At a grand southern wedding, she’d been a bride for a day. She’d danced in a candlelit ballroom and had given away her garter as her new husband gazed on with adoration. Later, violins had played into the night as her groom had made love to his bride. He’d looked into her eyes so intently, Jo had pretended he could see her.

Which meant she existed.

That groom’s voice had cracked when he’d made vows to her. I would die for you. I’ll love you alone for the rest of my life. You are everything.

Jo reverently traced her fingers over the dried roses from her stellar concert performance. With those, she could pretend she’d once been admired. With the tiara from that bachelorette party, she could pretend she’d belonged. A dollar-bill tip from Café Du Monde allowed Jo to believe she’d once been just a normal girl.

She straightened the cuff links stolen from her romantic groom. They were her favorites. She could rub her thumbs over them and pretend she’d once been beloved.

With a wistful exhalation, she scuffed across the worn carpet of her room. She would’ve liked to stay somewhere less shitty, but she didn’t have an ID, could never get one.

Because she couldn’t read the application form.

She turned to the banged-up set of drawers. One was filled with Thad memorabilia—scrapbooks and the Thadpack. She opened the drawer, brushing her fingertips over the nylon material. At times, her three years with Thaddie felt like a dream, as if it were just as imaginary as the rest of her life experiences.

She drew out her most recent scrapbook, filled with pictures of him holding up trophies or Eagle Scout badges or community service awards.

Wherever she’d ended up in the Southeast (she couldn’t stray too far from him) she had descended upon the closest library for a computer. Using the text-to-speech feature, she’d learned about his sports, charity work, and honor-roll grades.

She knew when his football team was going to the playoffs and when his . . . mom had won a pecan pie cook-off.

Jo stalked his social media so much she could tell when he was nervous about a big game, or even when he had a crush. Through his online yearbook photos, she’d watched him grow into a handsome seventeen-year-old with an easy grin that said, All is right with the world.

He was tall and strong, a world away from the tiny boy she’d carried everywhere.

Fourteen years ago, she’d made a heartrending choice, but obviously it’d been the right one. Every day Jo stayed away, his life seemed to get better and better.

Yet to spare Thad from grief, she’d suffered, willing each minute of her lonely existence to hurry by. She only slept for about four hours a night, so she had twenty hours each day to kill.

At least in New Orleans, there was the prospect of other freaks!

A knock on the door sounded.

She hissed with irritation. Few dared to disturb her.

When she’d first moved here, she’d been one of the motel’s only guests. After a month of her hunting—crushing testicles and “disappearing” rapists and fight-stealing pimps—the rooms had filled up with women, mostly prostitutes, many with kids.

Another knock. Jo traced to the door, removing the brace—she usually ghosted past it—and opened up.

The smarmy motel owner. He was always leering at the women here. Automatic probation. One strike, and he’s out.

His expression was a mix of fear and lust, his attention dipping to her body.

As long as she consumed blood, Jo retained a ballin’ figure. Without it, she turned all sickly again.

“What do you want?” she demanded. Even this guy wasn’t seeing her; he damn sure wasn’t looking into her eyes.

He asked her tits: “I was wondering if you, uh, wanted to go get a cup of coffee with me?”

Coffee must be the theme of the night. She could drink java if she had to, but it tasted awful and made her pee. She liked never having to go to the bathroom.

Vampirism did have benefits. No running out of toilet tissue, no flu, no periods.

When she didn’t answer, he finally met her gaze. She leaned in until they were nose to nose. The shadows around her eyes weirded people out; he was no exception. She told him, “Trying to drum up reasons not to kill you; comin’ up short.”

He swallowed thickly. “Oh.” Axe would be an improvement on his smell.

She wrinkled her nose, her mind drifting to Rune’s skin. So tempting. But even if Jo wanted to, she couldn’t drink the poisonous dark fey.

The man cleared his throat. “Do you, uh, happen to have the money you owe me?”

Jo had tons of cash, piled up in the corner next to her comic books, and she could get more whenever.

“If not, maybe we could . . . work something out,” the owner added.

Just for that crack he’d get nothing out of her. Lucky to be alive, little man.

She gave him her standard answer: “With your flayed skin, I’ll be able to finish my man quilt.” She slammed the door in his face.

One of these days she was going to have to start that quilt, or she’d just be a no good liar. . . .

She floated to the mini fridge to snag a bag of blood. It smelled dank and plastic-y. If Rune was toxic, then why had his flesh smelled so enticing? Even now her fangs were sharpening. Aching.

She’d sensed power in him, there for the taking. That pulse point had called to her as little else in her life ever had.

Just because he was poisonous to others didn’t mean he would be to her.

When had rules ever applied to Jo?