by Kat Kinney
The year I was nine, we met Guillermo up in Dallas for the day (he’d never tell you, but he secretly loved roller coasters.) As the groups split off, August and I went with our dad to check out the food trucks. My senses were about to explode from all the flavors. Cajun, southern, Mexican. Funnel cake and fried chicken. Foot-long hotdogs topped with Indian curry and toasted coconut. My mouth watered. I wanted to taste everything, wanted to visit every food truck just to smell the flavors, and then rush home to our kitchen where I could mix and sauté in the one space that always felt wholly mine.
Dad let me and August pick two things each, then we carried everything back to a picnic table under a big shady live oak to share. His hand was steady at the back of my neck, that sunny day bright, warm and clean. Perfect and full of promise. And so I told him, while we were throwing away the waxed paper, that I thought I wanted to have a food stand of my own one day. Nodding, he stared out towards the midway.
“Then I reckon it’ll be the best damn one in town.”
* * *
Me: Did you get the sausage?
BabyGotBake: Would that be the two-dozen uncut smoked wieners, arranged in a vase?
Me: My spidey senses are suddenly tingling.
BabyGotBake: The ones West told you looked like a prop from a skin flick straight off pay-per-view and you should have gone with flowers? (The red satin bow really completed the male stripper look, BTW.)
Me: So you had that spider plant last year for two weeks. The one that was supposedly impossible to kill? Figured flowers would bring back traumatic memories of how you made me hold a 3 a.m. spider plant funeral.
BabyGotBake: So instead you went with me unwrapping what was essentially a bouquet of dicks in front of the lunchtime crowd?
Me: If you’re going to pour confectioner’s sugar into our ventilation system for this, can you at least wait until nightfall?
BabyGotBake: Donut-emoji
BabyGotBake: Come over later? Finalizing new recipes. Need to pick a winner.
The skies out to the west turned black as pitch an hour before the dinner rush, the ice and sleet we’d had earlier in the week exchanged for the ominous rumble of thunder. I was just signing off on a stack of timesheets when the bell over the door jingled.
“I’ve been informed there’s something unnatural about eating gas station hot dogs three meals in a row.” West slid onto a barstool.
“They’re practically roadkill.” Topher’s dark unruly hair was starting to grow out from where it had been shaved. The faded canvas jacket, Aerosmith tee and dark skinny jeans he had on hung off his angular frame. But what caught my eye was the way he kept shifting to keep his hands out of sight, edgy as hell about anyone getting a good look at his wrists.
“Tough crowd.”
“You asked.”
“Says the one who has to be on an IV drip of Dr. Pepper in order to function before noon,” my brother said without looking up from his phone.
I slid West’s sweet tea over to him and grabbed a cold Dr. Pepper for Topher. “Three things you don’t do in this state. Mow our bluebonnets. Put ketchup on barbeque like an Oklahoma transplant. And throw shade at the state drink.”
West shot me the finger. His ketchup addiction? Legendary. “Please tell me you made the okra.”
“Damn straight. Topher, how ‘bout you? Homemade bread? Chips and guac to start?”
His gaze slid towards the kitchen, shoulders hunching lower. “I’m good.”
I hesitated, noting for the first time how the dark circles under his eyes looked even more pronounced in this lighting. Punching in an order for a mixed appetizer platter, I came back around the bar.
Now or never.
“Guess by now you’ve heard about the attack two days ago.”
Topher picked at the label on his coke. “So?”
Ignoring the eye daggers West was shooting me, I pressed on. “So you ever overhear anything about some sort of vamp disease, or any weapon they might be developing to use against us?”
“Un. Fucking. Believable.” West leaned in. “I told you the other day to back off.”
Topher raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You really do get off on controlling my every move.”
“Whatever. We both know that’s not what this is.”
“Could have fooled me.”
They faced off, a silent conversation I had no hope of interpreting taking place. Then, with one last dark look my way, West stood and headed for the restroom. Pretty sure I was getting written into his next fic as the cave troll. Topher watched him go. Something there was… off. And no matter how many times I flipped it around in my mind, I couldn’t quite define what.
“Can’t tell you much,” Topher said. “Some of them were sick, sure. But from what I could gather, the symptoms matched acute lycanthropic degenerative disease. Different stages. Towards the end, that’s some scary shit, you know?”
“Sure.” I tried to imagine what it had to have been like for him. Held as a prisoner. Tortured. Used by vampires and shifters alike. It was too much to take in, so terrible I didn’t want to minimize what he’d gone through by acting like I got it when there was no way anyone who hadn’t lived something like that ever could. More than ever, I was glad he had Cal, who’d trained for years as a psychiatrist, and was maybe the smartest person I knew, working with him to sort it out.
“Most of the ones who interacted with me weren’t what you’d think.”
“How so?”
“We make the vampires out to be monsters. We talk about them like they’re not human. Like they’re animals. Is it any wonder they want to destroy us?”
My gaze flicked to West, who’d returned to the bar in time to overhear the tail end of our conversation. His expression said the same thing I was thinking.
Not good.
The food arrived. Platters of smoked chicken, beef brisket, coleslaw and Texas-style baked beans with crisp bacon, plus a basket of bread still steaming from the oven with a generous pot of honey butter tucked beside it.
West didn’t look up. “You know the rules.”
Glowering, Topher speared a chicken breast. I raised an eyebrow. West shook his head as if to say, Not now.
An hour later after sending them off with a couple of to-go boxes filled with peach cobbler and banana pudding, I clocked out and headed across the street. Wreaths and garlands hung from every door all along Main. Over by the park, strings of red and white twinkly lights adorned the light posts to form a procession of candy canes. In every window, bright green flyers announced the date for the upcoming Yule Festival, which was our special brand of annual small-town Christmas crazy.
At Blair’s the shades were drawn, the sign on the door flipped to CLOSED. I slipped in the back by the kitchen, locking the door behind me. Imagine Dragons was playing over the sound system, the warm, buttery scent of sugar and spices thick in the air.
Lacey was bent over the counter, piping bag in hand, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she expertly piped frosting onto a row of waiting cupcakes. The bruising at her throat had faded to dull, yellowish splotches. She had on skinny jeans and an old track team hoodie she’d had since high school, the one she always wore on cold days it stormed. There was a smear of flour across her cheek. Chocolate frosting streaked the inside of her wrist like war paint. And damn, she looked good enough to eat.
“You’re here.” Dropping the piping bag, she hurried back to the storeroom.
“Um, I feel like I’m going to get thrown out on my ass for saying this in a bakery, but is there some reason it smells like wet cat in here?” Grabbing the closest cupcake, I slid onto a barstool across from her. Every available work surface from her prep tables to the front counter up by the register was covered in freshly baked desserts. Mini-strawberry cheesecakes. Decadent double chocolate fudge. The key lime with toasted coconut icing that she hadn’t made in weeks. “And by the way, are we gonna talk about you bailing the other day?”
“I didn’t,” she called.
>
“Oh, okay.”
“We said no strings.”
“That what you want?”
She came out from her supply room carrying a cardboard produce box. “I can’t have what I want.”
“And if you could?”
Lacey shivered when I traced the crease of her hip just over my claiming mark. Her pupils dilated, breath and heartbeat syncing with mine.
“Dallas—”
Her eyes dipped fractionally, settling on my mouth. Answer enough.
Something rustled inside the box. I looked down. Picture a nest of towels large enough for two or three bald eagles. A giant bowl of water (since, you know, eagles get thirsty.) I was about to ask if she’d taken up falconry when I spotted the soot-black ball of fur blinking up at me with huge green eyes in the very corner of the box, hiding from her new Olympic-sized swimming pool.
“Um, that’s a—”
“Cat?”
“Was gonna say health code violation. But, you know, whatever. And you have her in here because?”
Health Code Violation mewed, revealing tiny kitten fangs. Which, okay, was fucking adorable. Reaching into the box, I petted her pointy kitten ears with a single fingertip.
“She was hiding in the alleyway. Someone probably dumped her. There’s stigma against adopting black cats. People believe the superstition that they’re bad luck. I’ve already called the county shelter and put up notices online. Naomi’s coming over in half an hour to take her to the clinic, make sure she doesn’t need medical care.”
“So, I’m all onboard with the cat thing, #TeamFancyFeast and all that—”
“We are not calling her that.”
“—but is she going to freak out when she realizes we don’t exactly play for her team?” I raised a meaningful eyebrow.
The phone rang. Glaring, Lacey shoved the eagle-nest-slash-cat-box at me and hurried to answer it. Switching out the cat-pool for a normal sized measuring cup, I settled Fancy at my feet where I could watch her and grabbed a cupcake.
“Blair’s. Yes, we’re all set for Thursday at the shelter. We’ll be providing dessert and my mother and I will be there to serve dinner and help out in any way you need—”
Five minutes, four cupcakes, and one Justin Bieber song Fancy and I were never telling anyone about later, and I realized, damn, I’d joined the cult of cat people. I was just texting West after making Fancy a little nest in her towels and tucking her in, deciding between Peanut Brittle and Blackberry Crème Brulee for cupcakes number five and six when the offending desserts were plucked from my hand.
“Wow, really?” I groused. “Professional cat sitter slash cupcake tester at work here.”
“We’ve been over this. These are your catnip. Forgive the expression. And I really don’t have time tonight for two hundred pounds of arctic wolf on my floor in a sugar coma.”
“Once. That happened once.”
“Shall we pull up the video?”
“He has a very sensitive system when it comes to confectioner’s sugar.”
Smirking, she took my cat away and returned from the storeroom with an empty cupcake wrapper. “So, if you can remember anything from the start of the cupcake apocalypse?”
“You know I’m not partial to pumpkin anything, but with the cream cheese frosting, it totally works.” I poked at the discarded wrapper for the chocolate one. “What’s with the icicles?”
“They’re called Vlad’s Dark Delights and they’re supposed to be fangs. You really didn’t get that from the cherry liqueur filling?”
“Call it my natural aversion to the undead. These for Thursday?”
“I may bring a few dozen to get a reaction from a larger group.” She began transferring racks of cupcakes to the refrigerator. “But the shelter put in a request for pie. I’m hoping to blast out the word over social media, make sure everyone planning a Christmas party is thinking cupcakes as we head into December. I’ve got about a thousand ideas—Peppermint Pixie Kiss, Ghostly Gingerbread Delights—”
“Sounds like a killer marketing strategy.”
“Which is why nothing better happen to get it shot down.”
“You worried about Brody because of the vamp attack two days ago?”
“This is Blood Moon, paranormal central. Our mascot is the Howlers. No one in town freaks out when Bella’s sells mushroom ravioli and if you think I believe he’s going to tell Ethan to stop making pumpkin spice lattes and those ghost mochas—”
“Yeah right. Any time rules get handed down, count on Emo to be the exception.”
And wow, that had come out way sharper than I’d intended. For a beat, there was only the sound of the rain thundering down onto the awning. I started to say something, but then I caught sight of Lacey frowning.
“I think we should talk about the night of Brody’s promotion.”
I gripped the edge of the counter, vision graying out. Blood roared in my ears, the lights from Dark spilling out onto the street, the smell of espresso enough to turn my stomach even a year later—
“You gonna tell me why you slept with my brother? Cause I’m not sure there are words that can make that better, sweetheart.”
She glared back at me, eyes hard as steel. Out on the street, sheets of rain began to blow in from the northwest.
“I’m not apologizing for a damn thing. You and I weren’t together, and you’d made it perfectly clear that option wasn’t on the table.”
“So why—"
“Because you need to get it through your thick skull that it was never about Ethan. That night, when we all showed up at the bar, I was with someone else. You were with someone else. And something about seeing you there with your brothers, surrounded by them, celebrating with them, another girl on your arm… I realized that it was going to be more nights like this. Graduations. Cookouts. Weddings. Housewarmings. And eventually, maybe not that year or even the next, one of those girls would become permanent, and it would never be me.”
She stalked over to the window. Lightning illuminated the sky.
“Watching you with her hurt in ways I can’t even begin to describe. You and I couldn’t be together. And having that rubbed in my face everywhere I turned… I just wanted to stop hurting. I wanted to stop feeling. It was never about him.”
And at those words, my wolf arched within my bones.
Mate.
I looked down, breathing hard.
“I didn’t go home with her.”
Lacey tore the wrapper off a cupcake. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”
I thought back to the night she’d TP’d my house, to the blood-red Blair’s frosting streaked down my front door. She believed there were no more lies left between us. When the truth was, I’d only gotten better at telling them.
“And I’m telling you the night you were infected was the last time I went home with anyone. Until two days ago.”
She froze mid-bite, a dollop of creamy coconut frosting smeared across her upper lip.
“You, um,” she mumbled through a mouthful of cupcake. “I mean, you haven’t—”
“No.”
“You’ve dated, though.”
“Your point?”
“I just assumed—”
“I infected you when transmission should have been impossible. I couldn’t risk that happening to someone else. Or letting my wolf break free from its cage. Not after the way I hurt you.” Not when we both knew I was too unstable. That I couldn’t be trusted.
Her brow furrowed. Like she couldn’t decide whether my insta-confession was more disturbing or just plain pathetic. “Dallas—"
My phone went off, blaring Kenny Chesney. Brody. Cursing, I dug it out of my pocket.
“Can I call you back—”
“Something’s come up. Where are you?”
Instantly, Lacey pushed away from the counter. I switched things over to speaker.
“We’re at Blair’s. What’s going on?”
A dispatch radio crackled in the background. “Aug
ust texted. Two of our cameras just went offline on the highway coming west into town.”
Lacey met my eyes. “Any chance it’s just the storm? It’s blowing like crazy out there.”
“Could be coincidence. But given the fact that two undeads breached our perimeter the other day, I’m not taking any chances. Can you two check it out?”
Lacey squeezed past me, going to shut off the ovens. I caught her shoulder, spinning her around. Dragging up the sleeve of her hoodie, I examined her arm. The slash marks had closed, the dark pink scars scabbed over, but her flesh from wrist to elbow was mottled with old bruising. She was healing now, but sluggishly. From the way she kept gripping the counter for support, I was pretty sure the fatigue and disorientation hadn’t improved either. Whatever the fang-heads had done to her, her system was still fighting it.
I put my brother on mute. “Sure you’re up for this?”
“We need answers.” She bared her teeth. “Let’s go hunting.”
* * *
An hour later, we were out on the side of Highway 29, soaked to our skins. Wild squalls lashed rain across the empty highway perpendicular to the road. It was so dark I couldn’t make out anything but the light of Lacey’s phone, high up in the branches of a massive live oak.
“Pretty sure you don’t have to take that whole tree apart, sweetheart.”
“Do you want to climb up here?”
“Think we both know how that would go.” I checked my phone. Still a spotty signal.
“Because if I recall, only one of us has ever made it through the Aragog scene in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets without suddenly remembering we need more popcorn, or it’s time for an emergency Twizzler run, or he needs to check the sprinkler heads—”
“Water waste is a serious issue.”
“It was December.”
Something drifted down from the branches overhead, landing on the back of my neck. I ripped off my jacket, cursing loud enough to draw every undead for twenty miles down on top of us. Laughing, Lacey jumped down.
“Wench,” I mumbled. “Anything?”
“Fried. Same as the last one.”
Inside the Escalade, I fired up the heater while she pulled out her phone.