Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            It didn’t come. Nor had I expected it would.

            “People will get over it,” he Pierces on. “And hey, you never bring lunch, so no need to worry someone’ll spit in your Tupperware.” He bursts into laughter. I turn to my computer monitor, hoping he’ll peace out. Boy, am I wrong. “And to be honest, it’s kind of on you. If you tried to mingle more . . . Personally, I get your loner, mysterious, quiet vibe. But some read you as aloof, like you think you’re better than us. If you made an effort to—”

            “Misery.”

            When I hear my name called—the real one—for a split, exceptionally dumb second, I experience relief that this conversation is going to be over. Then I crane my neck and notice the woman standing on the other side of the divider. Her face is distantly familiar, and so is the black hair, but it’s not until I focus on her heartbeat that I manage to place her. It’s slow like only a Vampyre’s can be, and . . .

            Well.

            Shit.

            “Vania?”

            “You’re hard to find,” she tells me, voice melodic and low. I briefly contemplate slamming my head against the keyboard. Then settle for replying calmly:

            “That’s by design.”

            “I figured.”

            I massage my temple. What a day. What a fucking day. “And yet, here you are.”

            “And yet, here I am.”

            “Why, hello.” Pierce’s smile gets a notch slimier as he turns to leer at Vania. His eyes start at her high heels, travel up the straight lines of her dark pantsuit, stop on her full breasts. I don’t read minds, but he’s thinking MILF so hard, I can practically hear it. “Are you a friend of Missy’s?”

            “You could say that, yes. Since she was a child.”

            “Oh my God. Do tell, how was baby Missy?”

            The corner of Vania’s lips twitches. “She was . . . odd, and difficult. If often useful.”

            “Wait—are you two related?”

            “No. I’m her father’s Right Hand, Head of his Guard,” she says, looking at me. “And she has been summoned.”

            I straighten in my chair. “Where?”

            “The Nest.”

            This is not rare—it’s unprecedented. Excluding sporadic phone calls and even more sporadic meetings with Owen, I haven’t spoken with another Vampyre in years. Because no one has reached out.

            I should tell Vania to fuck off. I’m no longer a child stuck on a fool’s errand: going back to my father with any expectations that he and the rest of my people won’t be total assholes is an exercise in futility, and I’m well aware of it. But apparently this half-assed overture is making me forget, because I hear myself asking, “Why?”

            “You’ll have to come and find out.” Vania’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. I squint, like the answer is tattooed on her face. Meanwhile, Pierce reminds us of his unfortunate existence.

            “Ladies. Right hand? Summon?” He laughs, loud and grating. I want to flick his forehead and make him hurt, but I’m starting to feel a frisson of worry for this fool. “Are you guys into LARPing or . . .”

            He finally shuts up. Because when Vania turns to him, no trick of the light could hide the purple hue of her eyes. Nor her long, perfectly white fangs, gleaming under the electric lights.

            “Y-you . . .” Pierce looks between us for several seconds, muttering something incoherent.

            And that’s when Vania decides to ruin my life and snap her teeth at him.

            I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

            Pierce spins on his heels and sprints past my cubicle, running over a potted benjamin fig. “Vampyre! Vampyre—there’s a— A Vampyre is attacking us, someone call the Bureau, someone call the—”

            Vania takes out a laminated card with the Human-Vampyre Relations Bureau logo, one that grants her diplomatic immunity in Human territory. But there’s no one to look at it: the bullpen has erupted into a small panic, and most of my coworkers are screaming, already halfway down the emergency stairs. People trample each other to get to the nearest exit. I see Walker dart out of the bathroom, a strip of toilet paper dangling from his khakis, and feel my shoulders slump.