Accidental Sire (Half-Moon Hollow #6)

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” I exclaimed. “What’s a shapeshifter?”

“It’s like Jolene’s werewolf thing, only Jed can make himself into whatever form he wants,” Gigi told me. “Jed’s family thought they were cursed for generations, but it turns out they have this weird supernatural recessive trait. Oh, I’m sorry, I’m being rude. Nik, you haven’t met Meagan Keene. She’s Ben’s sire and works with us down at the Council office. Meagan, this is my boyfriend and sire, Nik Dragomirov.”

“So pleased to meet you. Gigi has told me so much about you,” Nik purred, grinning at me.

And I would take the time to analyze what he meant by that after I processed the following.

“Jolene’s a werewolf?”





7




One of the most important qualities in a sire is a protective instinct for his or her childe. But you can go overboard.

—The Accidental Sire: How to Raise an Unplanned Vampire

After Jed’s face was sufficiently iced and Ben was coaxed out of the bathroom, Jane had yet another “explain the facts of the supernatural world” talk with me, where she explained that yes, werewolves and shapeshifters were a thing. Yes, vampires knew about werewolves but not shapeshifters, as Jed and his family were some sort of supernatural rarity. And no, I shouldn’t talk to humans about either, because nobody believed in shapeshifters anyway, and the werewolves were still waiting to see how well the whole Coming Out thing worked for the vampires before they made their debut.

Keagan, who was firmly planted on Team Jacob in the Great Twilight Debate, would have been so happy to know werewolves were real. But from what I gathered, they were less “dreamy dudes with soulful eyes and an aversion to wearing shirts” and more “rednecks who lived a little too close to their families and settled almost every argument with bloodshed.”

Ben’s resistance to draining a perfectly nice mutant land shark seemed to score extra points with Jane, even if she did insist that she wasn’t keeping track. We were allowed more frequent video chats and more unsupervised time. After the shark scare, Ben was less eager to run home and see his parents in person, so our yard time was less restrictive, too.

I was carving out a niche at work. I was slowly but surely working through my laundry cart of backlogged files. Sammy the coffee god learned my usual order, a bloody macchiato with a double shot of platelet syrup, and had begun leaving it on my desk for me every evening. I liked admin work. Jane gave me a series of objectives. I met them. There wasn’t a lot of critical thinking involved, but I had a sense of accomplishment, seeing all of those tasks checked off at the end of the day.

And whatever trust-based (or literature-based) issues we might have had at home, Jane was one of the least insane people I’d ever worked for. She was fair, made her expectations clear, and said thank you when you met them. She was very different from Mitch at the Chicken Shack, who once threw a bucket of drumsticks at me when I forgot to clean out the grease trap.

As promised, the “nope list” did grow every week. On this particular night, Jane was out of the office, meeting with other representatives. I was burning through the unfiled files, wondering what it said about me that my workload seemed to move twice as fast when my boss wasn’t around. Did that mean I was a good employee or a bad one?

The phone rang, and the caller ID showed an unfamiliar area code. I cleared my throat and used my most professional tone of voice to say, “Council Representative Jameson-Nightengale’s office, this is—”

But whoever was on the line was already talking. Well, ranting. He was ranting.

“I want an appointment with Mrs. Jameson-Nightengale immediately,” the voice demanded. “I’ve called and called, and my patience is at an end. This is unacceptable. If I have to park my car outside your office and wait for her in the parking lot, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Well, I wouldn’t advise you to do that,” I deadpanned. “Can we start from the beginning, sir? What is your name?”

“You know very well that this is Dr. Allan Fortescue, PhD!” he shouted, emphasizing each letter of his postgraduate degree.

Also, how would I know that?

I glanced down at the caller ID. Oh. Yep, there it was, “Allan Fortescue, PhD.” How did he even get the phone company to put “PhD” on his phone line anyway?

On a hunch, I opened Jane’s “nope” spreadsheet and searched for the name Fortescue, while he continued to rant about his “research” and the hope he was providing to the undead community at large, despite our lack of support.

Yep, there he was again. With an asterisk. You had to really screw up to earn an asterisk from Jane.

“And I’m assuming you’re hoping to schedule an appointment with Representative Jameson-Nightengale?” I asked, working hard to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

“Yes, this is my fourth attempt to make an appointment, and every time, I’ve been told that her schedule is full. This is unacceptable!” he shouted. In the background, I heard a loud thump, like he’d slammed his fist against a table for emphasis. “I demand that you schedule an appointment within the next three days.”

I paused to let him think that I was checking Jane’s schedule. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Fortescue, but her schedule is booked solid, just so many meetings and then her travel schedule.”

I took a breath, hoping I sounded sincerely apologetic when I said, “She won’t be available until next month, at least. I’m so sorry.”

Also a lie. I was not sorry.

“Unacceptable!” he yelled.

“You keep saying that word. That doesn’t change the fact that the representative’s schedule is full.”

“Next Tuesday?” he demanded.

“She’s on the road.”

“Friday?”

“In meetings all night,” I replied, biting my lip. I really had to get better at lying if I was going to be a good administrative assistant.

He suggested, “The seventeenth?”

“She’s taking a personal day. For a doctor’s appointment.”

“Vampires don’t need doctors.”

“It’s an elective procedure,” I said, squinching up my face, hoping he wouldn’t hear the uncertainty in my voice. Thank God this wasn’t a video call.

“Unacceptable!” he yelled, and then hung up on me so hard that my sensitive ears rang.

“I guess it was unacceptable,” I muttered, making another note on Jane’s “nope” spreadsheet with a PITA ranking of eight. And I added another asterisk with the words “babbling loony.”