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had been the day before.
    Leaning against the butcher block, Mitch scratched his stubbly chin. “Huh. That’s, it’s really something, Miss Quincie. It’s . . . something else.”
    I suspected from his tone that Mitch had killed the first person he’d fed from and no doubt more since. I didn’t have high hopes that he’d ever adjust to a low-key preternatural existence. Mitch had barely scratched by as a human being.
    I’d heard what Miz Morales had said about vampires and souls and inevitable damnation, and my foray into Kieren’s Wolf studies had only confirmed her words.
    I knew I couldn’t let Mitch go on the way he had been, that I might have to take the axe from the safe and hunt him down. But, like me, he hadn’t chosen his fate. Maybe together we could find our way, at least for the time being. At least until I found some means of preventing the baby-squirrel eaters from turning toothy like us.
    Rooting around, I counted three bottles (labeled chef in black ink), hopefully enough to get us through the school week. Once Sanguini’s reopened, I’d arrange for a steady supply of animal blood. But for now, we’d have to rely one last time on Bradley.
    I grabbed a bottle, yanked out the cork, and sniffed, confirming that the house Cabernet had been spiked. As a human, my nose hadn’t noticed the distinction. Now I had a heightened sense of smell, if only when it came to blood.
    “Grab a seat, Mitch.” I poured him a tall glass and myself a shot.
    “This Bradley’s blood?” he asked.
    “Probably,” I said, repulsed by the thought, then more repulsed by other possible alternatives. “But we should drink it. There’s nothing more he can do to us.”
    Mitch slowly blinked his Santa-blue eyes. “No, no, I don’t know, Miss Quincie.” He coughed. “You think so, do you?”

I spent most of first-hour Econ scribbling every word Mr. Wu uttered or wrote on the board. He kept talking about the elasticity of supply and demand. He might as well have been speaking ancient Sumerian. No wonder I was getting a D+.
    Under the circumstances, school felt like an extraordinary waste of time. But the last thing I needed was the counselor calling the Moraleses, who might well, in turn, reduce my hours or even forbid me to work at the restaurant so I could study more.
    After the bell rang, I shuffled to stand in front of Mr. Wu’s desk. He hated students. He ridiculed questions, denied hall passes, and God forbid you fell asleep during class. Rumor had it he was a Marine.
    Mr. Wu held up a finger, instructing me to wait until the room cleared, and I braced myself for a tirade about my having missed so many days.
    Once we were alone, he leaned forward and whispered, “Your boyfriend, he’s the one who beheaded the blood-sucking vice principal?”
    I tried to guess which answer would help my grade. “Yes?”
    “With the blood-sucking vice principal’s own battle-axe?”
    “Yes,” I said, surer of myself.
    “Good for him! Good for you! And this is why your Econ grade is abysmal, because you two have been locked in battle against the undead?”
    “Definitely,” I agreed, and happily enough, it was sort of true.
    “Mrs. Levy told me all about it this morning in the faculty lounge. Here, take this.” He handed me copies of his lesson plans from the classes I’d missed. “And here’s my card with my home number on the back. If you have any questions, give me a call.”
    Mrs. Levy beamed at me and continued passing back essays while I took my seat. I vaguely remembered the assignment, a response to “The Lottery.”
    Later, while the other students looked over her comments, she called me to the front of the room. “It’s a relief to see you safe, though I missed Kieren today.”
    I shifted my weight. “Me, too.”
    “I also missed him at Travis Reid’s funeral,” Mrs. Levy added.
    I struggled not to lose my patience. Kieren had been mine, but not all mine. Other people cared about him, and Mrs. Levy had