Nightwolf

Wolf screamed too, a sound that shook the earth beneath his feet. The scream made the air warp and shimmer and, without even really trying, flames appeared, making a doorway.

He didn’t even take a moment to wonder how he was able to do it.

He just went through the door and into the real world of color and sound, the stark red of blood running from his father’s severed arm, the horror of his father’s scream. A sound that Wolf would never forget.

His father looked at Wolf, eyes wide in pain and even wider in fear.

“Run!” he screamed at his son. “Go!”

His father would have screamed more.

But then the other sword came down on his neck.

Sliced his head clean off.

And Wolf was left staring as his father’s head rolled away through the pine-strewn dirt, eyes staring at nothing, face frozen in absolute terror.

It was then that Wolf realized who the headless man was.

It had been his father, coming back to warn him.

There wasn’t a lot of time for Wolf to ponder that thought. He wanted to fall to the ground, crawl to his father’s side, that headless figure he loved dearly, and hold on to him, to cry and beg and maybe a God somewhere, Odin, would hear him and bring his father back to life.

But Wolf had that ingrained ability to survive hardwired within, and that comes through even when you’re going through the unimaginable.

He had to live.

The men with the swords turned to Wolf.

“There’s the bloodsucker’s boy!” one of the men yelled. “Kill him then kill the rest!”

Wolf took one step back into the flaming door, into the Black Sunshine, and the door closed behind him. He wasn’t sure if the men could see where he disappeared to, but it didn’t matter.

He knew he had to follow his father’s last wishes and run home through the secret world to warn the rest of his family.

So, Wolf turned and ran through the black and white forest, retracing his steps through the woods, as fast as he could until he was sure he was flying.

He ran and he ran and he ran.

All the way home.

Through tears and grief and horror.

So many endless tears that would flood his world with pain.

For now Wolf was a boy without a father, and he would remain that way.

Being a vampire meant that when you had to live with sorrow, you had to live with it for a very, very long time.

Wolf would have to live with it forever.

Chapter 1

Amethyst

“Have you ever really listened to the lyrics of the ‘Monster Mash?’” I ask Lenore as she holds the chair I’m standing on. “I mean, really listened?”

I reach up and pin a smiling paper pumpkin on the corner of the wall, neatly pressing the thumbtack into the aging wallpaper. I’m helping Lenore decorate the club for the Halloween party tonight, so long as we don’t damage anything in the process. I’m staying clear of the wood walls—Solon’s eagle eyesight would pick up on the slightest scratch—and though the wallpaper is dated, I know it’s the original version from the 1930s when the club, Dark Eyes, was nicknamed “The Russian Embassy.” There would be hell to pay if I marked it in any way. Solon can be extremely particular.

“They did the mash, the monster mash?” Lenore offers as I carefully pin the next part of the pumpkin garland. “It was a graveyard smash?”

I put in one more pin and gesture for her to get out of the way as I step down. I look at her and smile, pushing my hair off my face. “Yeah. But like, the whole song is about another song. Isn’t that fucked up? We never actually hear the ‘Monster Mash,’ we just hear about it.”

Lenore’s hazel eyes stare at me blankly for a minute. Even with an open stare, her look holds me in my place, making me momentarily dumbfounded, as if I’ve forgotten my name. She has that effect on you (as does everyone else in this house, sans my mother), and for good reason.

“You’re right,” she says slowly, and I can’t tell if she’s humoring me or not. “We have no idea what the actual ‘Monster Mash’ sounds like. Might be a rockin’ bop. Might be some bass-heavy trap beats.”

I snort and drag the chair over to the other side of the door to the cigar lounge, where I’m hanging the rest of the pumpkins. “Pretty sure trap music wasn’t around in the fifties.”

“But if you haven’t heard the song, then you don’t know,” she points out, her eyes sparkling, and their magnetism makes me feel slightly out of breath. Once again, I can’t tell if it’s because she’s just naturally super pretty, or because she has supernatural help. It’s October 31st, and while I’ve known Lenore since April of this year, I never actually knew her as her purely human (and normal) self. Something tells me she’s always had this effect on people, though.