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considering what they’d told her was true. She knew her calm acceptance of was likely frightening to an outsider looking in.
    But she couldn’t. Like, literally couldn’t deny the validity of their tales. Not even when Nina went the extra mile and flashed her fangs or earlier when Marty shifted in the Ladies’ Room for Familiars.
    She’d watched it all with as much unflinching disinterest as she was watching what was unfolding in front of her right now. As if it were every day you saw someone’s flesh and bones virtually morph in a public bathroom.
    In fact, the only thing she’d added to that scene straight out of American Horror Story was her distress that some poor soul was going to have to sweep up all the hair Marty had shed.
    “Poppy? What gives?” Nina prodded, tapping the toe of her work boot as though she almost hoped she’d collapse and tremble at her feet in fear.
    But she just shrugged and sighed. “Yeah. I get what it means. I heard every word. I heard about Carl and Darnell. I get the comparisons to Sean of The Dead , Teen Wolf , and so on. I’ve watched them. I already told you I get it. How many ways can I say that before you believe me?”
    In fact, the longer they stood in line, the more rooted this certainty became. Yeah, so you’re a vampire. Whoopee.
    Nina shook her head, her gloriously silky dark hair shifting over her shoulders. “So you get that your life’s now changed forever, right? You get that you can’t go back to doing whateverthehell you did for a living, that you can’t tell your family and friends about this? That you’re a walking, talking episode of Supernatural ?”
    Why was Nina so determined to drill this point home? They’d each taken a turn at reminding her how different her life was now, moving forward.
    Finally, Poppy asked, “Is crying what you want to see? Because you know you don’t like tears, Nina.”
    Nina popped her lips, cracking her knuckles. “How the eff do you know what I do or don’t like?”
    Poppy blinked, astonished she’d said those words out loud. Yeah. How the eff did she know?
    Licking her lips, she winced when she answered, “I don’t know . I just do. Tears make you uncomfortable. Compliments more so.” Eek, had she said that, too?
    Nina frowned, glaring down at her.
    She’d definitely said that . Bad, Poppy.
    Nina poked her, jabbing a finger between the muscles connecting her collarbone and shoulder. “What are you, fucking psychic, Madam McGuillicuddy?”
    “Next!” an authoritative voice behind the glass windows yelled.
    Calamity bumped her calves with a swish of her hip. “Shit. That’s us. Now remember what I said, P. Shut up and let me do the talking. You do not want to end up with one of those ratchety-ass, last-century mothereffers who still think Salem’s Lot is a documentary.”
    Okay, so if she wasn’t feeling terribly freaked out before now—not even about discovering vampires and werewolves were real—her frame of mind had definitely changed. She was on the precipice of being assigned her witch, someone she had to help. It wasn’t the paranormal part that had her freaked out, or the immortality Calamity spoke of either.
    It was the part about guiding someone using her advice as their narrative. It was bananapants.
    How could Poppy McGuillicuddy, the girl secretly voted least likely to succeed, possibly guide anyone anywhere?
    Her life had already been a flippin’ mess before she’d left for the road. She lived in a tiny studio apartment—one she barely held on to each month doing odd jobs, like DJ-ing parties for instance. And if not for the people in her building, people she loved, and their kindness, she’d have likely starved to death by now.
    She’d failed miserably at becoming the next Broadway sensation a long time ago and now only got gigs in the chorus if she was lucky, because, by industry standards, she was an old hag—even if she could still do a split at the ripe old age of thirty-four.
    She