honor, the
privilege tonight, to witness something that will dazzle not just
one of your senses, but all of your senses as we pass out a
round of vodka cranberries.” He nods to the bartender, and she
immediately starts reaching for glasses, lining them up along
the bar.
“And to accompany those drinks, on the piano to give you
an eargasm, my brother, Cassius Delacroix.” Bastian raises his
hand to his brother, who shoots up from his barstool, a
detested look upon his face. “Cassius, please do us the honor
of gracing us with your talents.”
My heart thumps, not knowing where Bastian is going with
this, but there’s an ulterior motive—I just don’t know what it
is.
Cassius begrudgingly walks to the piano stool and sits upon
it, his nostrils flared.
“Gather around, everyone. You’ll want the full experience.”
I see how the girls look at Bastian and Cassius, how their
faces speak to their friends with no words.
Cassius strikes the piano, demanding attention, and all eyes
are on him except Bastian’s; his are on me. Grabbing my hand,
he pulls me through the opened door of the bathroom while
Cassius pounds on the piano keys, a song I don’t recognize but
reverberates down my spine.
Inside the bathroom, Bastian pushes me up against the
counter, lifting my ass to sit on the porcelain sink. Those soft,
cold hands rise from the counter, up my waist, up my breast
until they reach my throat, and then his fingers wrap around
my neck and I can hardly breathe. Lips brush my ear as his
waist slides between my thighs, a hand crawling up my inner
thigh, stroking the outside of my panties.
I cover his hand on my neck with my own while the other
pulls on his belt, unbuttoning his pants. He swats my hand
away and then returns his hand to my thighs and then kisses
me, kisses me so hard, my head swims, pushed against the
mirror, the sound of the music and people just outside the door
making this so dangerous, yet so thrilling and…painful.
Because Bastian and I can never openly be in New Orleans,
and the witch that never cries wants to cry. I want him so
badly, not just in this moment but in every moment, and I
never thought I would be willing to give myself up to a man,
let alone a vampire.
His fingers pull my panties aside and stroke me and our
eyes lock, his hand pressing into my neck in a fucked up, sexy
way. “Say it,” he whispers in my ear. “Say that you love me,
too.”
Tears well in my eyes, his cold hands almost warming
around my throat, that feeling I swore I would never feel
stirring inside of me. “What is love anyway? People like me
and you, we don’t love.”
“Say it,” he commands because he knows the truth and his
finger is inside of me, sliding up and down, and I almost want
him to press harder on my throat, let me pass out from the
ecstasy, let me fall into darkness.
“What is love?” I whisper, the pleasure of his touch
building inside of me, a tear forming in my eye, and I can’t
even use magic to will it away and I surprisingly don’t want
to.
As if he knows I’m almost broken, just shards of glass in
human form, he pulls his bared teeth to my ear, his fang
brushes the lobe, and he whispers, “You and I. This. We are
love. Let fucking go, Aster.” His finger strokes harder against
me and my hips rise to meet him as my legs tense and the tear
slides down and he sees it. Eyes widening at the sight of my
tear, Bastian’s tongue slides from his mouth and presses to my
cheek, softly and slowly licking my tear away. I shudder, my
chest heaving, and lift my mouth to his tongue, taking it in my
own with a need so grave I could crumble to pieces.
“Fine,” I whisper, breaking away from his mouth, his
aventurines piercing mine as I tensely grab the back of his
neck, pulling his forehead to mine. “I love you. I love you,
okay? I fucking love the fuck out of you.”
He groans, as more tears spill from my eyes. He pulls on
his dick and I widen my legs, ready for him, all of him. Fuck
any vampires on the other side of this door. Fuck the witches
that will kill me. We will get the fuck out of here and we will
be, because we are in love.
Bastian slams into me, and I cry out, so he crushes his lips
against mine, muffling my moans. He fucks me on the
bathroom sink and whispers in my ear, “That’s what I
thought.”
 And I lose myself right then and there, the admission of
love I’ve denied him, denied myself set free as he brings me to
climax. The raw emotion inside my heart aligning with the
pleasure in my body and I do it, I let go and my body shakes
while he finishes inside me. And we just stay like that for what
feels like hours, something freed inside of us, something
bigger than us.
Once our clothes are straightened and I wipe the lipstick
from Bastian’s mouth as he wipes the tears from my eyes, we
exit the bathroom just as Cassius’s performance winds down.
He stands from his piano stool with an embattled look on his
face, one I can’t entirely read, but there’s no doubt that he saw
us leaving the bathroom together. I pull my hair behind my
ear, looking up to Bastian one more time before parting
through the crowd, making my way down the stairs and out of
Comey’s.
I AM IN LOVE. THERE’S a lightness inside me—a freedom with
just accepting what it is. I think of the men I considered
pathetic, the ones vying for my attention, the ones that would
have broken my heart a thousand times over if I gave it to
them. I have laughed in handsome faces after requests for a
dance, and blown smoke in the eyes of the men I ordered out
of my bed once the sun broke through my curtains. I have no
regrets for the love I denied myself before because they
couldn’t compare to the all-consuming love I feel now, the
avalanche of emotions that have poured from me since I said
that I loved him too. Confessing my affection has opened a
floodgate and I am not her and though I love Mother, I can be
proud that I didn’t allow myself to be used.
I remember my mother’s lovers, their lanky bodies walking
down the hallway, their tighty whities illuminating the hall.
I’ve seen the tears of a shattered obsession more times than I
can count and I hardened myself for so long, but not anymore.
I don’t know what lies ahead of us, but for the first time in my
life, I am hopeful.
It’s not easy for me to just jump in, arms wide open to what
is in front of me. But two weeks isn’t that long a time in the
scheme of things, so I beg my brain to grant my heart the
clemency to enjoy this time that Bastian and I are getting
together because I’m also lying to my best friend.
 I tell Chantal one last lie, the lie that I am spending two
weeks near the Mississippi Delta, working hard on my spell
work and becoming a better witch before I make a decision
about a child. Once I texted her, she found it hard to believe,
but I explained how lost I was and she agreed that, yes, I
haven’t been myself, so she texted her blessing.
Go find yourself
I loathe lying to her, but I’ll come clean to her once and for
all when we’re back and just pray she’ll keep our secret. I push
the daughter I’m supposed to have out of my mind for the time
being and pack my bags while Freddie Mercury croons We Are
the Champions in my ear.
I’m a calculating witch that plots every move. There are
many that are impulsive—my mother for one, Chantal for two.
So when Bastian calls me on the actual telephone and says in
his deep voice, “You ready to fly?” I can’t help but lose my
breath, ripples of goosebumps feeling like a village of ants
running along my skin. The spontaneity is foreign to me, yet
exciting.
“I think so, yes,” I say, and his breath can be heard over the
receiver.
“Let’s get outta here.” I swear my heart stops at those
words. I asked Chantal if she wanted to run the shop, but she
decided to take the time off too, so I close it. Chantal’s feeding
Mercury for me and will collect the mail. It’s just two weeks
of forgetting, and then we’ll face reality when we get back.

We take a redeye to California, landing at a small airport in

San Jose, and I realize how restrictive traveling as a vampire
can be. Everything must be perfectly calculated and planned
out so they are tucked somewhere safe during the day. It’s still
dark in California as we fly over a sea of lights, elation
bubbling in my chest from being somewhere I’ve never been.
Once we touch down, Bastian thanks the flight attendants
with a beaming smile and then reaches back and grabs my
hand. “Get used to it,” he says through a crooked grin as we
walk up the tarmac. I squeeze his hand tighter and bring it to
my lips.
Bastian arranged for a car to pick us up and we slide into
the cool leather seats of a black Escalade, chills waving
through my body. “Cold,” I say, zipping up my sweatshirt.
He stretches his arm along the top of the seats saying,
“Scoot in,” so I pull my body next to his, snuggling in his
arms.
“Zero humidity and cold mornings. You brought some
warm clothes, right? We can always shop.”
I nod, my head on his chest, my eyes drooping from the
late hour. There’s a safety I feel when I’m with him now, a
trust I’ve handed over to him. I don’t know where we are or
where we’re going, but I know that with him I am taken care
of, I’m not on my own. And I’ve been on my own for so long,
it’s a feeling I want to get used to, but shouldn’t.
“Baby,” he whispers so gently, “Baby, we’re here.” A kiss
is placed on the top of my head as I come to, realizing I fell
asleep in the car, wrapped in Bastian’s arms.
I wipe my eyes and sit up. “Already?”
He nods, his teeth glinting through the darkness of the
backseat while the driver unloads our things in front of
Bastian’s house. There’s an assumed luxury I tie to Bastian
and vampires in general, a way of living that I am not
accustomed to. But the home that stands before me is not the
grand mansion I envisioned. It’s a smallish residence that
resembles a cottage more than a mansion. The yard is tiny—
just some grass and a large oak tree, and I can’t even see the
front door. Bastian thanks the driver and tips him then turns to
me.
“It’s around the side,” Bastian says, gesturing toward a sea
of darkness, and that’s when I realize the sound I’ve been
hearing is the crash of waves. Bastian pulls our rolling
suitcases around the side of the house and stops in front of a
small white gate.
 “My dream girl at my dream house. This is insane.” He
kisses my lips slow and sweetly and I wrap my arms around
his waist, caught up in the moment. Of being in California, of
the echoes of waves in the distance, the smell of the sea in the
air.
“Ladies first,” he says, stepping away from me. The gate
swings open, and I step onto a patio that wraps around the
back of the house. Walking forward, I squint in the pitch black
trying to see what lies behind Bastian’s home, but it’s nothing
but darkness.
“That’s the ocean?” I squint in the distance, and he nods
with a grin.
“We have a private beach, just down those steps.”
“Wow. And to think I was almost unimpressed with your
beach house.”
“Come on,” he sighs and glides to the front door, unlocking
it. “It’s small, but it’s only usually me, so it works just fine.”
And it is small, but he understated its charm. Floor-to-
ceiling windows face the ocean in the dining room. The
kitchen is compact but modern in typical Bastian fashion. And
the family room is lined with sofas that look soft enough to
sink into for a weekend with a fire and a stack of books.
Once we put our bags in Bastian’s room, I sigh at the
shaded windows, closed tight from floor to ceiling. “You’ve
never seen the view during the day in this house?”
Bastian grabs a remote and clicks a button, and the shades
unwrap from around the windows. “Not once. But that will
change in a couple of hours.”
I look out as the shade opens, seeing nothing but darkness
while fingers run along my waist. A flutter of nerves shivers
through my body about what this trip means, how deeply I’ve
fallen.
“This was my first purchase with my own money. Small
and quaint and everything I wanted. When you become a
vampire, so much of yourself dies, but there are still pieces of
who you were, fragments of yourself embedded in your blood
for eternity. The beach has always called to me, and it’s sick in
a way because the water took my brother, but it’s also where I
had the best memories with him.”
I spin in his arms, my hand reaching the back of his neck,
thumb running along his hairline. “Thank you for bringing me
here, for sharing this with me.”
He places his forehead on mine and inhales deeply. “You
are why I’m here.” And then he pulls me so tightly, fingers
tightening on the small of my back. His lips fall to my
shoulders, running them along the sensitive skin.
It feels good and right, but I pull away, yawning.
“I need some sleep,” I whisper, and his mouth spreads in a
grin, nodding in agreeance.
“Sleep you shall have.”

So, I sleep. In Bastian’s warm vampire bed, by the glow of

the corner fireplace. I sleep because I’m human and if we’re
going to watch the sunrise in a couple of hours, I will need
rest.
It’s not long before my alarm is going off, the room still
cloaked in darkness, but sunrise looms. With blurred eyes and
a deep breath, I rise, our eyes meeting, our bodies moving in
silence. I pull on leggings and a sweatshirt and snatch my hair
into a high ponytail. Bastian changed while I slept—into
sweatpants and a hoodie—and he has this look on his face, a
calm yet serendipitous look. He guides me, hand on my lower
back, out the front door to the chirping of crickets and frogs
croaking. Then grabbing my hand, he leads me down the steps
toward the sound of waves. I still can’t see the ocean and
could use magic, but I want to experience this with Bastian, so
I blindly follow him, realizing I’m giving up control and it’s
still alarming.
My feet hit the sand and it’s cold and smooth, different
from the warm and moist sand of Louisiana. The chilly
granules move under my feet and along the tops of my toes.
 “Sit,” he says as we approach two green lounge chairs
surrounding a fire pit. I slide into the seat and Bastian yanks
his backpack off, pulling out a thermos of coffee and handing
it to me.
“Oh, you’re good,” I say, cupping its warmth between my
hands. A blanket is placed on my lap, and he even tucks the
edges under my legs and feet.
“Like a baby burrito,” he says with a wink then sits in the
chair next to me. “The first time I saw a sunrise in decades, I
was making love to you.”
“Is that what you call what we did on my terrace?”
He scoffs, his hand finding mine. “You don’t keep
company with many gentlemen, do you?”
“If you mean, men that say things like make love and bring
me coffee and blankets while we watch the sunrise, then no, I
don’t.”
I ignite a tiny fire in the fire pit and stare deeply into it to
distract myself, and he stares at me and then into the flames.
“I’m new to love.” It comes out like a confession, like he’ll
soon direct me to recite ten Hail Mary’s. “I feel vulnerable,
being so cut open for someone that’s not me.” A chill runs
through me as the fire licks the air and he sighs heavily, his
thumb running along the top of my hand.
“I’ve only been in love once before.” His eyes are focused
on a glow on the horizon, a deep orange in the distance. “It
was during my human life, many years ago. A lifetime ago.”
“What happened to her?” A pang of envy rolls through me,
realizing I want to be his only love, like he is mine.
After a sniff, and adjusting in his seat, he answers. “Have
you read The Great Gatsby?”
I nod.
“She was Daisy, she was just like Daisy. And I loved her
very much. But she didn’t love me enough. And she was
reckless and wild. I remember reading that book and thinking
of her as my own little flower. I had hoped for a different
outcome. And I was a mess too. A total mess. This life helped
me escape that mess. She escaped our mess in a different
way.”
“How?”
“Heroin. She left me for an older man and got caught up in
worse things than I was caught up in. When I heard she died, I
was still in love with her.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, facing the ocean, trying to imagine what
his Daisy looked like.
I think he whispers a thanks, or it’s the ocean waves,
crashing against the shore. The glow on the horizon morphs
into a pinkish hue, and I swallow at the beauty in front of me.
At the endless water meeting a cotton candy sky.
“You were a mess because of your brother? Luc’s death?”
His answer is a slow nod.
“So I don’t have a ton of experience with being in love, but
I know what I feel for you, Aster. I know that this is love and
that means taking care of each other. I have an innate desire to
take care of you always.”
“You loved her and you love me, but I’m nothing like that.
Reckless or wild. Don’t you find that strange?”
“No, not at all. She was toxic for me. Pure poison. You’re
my savior.”
And I swallow again— hard. A sharp pain lunging into my
chest.
“Oh God, Bastian. I’m no one’s savior. I’m a mess. There
are so many things about me that are broken and lost. So many
things I have to figure out.”
He leans forward in his chair, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“Then we’ll figure it out together.”
My lips quiver, that sharp pain still shooting across my
chest. “This is going to hurt one day, won’t it?” I feel that
hitch in my breathing, that ache inside of me.
 “I don’t care if it hurts,” he says. Eyes still on mine, jaw
clenched so tight. And I can’t fathom it, not caring if
something hurts. I’ve tucked pain down so deeply, pushed it so
far, that at times, I can forget it’s there. Growing up, knowing I
was unwanted, feeling like I was a nuisance, has caused me
more pain than I can verbally admit. It hurt and I still care.
“Look,” he says pointing to the light rising from the ocean.
“For decades, I’ve only seen it in darkness, tried to remember,
imagining what it looked like. And now, here it is.” His chin
quivers, and then mine does. I extinguish the fire in front of us
so there’s nothing between us but sand, ocean, and sun.
Something glistens on his face, and I sit up and run a finger
across his cheek. The wetness between my fingers causes my
breath to halt. Real, clear, salty tears sit in his eyes, more
evidence the potion gives him human qualities. “It’s not
blood.” I show him my fingers, free of the crimson that stained
them the last time he shed tears in front of me.
His eyes rove over the fire, over my feet and up to my face,
and I think he’s going to say something about the potion, about
how it changes him, but he just turns back to the sunrise and
says, “Isn’t it lovely?”
And I turn to the ocean, pushing down my own desire to
cry.
“The loveliest,” I whisper.
ONCE THE SUN KISSES OUR faces, once the seagulls squawk,
breaking our silence, Bastian stands. And when I think he will
gather the blankets, he gathers me instead and carries me all
the way up to his bedroom where the sunlight streams through
the windows. He lays me on his white comforter, crawling on
top of me, then smoothing my hair, breathing out a peaceful
sigh.
“I care if love hurts. I don’t know how to love without
pain.” Why do I have to say it? Why can’t I just let the
moment be?
But he just blinks, his eyes two gems in the daylight. “I’ll
show you.”
There must be something in my expression, something that
forces his lips to crash into mine, slick and delicious, while my
arms hook around his shoulders.
I’m sure it’s awe. Awe of his beauty, not just the face
staring back at me. It’s the soul that teaches me so much when
I thought I knew it all. His mouth slides along my jaw, down
to my neck until it lingers on the hollow of my throat, and he
sighs so softly. I grab the back of his shirt and pull it over his
head, then my shirt follows. My naked breasts meet his naked
chest and it’s like home when his skin is on mine.
Bastian loves to kiss me, to explore me, to touch me, and I
lie on my back, watching him pull my leggings off, fingers
dancing across my stomach as he completely undresses me.
And once we are both naked, he turns to the view, the sun
billowing in from three sides of the room, then back to me.
“Never seen anything more beautiful,” he says and slides
on top of me and inside of me, my leg wrapping around his
waist. With his name on my lips and my fingers curling around
his hair, I unravel, unravel more than I ever imagined,
especially once he whispers those words. “I love you.”
And I say it back, with no reservations, with no excuses,
with not one shred of regret.

My legs are tangled in his with his arms draped across my

waist. I’ve gotten used to waking up in the pitch black that
sleeping with a vampire requires, and so I call for my phone
and look at the time once it hits my hand. The shades are now
drawn and it’s three in the afternoon. Hunger rumbles in my
stomach, and I wonder if there’s even anything here for me to
eat.
I slip out of Bastian’s catatonic embrace, grab my bag, and
tiptoe into the bathroom where I brush my teeth and pull a T-
shirt and sleep shorts on. The entire house is completely dark,
all the shades shutting out every speck of natural light. Once I
find the kitchen switch, I walk to the pantry and that’s where I
find trusty Top Ramen, besides multiple other foods that
Bastian must have had sent here prior to our arrival.
Lying on the couch with the shades drawn tight is where I
spend the hour. After a while, I slip through the front door and
sit on the patio, where rainbows of pop-up tents litter the
beach ahead, family’s shading themselves from the sun.
California air is crisp and cutting, not heavy and wet like I’m
used to, and though I think I like it, chills cover my body from
my lack of warm attire.
But what a sight it is to behold. Mountains behind me,
littered with lush treetops. Cliffs of greys and browns, with
pockets of bushes and trees of all shapes and sizes. Sprawling
sand bleeds into the ocean as far as the eye can see. Here is
where I scroll through Instagram, where I see Chantal feeding
Mercury on her story, and a feeling of absolute dread washes
over me. I can’t even share this view with her. I can’t share
any of my life with her right now, and the betrayal I am going
to burden her with eventually is daunting.
I’m in California, a place she’s always dreamed of going.
And I can’t share it with my best friend, the one person who
knows me to my core. And suddenly I feel so lonely with a
vampire taken by sleep and unopened text messages from my
mother.

When Bastian wakes for the night, we take the car he keeps
here (apparently 1969 Camaros are a big deal) to the grocery
store so I have food to eat. I pick out easy enough food—eggs,
grits, strawberries, and bread. And on the ride home I ask what
he’ll do for sustenance.
“Every city has its own vampire rules. I stayed many years
in New York with a group of goths that wanted to be a part of
our secret circle and allowed us to drink from them. I’ll get by
here the best I can, on beach drunks if I have to. I brought
potions and creams, but I won’t prey like—” he pauses and
looks at me. “Like usual.”
Like usual means women thinking they are being seduced,
but what he really needs is their blood. I hate that it’s
something I can never give him. There are so many obstacles
stacked against us, it’s hard to imagine how a relationship
would make sense. Designed to hate each other, yet
completely enamored with the other.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Bastian downs the potion,

making that disgusted face as he swallows. “You couldn’t
work on the flavor?” he quips with a gag.
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” I tsk and pull on a pair of jean
shorts and slide my feet into gladiator sandals.
 “We have two hours until sunset,” I say, looking at my
phone and then back to Bastian.
“You hungry?” I ask. His fangs are out and he pulls my
groin against his.
“Not hungry,” he chants in my ear, smelling my neck.
“If I weren’t a witch, traveling would be so much easier for
you. You could just feed on me, not have to leave to do
whatever it is you did last night.”
“But you are a witch, and I have no regrets.” He steps back
to look me in the eye.
“I can go with you, you know…I can handle it.”
“No,” he tensely says, and I close my mouth because
Bastian rarely gets stern. “It’s not something you’ll want to
see.”
“I guess there are parts of both of us we keep locked away
and hidden.”
“I guess. But that’s true for everyone, not just us.” He
hooks his pinky with mine and pulls me toward the door.
“Now come on, we’re wasting the daylight.”

The Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk is everything Bastian

told me it would be. Carnival rides with screaming teenagers,
games that charge an arm and a leg and reward junk prizes.
Funnel cakes and candy apples. And just down a few steps
from all the excitement, the beach.
“Hold on,” Bastian says as we walk under the red
Boardwalk sign. “Hold on.” He pulls out his phone and
squeezes me close to him, taking a selfie of us among a row of
carnival games and food stands. I inspect the picture after, my
first selfie with a man I love. In my life, I’ve seen so many
couples take selfies throughout the French Quarter, never sure
if something like that would ever happen to me. And here I am
in California, going to the beach, taking selfies.
We walk farther down the Boardwalk, the ocean running
along the strip of rides. And there’s the white roller coaster—
Bastian’s and Luc’s Giant Dipper.
“That’s it,” I say. “I recognize it from my vision.” Sand, the
rickety sound of the train pulling to the first drop, the smell of
waffle cones and the sea. It all washes over me again, the déjà
vu that I’ve been somewhere that I’ve never actually been.
“Yeah,” he says and pulls a hand down his face. “The first
roller coaster I ever rode with my brother.” He slides his hand
down my long ponytail and pulls me into his arms and kisses
me, in front of mothers pushing strollers, teenagers licking ice
cream, children running toward games—he kisses me for all to
see and it doesn’t matter. He can kiss me all day here and it
doesn’t matter.
“Forgive me if it gets old, but thank you so much for this. I
know it was supposed to be for Cassius, and I feel like an
opportunist. But being here with you…it’s like I have
something to look forward to again.”
I take a deep breath because his has been a long life, and I
feel honored I’ve made a difference in it.
“This is the happiest I’ve ever been,” I admit, running my
hands up his strong back.
“What if you had said no? Look what we would have
missed out on.” There’s a twinkle in his eye, a silent I told you
so.
“Let’s go.” I pull him toward The Giant Dipper.
Once the safety bar has been placed across our legs, once
we sit side by side in the little brown roller coaster car in the
very front row, I close my eyes. And there I’m back in
Bastian’s eyes when he was just a boy. I open my eyes to
Bastian’s face, which is serious for a moment, but then he
turns to me, placing his hand on my knee and squeezing.
Pushing his mouth next to my temple, he breathes in my hair
then whispers, “The best I’ve tasted,” and I meet his eyes and
agree.
“The best.” And then we are moving through a pitch-black
tunnel, the rickety ride pumping through our ears, and then
daylight again as we descend the first drop and it should be
new to me, but I’ve been here before. There’s the sea, the
people below us, and there’s the smell of sweets baking and
the sound of music and a mounting of screams. How far have I
come since that night in my courtyard when I found the secret
to the potion, the potion that brought me here? It’s a profound
moment and I don’t know if I should scream from joy or cry.
Instead, I hold on to the bar in front of me and enjoy the ride.
We ride The Giant Dipper four more times, and at the end,
we look at each other with a glow that pure pleasure brings.
“You are turning me into a softy,” I tell him, his arm around
my shoulder as we walk down the Boardwalk.
“You can’t help but be happy here. The music and the food
and the rides, come on.” He waves his hand in the air. “It’s
okay to get soft.”
After we’ve been on most of the rides and I eat a funnel
cake and Dippin Dots, after Bastian has won me a bright green
stuffed monkey, after the sun has set, we walk down the
cement steps to the beach. Bastian sits, legs outstretched , and
I climb between them, leaning back into him, the ocean hard to
see but easy to hear. There’s a flutter in my chest because one
day down means we’re closer to going home and facing
reality. But it’s far enough away for me to push it out as he
drapes the blanket over my legs, pushing out the cold.
WE SPEND THE NEXT FEW days in and out of bed, in and out of
the ocean, running through the waves, warming our skin with
the sunlight. Bastian has promised to only take the potion
every other day, so we try to carefully plan everything out to
avoid any side effects.
“Stop,” he says, digging into his shorts pocket as we sit on
our beach towels. “Don’t move. I want to remember this
moment forever.” He pulls out his phone, aims it at me, and
moves so close, I can’t help but feel scrutinized behind its
lens. I have to bring something up I saw earlier but don’t want
to ruin this moment.
“Beautiful,” he says but what’s beautiful is his dark chest
under the sun. His black Ray-Bans reflecting the light, his
tongue running along the bottoms of his white, fangless teeth.
“I’ll keep growing older and you’ll stay young and
perfect.” It’s not something we talk about, but since our
commitment has solidified, it’s only right we discuss it.
“You, my baby, will stay beautiful forever. I’m not the least
bit worried about it.”
“Well, I am. Where’s the sunscreen?” I laugh, but I believe
him.
“You’re sun-kissed. I love it.”
 There has been so much sun, my skin is turning from pale
to golden, and that feeling bubbles inside of me. I see him
collapsed on the floor at Nightwalkers.
“Yeah, well I don’t,” I say, pushing the memory away.
“We’re supposed to loathe the sun, didn’t you get the memo?”
“I did, I did,” he says, rolling on his side, propping his head
on his elbow. “But the world isn’t just black and white. It’s
grey, and we can love the sun just as much as we love the
darkness.”
“Not me,” I sigh. “I love the night, will always love it more
than the day. It’s just who I am.” I lie back on my towel,
mirroring his position.
“Do you like it here? Are you happy?” His eyes are
searching, almost lost looking, and that ache that was dormant
finds its way back in my chest.
“I do. How did you end up in New Orleans if you grew up
in here?” It’s something I realized I never asked, and his eyes
grow dark, his lip curling up.
“I didn’t grow up here. When we could get away, my
mother would bring us here for the day. It’s about two hours
from where I grew up and she would take my father’s car. It
holds my happiest memories, like a secret. No place makes me
feel how I feel when I’m here. I come back often but it’s not
like this. Not with someone I love, not during the day.
“But that’s not what you asked.” He clears his throat and
entwines his legs with mine. “Yeah, well I needed to get out of
my house, away from my father. My friend lived there and
invited me to stay. I hitchhiked all the way to New Orleans.”
“Hitchhiked?” I echo, and he chuckles at my surprise.
“That was a main mode of transportation back then. I had
no idea what the future would hold.” He inhales and closes his
eyes. “I was just thinking about our future. The things we can
do together.” He then pins me with his eyes. “The places we
can go.”
And it impales my heart in a new way. This future he
dreams of, that includes both of us, a future that would mean
hiding and lying. But also, a future of him staying the same
young man and me, only growing older. I look to the ocean,
watching children run through the waves, the water licking
their feet, their little hands creating sandcastles.
“Let’s just enjoy ourselves while we are here instead of
worry about our future.” That’s my plan at least. To enjoy the
moment and not think of all my responsibilities back home.
Not think about what’s expected of me, the child I’m supposed
to have.
He scoffs, pulling his legs from mine. “I’m not worried
about it. I’m excited about it.”
“Well I’m worried. You took the potion twice today.”
He squints at the sun behind his glasses. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, you promised—”
“Aster, I know. I’m being careful. No nose bleeds.” He
glides his index finger down my jawline then tucks my hair
behind my ear. “I’m not going to waste a second of what the
daylight brings me. Especially since it’s going to end so soon.
I’m going to protect it and love it, and call on the memories
one day, memories that you gave me. If I go on to live for
another three hundred years, I’m going to remember this
moment every day. The way the sand feels on my feet. The
sound of the children’s laughter. How your skin was golden.
How you bit your bottom lip when you looked at me. How
your nose scrunches when you’re worried, like it’s doing right
now. How in love with you I was and am. This makes the
highlight reel of an extremely long movie, do you get it?”
I stare at him for a solid twenty seconds, letting his words
sink in. And instead of over-analyzing, instead of breaking
down each sentence, I swallow my words and simply say,
“Got it.”

My favorite days are the ones spent making love then

lounging on the couch, heads on opposite ends, our hands
grazing each other’s legs, lazily learning each other’s habits.
Bastian wakes up renewed, ready for a new day. I wake up
needing coffee and no talking for at least twenty minutes. He
leaves toothpaste in the sink and rolls his socks into balls and
throws them at the end of the bed when he goes to sleep. He
kisses my neck seconds before I fall asleep, like he
instinctually knows I’m fading into another zone and wants to
say goodbye before I slip away, before he leaves to find blood.
I don’t ask questions about who or where he fed when he
leaves, and he doesn’t offer any information. I focus on the
good. How he laughs more than anyone I’ve ever met and how
he’s so patient with me. With my slow to warm attitude, with
my obstinance.
It’s easy loving Bastian, far from the kind of love I
witnessed in my mother’s relationships. Her life was a vicious
cycle of lust, love, and revenge, where black magic was
plentiful. Of waking to the rumblings of feet being pushed out
the front door, shrieks of jealousy and rage, of husbands that
wouldn’t leave their wives.
With Bastian there aren’t screams, no blood magic of tears.
He treats me like I’m fascinating, wanting to know everything
about me, about my life. He pays attention—knowing I get
cold in the night, always having a blanket ready to wrap me in,
making me lemon drops. Sour and sweet.
“Can you just let me take care of you?” he asks, pulling a
pan from the cupboard.
“I’m concerned with your cooking abilities,” I say, standing
in the kitchen after he’s insisted on make me breakfast.
“I was a human once that had to feed myself, and besides, I
know a secret ingredient that makes everything better.”
“What’s that?” I say as he pushes me to sit me on a stool.
“Butter.” He pulls out a stick and drops the entire thing into
the pan and squints.
“Uh, do you want me to have a heart attack?” But he just
leaves it there as he moves to cracking eggs, and I point my
finger to the pan, igniting the gas stove.
Bastian’s arms drop to his sides, his bare chest exhaling in
an exasperated rhythm. “Really? You just can’t help yourself.”
 “I can’t.” I lean on the counter, and he winks at me as the
butter sizzles in the pan.
He cooks me breakfast—eggs and grits. Coffee with cream.
And he’s right, butter makes everything, especially eggs and
grits, better.
“Would you like to see San Francisco now?” he asks,
placing my plate in the sink.
“Uh, would I like to? Is that even a question?”
His hands tap on the counter, jovial, light. “I’ll book my
favorite hotel.”
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I WATCH Bastian down two vials of the
potion and my stomach drops. We are packing our things,
leaving for San Francisco once we’ve finished.
“Why did you take two?”
He looks caught, folding a pair of jeans, eyes flitting
around the room.
“Traffic in the Bay Area is tricky. We don’t want to get
stuck in a bad situation.”
“Then we should have left tonight, like I suggested.” Anger
simmers inside me at how reckless he’s becoming, how
concerned I am.
“I didn’t want to leave tonight. We only have a few days
left. I don’t want to waste any time.”
“We don’t have Cassius’s blood here to save you like last
time. I told you it’s too much. You need to be careful.”
“You think you know what I need?” he roars and it jolts me
like a thunderclap. His fangs catch my eyes and I step toward
him, my body electric with shock at his reaction.
“I may not know what you need, but I know what the fuck
I’m talking about. Magic can undo you. I can take this all
away.” Stabbing my own chest with my pointer finger, face
flushed with heat.
 His head falls back with a cold laugh, eyebrows dark and
raised.
“Are you fucking laughing at me?” I rush to him, fighting
every urge to push his chest, slam him to the floor, anything.
“No, no.” He raises his hand in surrender, laughter on his
lips. “You are just something. God, you are fierce.”
My blood thrashes, a bitterness coats my mouth at what
feels like mockery. Like I’m some kind of joke. An irrational
child. I raise my arms, power collecting in my hands, and
swing them to the mattress. It lifts and I spin it, then slam it
upside down on the floor, our bags flying with it.
“Laugh again and see what happens,” I threaten, and he
looks at me. Rage pulsates off him—all impulse and emotions
—and he pushes into me until I’m against the wall.
“Really?” he presses, fangs out, breath hot. “Really?” he
says again, and I jerk my chin up. We both know I could shoot
him through the window if I wanted to, but there’s something
in his eyes that keeps me grounded. It’s hurt. “You threatening
me?”
I stay silent, the obstinacy I was born with tearing me apart
inside. I’m like a pit bull in a fight—when I bite down it’s hard
to let go.
“Are you?” he demands and I blink, fighting the urge to
push him away and pull him harder against me. “You’re not
the heartless witch Cassius warned me about. You’re spiteful,
fuck yes, you are. But you have a heart. Don’t threaten me. It
breaks mine.” His fist clenches the fabric near his heart, his
eyes bore into mine, and his fangs puncture his pillowy lip,
causing a small drop of blood to bubble on top.
And he’s right, I am spiteful, but I’m not wrong for being
upset. I just said the wrong words and I don’t know how to say
the right ones. So instead of saying words, instead of saying
I’m sorry for taking it too far, I dig my lips against his. Hard
and rough.
He reacts quickly, rubbing my hips with his hands, pressing
me into the wall, kissing me like he owns me.
 I love him and I never want him to think I’m heartless.
With him I’m all heart, I’m all emotions and all his. So I
whisper, “Yes,” when he pulls down my panties and presses
into me right against the wall. And finally, with each thrust, I
can say the words I couldn’t say before. Sorry. I’m so sorry. I
love you. And he says them too.

Our spat has us off schedule, and Bastian had been right
about Bay Area traffic. By the time we get to the Fairmont
Hotel in San Francisco, we both are worn out and exhausted.
It’s close to dark when we arrive, but I manage to still see a
few sights. We pass Grace’s Cathedral, a gothic and elegant
church only minutes from where we’re staying. Some streets
are so steep, the sidewalks have steps in them. Cable cars of
red bustle by, their passengers buttoned up from the chilly air.
My phone buzzes in my hand while Bastian pulls into the
parking garage. I expect it to be my mother because if I don’t
respond to one of her messages soon she will file a missing
person’s report, blast my face all over Facebook, have Chantal
hunt me down, and then possibly kill me.
But it’s not my mother, it’s worse. It’s Aunt Violetta.
Darling, we are running out of time and excuses. Rosemary
and I will be there Wednesday to go over where we go from
here. I will be informing your mother soon.
My body goes cold, my phone slipping from my lap onto
the car floor. I bolt down to grab it, Bastian studying me. He
grabs my hand once he’s pulled up to the valet. “What’s
wrong?”
“Oh,” I stammer, pushing my phone into my purse pocket,
trying to pretend it didn’t just happen. “Not a thing,” I lie with
a tight smile and he side-eyes me, but thankfully the valet
approaches and I’m saved from further interrogation.

My head draws back, taking in the extravagant lobby.

Lights twinkle from chandeliers that hang from a ceiling so
high, my entire building could fit inside it.
 “You’re tired,” Bastian says, collecting his credit card from
the concierge.
“I’m starving,” I respond as he dips his finger into my
waistband, pulling me against him. He’s warm, but his color is
a little off and it sends a chill down my back. “You okay?”
“Perfect.” He winks.
We go to our room to change and back down to the dining
room to get some sustenance and then hopefully some much
needed rest.
He orders a practically raw filet mignon and sips on his
bourbon as I rub the tiny stem of a martini glass through my
fingers. Echoing his thoughts from earlier, Bastian brings up
our future, a future that he visions as limitless.
“Let’s go to Paris. Let’s just go. You’ve never been, and my
French is impeccable. The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower are
beauties to behold, but I can show you the real Paris. The
gritty, magical, dark Paris. I wouldn’t even need the potion
there. We can be our true selves, the creatures that we really,
truly are. Let me show you.”
I rest my palms on the table, taking a deep breath in. I’ve
always wanted to go to Paris—it’s the one place I would
choose if I could pick any place in the world to visit. The
Louvre and Eiffel Tower have been sights I’ve longed to see,
but Bastian knows me so well. What I really crave are the
dark, forbidden corners, the rich history on cobblestone streets.
Much like New Orleans, Paris is a place where the
supernatural are drawn to, so naturally it has been a dream to
go. But I can’t run off to Paris because I’m supposed to be
having a child, and now my aunts are coming to New Orleans
in two days to see me and most definitely deliver some kind of
ultimatum, and I’m in California. What am I going to do?
As the thoughts spin inside my head, Bastian’s eyes bore
into mine, and that’s when my martini glass shatters right in
front of us. My hands grip the tablecloth and I suck in a deep
breath.
 “What? What is it?” he whispers, eyebrows furrowed, a
lock of hair fallen over his brow. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t…want this to end,” I whisper it, a confession that
constricts my vocal chords.
That thumb that always soothes me rubs along the top of
my hand as his words attempt to console me. “It’s not ending,
baby. It’s not. I’m so sorry about today. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s not it. It’s that this will have to end. One day. You
can’t even make me a vampire to be with you forever because
of my cursed blood.”
“Stop, don’t say that.” He pulls my fingers to his lips and
kisses them, over and over, sugaring me with sweet kisses.
“I’ll love you until your dying day.”
“Bastian,” I say, shaking my head, this whole thing
suddenly feeling so impossible. I must have a baby and he
can’t give me a baby and I don’t want anyone else’s baby. And
this was only supposed to be just a taste, not love, not
devotion.
“Oh, uh…” the waitress says as she approaches, looking at
the broken glass on the table that we haven’t even attempted to
clean.
“Sorry about that,” Bastian apologizes and piles the broken
shards onto a plate and I just sit there, watching the two of
them clean up my mess because I am actually happy for once
in my life and it can’t last and I have to tell Bastian. But I
don’t want to ruin this, us, these beautiful days and moments
that just keep compiling.
“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” I beg and grab his
bourbon, downing it and holy shit, it burns.
As the waitress approaches with a fresh martini in her hand,
Bastian says, “I think we need to talk more instead of letting
things bubble up until we are throwing mattresses. Do you
agree?”
I fight a smile and take a bite of my pasta. Checkmate.
 “Okay, Bastian. The truth is, you think we can just run off,
hide, keep this a secret, but that’s not possible for me. I have a
legacy to fulfill.”
“Legacy?” He squints, trying to understand.
“Every witch has a duty, a responsibility to her coven. A
legacy. A child.”
“You’re talking about how your mom was forced to have
you?” And he remembers. The dance in his kitchen, he
remembers I told him that.
“Yes. My mother was forced to have me, and I will be
forced to have a baby very soon. I’ve gotten a lot more time
than most witches. But I’m a true Wildes. My bloodline is
pure. A child of mine is crucial.”
“Why are they forcing women to have babies?” His face is
disgusted and rightly so, but my defenses prick.
“Most witches want to, it’s not an issue. Maiden, Mother,
Crone. The cycle of our lives. I guess my mother and I are just
the rebels of the coven. But without babies, there will be no
more witches. And my time has come. My aunt texted me on
the way here. Violetta, the elder of our coven, says she’s
coming to visit in three days. And that means I will be put on a
formal deadline.”
“A formal deadline? What the fuck does that mean?”
“I don’t exactly know what they’ll do. Right now I’m most
concerned with the fact that I’m across the country.”
He places his napkin on the table, frustrated. “Do you care
about this legacy? Do you even want to have a baby?”
It hits me that I’ve never been asked that question before
because it was never a decision I could make. It was expected
of me, no—demanded of me. But the answer surprises me, as I
gather my thoughts.
“You would think, because I resist it, because I haven’t had
a child yet, that the answer would be no. But it’s surprisingly
not. Yes, I care about my legacy. The years of hard work my
grandmother and her ancestors have put in creating and
implementing magic. When you think about that, it’s quite
remarkable, what we can do. Part of what makes us, us is that
we only have daughters and we carry on our traditions, our
powers, the best parts of ourselves, our good deeds. I’ve
resisted having a child because I don’t like the circumstances
that are being forced on me. But do I want a daughter one day?
Yes, I absolutely do. It’s not what all women are born to do,
but it’s what witches are born to do.”
He looks at me as if I’ve struck him, as if the fact that I
want a child one day means I can’t want him too. But that’s
not true at all.
“I didn’t want to tell you any of this because I don’t want
this to end. I don’t want to have a baby now. I don’t want to
have a sperm donor, a one- night stand. I don’t want to face
my reality, and that’s why I haven’t said anything.”
The waitress places the check on the table, and Bastian
thanks her in his polite way. Always so kind and it’s like a
razor.
“Well, I mean, you told me a long time ago. I guess I just
didn’t think it was happening anytime soon. And of course, I
wasn’t in love with you then.” But then he leans forward,
caging my hand in his. “But there are ways around this. There
are ways. We can figure this out.”
“Maybe it shouldn’t be so hard to figure out.”
“Don’t say that. Anything worth saving is worth figuring
out. I can’t go back to my life before you.” And he tightens
around my hand, his green eyes so sincere, echoing words I
have thought countless times.
“Neither can I.” Words that are easy to say.
“Then we’ll figure it out. We’ll cut the trip short so you can
get home. But we will figure it out. I promise you.”
That night he sleeps after a long day of light, and I watch
him breathe so softly, my heart swelling with a devotion I
never thought possible. Is this what my mother felt with any of
her lovers? Or is this what she was searching for all along?
Because I believe if anyone felt the way I feel for Bastian, it
would be impossible to let go of a love like this.

I feel it first, a volt of electricity shooting through my limbs. A

crash that jolts me right from sleep. I reach for Bastian’s chest,
for his legs with my feet, but the bed is empty, my lover is
gone. Did he go out to feed? No, he said he didn’t need to, so
we got into bed right after dinner and fell asleep.
I sit up at once, a low heave coming from the bathroom,
and I almost don’t feel the ground beneath my feet. It’s like
I’m flying, my body being pulled in the dark, to the sounds of
sickness, the sounds of fluid. I call out his name as I push the
door open, but he can’t hear me, he can’t see me, and I fall to
my knees and crawl across the blood-streaked floor to him.
Hung over the bathtub, blood pouring from his lips and filling
the tub.
I grab his head between my hands as blood runs down his
chin, his eyes rolled back, and I yell his name through gritted
teeth. He’s not focusing on me, can’t see me, but his head falls
heavy against one of my palms as more blood spews from his
mouth with a guttural heave and I can smell the metal, smell
the potion.
It’s all my fault.
He’s overdosing, he’s bleeding out and it’s my fault.
I’m killing the love of my fucking life.
I taste the salt of my tears as I beg, “Bastian, please.
Bastian look at me, tell me what to do.” He’s weaker, unable
to hold himself up over the tub, his body sliding to the floor,
and I move my legs under him, his head falling to my lap. His
aventurines are barely visible, his eyes almost completely
scarlet as blood flows out of them, streaking the sides of his
face.
“Tell me what to do!” I scream but then bite my tongue.
Hotel management can’t hear me, an ambulance can’t be
called for a vampire, so I fight to gather my breath, to keep my
heart from coming up my throat, to think. But the fact that he
can’t even speak, can’t acknowledge that I’m with him, has me
spiraling all over again. His bare chest is pale, his grey sweats
are soaked in blood, his bare feet looking lifeless against the
marble floor. He heaves again and more blood curdles up in
his opened mouth and I adjust his head so it’s on his side and
the blood pours out onto the floor. I want to scream for help,
scream for someone to save me, but there’s no one. It’s only
Bastian and me. And I’m the one with magic.
GRABBING A TOWEL FROM THE rack with sobs leaving my lips, I
place it under his head as a makeshift pillow. I stand, my feet
slipping on the blood-slicked floor, and go to the sink. He’s
groaning, and it’s the single most terrifying thing I’ve heard.
I’m the reason for this fucking mess. I can hardly see, the
tears are so thick and continuous, but I manage to grab a glass
and fill it with water. This is what I hate about magic—it’s
never certain, it’s never reliable, and I don’t know if my idea
will work. Witches can’t cure cancer, can’t heal most illnesses,
because nature is cruel yet fair and hasn’t given us more power
than we can handle. But I’ve got no time for guessing games.
I stir the glass of water with my finger and chant, “Stop the
flow. Stop the flow.” I bend down, dipping my fingertip in a
pool of blood, then stir the water with it. “Stop the flow. Stop
the flow.” A spell has been cast, but whether it works is
another matter entirely. I slide next to Bastian, blood still
pouring out of him, and place his head back in my lap.
“I’m gonna save you, baby. I won’t let you die.” I cry as I
hold the blood-tinged water in one hand and Bastian’s chin in
the other. His eyes are closed as he heaves, and he can’t seem
to hear me. So I only pour a little, not knowing what kind of
effect the spell will have on him.
The water hits his tongue and his eyes shoot open, and a
jolt of hope courses through me. We see each other, actually
see each other, and I cry out. “Bastian, please,” though I don’t
know what I’m begging. Please stay alive? Please be okay?
Yes, yes to it all.
There’s only silence in the bathroom, no heaves and no
blood building and pouring out of Bastian’s mouth. But just as
I feel relief, his mouth widens, as if he needs air, as if he can’t
breathe…as if he’s choking. And that’s it.
He’s choking. He’s choking on the blood.
The spell stopped the blood from pouring out of his mouth,
not from existing, and now he’s choking on the build-up of
blood and his chest is rising like it’s filling up with something.
His eyes are completely red again, and that curdling sound one
makes when they can’t breathe is deep in his throat and this
isn’t working.
“No!” I shout, both hands over my face, trying to think,
think.
And words come out before I can process them. “The
blood’s to slow, to a drip, not a flow.” I sprinkle more water in
his mouth, and it’s like his body sighs. I don’t breathe as I
watch blood drip, drip like a faucet from the corner of his
mouth, and his chest deflates, the gurgling sound stops, and I
exhale. I couldn’t stop it, but I can prolong it. He can still
bleed out, and the reminder of this has my heart racing again
because I need help.
“Can you hear me? Can you hear me, Bastian?” I whisper
in his ear desperate for a response, but there’s only silence, and
his eyes aren’t focusing on me, and my neck, it’s so stiff from
panic. “I’ll be right back, right back.” I pull my legs out from
under the weight of him and lay his head back on the towel,
propping it on its side so the blood can keep dripping out.
I’m up and my feet slide, the blood on the ground,
congealing, turning almost brown as it dries. I run to the
nightstand and grab my phone, but it slips out of my hands and
falls onto the bed. I look at my bloody hands, rub my palms
along my leggings, and pick up my phone again, feverishly
typing in the security code. Cassius is the only one I can tell,
the only one who knows about what I’ve created. I have to call
Cassius. But I don’t even have his phone number. I stomp my
foot and curse the entire world, shoot out my arm and yell,
“Come!” to Bastian’s phone, and it flies to my hand and the
screensaver about kills me. It’s the picture he took of me at the
beach. A wave of nausea hits me so hard I cover my mouth to
keep from being sick.
I have to save him, I have to get my shit together. I unlock
his phone and scroll through his contacts until Cassius’s name
appears, and I stare at it for a moment before tapping his name
with my finger.
“Baz?” Cassius asks, as if he can sense something is
wrong.
How can I say it out loud? How can I tell Cassius what I’ve
done? “No, it—it’s Aster.” I pause, gathering every ounce of
strength in my body. “He’s bleeding out, Cassius. He’s filled a
bathtub with blood and—”
“What are you talking about?” he roars. “You have to stop
it! He’ll die if he keeps bleeding out!”
“I was able to cast a spell to make the bleeding slow to a
drip, but I can’t stop the bleeding on my own. What do I do?”
“Let him feed on you! Go!”
“I can’t! My blood is cursed!”
The regret, like a dagger to my heart, and his silence is
worse than his rage. But then I get one slow and steady
statement.
“You two are my fucking nightmare.”
“What do I do?”
“There’s nothing you can do! And I can’t even fly there and
back in time by sunrise!” He goes silent and I know he’s
thinking, but I really want to scream, just scream at him,
scream at anyone because my heart is going to rip out of my
chest and I can’t catch my breath. I sink to the bed, place my
head between my legs, and try to inhale deeply as tears drip up
my forehead.
 “I’ll see if I can get someone there to fly you guys home.
He needs vampire blood to start healing him. Text me the
address and keep my fucking BROTHER ALIVE.”
The line goes dead and I frantically text him the hotel we
are staying at and want to scream into the pillow but—Bastian,
so I slip both our phones into the pocket of my robe and run
back to the bathroom floor.
The blood is dripping so slowly from his dry lips, the
cracks filled with dried blood, and I drop my forehead to his.
“Your asshole brother is figuring this out, baby. He’ll help
us.” I kiss his lips but he still can’t focus on me, and I try to
think of another spell, something else to save him, but it’s like
my brain is a slug, sticky and thick, so I just run my fingers
across his eyebrows and I hold him, hold him so tight. He’s
still there, and it will be okay, it will be okay. And this is the
cost of my creation. I’m killing him and I wish, wish that I had
said no. Those months ago, inside The Jazz House. Said no to
Bastian’s request because now he’s practically dying in my
arms. But saying yes gave him to me, gave me a love so deep,
so penetrating, so fucking true.
The bathroom is covered in blood and if we have to move
him, he’ll need to be cleaned up. I can’t just sit here and wait
so I get up and wet a towel with warm water and pull it across
his face, cleaning the blood streaks, and he only looks paler
now. Cheeks sunken, eyes hallowed and staring blankly at the
ceiling. Once his face is clean, I move to his chest, my hand
slowly wiping away the blood, the pieces of him. Vampire
blood is a different consistency than human blood and seems
to take longer to dry. It’s all over the floor, and you could soak
in the amount in the bathtub.
A phone rings and I almost jump as my hand pulls both
phones from my pocket, and it’s Cassius calling Bastian.
“Just listen,” he orders. “Curtis lives in the city, he’s going
to get you guys on a private jet about twenty minutes away. No
commercial flights, so you won’t have to deal with a lot of
people. He owes me, so he’s been advised not to ask any
questions. If he does, don’t answer. He’ll be alone because
he’s the only one I trust to keep his mouth closed and will be
there in fifteen minutes.” The words storm out and I’m trying
to keep up. “We can’t waste a goddamn second, do you get it?
Curtis will give Bastian blood to start the healing process, but
he needs to be home, watched, and properly cared for. Be
ready, got it?”
“Fifteen minutes?” I say as my eyes look at Bastian’s
blood-soaked clothes and the crimson stained bathroom.
“Be ready,” he says, and the line goes dead and I grab
Bastian’s hand.
“Someone is coming to help us. Bastian, can you hear me?”
I squeeze his hand and he just stares at the at the bathtub, the
blood still dripping from his mouth, his body stiff, and I cry so
fucking hard my chest feels like it’s been punched.
I stand, wiping the tears from my face, and push out the
terror of what losing him would be like. I have to get us ready.
I close my eyes, spread out my hands, and command,
“Weightless,” placing every speck of energy on Bastian’s
body. Once I feel the spell form, I raise my arms and open my
eyes to Bastian’s body lifting from the ground. I weave an
invisible web in my mind, wall to wall, beneath his body. It
knots and folds and hangs, building underneath him—holding
his body in the air, as if he’s lying on a hammock.
After I pull his stained sweats and boxers off, I wash my
hands then run into the room and rifle through his suitcase
until I find another pair of each, as well as a shirt, socks, and
sneakers.
I grab whatever towels we have and throw them on the
floor to soak up the blood so I don’t slip, return to him, clean
and dress him, floating in the air, pulling on his clothes as
blood still drips from his mouth to the floor.
“I love you, I love you,” is all I can manage to get out.
Once he’s dressed, I push him through the bathroom door,
still floating, light as a feather, onto the bed, ordering the webs
to disintegrate.
 “Pack,” I say as his clothes begin to pile onto themselves
into his luggage, and I look to grab anything of importance
from the bathroom, but there’s nothing. A razor, shampoo,
nothing that matters.
I look at myself in the mirror, turn the water on, and wash
my arms and face. My hair is stiff with dried blood so I pull it
up into a messy bun, hoping to hide the evidence.
I strip in the bathroom and run to my bag, pulling out
leggings and a sweatshirt, and just as I finish, there’s a knock
on the door. Walking slowly to the peephole, I swallow, my
finger going to that hollow in my neck, that one Bastian loves
to kiss.
He must sense my approach because right as my fingers
trace the doorknob I hear, “It’s Curtis.” The voice is deep and
dignified. I pull the door open to a man that looks more like
he’s running for Congress rather than a vampire, and I worry
that I’ve been duped.
“Aster?” he says with an eyebrow arching up, and I jerk my
chin down and take a step back.
Curtis is so very tall in a grey suit with a red tie around his
neck. He pushes up his Harry Potter style glasses and extends
a professional hand in my direction. “Pleasure to meet you,”
he says.
“He’s on the bed,” I spurt out because my heart is beating
at a dangerous pace, and the idea of this man being a vampire
has me skeptical.
Curtis walks past me to Bastian. “Cassius told me he
needed blood, you’re okay with…” he trails off and I nod
profusely, and that’s when he eyes the bloodbath that is the
bathroom. His eyes widen and he swallows, his nostrils
flaring. “Let’s just get things moving along,” he says, and I
can’t quite read if he’s upset or uncomfortable but it doesn’t
matter.
The question of if he’s a vampire is soon answered as
Curtis tilts his head back, eyes rolling, inhaling, and that’s
when his fangs elongate, his tongue running over the left one
and then the right. He nips at his wrist then places it onto
Bastian’s open mouth.
It’s like I’m not breathing, my stomach and lungs frozen,
hoping for Bastian to blink, to awaken, to move…but none of
that happens as his mouth fills with blood with no reaction.
Curtis brings his wrist to his own lips and licks the tiny
wound he inflicted upon himself, and the bleeding stops.
“It didn’t work?” I ask, walking to Bastian, running my
hands through his hair.
He digs inside his jacket, producing a syringe, and that’s
when Cassius starts calling Bastian’s phone but my eyes are
transfixed on the blood-filled syringe and I miss the call.
Curtis pulls Bastian’s shirt up, placing the needle over
Bastian’s heart.
“What is that?” I ask, but he ignores me and injects the
blood into Bastian’s heart, and that’s when I hear another
phone ringing.
“Cassius, he hasn’t responded to the injection.”
I hold my breath as if to quiet my thoughts, hoping to hear
what Cassius is telling Curtis.
“Well, there’s a problem with the bathroom. It’s covered in
blood.” Curtis’s eyebrows crinkle as his eyes meet mine and
then he extends the phone to me.
“Yes?” I swallow, my eyes going to Bastian, still lifeless.
“You have to get the blood cleaned up. But they need to
leave immediately.”
They. Not me. I’m sick all over again.
“I need ten minutes. I can have it cleaned—”
“There’s no time!” he rages. “He’s not responding, don’t
you get it? The injection in the heart means it’s bad. There’s no
fucking time!”
“Fine,” I say, tears pouring into my mouth. “I’ll take care
of it.” I swallow the curses sitting on my tongue because I can
tell that Cassius will stop at nothing to save Bastian.
Curtis pushes a wheelchair inside and parks it by the bed as
I hand the phone to him. He puts it to his ear and listens while
I climb next to Bastian.
“I’m going to meet you at the airport,” I whisper, knowing
I may miss the plane, but if he can hear me, I want him to
know I will try—halt stoplights and street signs to get to him.
“I have to clean up the mess here, but I will get to you. I
swear, I’ll be by your side as soon as I can.” I wipe the tears
from my cheeks as his face remains vacant and look up to
Curtis staring at me with a sincerity that’s almost painful. “Got
it,” he tells Cassius and then hangs up.
And now he knows. Knows that a witch and vampire are in
love, and he feels sorry for me. I understand why Cassius
trusts him. Politician or not, he pities a witch.
“We should go,” he says softly and gently picks up Bastian
with great ease, then places him in the wheelchair. Bastian’s
head falls forward and I try to adjust it then pull his hoodie
over his head. I kiss his cheek, and my knees might just crash
to the carpet. But I stay upright and bite my lip as Curtis
wheels them out of the room.
With wavering bones and a spinning head, I cast our things to
finish packing. I slide both of our phones into my purse and
put on my shoes.
Then I walk to the bathroom. A pool of blood in the tub.
Stained towels scattered on the floor, the sink stained with
watery blood. It’s on the carpet outside the bathroom, it’s on
the walls, it’s pumping through my veins as I’m terrified.
Nightmares aren’t made up of vampires and ghosts and
monsters. Real life nightmares are losing what is most
precious to you, and it’s never a what, it’s a who. I let down
my walls and I fell so hard, and now I could lose him and for
what?
Phones, a phone. Ringing so I run to my purse and pull out
both of our phones and it’s Cassius calling Bastian.
“Hello?”
“Are you finished?”
“No, I’m—”
“He won’t leave without you, Aster. He’s threatening
Curtis. And Curtis has strict orders from me.”
Mouth dropping, heart-stopping, something pops in the
back of my throat. “He’s talking?” I ask, disbelieving my ears.
“You’ve got five minutes!” Cassius yells.
 “I can do it,” I say, so much joy swelling inside me that
he’s awake.
“Good,” he says almost tenderly. “Aster, he’s not out of the
woods, far from it. Please hurry.” And that’s when I want to
cry the hardest.
“Okay. Cassius…thank you.” The line goes dead and I run
to the bathroom.
It takes six minutes to cast the spell, the blood being wiped
away by magic, as if the last horrific thirty minutes never
happened. I leave the room, a suitcase rolling in each hand,
and walk with a speed I didn’t know I was capable of. It feels
like hours to get outside, the mechanical doors opening from
my proximity, walking to a black Mercedes SUV with Curtis
propped on the outside, arms crossed. He looks worried and
frustrated until I approach.
Grabbing my bags, he orders me to get in the back with
great relief in his voice.
I see Bastian, eyes closed, leaning against the window
behind the driver’s seat, the hood still pulled over his head. I
open the door, a treacherous feeling surrounding me because I
was expecting him to be awake, sitting up, showing signs that
he was improving. But he’s slumped over just as he left me,
and I feel my hopes deflating.
I fixate on his eyes and they slowly open, so sunken in, so
sick, and he licks his dry lips and my heart stops right then.
“Get in,” Curtis orders just as Bastian’s hand rises, reaching
for me.
“You heard the guy,” he says, words slurring like he’s
drunk, and I grab his hand and slide in next to him. With his
hand in both of mine, I press it to my lips and look at him, my
breath so loud between us it’s borderline embarrassing. But
this is what dreams are made of and it wasn’t for nothing. This
hope rising inside of me, this is what makes life worth living,
and I kiss his fingers and run my hand along his sunken cheek,
and with tears streaming down my face I look up at him.
“She cries,” he whispers.
 “You are in so much trouble.” And his mouth curls into a
smile and his head rests on top of mine and I can finally
fucking breathe.

A redeye flight on a private jet gets us back to New Orleans

right before daybreak. We quietly get in the car that awaits us
at Louis Armstrong Airport. Bastian resembles a zombie more
than a vampire but sleeps the entire trip except for the times he
must transfer from seat to wheelchair.
The gate opening to his home causes my stomach to churn,
because I know what lies behind that gate.
Cassius. Cassius, and if he wants to play nice, I can play
nice. But if he’s settled in anguish and condescension then I
don’t have the patience for any of that shit right now.
And there he is, standing in front of the house, hands
clasped at his groin like he’s The Godfather, wearing only a
black leather vest and slacks like a male stripper.
“Hurry, hurry.” He waves to the car as the first glow of the
sun breaks through the air. I jump out, grab the wheelchair,
and assist the driver in sliding Bastian’s sleeping body into it,
then run him to the opening where Cassius awaits.
“Jesus, fucking Christ,” he says, eyeing his brother’s limp
body. “Well done, you.” And there it is. Anguish and
condescension.
“Don’t fuck with me right now,” I warn and turn back to
the wheelchair, noticing Bastian’s grin.
“You think that’s funny?” I say and his head falls back,
looking up at me as I push him into the house.
“You know what your anger does to me.” He smiles and I
pull the sunglasses off his face. Green eyes so dim, almost
death-like, setting my heart in flames. “I love her so much,
Cassius.”
“Oh, she’s something special,” Cassius says, gliding next to
us. I park Bastian in the parlor once we are safe from the light
of day.
 His fingers snap, nails sharpened almost to a point, as he
calls out for Jerimiah, and a man is instantly near us, walking
straight to Bastian and raising his wrist to Cassius’s mouth.
His fangs slide out and nick into the tender flesh of Jerimiah’s
wrist. Jerimiah winces as Cassius places his wrist to Bastian’s
lips, leaning down for Bastian to get a better angle. I watch as
Bastian drinks from the human that’s embedded himself into
the vampire lifestyle.
Mother told me of these types of rare humans because the
vampires are so distrustful of humans. But occasionally they
need hosts for such purposes, and the humans are paid
handsomely for their silence.
Bastian weakly suckles, consuming the sustenance he so
badly needs, gripping Jerimiah’s wrist tighter with each
passing second, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him drink from
a human.
“All right,” Cassius says, pulling the wrist from Bastian’s
lips, his eyes still closed, blood drunk. “I’ll take care of it in a
moment,” Cassius tells Jerimiah, and Jerimiah places a cloth
over his wrist and disappears into the bathroom.
Cassius produces a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes
at his brother’s mouth in a most tender way. Bastian reaches an
arm out to his brother and Cassius grabs it, falling on bended
knee to meet his brother’s eyes, and I swallow a nest of
spiders. This is the most Bastian has said or moved since I slid
in the car next to him—he’s happy to be home, and there’s
hope quaking through my body.
“I hope you realize you’re done with this daywalking
business, Baz. I know you’re still very ill and now’s not the
time to discuss, but you must never take it again.” Cassius’s
fingers dig into Bastian’s hand, both their eyes rimmed with
blood for different reasons.
Cassius takes a brief physical inventory of Bastian, looks in
his eyes, pulls up his shirt, placing his hand over Bastian’s
heart.
“There’s much to discuss, but right now I need to sleep.”
Bastian’s words are strained again as if the small sentences
he’s said have taken the life out of him. “Thank you, brother,
for getting us home. I love you.”
Cassius nods and raises his eyebrows toward Bastian’s
room, so I push him to the bedroom door, Cassius walking
slowly behind us. I cast the doors open and once inside,
Cassius gathers my once hefty boyfriend into his arms while I
slide open his bed, where Cassius deposits him.
“Vampire blood has healing effects, but we can only
tolerate small doses of it. The injection from Curtis and the
blood from Jerimiah will start the healing process. But he’ll
need to feed more often than usual to regenerate his cells,”
Cassius tells me as I slip Bastian’s shoes off.
I nod, playing off that it’s something I’m comfortable with.
“Men,” Bastian whispers, and I pull the covers up to his
chin. An order to his brother.
“He’ll take whatever you can get,” I say because now isn’t
the time for my jealousy bullshit.
“Jerimiah can provide mostly, but you’ll kill him if he’s
your only supplier. I’m working on others.” Cassius pulls out
his phone as I slide out of my shoes and pull off my
sweatshirt. I need a shower and food, but I just want to lie next
to him, just for an hour at least. I just want to see his chest rise
and fall, full of already dead organs that were on the brink of
being extinguished.
“I’ve made up a room for myself and will retire for the day.
I’ll be staying here. As his caretaker.” Cassius’s eyes penetrate
mine, his head tilting forward, his middle part so perfect even
in his time of great distress.
“As will I.”
At that he turns, shutting the double doors, and I slide next
to Bastian, my head on his chest, his arm automatically
wrapping around me.
“So tired,” he whispers and coughs, blood sputtering
between his lips. I freeze, but the cough subsides and I wipe
his mouth.
 “He’s right, you know. It’s over.” There’s such a sickness
inside of me, taking root in my bones, a sick worry that he’s
still in danger and I just need it to be clear. The potion days are
over.
“Over,” is all he whispers before his breathing evens into
that rhythmic sleep sound he makes.
FALLING ASLEEP IN HIS ARMS is all I could ask for right now,
heaven on Earth, a couple of hours of peace. But the grumbles
of my stomach and bladder awaken me.
In the shower, remnants of blood wash down the drain, and
a flashback of the hotel room grips me, the blood-filled tub,
the soaked floor. I cling to the glass, catching my breath and
remind myself that it’s over, it’s over. We made it.
But it’s not enough. I turn the shower off, wrap a towel
around my body, and walk as fast as I can just to see him still
sleeping soundly and I exhale shakily, chanting to calm
myself.
Food—I need food, so I wrap my hair in a towel and pull
on a maxi dress. Tiptoeing downstairs, I realize that Jerimiah
and Cassius are somewhere in the house, and it makes me
uneasy. It is daylight and Cassius should be sleeping, yet when
I enter the kitchen, there he is—seated at the long island, his
head in his hands, a bottle of red wine in front of him.
His head whips my way before I can turn around, so I keep
on course.
“I thought you were sleeping.” And when he says nothing,
I cross my arms, announcing, “I need something to eat.”
His graceful hand gestures to the pantry where I grab the
cereal I left last time, but there’s no milk, so I just pour it into
a bowl and consider leaving but instead place the bowl on the
counter. There’s so much I want to say, tell him that I agree,
the potion days are over and that I know I’m to blame but I
just watch him, my lips parted, unable to spew it all out.
“I didn’t want to sleep, just in case…he needs me.”
He looks awful now, eyes red and skin greyish in hue. I’m
sure he needs to feed and sleep as well, but his duty to Bastian
has taken precedence. His devotion to his brother is clearer
than crystal.
“Thank you, for getting us home.”
His fingers spin the glass on the table, nails long and
pointed. Cassius is all beauty and goth and everything you
would expect from a true vampire, a real Lestat.
“Will he be okay, Cassius? Please tell me he will be okay.”
At that, his mouth curls into a sardonic grin, eyes meeting
mine. But he sees something, perhaps my complete
vulnerability, barefoot and braless, my hair wrapped up in a
towel, my heart probably the purest it’s ever been. So his grin
falls and he takes a sip from his glass.
“He’s gray, his body almost diminished of blood. I’ve seen
it before. It’s going to take time for his body to rejuvenate.
He’ll be weak for a long time. But he will be okay…
eventually.”
I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding and
swallow. “I’ll do whatever I can, you know. I love him more
than anything.”
An eyebrow rises in amusement and he pulls out the bar
stool next to him. “Have a drink with me.”
If this is an olive branch, I’m suspicious. But for Bastian, I
grab a wineglass from the cabinet and set it next to the bottle
on the counter.
Cassius pours it half full as I sit next to him.
“You say you love him, but I wonder if you really know
him.”
 “I fucking know him.” It simmers out of me, my jaw hardly
moving, my eyes rimmed with tears I dare not let fall. I don’t
know why it slices me so, maybe because I’ve never let
anyone know me the way Bastian does, and I want to be that
person for him.
A cord of tension builds between us as I breathe heavily,
trying to remain calm. There’s something to be said about two
creatures that are powerful. Neither of us has the upper hand,
we both have supernatural forces on our side, we don’t trust
each other, and we are aware that this could turn nasty.
“I know him better than you ever will. I’ve known him
longer and I loved him so much that I chose to save him from
himself, from his own demons, when I chose to turn him.”
My back slumps against the chair as I think back to when I
interviewed Bastian. How he told me Nicola turned him at a
bar. How he didn’t want to talk about it, how unexciting he
made it sound.
“He said Nicola turned him…why would he tell me that?”
His fingers tap on the table; he swivels on the bar stool.
“Why does he do half the shit he does?” He looks off in
bewilderment and then runs his hand down his chin. “Bastian
had his demons and I ached to be his mercy.”
Bumps rise across my arms; I understand an ache for mercy
as well.
“What demons?”
His eyes go dark and wet and he wipes down his perfectly
groomed mustache with his thumb and index finger.
“Did he tell you how we met?” Cassius looks at me like
he’s challenging me, and I’m glad I know the answer.
“In a bar,” I say and flick my thumb with my middle finger.
“That’s where, I’m asking if he told you how we met.”
I shrug because he didn’t want to talk about the details and
now I feel foolish. Suddenly hot, I pull the towel from my
head, my hair falling sticky wet around me.
 “When I met Bastian, he had literally just been thrown on
top of a taxicab.”
“On top?”
“The bouncer had enough of his mouth and picked him up
as he screamed profanities and threw him on a cab parked on
the street.”
“Quite a meeting.”
“Quite. But it wasn’t anything new to Bastian. You see, he
was a drunk. A drunk on the verge of dying when I met him,
and a drunk until the moment I turned him.”
I blink, hoping my surprise doesn’t betray me.
“He said it was Nicola.”
“He lied.”
The wine tastes bitter as I swallow, and I set the glass on
the table and meet Cassius’s gaze. “Why would he lie?”
“To protect me. To protect my selfishness and to salvage
me of the eternal guilt I feel. It’s the lie he’s told everyone, so
don’t take it personally. Turning a vampire is the most selfish
thing one can do. And so now you know that we are indeed
blood brothers and the connection he feels to me is not just an
emotional one. My blood pumps through his veins for all
eternity.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Well…he was charismatic. He was everything I wasn’t.
Fun, funny, full of life, and he laughed. He laughed all the
time, and I wanted a piece of that. I craved it. And he was only
twenty-six but he was dying. So I replaced the addiction to
alcohol with an addiction to blood. His existence as a vampire
has both saved and broken me.”
I’m silent, yet my eyes must encourage him to carry on.
“We became friends first. I wanted to taste freedom and I
thought I could learn it from him. It was weeks of friendship
before I turned him. But you must understand, his skin was
yellowing, I could smell the death on him. The loss of his
brother was killing him through the drink, and so I became his
brother in blood…and now I want to leave him. I stay in this
wretched existence for him. And once again, I’ve let his
carelessness almost end him.”
“Did he want it? Did he ask for it?”
Cassius pulls on his ear lobe in contemplation and then
delivers a sharp, “No. He didn’t know what I was or what he
was becoming until he became. And there it is.”
“Why are you telling me this?” But I know the answer
before he tells me.
“When he offered me your potion, I knew it came at a cost.
As tempting as it was, I knew. But Bastian, he was born with a
freedom I can never possess, never learn. And he can be free
yet a slave to something at the same time. I don’t want that
potion, and he can’t want it anymore either. It will end him.”
“So what’s happened,” I say, putting the pieces together, “is
that I’ve created a new addiction for him.” I clutch the wine
glass so tightly it cracks between my fingers, delicate little
slits making it look more beautiful than damaged. “I don’t
understand why he would lie to me, keep this from me.”
“His drinking consumed him, and it was a source of great
shame. We all have secrets, my dear. But it ends now. Do you
understand?”
It’s a threat, but I’m not threatened by it. I would do the
same thing if I were in his shoes.
“It ends now. I understand completely.”
“Good,” he whispers and sips on his wine. “I need rest.
You’ll call me if I’m needed?”
“Of course.” I grab my cereal and towel and wrestle with
everything Cassius has told me.
I SLINK INTO BED ANDwatch Bastian’s every sleeping move. All
I have is my cell phone, stale cereal, and my thoughts.
Cassius’s spewing of the truth, the truth that Bastian never told
me, has my pride wounded because he’s right. He will always
know more about Bastian than I do.
But also, he was the kindest he’s ever been to me, so hope
ignites that maybe he can accept me. I can’t see my life
without Bastian in it, and Cassius is so important to Bastian.
But what does that mean? How can Bastian stay in my life
without us being found out?
When the sun finally goes down, Bastian’s eyes flicker
awake and I look up to him.
“How do you feel?”
“Like a million bucks. Let’s go dancing.”
My hand finds his and I squeeze.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his bare chest so hollow and
sickly looking.
I run my finger under his chin and try to smile. “No,” I
whisper and lay my head back on his chest.
He’s silent, contemplating what to say next, and I slide my
arm across his stomach and hold him tightly.
“I have really fucked things up, creating that potion and—”
 “Don’t start. Don’t start with your regrets. I can’t bear it.”
His voice is stark and I sit up, my spine hardening. But once I
look into his eyes—so red, and cheeks—so sunken, I realize I
can’t be mad at him. Not at a time like this.
“Tell me how you saved me.” He coughs and blood sputters
on his lips again, and I dab it away. Thinking back to San
Francisco, the city I only saw through a car window, makes
my heart pound like a hammer. I don’t want to go back there,
but he needs to know. So I tell him everything. He listens in
silence, save his ragged breath and slight coughs here and
there, but there’s a gentle look on his face, almost serene.
“I knew it was bad when I woke up and felt the blood
raging inside of me. I hoped it would come out and I could slip
back to bed without you knowing. But hanging over the tub is
the last thing I remember, until Curtis got me in the car. And
now, you’re really screwed. Because I can’t live without you.”
A weak hand runs through my hair, and how he’s staring…
“I’ll never get tired of how you look at me, as if I created
the planet Earth with my bare hands. As if I’m one of the
seven wonders of the world.”
“Because you are. Even if you’re my witch that can’t grow
things,” he laughs.
“See, I can’t fix everything. And you’ve brought me to my
knees twice now. There can’t be a third. Creating something
that could have killed you is something I’d never have
recovered from. In witchcraft, there’s something to be said
about the power of three. We must respect it and we must fear
it.”
“I get it,” he says and slowly lifts his hand to my face. His
thumb runs along my lip, and I grasp his hand as I close my
eyes.
And a text comes through on my phone and my heart
drops.
“Shit,” I say, looking at a text from Aunt Violetta. “My
aunt, I didn’t text her back.”
“About the visit? When is it? Tomorrow?”
 I nod, my finger hovering over the text from her wanting to
confirm a time.
“Tell her you found someone.”
My head whips to meet his eyes.
“Tell her that you found someone and you’re trying to get
pregnant. That will buy you some time, right?”
I breathe out, the lie so easy, and I wonder why I hadn’t
thought of it.
She might see right through it, but it might also give me a
little time and I don’t want to leave Bastian yet. I text her
quickly, my fingers flying over my phone.
No need to come and make demands. I’ve found someone
and will be pregnant in the very near future. I’ll let you know
all the details during my next visit.
“We’ll see,” I say more to myself than Bastian, but he’s not
even looking at me now; he’s not really looking at anything,
and I’m reminded of everything Cassius told me.
I won’t bring it up now. He’s too weak to speak of such
things. So I curl into him for a few more moments until there’s
a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Bastian chimes, and Cassius walks in.
“You must feed, Baz.” He takes hesitant steps toward us
and sighs deeply once his eyes set on Bastian’s. “You look like
utter shit.”
Bastian coughs and laughs at the same time. “Well, then I
look how I feel.”
Cassius sits in the chair next to the bed, his elbow on his
knees. “Jerimiah will supply you tonight, but by tomorrow
night, he’ll need a break. I’m gathering people that will
hopefully invigorate you.”
“Whatever you say, Brother.” Bastian winks at me and it’s
such a small gesture, but I’m grateful he’s able to do it.
Jerimiah enters the room, hands clasped before him.
 “You can stay if you’d like,” Bastian says, and I rise from
the bed, sliding onto the chaise lounge, discomfort swallowing
me.
I watched Bastian drink from Jeremiah’s opened vein when
we arrived, but this is different. This time Bastian’s eyes dim
with hunger as if he’s ready to pounce like a jaguar.
Jerimiah sits next to Bastian on the bed, offering his neck.
Fangs slide out, his chest labors as he grabs Jerimiah by the
back of the head and his eyes meet with mine. I nod, suddenly
wanting to witness something that is so vital to someone I love
the most. He nods back and takes the blood from his offering.
There’s a breaking of flesh, like an animal, something entirely
inhuman and I’ve never felt so riveted, disgusted, and
enthralled all at once. My fingers writhe against each other,
my eyes fixating on them, and Cassius leans next to me as
Bastian is lost in his meal.
“Not for the weak,” he whispers and before I can respond,
claps his hands and pulls Jerimiah from Bastian’s embrace.

Aunt Violetta texted me back, buying my lie, for now. She still
managed to throw in a threat that I better have plenty of
details, so my tangled web of lies only grows, and I’m shocked
I haven’t heard from Mother.
Bastian’s recovery is much slower than I had hoped, and
who knows how long I will need to stay with him. So I decide
to sneak to the shop to collect some items and my most
important possession, Mercury. This means I will have to tell
Chantal soon, but I don’t think about that at the moment.
There’s so much to discuss, and that time is fast approaching.
I go early evening, once Cassius is awake and can care for
Bastian. He’s still weak and needs to feed soon, and I hope to
get back before that.
Upon opening my front door for the first time in weeks,
Mercury runs to me and I drop to my knees, an overwhelming
agony taking over me.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper as he meows, begging for my
affection, and I finally let myself break down, on the entryway
floor, Mercury in my arms.
I gather myself, wiping my eyes, resolving to do better—
better by Mercury, better by my business, better by Chantal. I
check on the store, my emails, and whatever shipments have
come in. I clean the glass on the display cases and dust all the
shelves. It all feels so distant now, my once life of slinging
potions to vampires and making jewelry for tourists. But it’s
who I am, and life isn’t always glamorous.
After I’ve packed a fresh bag of clothes and have Mercury
stowed away in his cat carrier, I go down to the store to grab a
few crystals for a spell. It’s getting late and I need to get back
to Bastian. Just as I put the crystals in my bag, I see Chantal,
unlocking the shop’s front door, and I freeze.
She’s silent as she sways through the door, inventorying my
bag and Mercury, hair in a tight bun, gold hoop earrings bigger
than my fist. It’s hard to swallow, with her intense gaze
stripping me down, a glint of anger in her eyes.
“You’re in trouble, cousin. Don’t deny it.”
I lick my lips, Mercury’s meowing making it hard to think.
“I won’t deny it,” I whisper, meeting her gaze.
“Do you need help?”
“No,” I say it quickly, but then meet her eyes. “Not yet, at
least.”
She pulls her bottom lip in her mouth as her eyes narrow.
“It’s that vampire, isn’t it?”
I feel my mouth widening from disbelief that she’s nailed it
so perfectly, and I don’t want to lie anymore but don’t want to
implicate her. “You would never let a vampire grab you like he
did that night after my show. It’s been picking at me ever
since, and I was so drunk…”
I walk to her, getting close enough to smell her Victoria’s
Secret perfume, wanting to pull her hands in mine. “I have
wanted to tell you everything, believe me, I have. But I can’t.
Not right now. Don’t make me.”
“That sounds a lot like trouble to me,” she says, lips
quivering, eyes searching my face.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”
“Don’t say love,” she huffs, and her eyebrows furrow as
she takes a step back. At first, it feels as if she’s repulsed, but
then suddenly, as if terrified I might vanish before her eyes,
she pulls me into her arms. “I won’t ask. Just promise me.
Promise that if shit gets bad, real bad, you’ll come get me?”
“I promise.” A whisper on her shoulder, her arms around
me, her chin against my cheek and I squeeze her harder than
she’s squeezing me. “Thank you, Chantal. Thank you.”
“This is fucked up,” she admits. “Not knowing what’s
going on in your life. That you’re keeping secrets. It hurts,”
she sighs and releases me. “Jade will find out—”
“No, she won’t,” I say, and she silences, suspicious.
Tears well in my eyes and with one blink, race down my
cheeks. Because we are both trapped, her with so many
questions and me with so many confessions.
“Please believe that I haven’t told you for your own safety,
and not because I didn’t want to share it all with you. It’s been
killing me.”
“Jesus Christ,” she whispers, acceptance in her voice. “Be
careful.”
“I’m the most careful,” I say before I can think, and then I
meet her eyes. “I guess I used to be. I have to go.”
In silence, we walk out together, hand in hand, until our
fingers part and she turns, walking in the opposite direction.

Bastian isn’t in his room, and he isn’t answering my calls. I

free Mercury in the bedroom and set off searching for him, my
heart strumming from what just happened with Chantal and
worrying if Cassius and Bastian left.
 No one is in the kitchen, nor the dining room, but the den
doors are closed and I press my ear to one, where music plays
softly.
Sliding my fingers along the door, my heart beats in my ear
drum.
The first thing I see is a woman’s face, wrapped in ecstasy,
assaulting my eyes—her arm draped over her head as she lies
on the couch, her legs spread wide. And there he is, attached to
the inside of her thigh, consuming her blood and he’s
ravenous. His hand is sprawled, his fingers stroking her other
thigh, a thigh that’s not mine.
ICE FREEZES IN MY VEINS at the intimacy, of my love between
the legs of a beautiful woman, of her fingers wrapped in his
hair, his head moving so gently, pulling the blood from her leg
into his lips and I’m going to be sick, absolutely sick from the
betrayal I feel.
Her eyes are pressed closed, lost in the pleasure of it all, a
pleasure I can never feel, and when I want to just fall to my
knees, I see Cassius. On the adjacent couch, blood dripping
from his chin, a young man draped along his lap. A sadistic
grin pulls on his face and impulsively, my fingers claw, my
power wrapping around his neck from across the room and I
squeeze.
The grip around his neck causes shock to cross his face and
then I let go, because I can’t actually suffocate him to death,
but I can shake him up, I can remind him whom he’s fucking
with. He brought her here, he did this on purpose.
Like a cougar he bolts up, the boy plopping to the ground
as he charges me, but I step back, slamming the door closed
before he can reach me.
It will only buy a few seconds. He could kill me for what I
just did, but I just stand back, collecting as much power
between my fingers as I possibly can to shoot his ass across
the fucking street if I have to.
 The door flies open and he slams it shut behind him and my
hand rises, full of so much electricity, it’s crackling between
my fingers.
“Stay the fuck back,” I warn, chest heaving, fingers
outstretched in front of me.
He halts, wiping the blood from his face and taking slow
steps in my direction. I keep the electricity in my fingers, but
he swiftly drops to the floor and my feet lift from the ground
—that motherfucker swept my legs right out from under me,
and I’m on my back faster than I can blink. Cassius speed
crawls on top of me, the wind pushed out of my lungs, and
pins my hands over my head. Vampires are fast, and it’s on me
that I got sloppy.
“Use your powers on me one more time and I will slit your
throat.”
In the human world, those kinds of words can be seen as
violent or threatening, but I’m unshaken by them, just pissed. I
try bucking my hips to throw him off me, but he’s got a
thousand pounds of strength in his thin body.
“You fucking piece of shit. You knew what you were
doing.” My mind pours heat into his hands, but unlike the time
I did it to Bastian, Cassius keeps a firm hold.
“So this is how you deal with conflict. Use your power.
Threaten, kick people around.” He nods to the crackle in my
palms, the volts of power. “Put that away.”
I do it. Cassius won’t hurt me, but he could. He could break
my neck right now before I would have time to react if he
wanted to.
“Behave,” he snarls and slides off me.
I lie still, breathing heavily on the floor, turning my gaze to
his.
He pulls his hand through his hair with a sneer, tongue
sliding over his fang.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me and don’t you dare talk to me
about threatening people.”
 “I’m just making an unfortunate observation, darling.”
“Your kind has benefitted from my power for a long time,”
I say, but Cassius is wise and I hate it. He sees too much of
me. The parts I keep hidden from most. The parts I usually
only show once I’ve chosen to, and now my lip is quivering
and the energy builds in my fingers once again. My defense
mechanism, my lifeline.
“What can I do? He has a taste for beautiful women.
Believe me, I brought her for me. But he had to have her and
there was no stopping him. That’s our life, that’s how we live.
That’s what you better get used to if you continue to risk
everything you have to be with him.”
The room spins, because perfect strangers can give Bastian
what he yearns for. Something I can never let him have. Not
ever. And it’s as if Cassius reads my mind. His expression
goes slack, his chin dips as his eyes try to meet mine. I sit up,
resting my elbows on my knees.
“So what if he craves the blood of beautiful women? He
withstands it most of the time.” He wags a finger at me. “For
you. Look at me, I have an affinity for young blood, and I
fight it every day. We can’t help our tastes, but we can control
them.”
“That’s control?” I say, pointing to the closed door where
Bastian feeds.
“He’s insatiable now. He can’t control himself. He must
feed and feed often. I brought the boy for him, I did. But he
was taking the woman before I could do anything. We must
take what we can get. Luring people to the Garden District is
trickier than in the Quarter.”
Everything he’s saying makes sense, and if Cassius yearns
for youthful blood and doesn’t act on it, maybe there is some
good inside of him. Yet I can’t get the grin on his face when I
walked in the room out of my mind.
“You delighted in my pain.”
“I’m vampire. What brings us more joy than great pain?”
 My fingers crackle and his eyes travel to my hand. And he
widens his arms at his sides, palms flat out as if taunting me,
as if saying, ‘Hurt me, I dare you.’ So instead of electrifying
him to death like I long to do, I rise, walking straight past him,
and throw open the door.
Bastian has had his fill and is sitting on the floor, eyes
closed, his head resting on the woman’s leg. She lies on the
couch still, her mouth turned with a satisfied smirk, lost in a
pleasure filled dream, and I look at the two small circles on her
thigh, the blood caking around them.
My cream sits on the table next to her, and through the
burning, I dab some on my finger and rub it over the bites,
watching as the holes rejuvenate with skin. And it’s confusing
to be amazed yet plagued by what I can do at the same time.
Grabbing a towel, I wipe up the blood that made its way
down her thigh onto the couch. An overwhelming flood of
guilt hits me. This is not consent, and most days I can ignore it
because I bare no witness to it. But today, I can’t ignore it,
much like I couldn’t that boy on the couch that evening at
Nightwalkers.
Bastian looks up at me with red rimmed eyes and he’s still
so weak. A torture takes over his face, a deep sense of remorse
as he looks at the woman on the couch and back to me.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His head drops in his hand,
seeming too heavy for his neck to hold up.
So many emotions pummel me—guilt and rage and pain
and it’s too much. I feel myself vibrating, my power begging
to be released. But I look at Bastian on the ground, his mouth
whispering too many “I’m sorry’s” to count, and I remember
who the fuck I am.
I kneel before him. “Let’s go, love. There’s nothing to be
sorry for.” And I pull him up, wrapping his long arm across
my shoulder so that I’m his crutch. We stumble past Cassius,
his face blank, his arms crossed.
“You’ll take care of this?” I nod toward the people in the
room behind us. With a heart as heavy as iron, I know there
are changes to be made, but the only thing I will focus on right
now is getting Bastian to his room.
“Heyyyy,” Bastian coos to Mercury, fingers outstretched
once he sees my little black cat, that sweet tone that only
Mercury is granted.
“Easy,” I say, trying to hold Bastian up, and I need to call
upon my powers for the strength. He plunks into the closest
chair, and Mercury jumps right on his lap, purring like I’ve
never heard him purr before.
A soft smile reaches Bastian’s lips as he pets Mercury, and
his hands have blood on them and he’s shaking. Beads of
sweat form along his brow, his white shirt stuck to his skin.
I strip his jacket off and run my fingers through his wet
hair. “How about a cool bath?”
He swallows, his hollow cheeks shimmering under the
lights, his head nodding.
Once the bath is full, I lead him to its edge, falling to my
knees to unbutton his shirt, sliding off his shoes and socks.
“Cassius really felt it necessary to dress up?”
“He always feels it’s necessary to dress up.” His thumb
runs along my stomach as I pull his shirt off his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and my fingers grip his chin, forcing
our eyes to meet.
“Stop it. You need to do whatever you can to stay alive.”
His head gently nods. “Mouthwash,” he says, pointing to
the glass container filled with Listerine. I rise, grabbing the
Listerine and cup, filling it, and handing it to him.
A gesture for me, to rid his mouth of another person’s
blood because if I really thought about it, it’s a little sickening.
While he takes a swig, I pull off my jeans, top, and
undergarments, and he stares at me the entire time.
“If I only had the strength,” he sighs, and I long for his
touch. For the intimacy, but we can’t push it.
 “Plenty of time for that later.” I place the Listerine back on
the counter and sit in front of him, unbuttoning his pants, and
he grabs my neck and looks into my eyes.
“My dark hearted guardian angel.” He leans down, kissing
me so tenderly. The first time our lips have touched for more
than a second since he got sick, and if this isn’t serendipity, I
don’t know what is.
I help him into the bath and then slide in behind him, legs
wide, pulling his back against my belly, his head against my
chest.
My fingers dance through his thick hair, massaging his
scalp, wanting him to feel all my love, all my sorrow, all my
regret. His body, like a sigh of relief against mine. Long and
languid and I want his healthy body back. I wish I could will it
or charm it back. But there’s only one way, and it’s blood from
others.
“Baby?”
“Hmm?” His eyes are closed, his body relaxing more and
more.
“It’s not the beautiful women that you crave. It’s the fact
that they can give you what I can’t.”
Fingers find my calf and squeeze.
I go on. “I know that’s it’s foolish and that you love me.
But it kills me that I can’t give you what you so desperately
want and need now more than ever.”
“But you have what I so desperately need. Something no
other woman in seventy years has had. If you would just
believe that already, your life would be so much easier. And
the magic we create when we are together—objects flying in
the air, the energy—I’ve never felt anything like that in my
life. I have a taste for women’s blood, yes. But I have a deep
seeded love for only one woman. We are magic, you and me.”
I run my fingers down the sides of his neck and along his
shoulders, smiling at him, at his perfect words. “I’ll work on
it,” I whisper, and he nestles back against my chest. I wrap my
arms across him and his arms coil around mine.
 “Cassius told me the truth. That he made you.”
I’ve caught him by surprise and delivery has never been my
strong suit. “He also told me that you had a drinking problem.
And…I’m not trying to put you on the spot. I’m not angry you
lied. I just want to understand why.”
“Jesus, did he tell you when I lost my virginity too?”
“No, should I ask him?”
He sits up in the bath, the water loud and swooshing around
us. But he’s showing strength he hasn’t shown in days. His
back is less grey, the skin still not tan, but hopefully we are
making progress.
After a moment of contemplation, his voice fills the quiet
room.
“He found me on the street, drunk and ruined and good for
nothing. And he saved me, and he’s hated himself for it ever
since. So I lie and tell people Nicola made me because she can
carry the burden that my brother can’t seem to.”
He spins around to face me, face looking fuller, eyes less
red.
“I didn’t know I would have the privilege of falling in love
with you. So the little lie seemed inconsequential at the time.
As for my drinking…” His eyes look in the water at his
crossed legs in front of him. “It’s something I would like to
forget. A time in my life when I let my pain and desperation
win. It’s quite shameful, really, how I behaved. How I lived.”
Pulling my legs into my chest, I watch his fingers fidget
and it’s these smallest movements that show me he’s coming
back from his illness.
“I gave you something to be addicted to. The potion is your
new alcohol.”
Bastian grabs my hands, pulling them into his, as a chill
runs through me at how very quickly he can move.
“Since I’ve been a vampire I’ve only been addicted to one
thing. You. Could the potion have gotten out of control?
Absolutely. But that was nothing like how I craved alcohol,
couldn’t live a day without it. I’m sorry I was ashamed of my
weakness and I lied. Back then I never thought I would be
given the chance to love you like how I love you now.”
And suddenly, it doesn’t matter anymore. Who made him,
his drinking, when he was human, and why should it? It has
nothing to do with us, with our relationship. It’s a lie I can live
with, and I can’t live without him.
I open my legs and glide onto his lap, legs wrapping around
his waist. I kiss his shoulder, colder from the water chilling his
skin.
“You’re healing, I can see it,” I whisper, laying my head on
his chest as he inhales the scent of my hair.
“Better days are ahead, my love. I can feel it.”
I’M SITTING ON THE PORCH, sipping my tea while staring at a text
from my mother, stuck in a repetitive cycle of typing a
response, then deleting it, then typing another response.
Bastian gets stronger every time he feeds, and I know that I
have to go home soon, I have to go back to my life. To my
cousin, my shop, my duties.
I look to my phone again, tired of the lies, tired of dodging
her and her questions. But I’m tired of being abandoned by
her, tired of her only caring about me having a fucking baby.

How are you able to keep the shop closed for so long? It
doesn’t add up, Aster.

I blow out my cheeks, letting the tea warm my throat, my

stomach. I’m running my fingers over my face, attempting to
project a calm over myself, but she’s not the only person that
can feel something is wrong. Change is coming and it’s either
for the better or for the worse, and I can’t decipher which one.
Cassius’s classical music echoes down the entryway to my
ears as car lights illuminate the street, the car slowing to pull
into the driveway. I rise, a current burning through me, and run
in the house to find Cassius.
 “Take me,” I whisper, and I’m guided to his bedroom, the
door open, him standing in front of the full-length mirror. As
he’s pulling on his coat for an evening out, our eyes meet in
the reflection.
“Someone’s here,” I say, and he spins, passing me by, his
face stoic and determined.
“Tell Bastian to come out, and you and that cat wait in his
bathroom.”
But that’s as far as we get once we reach the entryway.
Because Nicola and Franklin Maltese are standing there,
Nicola’s face twisted with a kind of fear I’ve only seen on
mothers.
“No!” she shrieks when she sees me, and Franklin sneers
with what looks like a twisted disgust, and I collect all the
power in my fingers that I can muster.
Bastian appears, shirtless, and thank God his color is back,
his body hard and muscled again, the weak and hollowness
gone.
“This isn’t true, tell me! What they are saying?” Nicola
screams at the three of us, and I can feel Cassius’s anger, I
could reach out and touch it.
“Fucking Curtis,” he whispers, and Franklin saunters
toward us while Bastian steps backwards, guarding me.
“I didn’t believe him at first, no, sure didn’t. When he
reached out and said something was going on right under my
nose in New Orleans. I couldn’t believe a family of this caliber
would go behind my back like this.”
And this is it. What I’ve been fearing since the moment I
agreed to work with Bastian. It’s happening and I may die and
it all hits me at once. I will fight for my life and I will fight for
Bastian’s. I step out from behind him and let the power grow
in my palms, the sensation from energy filling all the way to
my elbows.
“You’re a fucking traitor, Bastian Delacroix, and now your
whole goddamn family will pay for it,” Franklin spits, and I
wonder how much he knows. If this is Curtis’s doing, he must
not know about the potion.
Franklin’s eyes skirt to me, my body filling with a power
I’m worried about deploying.
“What are you gonna do, baby girl? Here I thought your
mama was all the trouble; seems the apple don’t fall far from
the tree.”
“What are we being accused of?” I ask.
His guttural laugh forces his head back. “Yeah, you witches
always need to know the charges before the hanging. Fucking
witches is against our laws, fucking vampires is against yours.
You’re going to lose it all. Your grandma would shed a tear.”
“You don’t know shit about my grandmother,” I yell,
inching forward, my fingers cackling. Please let him only think
it’s fucking. Not love, not illegal potions.
“I’ve had a witch on standby for years in Shreveport, and
she will be our supplier from here on. The agreement has been
broken. You are fired.”
And a panic consumes me, my life’s work being ripped
from me, and I’ve wanted it gone, but then I don’t at the same
time. I look at Bastian who’s breathing heavily, shaking his
head, worried about me.
“Don’t do that,” he says, outstretching his hand toward
Franklin. “We can work something out.”
Rage cracks inside of Franklin’s demeanor and he’s off the
ground, flying at Bastian, knocking him down with a slap of
bare skin hitting marble, and Bastian is on the ground with a
knee in his chest, a hand around his throat.
“You couldn’t keep it in your pants, you dirty witch
fucker.” Franklin’s hair dangles over Bastian’s face and I look
to Nicola, who is standing with eyes closed, fists balled.
Franklin is the Vampire King, the strongest vampire in this
house, and we all know it.
He’s squeezing Bastian’s throat and I think he can’t kill
him, I think he can’t, but I’m not sure because he’s still weak
and I feel the power rising as blood builds in Bastian’s eyes
sockets.
I look at Cassius, his eyes glued to Franklin’s hand around
Bastian’s throat, his chest heaving up and down.
“Franklin, what are you going to do?” Nicola’s desperate
voice quivers, sliding to her knees next to her son. “What are
you going to do?”
Blood erupts from Bastian’s mouth and he’s not entirely
healed yet and Franklin doesn’t know he was weak to begin
with.
“Cassius,” I whisper while Nicola begs on the floor and
Bastian’s fingers dig into the marble ground. Bastian struggles,
blood spurting from his opened lips, running from his bulging
eyes.
“Cassius?” I plead again as Nicola wails, begging Franklin
to unhand her son.
Stop him, Cassius mouths, and in one second I have
Franklin Maltese flying through the air and crashing into the
stairs. I don’t allow his shouts to distract me; I’m
extraordinary at throwing fuckers around.
“Shock,” I say, and bursts of electricity erupt from
Franklin’s heart forming a web along his torso, zapping his
entire body each time he moves a muscle, his shrieks of pain
satisfying to my ears.
Bastian coughs and Nicola is holding him up, eyes jumping
from me to Franklin to Bastian.
Franklin’s hurling curses and moans while Nicola begs me
to stop. But I don’t stop. I let the electricity roll through my
fingers onto Franklin’s greasy hair, his little muscular body,
his cracked leather vest. Cassius looks upon Franklin with a
sadistic satisfaction, and it only fuels me to go harder.
And that’s when I hear Bastian’s voice. “Baby.”
Head moving to him—he looks at me and mouths, That’s
enough.
 But I don’t want to stop. I look at his blood-streaked face,
reminders of the night in the hotel, but I didn’t do it this time.
Franklin did and he’s going to fucking pay.
“Stop,” he says with more force, and I look at him again.
“Please.”
So, my fingers ceasefire, my arms dropping to their sides,
while Franklin writhes on the floor with moans of agony and
blood sputtering from his mouth. And that’s when the pain hits
me, fingers so raw they feel like they could drop from my
palms.
“You fucking whore, you fucking witch bitch whore,” he
coughs, and I just stare him down, the pain in my fingers
telling me I really gave it to him.
“Good luck starving on Royal Street. You’re done. You’ll
never work again.” He’s almost laughing now, slithering
around on his knees.
“Fine by me,” I say, and Bastian rises.
“Bastian Delacroix, you are hereby excommunicated from
the Vampire Alliance of Louisiana.”
My eyes shoot to Bastian, his head downcast. I look to
Nicola and I’ve never seen her so weak, so complacent, and
her mouth just sits open, her heart in shards of glass.
“Please, no, no, no. Please,” are the only words that she can
form, and Franklin wipes blood from his chin.
“Would you prefer death? Because I’ll kill them both right
now.”
I move forward, but Bastian grabs my arm and squeezes
tightly—a warning. Freedom, he mouths, and I still at that one
word and what it means to us. Freedom.
“No,” Nicola says, hands in the prayer position. “No death,
thank you. Thank you.”
A fever washes over me, and I’m unable to decipher how I
truly feel. This is the moment I’ve been so terrified of. My
mother finding out. Witches turning on me, vampires hunting
me down. But I’ve got Bastian now.
 Maybe this could mean freedom.
“You’ll be hearing from me.” Franklin waves his finger to
the both of us. “The fine print, the details.” And he saunters up
to me, wreaking of blood and grease, waving his tongue out.
“You must be a solid lay,” he whispers, and Bastian’s fist
clenches and Cassius moves quickly in front of his brother.
“Ignore it,” he orders.
“What’d you do? Put a love spell on him? Make your pussy
call his name?”
It happens before I can stop it—I spit on his face. Cassius is
seething with rage now, but Franklin only laughs. A leathery
finger wipes the bubbles of saliva from his cheek, placing it on
his tongue.
“Yummy,” he chortles, turning around, screaming, “I HATE
THE GARDEN FUCKING DISTRICT!”
And then he’s gone. And all that’s left is Nicola’s rage. A
smack lands across Bastian’s cheek, so hard his whole face
turns from the blow.
“You knew about this?” she screams at Cassius, and he just
crosses his arms.
“Unfortunately.”
“Get out!” Nicola screams at me, and if she touches me…
Bastian turns to me, grabbing both of my hands and
bringing them to his lips, and I hear Nicola’s voice. “Are you
fucking kidding me?” she cries, but I keep my eyes on
Bastian’s.
“Go up to my room. Let me speak to my mother.”
That’s not a conversation I want to take part in, so I nod,
purposely avoiding Cassius’s and Nicola’s glares. I dart up the
stairs.
THE DOOR SLAMS BEHIND ME and I just lean against it, taking
deep, deep breaths, my lungs filling with cement, my feet
sliding from under me. Franklin’s going to tell everyone. My
mother, Chantal, Aunt Violetta and Rosemary—every witch
alive that I’ve consorted with the enemy. I can lie, I can say
it’s not true. And they don’t know about the potion, please
don’t let them know about the potion. Hopefully I can be
forgiven for sleeping with a vampire, but creating a potion is
unforgiveable. They don’t have to know it’s more than just
sex, that it’s the wildest love I have ever known, and I want to
weep in my hands but Mercury fills them instead, meowing
repeatedly as if to comfort me, to tell me it will be okay.
It hits me that I’ve lost my job, my most major source of
income, and how will I explain to my mother that it will be
okay? That my home is paid off? That I don’t have to worry
about that income? I hated it anyway, I hated it and I could for
a moment feel hope but I’m cloaked in worry and I can only
hope that Bastian is okay downstairs with his brother and
mother.
But Aunt Violetta’s cut; oh God she’s going to kill me.
What am I going to do? I’m one of the most powerful
creatures on earth yet still bend to the will of vampires and old
witches. And even though they cannot drink from me, they are
sucking the life out of me.
 I pace, praying that it will be okay. I consider
eavesdropping, listening in on the conversation, but I don’t
want to hear it, so I walk into the bathroom and fill the bath
with steaming water and lavender and that’s where I stay until
my fingers are wrinkled.
Finally, the door creaks open, and there he is.
He moves slowly, so very slowly for a vampire, and I sit up
quickly, water swooshing over the tub. He sits on the edge,
raising a knee up in front of me, his black sweats sopping up
the water. The silence attacks my ears and I look for signs that
he’s been hurt or crying, but instead his mouth curls into a grin
and he leans down and grabs both sides of my face.
“We are free.”
I grab his wrists and let his head fall on mine, a relief
taking over him.
“How? In what way?”
He pulls his head off mine, aventurines meeting my eyes,
and contentedly shakes his head. “My mother worked out a
deal with Franklin. I am excommunicated and you don’t have
to make potions anymore. We can do as we please. We don’t
have to abide by any ancient agreement.”
I stand, a rush filling me, a fire blazing at my feet. Stepping
out of the tub, I grab my towel and wrap it around my body.
“What does excommunication mean for vampires?” I sit next
to him, hair slicked back, water dripping down my chest.
“I can’t work at the bar anymore. I can’t take part in any
vampire activities. I am supposed to be shunned, go into
hiding, live my life in seclusion for the rest of my days. But
my mother will never seclude me, and I don’t have a big
circle. I just started working at the bar again. I do collect from
the family earnings and that is supposed to cease, but I have
my own fucking money, I don’t need it. Since this is a family
home, I will have to walk away from it.”
“Okay, I guess that’s not so bad,” I say, clutching my towel.
“There’s one more thing, what will hurt the most.”
 “What?” I ask, my breathing frozen.
“I have to leave New Orleans.”
And that’s when my jaw drops and my hand falls to my lap.
“Bastian,” is all I can say.
He grabs my hand, rubbing his thumb along my skin. “I
know. But there’s a beautiful world out there and I can show it
to you.”
I shake my head. So many changes in a matter of hours. I
was just sitting on the porch, thinking about going back to my
life, and now it’s all flipped upside down.
“You want to be with me, don’t you? I know you do.”
“I do, of course I do. But what about my mother? Will they
tell her? I send money to our elders, to my mother…”
“We will figure that out. I’ve got a lot of money hidden,
Aster. I’ll pay your elders. And yes, the news will make its
way to your mother, but you are the one we’ve been doing
business with now, and you already know that you’ve been
fired.”
“You can’t pay my way forever.”
“Yes, I can.” He cracks a smile. “This is it. It’s our out. Let
me show you the world. And you will always have a home to
come back to. You can rent it out, for God sakes, make a
fortune off of that.”
“Over my dead body,” I warn.
And he raises his hands in surrender with full lips
whispering, “Okay, okay.”
“My aunt gets a cut of everything your family pays me. If I
stop bringing her the money—”
“You’ve lived your entire life doing what everyone else
wants you to do. It’s your turn to do something for yourself.
Do you get that? I will send your aunt money every week if
that’s what it takes. But you need your freedom too. You
deserve it.”
 “If Franklin tells Violetta…I don’t even know what will
happen. It will all come crashing down.”
Bastian grabs my chin, forcing our eyes to meet. “Then let
it. Let go.”
I’ve struggled so much, trying to hold the weight up—what
if I just walked away? What would happen? What would it be
like to live life on my own terms? In love with a vampire? It
seems so clear now. I can choose that. I can choose to let it all
go. But can I give up everything I’ve worked for?
“What do I tell my family? There’ll be repercussions. But I
don’t want to lie anymore.”
“Then don’t. Send a letter on the day we leave. Tell them
everything. Suffer the repercussions. Accept your fate. But for
God’s sake, live your life for you.”
“What if they come after me? After us?”
“Then we fight. Fight for the freedom you so deserve.”
“We fight,” I whisper, a finger gliding along my garnet
rings.
Bastian nods, his hunger is growing. I can hear the growls
in his stomach, the hitch in his breathing, and I realize my legs
are shaking because maybe this is really it. Maybe this is the
freedom from the life that has been forced on me since my
birth. I’m ready for it. I’m powerful and have been carrying
this coven on my own for six years. I can just come clean. I
can just accept my fate. I fell in love and I didn’t mean to, but
I did. I gather my bottom lip between my fingers and nod my
head softly.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he says, his hand running down the back of my
wet hair.
“Where you go, I go. Okay. I’m a capable witch. I can
make money many ways.”
And his lips spread and my lips spread and we smile
together at a terrifying yet thrilling unknown. He kisses me
hard, so hard, and everything in my body yearns for him. The
want and desire pull in my belly, and his hands grab a firm
hold around the back of my neck—all I want is him. Forever.
Why did it take me minutes to decide, when I have never
been so sure of someone in my entire life?
“Bastian, I need you,” I whisper against his cheek and he
groans, picking me up from the edge of the bathtub and
carrying me to his bed. Laying me on the sheets, he slowly
untucks the towel from my chest and shakes his head.
“I’ve missed this,” he sighs, and just when he pushes on top
of me, there’s a rapping at the door that can’t be ignored.
“Open up or I’m coming in,” Cassius calls, and Bastian’s
fangs push out and he bucks in anger.
“You need to eat, anyway,” I whisper and kiss him before
slipping out from under him and pulling on a dress. My heart
is racing from desire, but I’ve learned what’s best for Bastian.
And being hungry after not having sex for as long as we have
is not a good combination.
The door opens as Bastian drops to his back on the bed, and
Cassius knows he’s interrupted something. A disgust washes
across his face as if saying, “At a time like this?”
“Satisfied?” Cassius asks, looking me dead in the eye, and I
feel my eyebrows practically touching my forehead.
“Shut up, Cassius,” Bastian says, sitting up, arms propping
on his knees.
“Franklin wants you out tomorrow. We’ll get you packed
up tonight and then you’ll just have to lie low. Stay under the
fucking radar, so we can get back to our lives, okay?”
“We’re leaving. We just need some time for Aster to handle
her affairs and then we’re out of here for a while. You can tell
us when it’s safe to return.”
“You’re not allowed to stay with any vampire in New
Orleans. You need to leave immediately.”
“I just need a few days,” I say, knowing I need so much
more than that. But I’ll have to make it work.
 “He can stay with you?” Cassius asks, and I nod.
“Of course, yes,” I say, and our eyes meet.
“Looks like we’re going to play house after all,” Bastian
says as Cassius approaches with that disgruntled look on his
face.
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?” He rolls his eyes and
turns to me, producing a card. “This is Antoine. He’s a human
whose family has been contracted with us for generations. Call
him first thing in the morning and tell him you need to
‘childproof your home.’ He’ll know what you mean.”
I take the card, turning it between my fingers.
“Will you need a bed built?” Cassius asks, and Bastian
shakes his head.
“No need. We are going to my house in Paris soon. The
lightproof windows will do for a few days. But she needs
some kind of security,” Bastian says, and my head shoots up.
“The fuck I do. I’m my own security.”
“She has a point,” Cassius says with the tip of his thumb in
his mouth. “The way she manhandled Franklin was…
impressive.”
A satisfied grin pulls on my face. “Though your approval
wasn’t necessary, it is appreciated,” I say, and with a bored
sigh, his eyes jump from me to Bastian.
“I think the two of you are well equipped to defend
yourselves. Sunrise is upon us. I will get you a meal, and then
we’ll get you packed and into bed.” He turns to me and taps
the card in my hand. “He needs to get your home childproofed
by this evening. He can do it.”
“Thank you,” Bastian says to his brother, then climbs out of
bed and pulls a shirt over his chest. “We’ll get through this. I
know I haven’t even been back very long, and you’re already
helping to get rid of me.”
“I’m helping to save your life. Not seeing you for a decade
or two is better than losing you completely. You’re so damn
frustrating.” And at that, Cassius turns and leaves, a trail of
curse words following him.
WITHIN AN HOUR OF CALLING, Antoine was at my door, taking
measurements of my windows, drawing floor plans of each
room and shaking his head as if this just won’t work.
“It’s quite small for my customers,” he sighs, running a
calloused index finger across his perfectly groomed mustache.
“It’s temporary,” I say, squaring my shoulders and blinking
slowly.
“Very well,” he says, and before the sun is even close to
setting, every window in my home is shuttered closed from the
inside and lightproof.
And just as Antoine packs up everything and his crew
leaves, I get a text from Bastian.

Hotel Monteleone. Lobby. 9:00PM.

I dress for him. Hair in a high ponytail. Skater skirt and

thigh-high boots. I don’t know what to expect but I haven’t
spoken to him all day, haven’t seen him in fourteen hours, and
when I walk in, he’s in a high back chair of the lobby, lips so
pouty, fingers pressed against the armrests.
I sit across from him, a slow jazz song crooning low for all
inbound New Orleans travelers, but all I see is him. His thumb
running back and forth along his bottom lip, elbow propped on
the arm of the art deco-styled chair. He smirks at me, those
lips curling up toward heaven, like he could fuck me right
here, but staring at me is just as satisfying.
I suck on my bottom lip, an exuberating quiet taking over
me, and we sit apart yet so very connected. This is it. What my
lonely life has been missing. This is what people die for, this
feeling right here, something that can’t be touched yet is so
palpable between us. No disguises, no hiding, no sneaking,
just staring and soaking.
Quite suddenly he jolts up, offering his hand and I take it.
He pulls me up and close and then we are swaying back and
forth in the hotel lobby and absolutely no one is watching and
that’s what I love about New Orleans.
He dips me, fingers pressing into my back, his nose
running up my neck, and my chest heaves. Kisses land on my
collarbone, traveling up my neck to my jaw, so sensual, so
slow, and I’m a firestorm inside. It’s been so long…
“No more hiding.” His lips move closer to my ear and he
whispers, “I think I love it.”
We stare at each other, soft smiles on our lips from a
feeling of freedom we had only been afforded for a week in
California—until now. Creating a life where anyone can see
us, anyone can judge us and we will not care. We make our
own rules and what a fucking feeling.
“I think I love it, too.” My finger strokes his ear, my head
tilted to the side, just taking in his beauty. Everything I thought
my life had to be, all the rules put in place before I was even
born, and now I can choose to break free from it. I don’t have
to make a potion I felt was unethical anymore. I can love
whom I choose and let them come after me. I’m strong and
together we are stronger.
“We can have a baby,” he says and I pull back, swallowing
hard. “Yeah, you can get a donor, but we can raise her. If you
still want your bloodline to continue, you have that option and
I will love her, love her like she is my own.”
 There’s a quiver in my chin and I can’t formulate words. I
shake my head, my first instinct to protest, but why protest?
Why protest when it’s an option? Do I still need to have a baby
if I’m leaving my entire world behind? Am I still bound to a
legacy if I no longer am a part of its coven? I don’t know. So I
just lay my head against his chest and revel in my absence of
words.
“Let’s go home,” he whispers and I look up to him, close
my eyes, and nod.
The hotel is two minutes from my house, and I can’t unlock
my door fast enough. He unbuttons his shirt as I jog up the
stairs. It’s been so long, too long, and I pull off my boots and
he picks me up and takes my mouth, gently placing me on the
bed.
“I knew the moment I looked into your eyes, that you were
my future. I swear, I knew.”
“How did you?” I whisper. “How did you break down a life
that has been all barriers and boundaries? How the fuck did
you do that?” I breathe out the words as his thumb strokes my
cheek.
“You did it, my girl. We are meant to be.”
I kiss him, kiss him so hard because he’s my future and
there are no more barriers. We are one and we are meant to be.
“I want you. I want you forever,” I sigh.
He groans, grabbing the back of my neck, fangs sliding out,
and I trust him wholly and completely. His breath tickles my
skin, the warm, moist air setting my body aflame. His eyes
meet mine, his tongue peeking out from between his fangs,
and presses so gently along the base of my neck, up, up, and
my legs cling to his waist, my hips grinding against him while
his tongue reaches my jaw, my chin, my lips, and that’s when I
take it in my mouth and unbuckle his pants. We undress until
we’re naked, bodies grinding with anticipation.
“Be gentle with me, it’s been a while,” he teases in my ear.
I smile because this is what my forever will be and I guide him
into me so gently, gasping because I could never forget what
he feels like, but it’s just so consuming every time.
He is my shrine. An altar before me, and I open myself to
him and only him and I worship like I’ve worshipped no other.
This is my church, the holiest thing I’ve ever known, the
purest love to exist. Because it wants nothing from me but to
be loved in return, and I don’t know this kind of selflessness
but I bow to it. I fucking bow.

After, I lie in the crook of his arm, his fingers caressing my

hair, the blood pumping through his body to the sweetest
rhythm, the rhythm of us.
“Have you ever lived with anyone before?” he asks, eyes
on the ceiling.
“Is that what we are? Living together?”
“Don’t you think so?”
I rest my chin on his chest, looking at him, his beauty. “I
guess. No, I’ve never lived with anyone but my mother and
grandmother.”
“I’m going to show you the world, Aster. I’m going to give
you the world you deserve.”
I climb on top of him, and he pushes my hair behind my
shoulder and stares at me as if I’m not covered in flaws, as if
I’m perfection. “You just name the place, you name the place
and we’re there. Your happiness is what matters most to me,
from now on. Do you understand that?”
There’s an intensity in his words, in his voice, and I crack a
smile.
“Take it easy,” I laugh, but his hands squeeze my waist, my
naked body sitting on his.
“I’ve waited for you, for this—this freedom. You gave it to
us. I’m going to spend the rest of your life repaying you for
what you’ve done for us.”
 I’ve never meant so much to anyone before and I want to
trivialize it, I want to make it a small deal, but it’s a big deal.
My own mother left me as soon as she could, didn’t want to
make me happy or see my potential, and I know I’ve been
searching for that. I’m not sure getting it from Bastian is the
right way to make up for my mother’s neglect, but I will take
it. For now, at least.
“That baby thing. Were you serious?”
“I never say things I’m not serious about. It can be done.”
“It’s not something I want to discuss now because there’s
just too much going on. But I would like to discuss it later. If
that’s okay?”
“The offer will permanently stand.”
I don’t know what the future holds with my coven, but I
know I won’t single handedly end my bloodline because I fell
in love with a vampire. I know that one day I would like a
child, when the time is right, on my own terms. And having a
child with Bastian by my side sounds so much sweeter than
having a child with a random man I will never see again. It’s
so much to think about, to consider, but it’s an option.
Bastian’s phone rings and he stares at it, sobriety taking
over. “Cassius,” he says and then quickly answers it. He
speaks to him in a clipped conversation then tells Cassius he
loves him, yet sounds exasperated.
“What?” I ask when he hangs up, pulling his hand down his
face.
“Semantics. Franklin has decided to move into my house.”
He shakes his head, biting his bottom lip.
“He literally said he hated it there.”
“I know, right? Seems he’s hell bent on making Nicola’s
life miserable. All the more reason for us to get out of here as
soon as possible with him being so close by. My house in Paris
is ready. Cassius is storing the things I didn’t take. We need to
move quickly. Franklin even called Cassius to ensure that I’m
out of town. Cassius lied for me, but soon Franklin will come
calling.”
 I swallow and look around my bedroom, the spells thrown
about my desk, the picture of Chantal on my dresser.
“Okay. I’m hoping Chantal can run the shop—that’s if she
wants to. I need to speak to her. I need to go first thing in the
morning and tell her everything. My mother can find out on
her own, but I owe Chantal the truth.”
“Of course you do. But enough about that for now,” he
says, hands cupping my ass, forcing me to grind against him,
and his mouth reaches up to kiss mine and forever is looking
like a god damn dream right now.
We make love, we laugh, we plan, I sleep, he writes in his
journal. I rise and dress an hour before sunrise. I draw the
shades Antoine perfectly placed over every window, preparing
for Bastian’s first sleep in my home.
“Go out back, through the courtyard, just in case someone’s
watching,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“Vampires can’t watch me—it will be daytime.”
“Just do it, please.”
I blink, giving in to his plea. “Yes, sir. Wish me luck that
Chantal doesn’t kill me, okay?”
“She won’t. She finds me highly fuckable. She’ll
understand.”
“You’re never going to forget that, aren’t you?” I kiss his
nose, his cheeks, his mouth. “Sweet dreams. Don’t go through
my shit. We’ll go over the house rules when I get back.” I
wink and his eyebrow arches up in the most questioning,
adorable way and I hate that I use words like “adorable” now.
“Hurry home, dear.” He laughs and I laugh and God, I have
to kiss him again, and again, and leave him to his sleep in my
room.
I GO OUT THE BACKthrough the courtyard as Bastian requested
and skip down the street to Chantal’s. It’s after breakfast, so
she should be awake and I pray, I pray that she will be
receptive to me.
I’m in a positive mental state until I find myself actually
knocking on her door. That’s when my knees start shaking and
my palms run slick with sweat.
My phone rings in my back pocket and I pull it out to see
Jade’s the incoming call. I ignore it, suddenly dizzy until
Chantal opens the door, her hair flattened on one side from
sleep, her eyes, two accusatory slits.
“Let’s talk,” I breathe, and she tightens her robe around her
little waist.
“Talk? Oh, there’s lots of talk. Maybe if you answered your
goddamn phone you would know! But there’s lots of talk, and
your mother is going to be in on the secret soon too.”
Why is it that I feel most vulnerable standing in front of her
than anyone else? She’s the closest person to me besides
Bastian, and I’ve been hiding myself to protect her. If she turns
her back on me, I will be broken.
“Chantal,” I say, and have no idea what to say next. If
witches are talking, they can say whatever they want. They
don’t control me or my decisions anymore. “I wanted to
protect you. And lying to you is a betrayal I regret. But I didn’t
know, I didn’t know I would fall completely in love with him.”
Her face softens as she watches my hands writhe inside of
each other. She’s not used to seeing me so weak. “Get your ass
in this house,” she says and widens the door. I follow her into
the kitchen where she takes off her robe and silky leopard
pajamas after rifling through a laundry basket. Without
breaking eye contact, she pulls on a pair of shorts, bra, and a
tank top.
“You fell in love with the enemy.”
“That’s exactly what Cassius said.”
“So every-fucking-body knows, huh?” Her nostrils flare
and I shake my head.
“Nicola and Franklin just caught us, the night before last. I
have been trying to figure out how I was going to tell you,
because I couldn’t bear the thought of you hating me. There’s
so much I need to tell you. What did you hear from Franklin?”
“He’s put out word that a new witch is taking your place.
One that’s not in our coven. I don’t know who yet, but that’s
not cool, Aster. Not fucking cool.”
“Who did you hear it from?”
She pours two cups of coffee, back turned to me as she
speaks.
“Jade told me, and it won’t be long until it makes it to Aunt
Violetta and Aunt Rosemary.
That’s why Jade was just calling me. I have to tell Chantal
about the letter I’m sending, how I’m going to come clean to
everyone, but I suddenly can’t breathe, my chest catching on
an inhale.
Turning, she offers a cup of coffee, but a shock erupts in
my hand while reaching for it. My fingers barely touch the
porcelain when another jolt erupts up my palm to my elbow
and the coffee cup plunges to the floor, shattering into a
hundred tiny pieces.
 The shock, excruciating and live, bolts through my spine
and something is wrong. Our eyes meet as my legs ignite with
pain—electric, exploding pain. I look to my garnet ring
burning against my finger, warning me. I’m in danger. And the
only way I can think to stop it is to get home.
“Chantal!” I scream and she looks at me, confused.
“Home,” I say, turning, running out of her kitchen, and she’s
behind me now.
There’s a viper in my chest, and it’s pulling me, pulling me
down Chantal’s street, onto St. Ann, down Bourbon, and I hear
the sirens—they are far away, but I hear them and I know. I
see smoke and the viper pulls me, and Chantal is shouting my
name behind me but I can’t stop, I can’t stop because
something is happening at home and I don’t know what it is,
but I see streets of blood, I see ash and fire and I see pain and
sorrow.
There’s screaming. Is it in my ear, in my brain? Is it the
viper? I turn left on Royal and smell the smoke and that’s
when I see the flames and the hole. The gaping hole in the roof
of my home, right over my bedroom, and the entire roof
aflame. I scream louder, and arms encircle me, pulling me
from running into the house.
Chantal hooks my elbows through her arms and pulls my
back against her chest. Her words are slow and forceful.
“You’re a witch, you’ll burn.”
“Let fucking go of me,” I scream, the flames rising, the
siren deafening, as my room incinerates. Chantal has me
locked in her grasp, so I scream, I scream until my lungs ache,
until my throat feels like raw pieces of flesh. Bucking against
her, calling my magic, I scream until the clouds rip open and
rain pours upon us in fat drops, water filling my open mouth. I
writhe and buck and it’s daylight, the sun is pouring right into
my bedroom, right on the bed where I kissed Bastian goodbye.
And there’s no time. No time to be standing around. He had to
have gotten away, had to have, but he sleeps so heavily and I
close my eyes. I can get her off if I just collect myself but
that’s when her grip loosens and she shouts, “Okay, let’s go!”
 And I’m free and running to my front door but it’s locked
so I use all my strength to kick it open in front of the crowd
that’s forming but I don’t care. I’m up the stairs in seconds, his
name leaving my lips again and again as I navigate the smoke-
filled hallway, Chantal at my heels.
“No, no, no,” I cry, batting the smoke that surrounds us,
seizing our lungs.
We cough and cough, me searching, Chantal moving her
hands in big circles, using her magic to clear the smoke,
chanting, and I scream his name, scream it, because the
firemen will be inside any moment and I have to find him, to
hide him. And how many times will he make my heart stop?
“Bastian!” I look up to the entire roof of my home burnt to
the heavens, my feet slushing through the rain-soaked carpet.
“Aster!” Bastian shouts from somewhere in my room, and
my body ignites because he’s alive so I let the tears roll from
my eyes because he’s not gone.
But shattering shrieks of agony echo from my bedroom and
I can save him, I can save him, please let me save him.
I turn to my bedroom. And there he is. Lying on the floor,
one arm stretched toward me as the sun rays pour over his
beautiful face.
“Oh my God,” I choke out because he’s burning,
incinerating before my eyes. Paralyzed by the sun, unmoving
across the floor, skin boiling, and he cries, “Fuuuck,” through
clenched teeth, neck tensed with misery. It’s the final stage he
told me about, all his skin aglow, like embers of a fire and he’s
leaving me now and no, I’m not ready. I just found him, I just
found him and I can’t lose him now. I call on a spell, on
anything, darkness, the pitch of night, but nothing happens and
I’ll call on strength to pull him down the stairs, into the closet,
and I grab his hand.
“Chantal, help me,” I plead. “We need strength to get him
downstairs!” I look to her and she falls to her knees, mouth
wide with an overwhelmed look twisting her face.
 “I’ve lifted him before, I can do it again. Help me!” I
scream and she outstretches her hands and begins to chant.
“Aster,” he cries, his hand burning in mine, blood tears
streaming down his glowing face. “I’m going to die.”
“You are not,” I whisper but something tells me, this time,
he’s right. We’ve danced with death before, he and I, and this
time feels different, this time I almost believe him. The power
of three…
“I would do it a thousand times over, it was worth every
second,” he whispers, and his face is gleaming orange now,
burning from the inside out and I squeeze his hand, the nails
piercing my skin. “Aster…” His jaw quakes; he’s shivering
and feverish. He opens his mouth only enough for the smallest
three words to escape. “Baby, let go.”
I scream because it’s a goodbye and I clutch tighter to his
hand and look to Chantal, my head shaking, my heart
booming, NO, NO, NO. Her eyes are heavy with tears as she
pulls her clasped hands against her chest.
I’m not letting him just leave me, so I chant, “Vivere.
Vivere.” The word comes out broken, and I squeeze his hand
and scream to Chantal, “Keep chanting!”
And the glowing orange that rims his body turns to embers
that quickly ignite into tiny flames, engulfing his body, and
magic, magic don’t fail me. I keep chanting, but as the words
leave my lips, the top of his head changes to ash, and it flows,
like dominos until the tips of his toes have followed suit.
His hand, flesh and skin turn to what feels like sand in a
fist. I look to Chantal, the screams leaving my mouth, her
moving to embrace me. There is no Bastian, no words. Just my
palm, full of ash and with that, his obsidian ring.
I’M ALL LIQUID, THE PAINlike a sword, cutting me from head to
toe, my insides puddling around my feet, my soul seeping
through the floorboards down to hell.
I left only with my cat in one hand and what was left of
Bastian in the other—a ring and ashes of what once was the
flesh I worshipped so. Chantal’s voice in my ear, “We have to
go, we can’t stay,” and she somehow got me out the back
though I don’t recall making it her house. Just the screaming,
the shivering, the regret. And she just held me. She just held
me.
On Chantal’s couch I sleep and awaken to the truth over
and over again. Thwacks to the heart, reliving what’s
happened, and curl up with the bag of his ashes to my chest, a
kind of broken pain that no potion or spell can take away. I
had him, I loved him, I lost him, and now I mourn him.
The days roll into nights, the nights roll into days, and I
don’t give a fuck about insurance or claims and I have to lie
and tell everyone no one died in the fire but the truth is I may
as well have died in that fire.
My Bastian was murdered. It was Franklin who had it
done, but did he know Bastian was inside? Or was the fire just
intended for me?
It all makes sense. I fucked with him at Bastian’s house. I
exhibited my power, I humiliated him, and the deal he made
with Bastian was just a cover up for his real intentions.
Murdering me.
Arson, the fire department said. Molotov cocktails on the
roof, and Chantal suspects a witch helped, but there’s no way
of knowing for sure except a life was taken, that was their
intention, and I might as well die now too.
I cry it out and soon after Chantal is whispering on the
phone incessantly, while Mercury, my little survivor, curls up
on me, won’t leave my side, and I don’t want to eat. I don’t
want to drink. I don’t want to go back to a life that doesn’t
have Bastian in it.
I couldn’t save him and how come? How come I was so
late? The “how come’s” and “why’s” torment my every move.
And Chantal is forcing me to drink, to eat fucking Life cereal
for God’s sake, but I couldn’t pull him down the stairs in time,
I couldn’t save him. Vampires are most vulnerable to the sun
and he wasn’t in a fireproof bed because it was only
temporary. We were going to leave, we were going to be free.
What did he wake up to? What went through his mind? The
flames, the sun, his heavy sleep, nowhere to run. It was
supposed to be temporary.
More whispers from Chantal and I hear my mother’s name
and I don’t want to speak to her, don’t want to look at her face,
full of pity and possibly anger for sleeping with the enemy.
Chantal puts a protective spell over her home so no
vampire or witch with ill-will can set foot in, and I haven’t
heard from Cassius nor Nicola but they may want me dead
too. Chantal called Cassius, said the words no brother can bear
to hear. The line fell silent, then a bang and finally the screams
of a suffering man so loud I could hear it from across the
room. Cassius is dying inside now, I know he is.
I rise from Chantal’s couch, a calling erupting my agony. I
have to go home. Because the thought is surfacing, the
forbidden thought, running through my ragged mind. A
wonder at first, and then a feverish question. Can I bring him
back? Death is the punishment—one my own best friend, my
own mother, would have to impose on me if they found out.
An unforgiveable offense.
I need Winnie.
I steal out of the house while Chantal sleeps, wearing her
sweatsuit because the only clothes I have are still pungent with
smoke and death. I carry Bastian with me, in the black velvet
pouch. Chantal scraped him from my locked fist, grey ashes
and that obsidian ring that didn’t protect him, not from what
we created.
If Chantal knew, she’d say no, it’s not safe, too much
danger, don’t go. She’d hold me hostage but I’m already a
hostage to misery. And if someone wants to kill me, they will
do it with me knowing, with me staring them straight in the
eye.
There’s a silence in my courtyard, which feels so wrong as
the loud memories of the fire rage through my mind. My shoes
crunch over ashes against the brick floor, as my garnet pulses,
and my eyes focus upon Cassius.
He’s on the ground, leaning against my back door, head
bowed. He knows I’m here, yet he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t
move a muscle.
“I know it was Franklin,” I say, the first coherent words
I’ve uttered in what feels like an eternity.
If I didn’t know better, I would think him dead, his stillness
making me shiver.
“Of course it was Franklin. Franklin and you.”
I inhale and then he’s flying toward me, so fast I can’t stop
him, but truthfully, I don’t try to. And when I look at him, his
breath sputtering in my face, all I see are his cheeks caked in
blood tears.
A hand grips around my neck, nails digging into the flesh,
and his fangs are bared, strands of hair clinging to the blood on
his cheeks. Eyes wild and cloaked in sorrow, and he turns,
pressing me against the wall and I just let him.
 “Bite me,” I whisper with clenched teeth. “Do it, Cassius. I
die, you die.” And in this moment I could die. I could slip into
a forever sleep. But then I see his face, his eyes, him. Even
though I can’t imagine a world where he isn’t in it, I can’t
imagine what we had—the beauty, the purity, the love—being
for nothing. No, something good had to come out of it and
even though I don’t know what it is now, I have to believe it.
My heart races, the blood pumping in the tips of my
fingers, preparing to cast Cassius off me, but something
changes in his eyes.
“Two,” he mutters with astonished eyes and it’s like a
thunder strike to my core, the sucker punch of a giant fist.
There’s something about how his mouth twitches, how he
gasps, and his fingers slip from my neck and his body falls to
his knees. Two.
Two what?
Crumpled on all fours, Cassius sucks in air like he will
never breath again, his nails digging into the brick, his back
heaving up and down. I’m drawn to comfort him, to help him,
so I slide down next to his writhing body and slowly place my
hand on his back. His head bursts up, fangs readied to kill, and
I pull my hand back to my chest.
“Do you know?” he demands with rabid eyes, and I draw
back again, chastising myself at the thought of offering him
comfort.
“Know what?”
He rolls so that his back is against my home and slides a
knee up for his arm to rest upon. That one word, the way he
said it rattles in my heart. Two.
Sobs break free from his lips and my tears follow as I lie
flat on the brick, arms outstretched as wide as the heavens, the
tears creating pools inside my ears.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.” There’s so much
disbelief, so much shock. I know the screams will come back,
the screams of torture and pain but for right now, it’s silent
tears that can’t believe in this reality.
 We stay like that for minutes, maybe fifteen, maybe twenty.
I’m not really sure. Wrapped in our collective despair, our pain
brimming from our eyes, from every breath we exhale. And
then finally, finally he speaks, while I stare at the stars, the
smell of smoke still wafting in the air.
“I want to hate you, but I can’t. Because I know it was him,
you did his bidding. And I know he loved you more than
anything, more than even me. And to him, it would have been
worth it. Dying so he could feel that kind of love would have
been worth it.”
I clasp my hands over my mouth, my chest crushing, the
hurt stealing my breath.
“And now,” he says, raising his hands, exasperated. “What
have you done? My God.”
Something bubbles inside of me, something I’ve never felt
before—not like this. It starts in my stomach, then rises up my
chest and out of my mouth through a clenched jaw and poison
tongue.
“I’m going to find him, Cassius. He’s going to pay for what
he took from me. From us. From the world. He’s going to
fucking pay.”
His head whips inches from mine, his breath blowing my
hair from my face. “Stay the fuck away from Franklin, from
all of us.”
And then he’s gone and I lie back on the brick,
contemplating the words that just left my lips, startled at how
easily they came out and how very much I mean them.
I AWAKEN, EYES FLYING OPEN, Winnie clutched tightly to my
chest, so grateful Winnie was safe from the fire’s reach. My
stomach flips as Bastian’s face enters my mind’s eye. Gone.
Gone. He’s still gone. Bile rises to the back of my throat as I
gag. I need to move, need to get to the bathroom.
My eyes flit around the room until they fall upon Chantal,
asleep on the loveseat, and I slip to the floor because it’s
coming, so I crawl.
Knees sliding across the hard floor—Bastian’s eyes, his
mouth, his hands. Gone. His eyes never seeing me again, his
hands never touching me. Head hanging over the toilet bowl,
the liquid spewing out of me like magma, like the ash that
became of him. I see his hand in mine, hear his words it was
worth every second. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. I’m empty.
There’s rustling around me, and it’s Chantal kneeling at my
side, holding up my head. I’m on the bathroom floor now, the
acoustics causing my sobs to boom through my ears.
“Aster, babe,” Chantal cries with me as if my pain is her
own and I want to tell her I’m sorry, but I can’t speak, can only
cry.
Steps pound down the hallway, the sound of stiletto boots,
and when I open my eyes, it’s not only Chantal who looks at
me with troubled eyes. It’s my mother. The wild witch is
home.
 She’s biting her lips as she drops to her knees; her black
hair is shorter than ever, her eyes lined in a thick blue. Her
breath—a mixture of mint and cigarettes—is warm against my
ear as she whispers to me.
“We’ll fix it, my baby.”
Chantal holds my head in her lap, her ragged breath giving
her nerves away. My mother is here because Bastian is dead
and the vampires tried to kill me. There’s nothing she can fix,
nothing at all and I hate her. I hate her so much I could vomit
again.
“Aster?” Chantal says, worry in her voice, and my rib cage
jolts from the sick in my stomach. My mother says something,
but I can’t hear her. The vomit is coming and there’s no
stopping it and I don’t even want to. Let all things misery and
sick take me over. Let me feel it all and then nothing at once.
But just as I rise to the toilet, my mother chants in my ear,
that low husky tone I know so well. “Unease be gone, illness
take flight, sickness leave my child tonight.”
The nausea evaporates in my stomach and I breath out,
tears filling my eyes. Sitting up, my head falls into my hands.
“You shouldn’t be here.” I say, and I’ve never heard my voice
so soft, but my mother has that effect on me. I don’t know who
I am when she’s around. It’s been that long.
“There is no place else I should be.” She grabs my hand in
hers and I can’t help that it feels good. I’m so fucked up on a
bathroom floor.
“You’re too late, there’s nothing you can fix, nothing you
can do.” I jerk my hand away. “So just go back to Paris or
Prague or wherever the fuck else you go so men can fix you. I
don’t want you here.”
I pull off the floor, holding on to the sink for support as her
coal eyes sharpen into daggers. Her first instinct is to always
get angry and then cruel, but something softens in her eyes and
she reaches for me.
“Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me.” I pull
back from her, back from the lies. Because now I’m a liar. I
start down the hallway, Chantal close behind me, arms
outstretched around me like I’m a toddler just learning to
walk.
And this scene, this whole scene makes everything in my
body ignite. There’s a fire that burns, rages through the muscle
and bone that barely hold me in human form. Why? Why does
the sight of her feed this desire to let her know everything I’ve
held in all this time? It’s anger, it’s resentment, and it just
wants to spew out of me. Hands brace the wall for support as I
make my way down the hallway, and it kind of seeps out of
me, in a feeble way, voice shaking and cracking, head bowed
to the floor.
“No wonder I fucked everything up—you left me. You left
me shackled so you can be free, you left me because I was a
burden you so desperately needed to unload. You left me
because you couldn’t love me more than the life you wanted
for yourself. You abandoned your only child.”
And my pride is disappointed in my mouth now, as I tell
her the thing my pride never wanted her to know—that
mommy, you hurt me. Mommy, I’m broken.
I turn to her once I make it to the living room, my throat
burning from the vomit, my fingers digging into my palms.
Chantal has tears in her eyes, but my mother, she just stares at
me, as if she’s challenging me, as if she is ready for a fight.
And I threw the first blow. I’ll keep throwing them and I find
my voice and I yell.
“And then I finally, finally! I finally find someone that
loved me, I mean really loved me, and he’s ripped from me.
Gone. He’s fucking gone.” Knees crash to the floor as my head
falls back. I scream as she falls with me, blood in my mouth
and she’s calling me. Chantal’s on her knees too, crying into
her hands, her pain for me so deep, it hurts me to hurt her. My
mother shakes me as I clench my teeth, her shouting my name
over the screeching that erupts from my throat. But my soul,
it’s not even in my body anymore and this hurt is scorching
my insides, cauterizing every vein, everything that once felt a
shred of happiness, an ounce of joy.
 “Aster!” my mother roars through the room, so loudly the
frames on the walls rattle, so loudly, Chantal’s hair blows
away from her face. I silence, taking a deep breathe in, my
throat so raw, my chest spasming from trying to catch my
breath.
And now she looks so undone, the wild witch that always
had the perfect black bob, the Botoxed forehead, the full red
lips. But now, she’s just my mother and she’s gathering me in
her arms and I let her. Chantal’s cries are dying down, and the
room silences as we all collect ourselves. And my mother
whispers in my ear.
“If there was a vampire to fall in love with, Bastian
Delacroix was the right one. He had a pure heart and I have no
doubt that he loved you back.”
There’s something about hearing that, when all this time, I
thought she would kill me, literally kill me. I clutch onto her,
mouth open, but nothing comes out.
“I am here because you need me now, more than ever. You
can’t scare me away.”
“I needed you the whole time,” I whisper, looking up at her,
eyes opened but unfocused.
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Why didn’t you know? You’re the parent, I’m the child.
You should know when your child needs you.”
She laughs like it’s funny and shakes her head. “I thought
you were very much aware that I don’t know shit, especially
about parenting.”
“That was always our problem,” I say with a hiccup.
Chantal’s wrapped her arms around her knees. She’s never
seen me like this, the put-together responsible one, and its
shaken her.
“Aster,” my mother says, her chin on top of my head, her
arms wrapped around me. “I had to go. I had to leave this
impossible life. I’m sorry. I’m here now.”
 It’s an apology at least, something I never thought I would
receive from her and she’s holding me so tightly.
She’s pulling me up and guiding me to my makeshift bed
on Chantal’s couch. Yanking the blanket to my chin and sitting
by my side, her hand smoothing my hair from my face.
“Chantal, how about some calming cakes?” she asks, and
Chantal rises and heads straight to her freezer.
My mother’s eyes turn back to me, the corner of her lip
pulling up. “Who did it?”
“Franklin Maltese,” I say, my voice robotic, no trace of
humanity left in me.
“Well, tell Mother what happened. Because we are going to
kill that son of a bitch.”

Killing a vampire isn’t something to take lightly. I tell her

everything, like I’m a sinner in confession and she’s the priest.
I tell her and Chantal, the one thing I’ve kept to myself, about
the potion—the potion that breaks every witch law—but I
know I need to be honest.
The three of us huddle next to each other as if we’re
trapped in a box, but it’s just to be close. My mother sitting
next to me on the couch, Chantal on the floor. And when I tell
them about the potion, about the day Bastian came to me in the
shop, both of their mouths draw open and I ready myself for
the consequences of my actions.
My mother clasps her hands together and draws them to her
nose. “I knew it,” she says low and breathless. “I knew you
were special. You can create any spell, you can do anything.”
“You guys actually went out in the day together and no one
saw you?” Chantal asks. She’s a mixture of shock and
irritated, my betrayal stinging her.
“We only went out a few times in the Quarter, and I
performed a disguising spell. He took me to California and it
wasn’t needed there. But that’s where it went wrong. That’s
where he got sick and we needed help. And that’s how
Franklin found out that we were together.”
“But not about the potion?” my mother asks and I nod.
“He doesn’t know about the potion, only that we were in
love.”
“You went to Cali-fucking-fornia?” Chantal’s voice cuts
into me.
“I had to protect you. This is why.”
She sucks her lips into her mouth, nodding, but visibly
upset.
“I didn’t know what to do, I fell fast and hard and I resisted
him, I really did. But he got me…and he was wonderful. I’m
so sorry.”
“Who else knows about the potion?” Mother asks and she’s
plotting.
“Cassius. Only Cassius. It was meant for him.”
“Cassius dies,” she says, and Chantal’s eyes slit.
“No,” I say, my voice hard as stone. Her eyes challenge me
but maybe it’s the tightness in my jaw, my slow intake of
breath that makes her head nod and her mouth open.
“Cassius lives, but his memory may need altering.”
“Fine.”
“And Violetta and Rosemary cannot find out about the
potion. They are the ones to worry about.”
I nod, my heartbeat quickening. The reality of it all, hitting
me. My mother and Chantal know the truth and we’re
planning to kill the Vampire King.
“Will we have to flee?”
“They know what they did. He killed his own kind.
Hopefully there will be some mercy shown upon us. But
Prague is lovely, and you could make a life there, with me.”
Her eyes move from me to Chantal. “You will never be safe
here as long as Franklin lives. We need to move quick, we
can’t sit on this.”
“Killing the Vampire King…there will be repercussions,”
Chantal says.
“Killing is not in our nature. We are healers. We are
protectors. But what must be done, must be done. He won’t
stop until he kills Aster, this is a certainty. This is Franklin
Maltese. He stops at nothing.” My mother licks her lips and
eyes me intensely.
“I’ll call the cousins,” Chantal says, rising and I grab her
hand.
“You sure you want to be a part of this?”
“Girl, I was born a part of this. We are all one. Now, stop
with the nonsense.”
“Only call Jade. Her mind reading will help us,” I say, and
Chantal nods and disappears into her bedroom.
“Good decision,” Mother says and places her hand over
mine. “You were born a capable witch. Look what you created.
There’s forgiveness in youthful mistakes. I made mistakes, as
have you. But please, understand, that if I stayed, I would have
died. You would have died. I would have gotten us both killed.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be the mother you needed. I did it to save
the both of us. I did the wrong thing so many times in my life.
But I’m doing the right thing now. I promise you. This is the
right thing.”
It’s like there’s no fight left in me, not a single molecule of
battle, so I just lie back on the couch and look to the ceiling.
“Thank you, Mother. Thank you for coming.” And I mean it
now, I really fucking mean it. Because what would I do if she
weren’t here?

Every time I close my eyes, I see his aventurines, and all I

want is him back. There’s no rest, there’s only a nightmare
filled sleep, reminiscent of the dream I’ve had before. Blood
on Bourbon. Pain pouring over me. I awaken to Jade walking
through Chantal’s door, a bag of stakes across her chest.
 “You’re not the first witch to get wrapped up in some
vampire shit, you know?” It’s the first thing she says to me,
and I let a small smile reach my lips.
“Did you tell Aunt Violetta about Franklin firing me?” I
chew on my cheek and look Jade in the eye.
“No. I only told Chantal. I wanted to talk to you before I
told anyone else. Oksana’s thoughts are so loud, that’s how I
heard. I can hear her ten feet away.”
Relieved, I place my hand over hers and squeeze. “Thank
you, Jade.”
For months I’ve been hiding, living my life in secret,
terrified for Chantal, Jade and my mother to find out what I’d
done. And when I’m broken and bowed, down on my knees,
they are here for me. I was never as alone as I thought. I just
didn’t see it.
Affection fills my chest like a hot air balloon, warm and
soothing. I look to the women around me, my true coven.
“I’m sorry. Chantal, Jade, Mother. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t
have lied. I should have had more faith in you all. I was so
scared. But I should have known better.”
“You should have,” Chantal says. I know I’ve hurt her the
most and if I live through this night, I vow to make it up to her.
“Especially with you, I should have,” I nod.
“We got you.” Mother winks with a smile.
“Last night Franklin was at Caged, bragging that he’s taken
Nightwalkers from Nicola and Cassius. That he’s the one in
charge now,” Jade says with an arched eyebrow.
“Nicola would never agree to that,” I say, shaking my head.
“I don’t think she had much of a choice.” She pops her
gum, crossing her legs so that the silver on her platform boots
glint under the lights.
Mother rubs my back and quite calmly says, “All the more
reason to smoke his ass.”
WE PREPARE AND PLAN FOR the battle ahead. I shower and dress
as Mother and Chantal sharpen the wooden stakes while filling
Jade in. The four corners, Earth, Air, Fire, Water is all we need
to be our most powerful.
Our circle is formed when the clock strikes 8:00 p.m., one
hour before Nightwalkers is open for business—clasping
hands before we go, whispering a prayer to Mother Nature, to
the ancestors watching over us, asking for protection.
Allowing our powers to ignite and flow into each other, we
focus on the task at hand. That Franklin Maltese dies for the
crimes he committed against us, because a crime against one
of us is a crime against all of us.
It’s important for us each to dress in a way that makes us
feel most powerful. For Chantal and me, that’s motorcycle
leggings and white tank tops. For Mother it’s a flowy black
dress, and Jade, cargo pants and a red crop top.
There’s very little on this Earth more powerful than a
coven. Four witches can achieve heights one witch alone could
merely dream of. Mother is the most confident witch I’ve ever
seen, her body is her weapon, her strut keeping predators at
bay. And I realize I am comprised of so many of her parts, the
good and the bad. And her leaving me may have scarred me,
but it strengthened me as well.
 I held down our family business, I created a potion that put
me out of debt, that may have been the cause for my life to be
destroyed in the moment, but I’m smart enough to see past
that. Even if my heart can’t, my mind knows that my story
isn’t over yet. There’s so much left to accomplish. And the
first thing to accomplish—avenge my love’s death. Make
Franklin Maltese pay.
We cross the threshold to Comey’s, two at a time. With a
wave of Chantal’s hand, the few patrons in the bar get up and
walk out just as Oksana eyes us. Mother targets Oksana,
gluing her against the wall with her power as Chantal locks the
front door to Comey’s.
“Silence,” Mother whispers, and Oksana opens her mouth
to scream, but nothing comes out. “You will live if you listen.
If you try anything cute, I’ll sew your eyelids together.”
Mother unzips the wallet that’s strapped to her hip, pulling out
a needle and thread. After licking the thread and eyeing the
needle, she kisses Oksana’s cheek.
“It’s been too long.” With elegant hands, she releases the
threaded needle and it floats in the air, eye level to Oksana,
who swallows tightly, aware that my mother is very serious.
“Let’s do it,” Mother says and we assemble at the back of
the bar, Chantal breaking the lock to the back door with the
point of her finger.
Our feet barely touch the steps as we mostly float up the
stairs, one after the other. When we reach the top, Mother nods
at me and I do as planned: arms raising, energy collecting in
my fingertips, until a burst of power pushes through the glass.
It shatters through the parlor as vampires fly through the air,
pinned to the wall closest to them. Jade opens the door, and I
walk in first, a single file line of witches behind me. The plan
is for Jade and Chantal to keep all vampires incapacitated
against the walls while Mother and I take care of Franklin, and
my nerves are like jellyfish in my veins.
The room is emptier than usual, with a young male vampire
I don’t recognize hissing at us from the side wall. And not far
from him is Amerie, her eyes wild, her chest heaving. And
next to her, Curtis. That opportunistic piece of shit.
I say his name and Mother perks up. “The traitor?” she asks
me, and I nod.
“No hard feelings. Life’s a game of chess,” he says like
he’s giving a speech, and I want to slap his fucking face.
“Where is he?” Mother demands, sharing my surprise that
Curtis is here and Franklin is not. She approaches Amerie,
crossing her arms, dipping her head to her shoulder.
“Who?” Amerie asks, and Mother laughs, walking so close
to Amerie their lips are inches from each other.
“Franklin Maltese has broken an agreement by attempting
to kill my child. There will be a price to pay.”
“You don’t think we mourn Bastian? I cry every hour,”
Amerie says, eyeing me, and my entire body erupts in a fever
at the sound of his name.
“Amerie, where is Franklin?” Mother asks and is met with
nothing but silence.
“You fucking bitches are so dead. This is gonna be fun to
watch,” says the boy against the wall. One of Franklin’s
lovers, I presume.
“Little boy, let me make this very clear. Watch your mouth
or…” She reaches down and grabs her knife from her boot. “I
will slice open my palm and force my blood down your
throat.”
The boy swallows, his jaw hardening at the threat.
Amerie growls, “You’re just going to kill us all? Huh?
That’s what your plan is?”
“Not you!” I declare, pointing a stiff finger at her.
“Probably him.” I nod toward the boy as Nicola’s office door
opens.
“What about me?” Franklin asks, sauntering from the
room, thumbs hooked through his belt loops. And he’s dressed
like the club owner he pretends to be, now that he’s stolen it
from the Delacroix family. Velvet blazer in royal blue, hair
braided down his back, but he still couldn’t give up those
hideous faded black jeans and worn out cowboys boots.
I want to kill him. Everything inside of me screams
ATTACK, but I stand still, collecting myself. There’s a
gloating twinkle in his eyes. No remorse, no regret. He’s quite
pleased with himself.
“Well, I’ll be!” He’s slapping his thigh, looking to my
mother. “Look who has finally come home. How lucky are we,
the wild witch, gracing us with her presence! What’s the
special occasion?”
“Killing you, that’s all,” Mother says and commands a
chair into Franklin’s legs so quickly, his knees buckle and he
falls back into the seat. There’s no shock, no intimidation on
his face; in fact, he fell into that chair a little too easily. He’s
going to toy with us.
“Mother,” I warn as she approaches him, plopping onto his
lap, her face dangerously close to his.
“Stay,” she whispers, dashing his nose with her pointer
finger, casting a spell to keep him right in place, like he’s a
dog.
“Oh baby, what’s that sayin’? Hell hath no fury like a
woman scorned.” He laughs, his gold tooth shining like a
pirate’s, excited to take siege.
Mother is unflinching. “No, I’m thinking of another saying,
Franklin. Payback’s a bitch. Or in your case, a witch.”
“That’s cute. You were always so cute, Delta.”
“I know.” She smiles through closed teeth and my heart is
racing. How she stays so calm, so together, is an attribute I
always envied, something I wish I had right in this moment.
Because it feels off, but killing a vampire should always feel
off. But then I remember the pain Franklin experienced at my
hand, the anger he felt, and he is so cool right now, not
worried. Not concerned.
“Hit it,” my mother says. I stand in the middle of Jade and
Chantal, raising my hands toward Franklin, shooting him with
everything I have. The power fills my body with heat and air
and my vision quakes in pops of vibrant color. I push out all
the electricity and pain, but instead of becoming incapacitated
by my power, he grabs my mother’s legs and yanks them up.
She falls off him, her head slamming into the ground.
“Fuuuck,” Jade whispers and I step back right as Franklin
rises, delivering a hard kick to my mother’s stomach and I
scream, pushing more power into him but it makes no
difference. I stumble back as he approaches me, the power that
once left him screaming on the ground not inflicting a shred of
pain.
“He has some kinda protection spell on him. He’s got a
goddamn witch in his pocket,” Jade announces, her voice
shaking.
All of the breath leaves my body as he inches closer and
closer, and I can’t out run him. Without my power, the ball is
in his court.
“Aster,” Chantal whispers, fighting to keep Amerie and the
other vampires pinned against the wall with Jade. And now I
have to think, because my mother is on the floor, and I can’t
even see her face through her hair to check if she’s conscious.
“You think I’d be that dumb? Just let you and your bitch
coven come after me? Like some sitting duck, waiting on you
to come kill me?”
He’s getting closer and I grab the chair and hurl it at him as
hard as I can, but all he does is lift his arm and the chair shoots
right back at me. I duck, but the leg still knocks into my lips,
pain exploding across my face. My legs weaken from the blow
as the warm, coppery blood fills my mouth. He yanks me by
the hair and I shriek, convinced he’s ripping every strand from
my head. Slamming my back against the wall, I’m forced to
look in his soulless eyes, as he wraps a hand around my neck.
Think fast, think fast, I tell myself and my eyes float to Jade.
Look at me, Jade, I think and her eyes float to mine. Don’t
let them go. I’ll figure out something.
 She nods and holds on tight, but I can see the strain in her
and Chantal’s arms and I cough, the blood spilling from the
corner of my mouth. I don’t have magic on my side. I have to
get creative.
“Thought you could just seduce one of my own and get
away with it?” Franklin looks at Amerie and the men against
the wall then looks me in the eye. “Tell your girls to let them
go now, ya hear, cher?” But I won’t do that. Franklin will kill
me regardless and hopefully they can get out alive. It comes to
me quick, an idea that could work. I shake my head in
resistance.
“Let em go, or she dies,” he yells to my girls.
Don’t. He’ll kill me either way, I instruct Jade and she
shakes her head at Chantal.
His fingers close in on my throat, his thumb and index
finger pushing up into my jaw so hard it feels like he’s carving
into my bone. That face getting closer to mine, his image
flashing in black and white. The pain in my mouth deepens
and soon I’ll choke or be strangled.
“Bastian was weak. I’m glad he’s gone—so easily seduced
by a fucking whore from the longest line of whores in
America. I may not be able to taste you, but I will cut you
open—”
Now.
Sliding my head back against the wall, I close my throat,
collecting every drop of blood I’ve been saving, and with
everything I have, project it out of my mouth.
It spatters across his face, most of it landing right where I
aimed for—his open mouth—and I’m going out, I can’t feel
my feet, I can’t breathe. I hear my name being screamed but
it’s like I’m at the end of a tunnel, everything seems miles
away.
The grip on my neck loosens, and I inhale air like I haven’t
breathed in years. A sound escapes Franklin, close to a
screech, and a gulp as the poison from my blood seeps into his
tongue. It rises and swells, turning a putrid green, the toxins
doing its job. It’s probably not enough poison to kill, but
enough to incapacitate him, and he stumbles back and I fight
to keep my legs stiff, but I lost so much air and my body is so
weary that I slide against the wall, my legs like noodles under
me.
We need to stake him, I think to Jade and just as I gather the
strength to rise, his eyes bulge as if they are being inflated
from behind. They go out of focus, his mouth closing and then
opening with blood spewing violently like an opened
floodgate, like a fountain.
With a thud, he drops to the ground right in front of me, his
body liquifying before my eyes, a wooden stake in his gooey
back. I look up to Nicola standing over him as Cassius stares
in astonishment at the scene before him.
I lie there, stunned, eyes meeting Nicola’s, her body
breathless because she just killed the Vampire King. And then
it all starts to quake. My jaw locks and I can’t catch my breath.
Mother is somewhere and I need to get up but I can’t find the
strength. The sounds mute as I go in and out, eyes floating to
the vampires on the wall, to Nicola taking a stake from
Mother’s bag and piercing it through Franklin’s lover’s heart
with Curtis next. They scream and groan, their bodies turning
to piles of red goo, and is Nicola doing this for us?
The shock permeates the room, as the realization of what
just happened grips all of us. A vampire has committed
treason. The Vampire King is dead.
Cassius approaches me, a wonder in his face as Chantal
yells my name. He kneels, placing his palm over my chest and
Chantal screams. “Don’t touch her!”
Ignoring her, his mouth splits open and I put up my hand,
hoping that tells her to stop. Because this awe in his eyes, this
concern that radiates from him washes over me, and suddenly
I’m just as concerned about something I don’t even
understand.
“Two,” he whispers, sliding on the floor next to me, eyes
wide as the sun, and he takes a deep relieved breath.
 “Two what?” I ask, a fear gathering in my throat.
His temples quake, frantic eyes finding a sudden calm.
“Heartbeats.”
 Epilogue

DEAR BASTIAN,

I was dreaming of you when the ringing woke me. You had
been holding me on the beach in California, your nose on my
neck, breathing me in. The sunrise riveled cotton candy,
shades of pastel pinks and baby blues, and the ocean crashed,
casting pearly bubbles at our feet. Heaven is in each other’s
arms and that’s where we were until the sky opened up to the
bedroom where the trill of my phone rang incessantly. I didn’t
want to let you go, but my eyes opened and there was
Cassius’s name on the screen.
His voice was so frantic, a kind of begging I never thought
Cassius capable of. He was inconsolable, unintelligible, but I
was able to make out three words.
“Please, save her.”
I sat up straight, the tone of his voice slicing like a knife.
“What is it?” I asked him, because Cassius doesn’t reach
out to me. We see each other around town, we nod and he’s
always studying me but I keep walking. I’m staying out of
vampire affairs, but now I suspect that the rumors are true
about Cassius. He’s more different now than he’s ever been.
“I’m in love and I need you to save her. If anyone can do it,
it’s you.” He paused for a moment, like he was pushing down
a sob. “It’s just too poetic, too aligned with my destiny. He’s
gone and I actually want to live.”
It took my breath away, because we don’t speak of you, it
hurts too much.
 “What happened?”
“Please, come!” he cried. “I promised, never to turn her, to
keep her human. Please, I keep to myself. I don’t bother you.
But please, please do me this favor.”
And I knew you would want me to, Bastian. Your mother
killed the Vampire King, saving my life. We don’t know if
there have or will be repercussions for that, but I knew you
would want me to help Cassius. So, I got out of bed. I pulled
on my longest coat and buttoned it up tight. I gently placed
Winnie in my bag, along with my case of tinctures and herbs, I
did this all for you, my love.
“Where are you off to?” Mother asked, surprised I was
leaving the house so late because I’ve been quite the hermit at
night. She was working on a spell to light a fire under the
contractor’s asses, to hurry up the rebuilding process of my
home. I long to be home, to be where you and I were us last.
“Cassius needs a favor.” I hesitated because Mother doesn’t
trust him, but I didn’t want to lie.
She stood from Chantal’s kitchen table, shaking her head,
and if her face could speak it would’ve said, “Are you nuts?”
“He sounds desperate. I’ll be fine.” But I can’t lie, Bastian.
There’s something inside of me that softens when she looks
concerned for me. When she’s protective. When she acts like a
mother.
We vowed. Mother, Cassius, Chantal, Jade and I. To never
tell a soul about the potion I created. It was an easy decision
for Cassius; he hated the potion from the start. And that keeps
me free of Aunt Violetta’s wrath…for now.
“Oh, don’t worry, Aunt Violetta,” Mother had said on the
phone after Franklin died. “Per Nicola, the agreement stays in
effect.” She winked at me with that confidence that came so
naturally to her. “No, no,” she said into the phone. “Nicola
killed Franklin because he killed her son. I haven’t a clue why,
but that’s vampire business. A new Vampire King or Queen
will eventually be appointed.”
 And that was all the reassurance Aunt Violetta seemed to
need after the Vampire King was murdered at Nightwalkers.
As long as she still got her money, it wasn’t her concern.
Mother stayed. Can you believe that? She stayed to help
me, help us. Nicola rightfully took Nightwalkers back and
didn’t want anything to do with Franklin’s witch. Mother took
over making the potions with the promise that I will never
have to get involved again. Sometimes we can’t always save
ourselves. Sometimes we need help.
Mother kissed my forehead and gave me that look. “I’m
fine,” I said again, as I walked out the door, and it’s only part
true.
Grief still takes over, but with each day that passes, I’m
changing and the grief evolves to something else, something
better, something like hope. And I smiled as I took each step
carefully. That overwhelming feeling of hope invading my
body, my heart fluttering at my abilities, at my control of our
future. All in good time, Bastian.
Farther down Chantal’s street, I couldn’t help but chuckle.
Cassius in love—I never thought I would see the day.
Especially not with a human. And now he wants to live. That
night he was in my backyard he whispered the word two. Two
heartbeats. Two lives in one body. He didn’t tell me then, but I
found out because time is the greatest teller of tales. Just like
this journal I keep for you, Bastian. So you don’t miss
anything. So you know it was all for you. I have let go. Let go
of the pressures of who I should be or what I should do. I live
for us now.
I stepped back on Bourbon Street, another night of
thousands in my life so far. My feet skipped to all the music,
every different sound coming to one grand crescendo. I would
save Cassius’s love and do it for you.
My fingers found my coat buttons, taking care to undo each
one slowly, before I arrive at Nightwalkers, just a touch, just
another woman lost in a crowd. And all the love gushed
through my palms onto my slightly swollen belly, our child
that we planted there.
 Our magic created life and I haven’t completely lost you.
With the power of three—your ashes, our child’s blood, and
my power—I can do the forbidden. I’m not scared anymore.
The witch that can’t grow things is growing something,
Bastian. I’m having your child and we will be a family. I will
bring you back.
 Acknowledgments

For my 12th birthday, my Aunt Lori gifted me a set of books

that would change so much about me. The first book was
Flowers in The Attic by V.C. Andrews and the word obsessed
does not do justice to the emotions that story evoked inside of
me. It was twisted and torturous, but captivating and unique. It
was then that I knew writing was going to be a part of my life,
that making up stories in my head would fulfill me in ways
that no other thing could. So thank you, my sweet auntie for
that gift and the gift of writing.
A V.C. Andrews book set in New Orleans ignited my love for
the city. And when I finally went, I couldn’t stop going back.
It’s a city that is etched in my soul. Patrick, we never got to go
together, but I brought you with me. Laissez les bon temp
rouller.
This is my first book everybody, so we may be here awhile.
First, I want to thank my editor, Traci Finlay for always
believing in me, coaching me, and encouraging me to be a
writer, when I felt everything but. Traci, when I pulled my best
Jessie Spano (I’m so excited, I’m so excited, I’m so…scared)
you told me to just keep going.
To Tarryn Fisher, who opened a world of resources to me and
so many indie authors. Thank you.
Jenn Watson, for guiding this clueless woman to a finished
product.
Viki at Forensics & Flowers, you brought to life what I could
only dream for this beautiful cover. Thank you.
Jovana Shirley at Unforeseen Editing—Thank you for your
patience with a new author. I will do much better next time!
Amy Vox Libris, the best beta reader.
Georgana, thank you for the encouragement. Tag, you’re it.
Anne Rice, thank you for writing Louis, Lestat, Stella, and
Lasher. What worlds you weaved.
Igor Litvin, my 9th grade English teacher. You asked for a
copy of my first novel. Here it is. Thank you for believing in
me.
Lori Bergendahl—The mother I aim to be. Thank you for your
friendship and all the snacks. Love you.
Our matriarch, Momo. You are the best person in the world.
To all my family! My grandpa, Granny Pam, uncles, and all
my many cousins, nieces, and nephews. I am who I am
because of a loving family that supports me. Jon, Danielle,
Jane, Carol, my brothers, and sisters-in-law…there are too
many to count.
Catherine, you always make me laugh. You’re welcome for all
the good and bad advice.
Quedellis Ricardo Walker, I wish I could have one last hug.
They were good.
Uncle Michael “You are the only one for me!” Insert winky
face.
Aunt Lisa, my cup runneth over.
Auntie Lynne, thank you for reading my books and being my
friend. You’re the best.
Amanda, my first role model. I love you. Thanks for being a
fellow dreamer.
To my heartstring, Hayley. You are a fierce little cheerleader. I
have adored you since the day you were born. First my baby
cousin, now my forever friend. Who needs sisters when you
have cousins? Thank you for always encouraging me.
Jojo. Fine, you’re the funniest and your gift giving is top
notch. Thank you for making me laugh and making me your
sidekick from the time I could walk. I love your crazy heart.
You are a part of me always.
Roxanne, my first beta reader. Thank you for encouraging me
and being my sounding board. The mate to my soul, you are. I
can’t wait for our Golden Girls era.
Dad, thank you for passing down your love of reading to me. I
remember sitting on your lap as you read books to me. You’ll
always be my Daddy.
Mommy, thank you for my strength. If every mom cheered on
their daughters like you cheer me on, the world would be a
better place. I love you.
Sophia, you are the most beautiful girl in the world. My
warrior princess 4EVA.
To my daughters, Ava Monroe and Vivienne Skye, the lights
of my life. Once you asked me what my favorite word was and
I said, “Daughters.” You know I’m obsessed with you because
there’s nothing like loving you. Thanks for completing my life
and giving me a reason to worry for all eternity. I love you
more than anything.
And next to last but never least, William. You gave me space
to spread my wings. Told me it was imperative to dream. I
know what flying feels like because of you. Let’s drive each
other crazy forever. I love you always and am so grateful I
found you.
And to you, reader. If you finished this book, thank you for
spending time with my characters. They are happy you
stopped by. Don’t hate me.
 About the Author

Jenna Walker is a born-and-raised California girl, who has

been waiting to be bitten by the vampire Lestat for most of her
adult life. She loves to make plans, then always regrets making
them. Because creatures of the night belong cozy in their beds.
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