Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “When is your birthday?” Ana asks me, after Mick reveals an unexpected expertise in astrology and informs Ana that she’s a Virgo. Alex is an Aquarius—a fact that, like everything else under the sun, violently alarms him.

            “I don’t have one,” I tell her, still reeling from the mental image of middle-aged, rugged Mick perching rimmed glasses on his nose and settling in bed with a copy of The Zodiac for Dummies. “My mate used to dabble,” he whispers at me, picking up on my befuddlement.

            Peas sputter out of Ana’s mouth. “How can you not have a birthday?”

            “I don’t know what day I was born.” I could find out from council records, since it was the day Mother died. I doubt Father would know. “It might have been spring?”

            “How do you keep track of your age?” Alex asks.

            “I count one up on Vampyre New Year’s Day.”

            “And you have a party?”

            I shake my head at Ana. “We don’t do parties.”

            “No . . . gatherings? Soirees? Board game nights? Communal blood drinking?” Alex is shocked. Maybe relieved. I wonder what stories he was told as a child when he resisted cleaning his bedroom.

            “We don’t commune. We don’t meet in large groups, unless it’s to set up war strategies, or business strategies, or other kinds of strategies. Our social life is all strategizing.” For the next Father’s Day, I should get him a mug that says All I care about is machinating and like, three people. Except we don’t celebrate Father’s Day, either. “But if we did have communal blood drinking, we’d feast on promising young computer engineers,” I add, and then smack my lips as though I’m thinking of a scrumptious meal, just to watch Alex pale.

            “Regarding blood,” Mick warns while Ana spills several gallons of water on the table under the guise of pouring us “cocktails,” “Misery, the blood bank messaged us that this week’s delivery will be delayed a couple of days.”

            “D-delayed?” Alex chokes out.

            Mick’s eyebrow lifts. “You seem very invested, Alex. I didn’t know you’ve been partaking.”

            “No, but . . . what will she eat?”

            “I guess I’ll have to find another source of blood. Hmm, who could it be? Let’s see . . .” I drum my fingers against the edge of the table to create suspense. It sure works on Ana, who’s looking at me gape-mouthed. “Who smells good around—”

            Lowe’s hand closes around mine. Our wedding bands clink together as he lifts it from the table and sets it in my lap, his grip lingering for a second.

            I feel hot.

            I shiver.

            Lowe clicks his tongue. “Stop playing with your food, wife,” he murmurs, and it feels almost intimate, smiling at him and catching the amused gleam in his eyes while Alex crumples into himself. “She has several bags left,” he informs Alex, who’s trying to camouflage with the wallpaper.

            “Let’s make up a birthday for you,” Ana proposes, bright-eyed. “And have a biiiig party.”

            “Yikes.” I scrunch my nose. “Let’s not.”

            “Let’s yes! Your birthday is this weekend, and you’re going to have a bouncy castle!”

            “I’m not a very bouncy person.”

            “And this weekend your brother will be gone, Ana,” Mick says. Alex’s fork clicks against his plate. Something shifts, and the silence in the room is suddenly tense as Lowe chews his meatloaf.

            “Feel free to have the party without me,” he says once he’s swallowed, with the calm, effortless tone of someone who knows that every word of his is law. Then, with a conspiratorial wink at Ana: “Take pictures of Miresy bouncing.”

            She nods enthusiastically as Mick offers, “Or you could cancel.”

            Lowe sips on his water and doesn’t reply, but it’s clear that this conversation has been ongoing for a while.

            “At least take Cal with you—”