Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            The knife stops a hairbreadth from my skin. I don’t remember closing my eyes, and when I open them my brain cannot seem to catch up: someone—a Human, dressed as a waiter—came at me with a knife. I did not notice him. The guards did not notice him. My husband, on the other hand . . .

            Lowe Moreland’s palm is wrapped around the blade, less than an inch from my neck. Green blood trickles down his forearm, its rich scent crashing into me like a wave. There is no sign of pain in his eyes as they hold mine.

            He just saved my life.

            “Nowhere, Misery,” he murmurs, lips barely moving. In the distance, Father is barking orders. Security finally reacts, pulls away the thrashing waiter. A few guests gasp, scream, and maybe I should scream, too, but I don’t have the wherewithal to do anything until my husband tells me, “For the next year, let’s make sure to stay out of each other’s way. Understood?”

            I try to swallow. Fail the first time, do a great job the second. “And they say romance is dead,” I say, pleased not to sound as dry throated as I feel. He hesitates for a moment, and I could swear he inhales again, deep, storing up . . . something. His hand tightens on my back for a second before finally letting go.

            And then Lowe Moreland, my husband, stalks off the dance floor, a trail of forest-green blood tracking his path.

            Leaving me blissfully alone on the night of our wedding.





CHAPTER 3




                             He is under siege in his own home.





The voice is young and sullen. It worms its way under my pillow and into my ears, nudging me awake in the dead middle of the day.

            “This used to be my room,” it says.

            The floor is hard underneath me. My brain is blurry and my ears are made of cotton and I don’t know where I am, why, who would commit this ignominy upon my person: wake me up when the sun is bright in the sky and I am sapped of all strength.

            “Can I hide in here? She’s grumpy today.”

            I gather six months’ worth of energy and unearth myself from under the blankets, but run out of steam when it comes to lifting my eyelids.

            No, we Vampyres don’t pulverize in the sun like glitter bombs. Sunlight burns us and it hurts, but it won’t kill us unless the exposure is unfiltered and prolonged. However, we are pretty useless in the middle of the day, even inside. Lethargic and weak and crawly and headachy, especially during late spring and summer, when the rays hit at that pesky steep angle. “This crepuscularity of yours is really cramping my brunch lifestyle,” Serena used to say. “Also, the fact that you don’t eat.”

            “Is it true that you don’t have a soul?”

            It’s goddamn noon. And there is a child here, asking me:

            “Because you used to be dead?”

            I crane my eyes to a semi-open slit and find her right here, in the closet where I made my bed early this morning. Her heartbeat hops happily around, like a pent-up fawn. She’s round faced. Curly haired. American Girl dolled.

            Very annoying.

            “Who are you?” I ask.

            “And then you were forced to drink someone’s blood?”

            She is, I would estimate, anywhere between three and a young thirteen. I have no way of narrowing this down any further: with this one, my staggering indifference toward children meets my twenty-five-year-old determination to avoid anything Were. And on top of everything, her eyes are a pale, dangerous, familiar green.

            I don’t like this. “How did you get in here?”

            She points at the open closet door like I’m a little daft. “And then you came back to life, but without your soul?”

            I squint at her in the near darkness, grateful that she hasn’t pulled the curtains. “Is it true that you were bitten by a rabid dog and are now a furry who froths at the mouth during the full moon?” I’m trying to be a bitch, but she lets out a peal of laughter that has me feeling like a stand-up comedian.

            “No, silly.”

            “Well, then. You have your answer. While I still don’t know how you got in here.” She points at the door again, and I make a mental note to never have children. “I locked that.” I’m sure I did. I’m positive that I did not spend my first night among the Weres without locking my damn door. I figured that even with their super strength, if one of them decided to wolf me down, a locked door would keep them out. Because Weres would build Were-proof doors, right?