Finally, there's a thump on the roof. It's about goddamn time!

Yes, Ivy is late . . . again.

She knows my shift starts at two—and that's AM not PM—and is well aware of the penalties I'll endure if I'm late. I've learned not to wait for her or rely on her, but I can't exactly leave Sam here alone with that piece of shit still out there.

Ivy told me she'd take over—she has "spells" to work on downstairs anyway—and no one messes with Ivy. She also said, hours ago, that she wanted to "spend some time with me," but, looking at my smartwatch, I'll only get about five minutes. And she'll insist that I bring her up to date.

Priorities...

Ivy swings through the window I left open for her, the screen long gone. She brings the rain and mist into my humble abode. She doesn't believe in doors. With a broomstick being her favorite mode of transportation, she doesn't walk or drive much, either.

She's never seen. Never heard. Unless she chooses to be, like when she lands on the roof of this place to announce her arrival.

"I can't believe we actually got one." She lowers her hood. Her long black ringlets cascade down her back, seemingly untouched by either the wind or rain. "Our first victim." She says that with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, a demure smirk on her red lips, and her thin eyebrow peaked.

I pocket my hands and shrug, an uneasy feeling snaking through my gut. "Someone would eventually be desperate enough." Then I take a gulp, almost afraid to ask. "What's this about anyway? You never really explained."

Her eyes dart to something on my work shirt. It wasn't more than a crumb, but she takes a moment to dust it off. "I need a human virgin to make a potion."

That deserves a chuckle. "You really think you're going to find one of those on Craigslist?"

Good luck with that.

Sam is timid and young, and judging by the hoodie—big enough for her to swim in—she isn't the promiscuous type. She's a cheerleader, though. A good one.

Thank you, YouTube. Getting a glimpse of her craft was halfway uplifting.

She's the kind of cheerleader you would put at the front, center, and top for all the reasons you would suspect. And, unsurprisingly, when I was skimming football stats and bios, I found her prick of a boyfriend—Ted Moeller, lucky number 13.

Should I say ex-boyfriend?

Hard to say. Once these girls get the I'm-broken-and-sorry-and-it'll-never-happen-again speech, they tend to take these juiced-up bastards back. Or another one takes their place, the bed practically still warm and damp from the last asshole.

Well, whatever this dude is or was to Sam, he's violent and crazy. If this monster wasn't summoned by sex in some way or form, then I'm out of guesses already. What else could she have done? Or not done?

Oh, shit. Maybe she is someone who would still qualify.

Ivy, not moved or amused by my Craigslist comment, opens my closet. After sifting through the few button-up shirts that I own, she picks out the shiny black one that she gave me and hands it over.

"You don't like the one I'm wearing?"

She shoots me a glare and then starts unbuttoning my shirt for me.

"All right. Once you have your virgin, then what?" I ask, taking off the flannel and draping it over the foot of the bed. When fur is not an option—and it isn't always, depending on where I'm stationed—it's my favorite work shirt at this time of year. It's the warmest and most comfortable.

Ivy follows me there, picks up the shirt by the collar with two fingers, and throws it in the wastebasket. "Aw, you're worried about her, aren't you, my pet?" she chides through a pout.

I hate when she calls me that...

When she tries to ruffle my hair, I dodge out of reach. "It's nothing like that!" I stroll over to the window, close it, and take a moment to stare outside. The turn of my back is well timed. I blush like a pussy at just the suggestion of wrongdoing.

"Like what?" she clucks. "Should I be concerned?"

"Don't go there." I turn back around, ready as I'll ever be to fall into the hole she just dug for me. "Sam's just . . . had a rough night. We don't need to drag her into any of our shit. She's got enough of her own."

"Sam," Ivy repeats flatly, her eyebrows peaking higher than usual, higher than what seems possible. Ivy is the jealous type, and that's why this plan of hers is so asinine. "And now protecting my family is just shit to you?"

This is why jealousy should be beneath her. Her stepfather took me in. I protect them, but more importantly, they protect me . . . and it'll stay that way, as long as I don't do anything stupid.

"You know what I mean. And don't change the subject. What do you need from her—or whoever? If this ends in blood, then—"

I won't play this game, I think but don't say.

"There will be blood, but..." Ivy cackles to herself. "I need a drop of fresh menses from an unsullied womb. You know what that is, don't you?"

"Of course I know what that is!" I bark and cringe. Period blood. "And how are we going to get that without being invasive?"

It sounds gross, and it is, more than I'd care to describe. But with vampires in our acquaintance. Her acquaintance, I should say. I'm just a lowly guard dog. I can't say this component is all that strange. I've heard of weirder and much grosser, to be fair.

"Let me worry about that." She plops on my bed and dismisses my qualms with the flick of her hand. "Your job is to find out if she is a virgin."

Hey, Sam, would you pass the Wheaties, and by the way, how's your vagina holding up? Is it open for business or closed for company? Has it always been that way? Asking for a friend...

Seriously, though . . . how would I work that into the conversation unless I was actively trying to get into her pants? And she'd have to want me there. Those are a bunch of lines I'd rather not cross. Ivy wants the answer, but she'd kill me if I fail to keep my extremities to myself, even if it's just for show.

"Why can't you ask her? It's less appropriate if I do it."

"I'm very busy..." Doing what, Ivy never quite says. She doesn't go to school, doesn't work, or sleep all that much. She's like royalty in our realm, and everyone treats her that way, but she doesn't have many close friends that I'm aware of.

She clashes with her sisters constantly, so she avoids them when she can, and they avoid her. Her parents' criticism does affect her, and not well, but she doesn't necessarily bend to their demands or even pretend to try.

All in all, I would assume she has plenty of free time, much more than I do. Her stepfather keeps me very busy, and I don't have the same shield from his ire.

"And plus," Ivy goes on. "I intimidate people. Girls in particular."

She's not wrong. She has a striking presence and can be as blunt as she is evasive. She hides her flaws well with dramatic presentation. Her clothing is usually tight, black, and revealing, and she has curves to flaunt. Her full lips are always shaded in the range of bright red to black. Her eyes are always outlined and heavily shadowed. I don't think I've ever seen her without makeup, and I sleep with her . . . occasionally.

The only reason I have the balls to be with her is because she came to me first, and she keeps coming back.

As long as she's happy, I'm happy? And if she's not...

If she grows tired of me, that's one thing. I'd only suffer the loss of her, maybe. But if anything else were to go wrong? It could get ugly on a scale I'm not even ready to consider.

"And you're such a sweet puppy dog." She approaches me, where I'm leaning against the wall, and runs a seductive finger down my chest, stopping just above the belt. There's no time for that anyway, and I don't let it rouse me. "With those big brown eyes of yours and your drive to please and protect . . . she'll confide in you. I promise. And if you find out that she is a virgin, keep it that way..."

Sam's an attractive cheerleader who isn't an outright bitch. Easier said than done. It'll be a full-time job, and I already have one of those. The one I need to get to, ASAP.

And while my thoughts linger on Sam and all the reasons this is a very bad idea, Ivy's lips devour mine. She helps me set it aside, while the kiss lasts, which isn't long. After the teasing, tormenting drag of her tongue along the roof of my mouth, she breaks it off with a conclusive smacking sound.

"If she isn't a virgin..." She pats my chest, the cue that I should release her waist. "We'll kick her out of here and recruit our next 'tenant.' To better our odds, I'd like to have more than one at any given time. How'd it go with 'Lexi'?"

"Not good," I admit.

She's a virgin, no question in my mind, but she'd never be worth the trouble. She basically said I'd rather die anyway.

It hasn't come to a point where we'd force anyone to stay here, and hopefully it never will.

"Well, keep trying," she tells me.

I'd like to hold off—the cleaning, showing, and correspondence are all a hassle—but I bite back my dissent and swallow it. "All right," I comply after only a beat of hesitation.

There are so many ifs right now. I shouldn't stir the cauldron unless there's a reason.

And I really do need to go. I have a shift to make, many miles away—literally over the river and through the woods—and if I'm a second late, there will be hell to pay.