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of
    Diet Peach Snapple (as a doctor, I never touched Diet anything . . . why not just drink
    gasoline and be done with it?), a carton of strawberries (which, as they were not in
    season, tasted like tiny, fuzzy raw potatoes), two pints of cream, half a box of Godiva
    truffles (I knew, without looking, that Betsy had already scored the raspberry ones,

    Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com ) pureeing them with milk in one of the six blenders), an open box of baking soda that was
    not doing its job to defunk the fridge, fourteen bottles of water, a near-empty bottle of
    Thousand Island dressing, a cellophane-wrapped chunk of parmesan cheese so hard it
    could be used successfully as a blunt instrument, an unopened jar of lemon curd
    (whatever the hell that was), two cans of Diet Coke (Jessica was addicted to it; why is it
    that the chronically underweight were drawn to drink diet soda? And am I the only one to
    notice someone who drank seven cans a day ended up with cancer?), and something foul
    lurking beneath the tin foil on a paper plate . . . I just wasn’t up to exploring (I didn’t
    even know we had paper plates), so I let it be. This is what comes of living with vampires
    and a woman who seemed to consume nothing but salads and Diet Coke. Unlike the
    community fridge, the freezer was full, but still weird. It fairly bulged with bottles of a
    vodka brand I’d never heard of—Zyr—in various flavors. The flavors were alphabetized.
    The bottles were perfectly lined up; they were like cloudy glass soldiers at attention. As
    these were typical contents of the mansion’s kitchen freezer, I knew some of the flavors
    lurking in the back were lime, juniper, peppercorn, espresso, fennel, mint, garlic, cherry,
    sun-dried tomato, mustard seed, apple, and horseradish. Dude, I am not making this up,
    or exaggerating for humorous effect. In a household of oddities and the undead, Tina
    was everywhere and nowhere. She excelled at going unnoticed and she could pull that off
    anywhere in the world . . . except our kitchen freezer. Vodka was her vice; the more
    obscure the flavor, the more she had to try it. She drank it neat, using a succession of
    antique shot glasses, which were always kept chilled. Tina had offered to make me a
    drink once. I had accepted. Once. I did not have time to swing by Cub on the way to work
    and would be too tired after my shift; time to order pizza again. Green Mill was
    practically on my speed dial. Sighing, I swung the freezer shut and my senses, instantly
    overwhelmed by someone they hadn’t smelled, seen, or heard, but who was all of a
    sudden right there, went into overdrive. My adrenal gland dumped a gallon of F.O.F. into
    my system (what my interns called Fight or Flight juice) and for a long minute I thought
    my heart was going to just quit from the shock. She greeted me with “I am out of
    cinnamon vodka,” then grabbed my shoulder and prevented me from braining myself on
    the metal handle as I flinched hard enough to be mistaken for an epileptic. “Tina,” I
    groaned, yanking my hand out of her chilly grasp, “that’s the second time today. I’m
    putting a bell around your neck. Or sewing one into your scalp, I swear to—” No, don’t
    swear to God; just hearing the G word was like a whiplash to a vampire, the movies had
    gotten some things right. “I swear,” I finished. Tina looked mildly distressed. Most of
    her expressions were mild versions of what humanity could come up with. What would put
    you or me in a killing rage would cause her to raise one eyebrow and frown. Frown
    sternly , but still. The smooth efficiency and profound, almost unshakable calm were at
    odds with her appearance. Tina looked like an escapee from Delta Nu, the sorority Reese
    Witherspoon’s character made famous in Legally Blonde. (Great movie, dude. “All those
    opposed to chafing, please say aye.”) Tina had long, honey blond hair—past