CHAPTER 1
The Priscilla Cereal Special is a thing of beauty. Crafting the perfect balance between sugary, chocolaty, and crunchy is a skill that has taken me years to hone. Ain’t no Michelin Starred chef out there who can create a better breakfast experience than me, and that’s the truth.
And no, I don’t believe in humility.
The key is to start with a bed of crumbled Weetabix, over which I sprinkle Rice Krispies, sometimes mixed in with Frosties, depending on my mood. Then comes the mound of Cocoa Puffs, followed by a scattered topping of Lucky Charms. The final flourish is a garnish of Shredded Wheat for fibre. Very important in order to keep yourself regular—let it not be said that I don't take care of my nutrition.
Once the construction of the Cereal Special is complete, I pour orange juice over it all, because milk and cereal makes me go ‘ick’. Milk is for tea. End of discussion.
Ben, Mary, Penelope, and I are freshly back from meeting my family to introduce Ben and Mary to them all. It's late at night, hence the midnight cereal snack.
The microwave beeps, the sickly smell of warm blood filling the kitchen. Penelope, my hyena, sniffs the air with interest. Ben is warming himself up his own midnight snack—a small bottle of blood. No midnight snacks for Mary, obviously, seeing that ghosts don’t have a digestive track the snack can go into. That must be a hard thing to give up when you’re a ghost. Snacking is one of my favourite activities.
The three of us are very far removed from the standard roommate arrangement, but then when you get a vampire, a ghost, and a human impervious to magic sharing a house, standard is never going to be the name of the game. Good thing weird is my jam.
Mary’s a Victorian era ghost who refuses to move on until her remains are dug up from their corner of the cemetery, and her grave is properly marked. She’s dressed like something from a period movie, with a long dress that buttons right up to her neck and some kind of bonnet or hat. I still haven’t established what the difference is between a hat and a bonnet—my passions don’t lie with period costumes. If I cared enough I’d ask Mary, but I don’t. To be clear, I care about Mary. I just don’t care about her hat.
And I care about her grave being properly marked. I can totally understand why she wants that. It’s not exactly respectful to have your remains dumped in an unmarked grave. But it’s something that’ll take me a while to arrange if I do it through the official channels—headstones are expensive, as is paying for someone to dig up remains. I don’t know why she was buried this way, and I haven’t asked. I doubt she’d appreciate me prying into her personal life, no matter how curious I am about it. Maybe once we know each other better.
But I like having her around, even though she’s more often sour than not. And it’s thanks to her that I was able to create the London’s Edge faction. We needed a minimum of three members, and without her, it’s just Ben and I. Penelope apparently doesn’t count because she’s a hyena, something that I’m not happy with.
Mary’s hovering in the kitchen right now, but as the microwave beeps she wrinkles her nose, looking displeased, and disappears. Obviously ghosts can be squeamish about blood—who knew? Not sure where she’s gone off to. She comes and goes as she pleases.
Ben's kitchen is surprisingly inconspicuous. By that I mean that it's not what might come to mind when you try to picture a vampire's kitchen. The stereotype would be some kind of dingy grotto, something with bloodstains on the counter, innards rotting in a corner—or maybe even a corpse. That kind of thing. Or you might go in the other direction, expecting something cold and white and pristine. Clinical. Something that could serve as a backdrop for a scene in American Psycho.
Instead, Ben's kitchen looks like any normal Mundane kitchen. The red electric kettle on the counter, next to the matching toaster. The serviceable grey flecked countertop—if I were more domesticated, I would know what material it's made of. The one thing I do know is that all the off-white wooden cabinets are IKEA—I spotted a sticker with the shop's name inside one of the doors.
I'm guessing the kitchen was already installed when Ben bought the house. Imagining a vampire in IKEA is a step too far, even for me.
Ben opens the microwave and grabs the warm bottle of blood, holding it away from himself with two fingers as if repulsed by it, even while his eyes dart repeatedly and hungrily towards it. Penelope perks up even more, sniffing towards the bottle with optimistic interest.
Most of the time she has very little interest in Ben.
Maybe something to do with the fact that as a vampire, he’s technically dead and has no blood inside him.
Although, hyenas eat carrion, so you’d think the technically dead would be of interest to her. I haven't quite figured that one out, yet. But I can’t complain.
Better a lack of interest from Penelope than her attacking or being afraid of Ben.
Ben doesn't really look like what I had expected vampires to be like, either. After all, they're always depicted as these dark, sexy creatures who brood in the night, stalking young women. Ben is tall—at six foot he's a tad taller than me—but he's very skinny, with arms the size of Twiglets, and legs like toothpicks. He's as pale as a corpse at a funeral—which is only mildly paler than the average Brit in the dead of winter, to be fair.
When he's not busy trying to pass himself off as some kind of energy healer to hypnotise unsuspecting humans into letting him drink a little of their blood (he never kills those he drinks from), he dresses normally, in jeans, converses, and geeky T-shirts—the current one features a big Warhammer logo. You know, that company for nerds who like to paint fantasy figurines. Which I guess is good camouflage—nerds are somewhere between regular Brits in winter and vampires on the pallor spectrum.
Ben’s also pretty average looking, with a mop of dark hair and unremarkable features, but he has a nice smile that lights up his face. Definitely no dark and sexy brooding from him, though. Not the kind of guy that sets girls’ knickers or hearts aflutter. Hence why I didn’t realise he was a vampire until he told me.
“I might go and drink that in private,” he says awkwardly, still holding his bottle of blood as if it might bite him at any moment.
Ben struggles with the fact that he’s a vampire. He wasn’t turned that long ago—although I don’t know when exactly. But he was vegan before, with ambitions of becoming a meditation teacher. Not really the ideal candidate to become a vampire.
Before I can tell him to crack on with his blood drinking, a frantic pounding sounds at the door. Ben jumps, looking immediately worried.
“Relax,” I tell him. “We're protected by the Agreements now that we’re an official faction, remember? People can't just show up at our door and attack us.”
There are three main types of supernaturals: humans who are Touched by magic, humans who have been Turned and are now werewolves or vampires, and then there are creatures who have never been human.
Creatures who are made of magic—the Vetus, or Old Ones.
Apparently the three types of supernaturals do not get along, which is why there is a fragile truce in place at the moment, a truce that is governed by the Agreements, which prevent factions from attacking each other, or from attacking each others’ loved ones. A tenuous attempt to keep the peace.
I head to the door.
“Shouldn't you grab some kind of weapon?” Ben asks behind me. “Even with the Agreements it could still be an attack. Maybe from an independent.”
“Chill! It'll be fine.”
“We need to set up a security system so we can see who’s outside the front door,” Ben frets. “What if!”
“I said ‘Chill'. I'll take care of it.” I open the door a crack, but I keep my heavy Doc Marten behind it so I can brace against it being forced fully open. Just in case.
Earlier in the night it started pissing rain, and it hasn't stopped, as evidenced by the soaking wet woman standing in front of me.
Now, I'm not one for false modesty, as we established earlier. I know I'm relatively easy on the eyes, so long as you can deal with my particular sense of style, which not everyone can. My unique sense of style is a helpful filter in this way.
But the woman at our door is a genuine stunner. And for her to manage to be stunning while looking as pathetic as a drowned rat is impressive. Her blonde hair is plastered down the sides of her face, her mascara is running down her cheeks—although I guess the white T-shirt that is now see-through beneath her leather jacket would be considered a definite improvement by most men.
She has wide, doll-like blue eyes, cheeks that look like they would be rosy in normal conditions, and the kind of plump lips that are used by cosmetic companies to advertise lip gloss. She’s very petite, five foot nothing at most, but with a curvy figure.
“Is this the London's Edge faction?” she asks in a small voice.
“The one and only,” I reply. “I’m Priscilla, but everyone calls me Pree. And who are you?”
“My name's Crystal. I'm a witch, and I need your help. Please.”
I don't even have time to open my mouth to reply before Ben calls over my shoulder, “Of course, come on in.”
Amazing how his fears have suddenly disappeared, to be replaced with philanthropy when he’s faced with a gorgeous, soaking wet woman.
Crystal glances at me. “I heard that you said your faction was open to anyone who needs help.”
She’s referring to the statement I made when I formed the faction. We’re the first faction to have members from multiple species of supernaturals as well as humans. Well, human, singular, since I’m the only one so far.
I step back and open the door wide. “And I meant it. If you need help, you have a place here with us.” I smile at her in a way that is meant to be both warm and welcoming.
Her chin trembles, and she bursts into tears.
Oh, god. This is going to be a long night.
