I dash into the barn as fast as my paws will carry me, over an hour late. It's not how I usually come in, but it's quicker this way, and my identity won't be as obvious on camera. If anything is out of place, like my absence, Ishmael is sure to be watching. But, it's possible, in the dead of night, he'll mistake me for another wolf.

I'm sure he knows I'm late, but if I can somehow evade how late...

Dipping behind the privacy screen of our shared wolf stall, I shift to my human form and grab my extra work clothes from the hook.

Underwear. Pants. Quick and efficient, despite my rattling limbs. It's a cold night, and, well . . . it's a bad situation.

I glance over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of what's beyond the screen. Nothing. No one. An empty aisle.

I'm latching my belt when the first floorboard creaks like it's about to break.

The wolves have a certain trot or sound like actual human beings if they make the switch. The witches don't trouble themselves with the grounds or staffing concerns at this time of night, unless it interferes with whatever it is that the four of them are doing in that haunted old manor. And still, they'd most likely use Ishmael as their liaison.

Step two. Step three...

In this old barn, Ishmael, Ivy's stepfather, is probably the only one who could sneak up on me. He's impossibly fast and light on his feet. If titles were a thing, he'd be the king of this place. He's calmly, coldly lethal at times, but he's not the type to go "boo." He'd rather his presence be known, even when he's not around.

The footsteps are slow, deliberate, heavy. Undeniable. Unmistakable. They're heading in my direction. I don't need the process of elimination to figure out that I'm in deep shit.

I stand as tall as I can when Brock appears behind me. More than a head taller than the flimsy, three-paneled courtesy barrier and over four-hundred pounds, it doesn't provide much "protection." Brock could probably crush the damn thing into sawdust between two fingers.

He hits me aside the head with an open hand. "You're late."

I duck and dart out of his reach before he has a chance to deliver another blow with better results. "It's not my fault!" I insist, despite the hollowness of it.

Brock is just muscle. He doesn't know what I've been assigned or care all that much, either. He doesn't have the brain cells for that, and it's not worth trying to explain.

"Ishmael waits for you," he grunts like a neanderthal. From his fat belt, he removes the whip, and snaps it at my feet. "A long long time."

He herds me out of the stall. I'm not quite fast or nimble enough to avoid the lash entirely. "All right. I'm going!"

It cuts right through my pants. I can feel the trickle of blood by my ankle. I'm a fast healer, but that doesn't spare me from the pain. It's absolutely excruciating until the wound heals over. All the pain a human might feel, just condensed, more intense over less time.

Even if I had the nerve—which I don't—there's no sense fighting back. Although I'm perfectly free to try, it would hurt me more than it would ever hurt him.

Brock was human . . . once. Some local redneck who was captured on the property. If a human crosses over with ill-intent, it never ends well, but in Brock's particular case, they took that notion to an unnatural extreme.

Prue Fowler, the matriarch of the family, was in the mood to experiment and turned him into . . . a monster? He was huge to begin with and became something essentially blade-proof, bulletproof. He is brutality plus loyalty. They override every other human sentiment. He'd violate anyone with anything if Ishmael gives him the nod, and he has free rein to act on Ishmael's behalf . . . within reason. Brock's unreasonable, however, and that leaves things pretty open-ended, and it doesn't take much to provoke him.

The barn is his playground. His "tools" are dispersed throughout. There's a loft, empty stalls, a few underground chambers...

I'm not usually in any hurry to chat with Ishmael, but with a whip snapping at my heels, I gain some momentum. Speed and intelligence—if that even applies here—are my only advantages. Over Brock, that is. With Ishmael, I'd be fucked all over.

It's not an effortless stroll to the main house, even if you're in shape, even in wolf form, which I'd be in right now if clothes weren't an issue and a meeting with Ishmael wasn't mandatory. The Fowler property is steep, rocky, densely wooded, dim to dark even at the peak of the day. We're in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and the manor sits high within, looming over everything. It's so far removed from the nearest town—Front Royal—miles from the closest road, quite a hike from the barn, and even farther from our cars.

On the route leading to the property, there's a curve where the manor is visible to the god-fearing public, and it's a particularly deadly one at that. Accidents happen there all the time.

Somewhat seen and vaguely understood, the house is a bit of a local legend. A curse, some would say. As a result, it's sometimes a target of trespassing, theft, vandalism, arson, and so forth. Teens with a death wish. Trigger-happy numbskulls with a bone to pick. Zealots on some holy mission. Unscrupulous treasure hunters. Supernaturals on a vendetta. You name it, we've probably had it.

The onslaught is not daily or deadly on a regular basis, but it's frequent enough to call for a security team with a superb sense of smell.

Brock was conjured to keep the wolves in line—there were allegedly problems before my time—but his skillset has other uses. There's a lot I'd rather not know and can avoid knowing. I'm here for guarding, detection, and tracking, not punishment, and that makes this job bearable . . . to a point. They pay well and provide protection from any outside enemies, no questions asked. Truth be told, it's the latter that keeps me here. I need them more than they need me.

Luckily, I haven't experienced any major mishaps . . . yet.

I'm usually an ideal employee. Their favorite wolf, if there is such a thing. I've followed orders. My quick-thinking, when unavoidable, has been praised. Ivy has also been my champion while I've held her interest—almost nine months now—or at least that's what she's led me to believe. I've earned my seniority, but it's padded by her support . . . and discretion. I don't know what her family knows about us, but if they didn't accept it, I'd be Brock's next project. Results may vary, and none of them are good. And some . . . are final.

I open the bulkhead at the back of the house and head to the basement. It's the only place I'm allowed to enter without knocking and the third degree. Why? Where? What for? How long? You better not get mud on the carpet. Needless to say, I've never actually been inside Ivy's room. If not for the window, I wouldn't even know where it is.

The stairs lead to the security station where Ishmael is swiveling in his chair, surveying each screen. The whole basement is his lair. He has a den, an office, locked doors I can wonder about, but I'd rather not. A coffin, somewhere, I'd assume. He does occasionally need to "rest."

Yes, he's a vampire, the oldest I've ever met, probably among the oldest on American soil. He was a conquistador. And according to rumor, he's still rich and influential because of the gold he stole from the Spanish crown.

Ishmael is Prue's second husband or "mate," according to him. Her first husband was bewitched and used for stud. It's no secret that Ishmael got rid of him soon after Blaise was born (the youngest of three). Ishmael loved the property. Prue didn't mind the boost to her income and status and had no initial or enduring attachment to her husband. And Prue is one of . . . God only knows how many women or females resembling women Ishmael has had in his snare. The term mate is used loosely, and everyone is strangely okay with that.

Prue is aging—and it isn't going well. Ishmael is stuck where he is. With his middle-aged, cartel-boss good looks and vampire charm, he can satisfy almost any craving with anyone, any age, and he doesn't need to kill to do so. Though sometimes it's like the cherry on top...

He acknowledges me with his shiny black irises, and a calm, easy, terrifying smile. "It's nice of you to finally join us."

He's never this happy to see anyone. Not Prue. Not even Rosemary, Ivy's older sister—a waif-like beauty who is eager to please and does anything he asks.

The smile dims to a cold neutral. "Have a seat, Jael..." He uses my actual name. It's not dog or mangy mutt, something I'm often called because of my human birth. I'll never be readily accepted by any kind.

Brock is standing sentinel by the exit. There is no way out of this. As always, I'm forced to cooperate. I take the second swiveling chair by the security monitors and make sure to leave as much space between us as possible.

Ishmael has flawless black hair, lightly salted with silver, and superb taste when it comes to clothing, shoes, cosmetics, and cologne. Some women, and heck, a fair number of men, may swoon, but I can always smell blood on his breath.

I take a gulp and then stop breathing out of my nose. "I'm really sorry I'm late. It won't happen again."

"Yes. About that..." He rolls his chair closer to me. "I heard you're having trouble managing your time around your special assignment."

I'd need all month to contemplate the implications of that statement, but I have only a couple of seconds. If I know what's good for me, I'll squeeze in a coherent response before his thick, condescending eyebrows lift. "You know about that?"

"I know everything," he claims, leaning back in his chair. He crosses his legs at the ankle and flicks his agile hands in the air. I've seen him use a sword and it would be ugly and brief for anyone who dared to challenge him.

I thought this virgin-blood potion was supposed to be of Ivy's making, and supposedly, she tells her parents nothing.

"And I assume," he goes on. "Since you've been so task-oriented, that this girl shows promise."

"Sam," I inject, as if that would somehow matter to him. "And, uh, yes. She's not what she may seem, in a good way, that is. She's young and..." I dig deep inside myself trying to come up with another descriptive word. Naïve? Green? Faultless. Innocent... "So, yeah..." I never came up with anything that I wanted him to hear. "No news is good news."

"We want favorable news," he emphasizes in a tone of you're an idiot. "It's critical that this task is done well and done soon."

"Is it?" I had a feeling, but no one has ever said that in so many words.

"It is," he states, the discussion closed. "A week or two at the absolute max. And that's why I'm cutting your hours here. I expect results."

"I..." Genuinely, thoroughly, and apprehensively... "Don't know what to say."

"Say thank you," he offers as the desktop phone rings. "We'll make it worth your while."

As I mutter my thanks, he takes the receiver, says a curt yes before a line of female chatter, and to me, he holds up an index finger. I'm not yet dismissed.

"I'll be right up," he assures the caller with a warmth his employees and most family members never receive.

It's not Prue. The witchiness in her voice could cut through iron. And Ishmael speaks to her with a sharp, serrated edge in return.

Ishmael glances at an unmarked flask on the table beside the phone. "Yes, it's right here." His eyes move to mine, and he smiles. "Of course. Anything for you, my love."

He hangs up and hands me the bottle.

"Drink it," he commands, the "love" and good humor now wiped from his existence. "We need a guinea pig."

I look at him and it, tilting the bottle toward the gray-green light of the monitors. "What is it?"

Black, viscous, with a watery suspension. I swirl and jostle it a little, and it doesn't quite mix together.

Ishmael sneers—both amused and unsympathetic. "Don't worry. It won't kill you."

I don't find that reassuring. In fact, I'm not even convinced he's speaking the truth. He may not want to kill me right now. I have a special assignment and all. But these concoctions don't always work on shifters the way they're supposed to, and depending on the potion's maker...

He wasn't speaking to Prue—the expert. Ivy isn't home—second best. Blaise, the rebel, is the least witchy of them all and has other, more human interests...

That leaves Rosemary, the malevolent try-hard. Her potions, according to Ivy, suck.

Jealousy in this house is usually darker and denser than the liquid in this bottle. Rosemary is taller, thinner, more "classically beautiful," earns most of her parents' praise for her behavior and commitment—she hardly ever leaves the property—and Ivy will forever despise her for it. But when it comes to aptitude, Rosemary has nothing on her. Ivy is the better witch, by far, and I'm guessing her assessment was a clear, untainted truth.

I uncork the flask and then recork it. "Can it wait?" I dare ask. I don't have the night off to recover. Since I was the last to arrive, I'll probably get put on perimeter, the most isolated and demanding of all assignments. I'll be circling the acres and acres of their property, over and over again, until dawn.

"It's for the lateness I will otherwise let slide." His gaze moves to the exit and my wary eyes follow it there. "Unless, of course, you'd like Brock in charge of your disciplinary action for the night."

After cracking his knuckles, Brock grunts with what could only be described as pleasure.

I uncork the bottle and guzzle down the whole damn thing. Dread and panic drown out the taste for a couple of seconds. It's enough time to force the contents into my stomach.

Once it's there, however, it fights back hard.

My mouth is watering from the burn and a bitterness I've never experienced. My nose is practically foaming. My stomach is cramping and clenching with every heartbeat, and it's racing as if death were chasing it.

I put the back of my hand to my mouth and runny nose. It takes effort not to vomit all over Ishmael's calfskin leather shoes. And still, this is absolutely preferable to a Brock-session, even if he's having an off night.

Ishmael stands, cracks his neck, and loosens his blood-red tie. "Muy bien, mi perrito," he chides with an accent he can turn on and off like his temper or libido. On that note, I think I know where he's heading. "Now go. Perimeter. And just so you know, I'll be timing you. Any deviation from my standards, and Brock will find you..."

He leaves me there, buckled over. I find my feet, but stagger, knocking my chair over. The room is tipping, swaying, like I'm on a boat in rough seas.

I somehow manage to flee without Brock on my tail and get outside before the retching really gets going.

Darting and then tumbling into the hedges nearby, I empty my stomach and then some. Once that's through—sort of—I ditch my clothes and transform. As a wolf, I feel only slightly better.

And then, there's nothing more I can really do. I start my laps and try to hit Ishmael's magic number.

Will he follow through with his threat? Probably, but not necessarily with any consistency. He has other things to do. And yes, above the wind, howls, the occasional shrieking cat, snap of the whip, and cries of agony—there's at least one trespasser being "detained"—you can hear exactly what that is. Rosemary's window is cracked open, and he's giving her a pounding. It sounds like he's hurting her, but that's just the way she is—loud and dramatic, and pathologically submissive to him.

Like I said, the term mate is used loosely in this household. Because her sisters are so headstrong, Rosemary will be encouraged to breed with a human . . . eventually, when Ishmael's ready to "share" (it's the only way witch-procreation is possible with warlocks in short supply around here. Shifters are incompatible, by the way, and are generally frowned upon. Humans yield only females, and vampires are sterile). They'll capture her a husband if necessary. She'll pop out a few daughters, and when they're old enough and Rosemary loses her appeal, the cycle will repeat itself. Ishmael will have his fun with the fairest of them all, and whatever he can acquire on the side as well.

He disappeared for a generation or two, but he's certainly been in and out of this family before, and they welcome it, as if he is the conquering hero that he perceives himself to be.

I'm on camera, and it's recording everything, so if he really wants to keep tabs on me once he's had his happy ending, he still could. And, oh yeah, I'm vomiting at least every fifteen minutes. To make up for lost time while I'm indisposed, I'm really pushing it, to a point of near collapse.

Did I ever mention that I hate my job?

I can't exactly quit, though. There are only two ways out of here. A shallow, unmarked grave, or you run and hope they never find you.