“‘Tidings of comfort and joy.’ Such an unhelpful sentiment.”
I scribbled the words across the parchment.
“Greetings aren’t inherently comforting, and joy is rarely found outside of childhood.”
“What morose ponderings, my friend. Especially for this time of year. Please tell me you’re not composing our Christmas cards.”
I glared at Victor and suppressed
I made a last perusal of the place settings and brushed a hand down my cocktail dress. Perfect. The smell of turkey and buttered rolls filled our apartment.
Our friends would arrive any moment.
Gloria stomped into the room, still dressed in sweats and a stained t-shirt.
“What’s your problem?” I propped my hands
“My dear Jean-Luc, this is an essential part of the holiday,” Victor clapped me on the back, steering me past hay bales and piles of pre-cut pumpkins, heading deeper into the patch. “We select a pumpkin, then carve a design into it, and display it on the front stoop.”
I scowled and stared out over the field of orange and green.
Over the centuries I’ve had brief spells where I’ve considered children adorable. But such misconceptions can be very dangerous. My only excuse, I’d caught a March madness.
“Those are the official rules. Any questions?” I snapped the NBA rulebook closed and stared down at the children. Fourteen wide eyes stared back at me.
To W. Darling: As you requested, below is my recollection of my team’s rescue of A. Liddell & discovery of the Red Queen’s plot to take over Wonderland.
I hope you find everything in order. -B.
The stone manor stretched into a gray March sky. Ivy trailed up the walls and framed the imperial letterwork: Institute for Madwomen.
I’d spent centuries avoiding typical societal celebrations of love. If experience was any indication, this Valentine’s night was shaping up to be as dull and tedious as every other.
A sudden movement caught my eye. A woman ran for the alley, her hair streaming behind her like golden ribbons. She ducked around the corner
“You really want to attend The Cupid’s Cafe Single Mingle?” Marguerite folded her arms and arched an eyebrow. “What about our girl’s night? Hunting monsters and slaying vampires?”
“We do that every year, and most weekends. Let’s try something new?” I clasped my hands and gave her exaggerated puppy-dog eyes. “Please!”
When I signed up for Fated—supposedly the best app for online paranormal dating—I had no idea being a Seer would make it so hard to envision a future with my matches.
Like this vampire. His fangs sprout over his bottom lip as he licks away a speck of spaghetti sauce. “My mother
“My name is Jean-Luc Beaufoy. I am a vampire. I am old enough that it is impolite to ask how old I am, and these are my memoirs.”
I scowl at the words illuminated on the screen. What a boring way to start a story. Informative, yet lacks pizzazz.
The black owl spoke into Vjun’s ear. “Are you sure you can do this?”
The vampire hunter rolled his eyes. “For the hundredth time, yes, I’m sure.”
He crept up a hill through dark trees, making his way by moonlight, Aryana perched on his shoulder. He held a crossbow, already loaded with a bolt dipped in fae blood.
It was a quiet day in the Underworld, so Charon lazed back, smoking a cigarette and gazing out over the waters of the Styx, a view of which he never got tired. Startled from his reverie, he gasped and scrambled to his feet. Standing right next to him was a new client,
Read it now
When I emerged from my coffin to stalk the darkness, I didn’t expect to find inspiration.
I strolled through a graveyard under a blanket of night. The gravestones glowed a ghostly gray luminescence under the gaze of the full moon, and shadows jittered with ghoulish glee as the boughs of trees swayed
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