Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “I have a spare key,” Were-child says.

            Oh.

            “This used to be my room. So if I had nightmares, I got to go to Lowe. Through there.” She points at another door. Whose doorknob I didn’t try last night. I suspected who the adjoining room would belong to, and I didn’t feel like processing that kind of trauma at five a.m. “He says that I can still go, but now I’m across the hallway.”

            A tinge of guilt penetrates my exhaustion: I’ve evicted a three-(thirteen?)-year-old from her room and am forcing her to cross an entire hallway in the grip of horrific, recurring nightmares to reach her . . .

            Oh, crap. “Please tell me Moreland’s not your father.”

            She doesn’t reply. “Do you ever get nightmares?”

            “Vampyres don’t dream.” I mean, I can deal with separating true lovers or whatnot, but an entire family? A child from her . . . Oh, shit. “Where is your mother?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            “Does she live here?”

            “Not anymore.”

            Fuck. “Where did she go?”

            She shrugs. “Lowe said that it’s impossible to tell.”

            I rub my eyes. “Is Moreland—is Lowe your dad?”

            “Ana’s father is dead.” The voice comes from outside the closet, and we both turn.

            Standing in the light seeping in from the hallway is a red-haired woman. She’s pretty, strong, fit in a way that suggests that she could run a half-marathon with no notice. She stares at me with a mix of worry and hostility, like my kink is burning crickets with kerosene.

            “Many Were children are orphaned, most of them at the hands of Vampyres like you. Best not ask them about the whereabouts of their parents. Come here, Ana.”

            Ana runs to her, but not before whispering at me, “I like your pointy ears,” entirely too loud.

            I’m too bone-tired to deal with any of this at midday. “I had no idea. I’m sorry, Ana.”

            Ana seems unperturbed. “It’s okay. Juno’s just grouchy. Can I come over to play with you when—”

            “Ana, go downstairs and get a snack. I’ll be there in a minute.”

            Ana sighs, and rolls her eyes, and pouts like she was asked to file a tax return, but eventually she does leave, sneaking me an impish smile. My sleep-addled brain briefly considers returning it, then recalls that I let my fangs regrow.

            “She’s Lowe’s sister,” Juno informs me protectively. “Please, stay away from her.”

            “You might want to take this up with her, since she still has a spare key to her old room.”

            “Stay away,” she repeats. Less worried, more threatening.

            “Right. Sure.” I can live without hanging out with someone whose skull hasn’t even properly closed yet. Though Ana is technically my BFF in Were territory. Slim pickings over here. “Juno, right? I’m Misery.”

            “I know.”

            I figured. “Are you one of Lowe’s seconds?”

            She tenses, crossing her arms to her chest. Her eyes are hooded. “You shouldn’t.”

            “Shouldn’t?”

            “Ask questions about the pack. Or strike up conversation with us. Or walk around unsupervised.”

            “That’s a lot of rules.” To give to an adult. For one year.

            “Rules will keep you safe.” Her chin lifts. “And keep others safe from you.”

            “That’s a very honorable sentiment. But it might reassure you to know that I lived among the Humans for nearly two decades, and murdered . . .” I pretend to check a note on my palm. “A whole zero. Wow.”

            “It will be different here.” Her eyes move from mine and trace the contours of the room, still a mess of moving boxes and piles of clothes. Her gaze hiccups on the bare mattress, now stripped of the sheets and blankets that I dragged inside the closet, then stops on the only thing I put up on the wall: a Polaroid of me and Serena looking away from the camera during that sunset lake tour we did two years ago. Some guy took it without asking, while we were dangling our feet in the water. Then he showed it to us and said he’d only return it if one of us gave him our number. We did the only logical thing: caught him in a headlock and forcibly took the photo.