Knock knock!

  “Who’s there?” Mr Berry called out, hobbling toward the door, his gout following every step like a persistent, perky poodle.

  To ensure no mistaken identity with any of the other berries, Mr Berry resembled a birch tree. He was tall, pale, and slightly weathered, with a certain creaky elegance. His joints popped like clogs, and his frown had the gravity of someone who had lived through two market crashes and four duels, and was not impressed by any of it.

  Despite it being nearly noon, he was still clad in a billowing nightshirt the colour of sour milk and a pointed nightcap embroidered with tiny stars. The cap served the critical function of securing his prized collection of twenty-seven remaining hairs. Each hair had been carefully tucked into the cap, snug, cosy, and, most importantly, accounted for.

  Mr Berry reached the door, paused to catch his breath, and muttered to himself, “If it’s another one of those tea peddlers, I swear on my rheumatism I’ll have their head for breakfast.”

  Happy birthday, Mr Berry,

  You’re always such a cherry,

  Happy birthday, Mr Berry,

  You’re now 100 years,

  You’ve outlived all your peers,

  …

  “I will double whatever you got paid if you shut the fuck up!” Mr Berry bellowed as he flung open the door. The small messenger boy, mid-verse and clutching a sizable box, snapped his mouth shut without hesitation.

  The boy was wiry in the way alley cats are, with short brown hair stuck out in stubborn little tufts, as if it had recently lost a war with a comb, and his eyes, equally brown, darted about with the quick, calculating alertness of someone used to navigating crowded streets. He wore the standard runner’s uniform: brown pants, brown jacket, white shirt. Practical and plain, but his version of it was unusually crisp and clean.

  “Who sent you?” Mr Berry narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

  “Mrs Baker sends her love and commiserations on your 100th birthday, along with a nice cake.”

  “Congratulations. What kind of cake?”

  “Thank you, sir. But it’s your birthday, not mine. Ah, the cake. It’s the one in complicated with your dietarian revolutions,” the boy answered proudly.

  A reluctant smile twitched at the old man’s lips, but he remained steadfast in his grumpiness. “I believe the phrase you’re reaching for is ‘complies with my dietary restrictions.’”

  “I think not. Your hearing must be going, what with being ancient and all. Your cake, sir.” He held out the box, and Mr Berry, upon taking it, promptly began shutting the door.

  “Hey! Not fair! I’m owed two silvers. You said you’d pay me double to shut the fuck up! And I did! Properly!” the boy protested.

  “Promptly,” Mr Berry corrected. “Do you have any proof of that?”

  The boy huffed, thought for a moment, then straightened his back with newfound resolve. “No. It’s your word against mine. But a gentleman stands with his words.”

  “By his word. True, a gentleman does. Not the best of arguments, but not the worst I’ve heard either. And you stood your ground, despite the odds.” Shoving the box back to the boy, Mr Berry turned and went back into the house, leaving the door open. “Very well then, come in, the kitchen is on the left. Wait there.”

  When Mr Berry came back to the kitchen, he was tossing two silver coins in the air. The boy was sniffing at Mr Berry’s cup of tea and frowning.

  “Would you like some tea and cake?”

  “Seriously?” The boy looked up hopefully.

  “No.”

  “Wanker.”

  “Manners,” Mr Berry smiled a calculated smile. “Now, how would you like to earn another silver coin?”

  The boy was somewhat unclear on the meaning of big words, being quite little and all, but negotiations? That he understood. “What did you have in mind?”

  “A delivery once a week, selection of pastries.”

  The boy smirked and shook his head. “No can do. Lady Edith issued a town-wide ban on you from all the, er… dietarian… er… sweets you can’t eat.”

  “Lady Edith is dead.”

  “Lady Edith’s orders stand.” Mr Berry’s frown and a grunt didn’t discourage the boy. “But, for two silvers per delivery, I can get you a very nice fruit basket. I’ve got a deal with a disgruntled fruit mage. Best fruits you will ever taste that you didn’t even know existed.”

  “Disgraced. Truly, is there any other kind of fruit mage than a disgraced one?”

  “You would properly rethink that if he starts throwing coconuts at you.”

  “Coconuts? What the fuck is a coconut?”

  “Well, I’m glad you asked. If you subscribe to weekly deliveries of Albert’s Amazing Fruit Baskets, you can taste not only coconuts, but many, many other erotic fruits.”

  Mr Berry smiled, “Exotic. Good, you’ve got a deal, Albert. Now fuck off,” he said as he tossed the two silver coins to the boy and pointed to the door.

  The elderly gentleman spent the rest of his big day pointedly ignoring the occasional knock-knock at the door, ensconced in his second-storey living room. The space had grand ambitions of becoming a library, if only it could gather the discipline for more shelves. He sat in the old armchair that sighed beneath him, well familiar with the shape of his bony arse. The cake that Mrs Baker had sent, a well-meaning apple and oat crumble, gave it a valiant effort, bless its stodgy heart, but had absolutely no chance of ever becoming a widely desired dessert. Still, it beat the cup of herbal tea, which tasted like someone had vaguely explained the idea of flavour to a deaf hot cup of water. He was not enjoying himself.

  What Mr Berry was looking forward to was dropping dead one of these days. And he was ready to do whatever it takes to do just that sooner rather than later. He came too far to risk living now.

  Suicide was not an option, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other ways to expedite his one-way ticket out. If Mr Berry was anything, he was a creative thinker. Dying of indigestion was his last resort, so he took great care of his respected gout, indulging in his beloved pastries only once a week or whenever he could get some on the black market (thanks to Edith’s bloody ban). Truly, no one wanted to go out on a crapper, not even the desperate ones like him. So, for now, his goal was a delightful heart attack.

  Each evening, he spent two hours vigorously chasing the elusive cardiac arrest up and down the 79 stairs of his creaky, old, three-storey house. The coronary was proficient at hide-and-seek, but Mr Berry was relentless in his hunt, and quite determined on dropping dead.

  Mr Berry was halfway up the stairs when the big clock in the living room cuckooed for the end of this evening’s game of chase. He proceeded into the living room and dropped (not even slightly dead), into his plush sofa with a deep sigh. After toasting tonight’s winner with a generous glass of pear brandy, he continued reading the latest illegal smut novel and dozed off despite the steam rising from the book.

  “This is a robbery!”

  Mr Berry, dozing on his sofa, cracked open one eye, saw two, what he could only assume were highway robbers that took a wrong turn, and with a decisive, “No,” rolled onto his side, flipped the pompom of his nightcap, and murmured, “Fuck off.”

  “Hey!” the scrawny, distinctly manly robber protested. “That is not how you behave in a robbery! Now, stand and deliver!”

  Meanwhile, the not-so-offended, voluptuous, womanly robber shoved Mr Berry’s shoulder, forcing him onto his back, and pressed a dagger against his throat.

  With a resigned sigh to get this over with, Mr Berry looked at them properly. The man, wrapped in a faded leather coat over tattered clothes, had greasy auburn hair and a nose that got broken too many times to heal properly. The dagger-wielding woman was tall, her fiery red hair cascading down to her waist, freckles dusting her skin, and she had curves that could make a charming bishop reconsider his vows. Her corset and clothing, once finely made, had clearly seen better days.

  Admittedly, in his long life, Mr Berry had been awakened by significantly better-looking robbers.

  “Get up! And don’t do anything stupid!” The redhead’s generous cleavage filled his field of vision as she pushed the dagger a little more firmly against his throat.

  He didn’t mind the blossoming bosoms in his face, but sharp objects anywhere near his jugular were a firm, solid nope.

  “We’re here to rob you of your possessions!” the male robber announced, as if this weren’t already obvious.

  “You don’t say. And here I thought you were here for tea and cake.” Mr Berry peered around the cleavage, then up at the redhead. “Or snuggles,” he added, flashing what he remembered as a seductive smile. It has been a while.

  “Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.”

  Mr Berry chuckled. “Oh, my lovely plump cherry firecracker, I would never. Unfortunately, my lower, smaller Mr Berry hasn’t been up for a game in a few years now. But tell you what…” He once again peered around her cleavage. “Why don’t you pour all of us a nice big glass of brandy, and we can discuss the finer points of robbing me like somewhat functional adults?”

  To his mild amusement, the scrawny robber actually complied, setting two glasses of cherry brandy on the coffee table before sinking into the armchair to Mr Berry’s left.

  The redhead, however, was less convinced. She straddled him from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder, dagger shifting from his throat to his ribcage. She seemed quite ready to plunge it straight into his heart.

  Sipping his least favourite brandy, adjusting to the busty, murderous monkey on his back, Mr Berry sighed, mentally digressing for a moment on the fact that time isn’t known for having a well-developed sense of timing.

  “So, what exactly are you trying to rob me of?”

  “Well, you know. The usual, coins, gold, silver, jewellery…” The male shrugged.

  “Hmm. That is indeed quite usual,” Mr Berry nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, then. I’m willing to part with two bags of gold coins and make no fuss about this unapt little incident. On the condition that you do not kill me. Now, due to the distinct lack of face masks, I will be free to assume that was your plan. However, if you do, you won’t live long enough to spend those coins.”

  The redhead pressed the dagger into his ribs, just enough to draw a bead of blood. “You’re not in a position to negotiate or threaten us, old man.” After licking the blood from the bloody blade, she returned it to its happy place between his ribs.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Mr Berry tsked. “Ah, but I am, my dear. You see, I’m one of the magically afflicted. And if you kill me, I won’t die. I’ll simply transfer into the body of my murderer.”

  “Bullshit,” the male scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re a shrivelled old swindler, not a sup. I’d know if you were one of them. I can smell them. Did you know that?” He leaned in conspiratorially, “Their magic reeks because they’re all using it to poison us. Not many people know that, but there are a few of us who can sniff them out.” The robber tap-tap-tap his magic sniffer.

  Mr Berry raised a curious eyebrow.

  “There’s a feminist shadow government,” the robber’s voice dropped into a grave whisper, “led by that Felis bitch, manipulating townies into believing the magically afflicted are decent folk. People are gullible fools. They believe what they’re told and don’t realise how the sups are emasculating worthy men and preventing them from taking their rightful place in society. And they steal virgins. And children. And chickens. Are you a fool?” He nodded knowingly, as if this were an indisputable fact.

  Mr Berry bowed his head slightly. “My apologies, sir. I mistakenly thought you were just a silly-willy robber, when in fact, you are a man who has uncovered hidden truths.”

  The robber beamed. “Yes, I am.” His gaze drifted around the room, taking in the many books. “And to think, I believed you were just another self-proclaimed liberal intellectual, nose so deep in books you couldn’t see what’s right in front of you. But these books… They’re just for show, aren’t they?”

  Mr Berry smiled and nodded. “Of course, they are. Why would anyone keep books for anything other than to ensnare and uncover covert intellectuals?”

  “Oh, I knew you were a man with many tricks!” The robber chuckled, leaned in again, his voice laced with an unsubtle threat. “But I am not so easy to trick. We’ll take four bags of gold, and you can keep your life.”

  “Agreed. Now, let me up so I can get them for you.”

  “There you go with your tricks again.” The robber sighed, shaking his head. “And here I thought we were kindred spirits. Tell me where they are, and I’ll get them myself.”

  “In my study.” Mr Berry gestured to the door across the hall. “There’s a safe behind the painting of a fluffy black cat. Code is 3825 968.”

  The robber nodded and strode toward the room. The busty monkey on Mr Berry’s back, however, stayed put.

  “What the hell? Trix, his study is full of daggers! Come and look.” The robber peeked back into the living room. “Um… what was the code again?”

  The redhead finally got off Mr Berry’s back and stalked toward the study. Without looking at him, she snarled, “You move, you die.”

  Mr Berry smiled politely. “3825 968.”

  “Why do you have so many daggers?” The robber reappeared in the doorway, squinting suspiciously.

  “Well, as you so astutely concluded, I’m a man of many tricks.”

  A while later, the pair of robbers dragged all the bags of gold from the safe into the room (definitely more than four) along with a few of the more flashy, less slashy daggers.

  “That was not the deal.” Mr Berry frowned, but ultimately gave in, “Fine. Take all you want, just do not kill me under any circumstances, or we will all regret it.”

  “I’ve had enough of your tricks and threats! I’m the alpha here. You live and die by my will, old man.” He puffed out his chest and turned to Trix. “And I do not fancy him going back on his word and turning us in.” He inclined his head.

  Trix didn’t hesitate. She stalked forward and promptly, if not properly, plunged a dagger into Mr Berry’s heart.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Mr Berry sighed, defeated.

  “Nah,” she replied.

  Contrary to popular belief, a stab wound to the heart, especially when executed by someone with a less-than-adequate understanding of anatomy, did not necessarily kill someone promptly or properly, for that matter. Therefore, it took several minutes for Mr Berry to die. He spent those minutes cursing his luck, life, magic, basically everything and everyone, but particularly the robbers.

  About thirty paces away from Mr Berry’s house, Trix staggered, swaying for a moment as she gripped her head.

  “Are you sick or something? I’m not going to help you carry your loot,” the man, ever the gentleman, narrowed his gaze at her.

  “Fuck me,” the body that had evicted Trix for its new tenant sighed.

  She cracked her neck, glanced down at her boobs, rolled her eyes, and then, in one swift, unhesitating motion, properly drove the dagger into the robber’s heart.

  The street stayed quiet. After a moment’s pause to make sure no noisy neighbours were currently noising, she gathered the spoils first, then the man formerly known as Alpha Robber, and hauled both back to the house. There she washed her face, selected a set of masterfully crafted daggers, adjusted her corset, and, cloaked in a fine black fur-lined coat, disappeared into the night.

  Knock knock!

  “Who’s there?” the half-asleep maid whispered-shouted through the ajar door.

  “I’m here to see Lady Beatrice. Wake her up.”

  The maid slowly looked the pretty young redhead up and down, then exhaled in utter disbelief. “Nope. Fuck off.”

  “Maid Mary, I’ve had a rather difficult night. Wake Bea and inform her that Felix Felis is fucked. Again,” the redhead snapped.

  “Oh, bloody hell! Not again!” Maid Mary groaned, then hurried up the stairs, leaving the door open behind her.

  Felix (aka Lex) sank into one of the wingback chairs in the parlour, tapping restless fingers on the table and cursing her cursed luck. The parlour was a space meant for peace, with lavender walls, high windows curtained in dusky velvet, with a gentle scent of beeswax and roses lingering in the air. The fireplace crackled quietly, throwing flickering shadows against the parquet floor.

  Bea swept into the room, Uly stumbling sleepily after her, tangled in the robe he’d thrown over his striped pyjamas. Bea’s eyes snapped to Lex’s face first, drawn, pale, furious, slightly greenish, and then travelled downward. They stopped. On the most prominent and unmistakable new development.

  “Oh my,” she murmured.

  Without even a glance at the impressive, attention-grabbing bosom, Uly shouted, “Maid Mary, we’re gonna need a big fucking pot of calming chamomile tea!”

  Then he turned to the redhead. “First things first. The code?”

  “Five fuzzy felines frolicked in the fields with friendly fleas and fireflies.” Lex recited in a tired voice.

  Uly grinned. “Welcome, dear illustrious forefather. Love the new hair.” He pulled Lex out of the chair into a bear hug.

  With Bea’s gaze still lingering in disbelief on the bosom of her illustrious forefather, Uly served tea and sandwiches from the tray maid Mary had brought and got straight to the point.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Lex recounted the night’s events, and when he, or rather, she, finished, Bea, ever the optimist, searched for the silver lining.

  “Well,” Bea said at last, smoothing an invisible crease in her night robe, “at least the gout is gone.”

  Lex frowned in thought, as though weighing whether that counted as consolation.

  “Should I ask maid Mary to make you some Gone with the Gout tea?” Uly asked, half-smiling over the rim of his cup. “I’m sure we have some.”

  Lex looked at him, appalled. “I have never known you to be a cruel one.”

  Bea cleared her throat and asked a bit mischievously, “Is there something you would like to share with us, young lady? Perhaps a revised list of ailments so we can stock appropriate herbal remedies?”

  Lex sighed, rubbing her temples. “No, yes, it’s gone. The gout is gone. However, given my tender breasts and the fact that I had to piss three times between my house and here, I think I might have a parasite problem now. I’m hoping for Escherichia coli, but craving pickled pears,” she grumbled, pulling the tray of sandwiches closer. “I should probably piss on some wheat or shit.”

  Bea blinked once, twice. This is why she avoids making jokes. Her trigger happies always backfire.

  Uly set down his cup very carefully and then beamed and pulled Lex out of the chair for another hug, “Congratulations! We haven’t had a young one in the family in ages. Wonderful news!”

  After a few potentially hormone-induced sobs into his broad chest, Lex sniffled, then went back to devouring the sandwiches. “I hate being pregnant,” she muttered through a mouthful. “It has to be a urinary infection. I like those, they’re my friends. Well, not dear friends. More like that one annoying guy you know from a while back and can’t get rid of.”

  “Are we still riding the Escherichia train, or...?” Bea whispered to Uly. He shrugged.

  Lex sighed, “I’m too fucking old and tired to be pregnant. Actually, I hate being a woman altogether. It’s no fun at all: cramps, periods, and men always trying to grab my bum or boobs. And they keep underestimating me.” She chewed thoughtfully, then added, “Well, that last one is at least useful in a fight, but it’s certainly not ideal for engaging in intellectual discussions. And when I tell them to fuck off, suddenly I’m a raging bitch. It’s tedious.” He finished the last sandwich with a long, mournful sigh.

  Bea finally shook off her shock and put on her game face.

  “Yes, it is indeed. Now. We need a new identity for you, bank accounts...” She waved a hand dismissively. “I have a checklist upstairs for all that. Also, since it would be prudent for you to leave Hartwick for a while to avoid any unnecessary recognition and altercation... perhaps you would like to join Gitta in Hartford? You could both use the company. As expected, she is excelling in her healing studies. Therefore, can help with the pregnancy and the child... or friendly bacteria. And maybe you can teach her to fight. I think she would like that. Yes, I think that is the best course.”

  “I’ll make arrangements.” Uly nodded. “To summarise, it’s one thief in the house, and Mr Berry’s body, and you got the girl?”

  “Yes,” Lex took a sip of tea and continued with the gravitas of an ancient governess, “that all sounds good. Oh, and I also got a subscription this morning for Albert’s Amazing Fruit Baskets. It needs to be cancelled.”

  “Not at all, I’ll redirect it to your new location. Those fruit baskets are so amazing. The last one had this prickly fruit called a pineapple. You are going to love them. They come with little tags that explain what the fruit is and different ways it can be consumed. Amazing!”

  Uly clapped his hands together and stood. “Right, I’ll get on all that now. You two, relax.”

  With a smile and a wave, he left.

  “Fuck,” Lex sighed after some time, tears gathering in her big blue eyes. “I was so close, Bea. So, fucking close. This is the 37th body I’ve been in. I just want to die. I’ve buried friends, lovers, wives, husbands, children, grandchildren… so many people I loved. How fucking hard is it to die of natural causes? People do it every day. Why do I keep getting killed?”

  “It certainly isn’t because of your sparkling personality and demure behaviour,” Bea quipped, but then softened her tone. She took Lex’s hand in hers. “And even if you did die of natural causes, you don’t know if that would be the end either. Maybe you’d just transfer into the closest available corpse.”

  Lex let out a bitter laugh.

  Bea squeezed her hand. “We love you, Felix. No matter how much of a misanthrope you become, you’ll always have a home with us.” She smiled widely. “Now, how about another big fucking pot of calming chamomile tea and a plate of sandwiches?”

  Lex chuckled despite himself. “Well, when you resort to foul language like that, how can I refuse? Perhaps a selection of nice pastries, too.”

  “Of course. Now that the gout is gone, you’re free to indulge. Parasite or not.”

  With that, they steered the conversation toward lighter topics, both skilfully avoiding anything too existential. Instead, they latched onto the far safer terrain of fashion, specifically Lex’s tragically outdated and wholly insufficient wardrobe.

  Bolstered by Bea’s enthusiasm, they dove into elaborate shopping plans. Fabrics were debated with the seriousness of war strategies. Velvet or brocade? Could leather and feathers be casual? (Answer: yes, if one was truly committed.) Lex half-joked about needing outfits that could transition seamlessly from day-wear to drama-at-dusk, and Bea took her seriously, already listing names of tailors with a flair for drama, daggers, and discretion.

  There was even talk of hats, ridiculous, wide-brimmed monstrosities with veils and feathers and the occasional blade cleverly concealed in the trim. After a brief but passionate debate on cape functionality came an even more passionate debate on different styles of knickers.

  By the end of it, Lex’s mood had lightened considerably, not because of the clothes themselves, but from fond memories of herself sashaying through town in layers of weaponised haute couture. There were some perks to being a woman. Shoes being one (or two).

  The first rays of sunrise spilt into the parlour, bathing it in golden light, and Bea gasped.

  Lex looked down at his arm. Wisps of smoke curled from where the sunlight touched his skin. A mix of hope and terror surged through him.

  “Do you think I’m dying?! Finally?! Could this be it?!”

  Bea’s eyes widened. “Oh, my! I’m afraid… No… It seems you… Oh, my!”

  “Beatrice Felis! Do you know why I’m burning?! Pull your shit together and answer me!”

  “Fuck.”

  “Bea!!!”

  “Yes! Yes! Stop fuming-” she winced. “Poor choice of words. Hold on!”

  She sprang to her feet, yanked the curtains shut, and rushed back to Lex, taking his hands in hers. After a few deep, steadying breaths, she spoke. “I believe that, in addition to the inherited parasite, or bacteria,” she added quickly, “you may have accidentally acquired… another magical affliction.”

  “You’re joking,” Lex gasped like a spinster socialite upon hearing that the dashing prince charming knocked up his stepmother.

  Bea forced a reassuring smile. “Now, calm down. Stress is not good for the baby. Or bacteria! We will handle this.”

  “Well, baby momma burning to a crisp is somewhat worse!!! What the hell is happening?!”

  “Calm down. Did you notice anything unusual about the body you now inhabit? Perhaps enhanced strength? Speed? Unusual cravings?”

  “Do extra tender breasts and a heightened inclination for urination count?! Pickles!”

  “No. Just speed, strength, and, well… blood, as far as I know. However, I am far from an expert in these matters. Now, say ‘aaaaaa!’”

  Lex sighed. “Aaaaaa!”

  Bea peered into his mouth and gasped. “Oh, my! What a lovely set of incisors you have there.” She sat back and nodded decisively. “Felix, darling, I believe the young woman who murdered you was a species of magically afflicted who identify as vampires.”

  Lex blinked.

  Bea continued, “Of course, I would prefer a second opinion to confirm-” She suddenly shouted in the most unladylike manner, “Nettle!”

  A teacup cracked.

  Lex barely had time to process this latest existential dread before a small, manic blur of wings burst into the parlour. The gargoyle zoomed in, flapping wildly, then circled Bea’s head like an over-caffeinated moth with mismatched wings.

  Lex groaned, rubbing her temples. He had read about vampires, of course, but they had never particularly interested her.

  “Ferociously flappy one,” Bea said smoothly, “would you be a dear and take a look at Felix? I believe he might be a vampire.”

  The gargoyle executed a sharp turn mid-air, shifted to an inquisitive flight pattern around Lex’s head, and, with no warning whatsoever, pried open Lex’s mouth.

  “Oi!” Lex grumbled.

  Ignoring the protest, the little creature tugged at one of the newly acquired fangs with an unsettling level of enthusiasm.

  “Methinks you’re right,” Nettle finally declared, still yanking on Lex’s tooth like he was auditioning for a tooth fairy position. He did a quick backflip, using Lex’s chin as a launchpad, then swooped up and landed smack in the centre of vampire-not-vampire’s freckled nose.

  Lex went cross-eyed.

  “Go take a gander in the mirror, bug eyed one,” Nettle suggested, poking Lex’s forehead. “If you don’t see yourself. Bam! Bam! Bam! Congrats, you’re a vamp.”

  With another unnecessary backflip, he fluttered back to Bea’s head and perched there like a rather smug hair accessory.

  “Oh, and do be warned,” Nettle added. “Doing your hair from now on? Absolute bitch. And don’t get me started on cleaning off a blood moustache.”

  A few minutes later, Uly entered the parlour to find Lex playing an increasingly frustrating game of peekaboo with a mirror, and losing. He arched a questioning brow at Bea, who sat at the table, intensely contemplating life’s dramatic flair for drama, while Netty sat atop her head, braiding her hair into something that suspiciously resembled an igloo.

  Bea took a slow sip of tea, then deadpanned, “Dear illustrious forefather is now a vampire. We shall need to make additional arrangements.”

  “Wonderful news!” Uly clapped his hands together. “Maid Mary! We’re gonna need a big fucking pot of hot blood! And prepare our fastest bird, we need to send a twitgram to Lord Chiroptera of Hartford.”

  He turned back to Lex and, completely disregarding the peekaboo-related meltdown, pulled her into an enthusiastic hug. “Let’s see the new choppers!”

  Lex hissed at him. Pissed off. Fangs bared.

  Uly admired them anyway. “Niiiiiice.”

  Lured by the enticing aroma of a steaming cup of goat’s blood, Lex eventually gave up on the mirror and slumped back into a chair with an exhausted, “Fuck. Me.”

  ***

  Lord Chiras Chiroptera’s response to Felis’s twitgram was prompt, proper, and came with a generous offer to personally introduce Felix to Hartford society, of both the fanged and non-fanged variety.

  Upon arrival, the master vampire took one look at Lex, immediately declared his dying love, and insisted on exclusively mentoring him in the “vicious ways of the vampire.”

  The vampire was tall and lithe, with a pale complexion and mismatched eyes, one black and one blue. Lord Chiroptera dressed as though every day was a masquerade held at the opera, in exquisite suits and floor-length coats that, when fastened, looked like exquisite ball gowns. Though elegant and formidable, there was something faintly unhinged about him, as if he had lost a piece of his mind at some point and decided not to look for it.

  Despite his oddities, the Lord never once wavered in his affections for Lex.

  Not when Lex tried to stab him. (Repeatedly, with increasing creativity.)

  Not when he was notified that Lex was pregnant. (With a child of unknown parentage.)

  Not even when Lex, still reeling from identity crises, vampire politics, and morning sickness, was deeply, profoundly confused and requested, with teeth bared and tears in her eyes, throwing knives at the Lord, to be left in a crypt.

  Lord Chiroptera merely nodded, respectfully excused himself, and sent her a gift basket, which contained: blood-infused plum brandy, bone-marrow and ginger popsicles, a selection of Sharp Them Fangs chew-toys (all collector’s edition), and some light reads (The Art of Balancing Gender Fluidity and Eternal Damnation, The Bite and Bleed Them Dry Theory, How to Win Vampires and Influence the Undead).

  Eventually, Lex and Gitta moved into a narrow, ivy-wrapped townhouse on the quieter end of Hartford, where the floors creaked and the neighbours mostly minded their own business. It had a modest garden out back, ideal for discreet sparring sessions and vampirism lessons.

  Lex taught Gitta the way of the dagger. To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Gitta excelled. Her calm, clinical approach, fuelled by an encyclopaedic knowledge of human anatomy and her mother’s no-nonsense disposition, meant she had little interest in dramatic flourishes or drawn-out fights. The girl went straight for the throat, the heart, or occasionally the femoral artery, depending on her mood.

  In contrast, every lesson from Lord Chiroptera remained a spectacle. Much to Gitta’s endless amusement, vampire training began and ended with recitations of florid poetry, bombastic declarations of dying devotion, and an ever-growing repertoire of compliments. Without fail, there was at least one marriage proposal, always delivered with a deep bow and a flourish of his dramatically tailored cloak.

  For thirteen months, Lex had the most outrageous cravings: avocado and pistachio toast at midnight, brined cherries with lavender salt for breakfast, not to mention a deeply inconvenient fondness for ice cubes wrapped in rose petals, that Lord Chiroptera didn’t mind making, not one petal. As his term approached, Lex’s already dramatic moods were amplified to monumental levels. Her temper could cut glass, her tears could drown a fish, and her breasts were so tender she nearly bit off Lord Chiroptera’s hand when he supportively patted her on the shoulder.

  And then, finally, Lex gave birth. It was a stormy night when, with Gitta’s help, a beautiful baby boy entered the world with a loud wail. The baby had pitch-dark eyes, a curious smirk, and the tiniest, most delightful pop-up incisors.

  From that moment on, Lex’s world tilted on its axis, again.

  Between Gitta’s extraordinary care, lullabies hummed just slightly off-key, and an alarmingly efficient nap schedule, a giggling, bite-prone baby vamp, and Lord Chiroptera’s unrelenting affections, Lex found something deeply unsettling happening within her.

  She was happy. Not tolerably content, not vaguely less miserable, but genuinely happy. In quiet midnight hours, with her son nestled in her arms and Chiras gently polishing her daggers while reciting poetry, Lex couldn’t deny it: it was a complete, utter disaster.