“Yeah.” I smiled at her. “I know.”

It was true. Ever since Jen and I had become friends in high school, when I helped her track down her older sister, Bethany, at the House of Shadows and make sure she was okay, or as okay as she could be under the circumstances, Mom had taken Jen under her wing, doing her best to make sure Jen didn’t get into the same kind of trouble. Which is sort of ironic if you think about it, since dating a werewolf might fall under that category. On the other hand, I knew plenty of girls who’d dated Cody Fairfax without suffering any side effects worse than common heartbreak, so I guess it’s nowhere near as dangerous as becoming a blood-slut out at Twilight Manor.

By the way, if you’re ever conversing with an actual vampire, do not refer to the House of Shadows as Twilight Manor. There’s a reason vampires aren’t known for their senses of humor. If you accidentally do so, I’d say run, but it’s probably already too late.

Los Gatos del Sol ended one song and went straight into another rollicking number. It’s hard to stay moody when you’re listening to a good Tex-Mex band, and they were cute, especially the accordion player. Funny how accordion players are dorky in a polka band, but kind of sexy playing Tex-Mex or zydeco. This one was working the whole smoldering-Latino thing, tossing his head to keep an errant lock of black hair out of his eyes. Catching my gaze, he winked at me. There was a faint sheen of sweat on the brown skin of his bare throat, and I imagined myself licking it.

A jolt of lust shivered the length of my spine, making my tail twitch.

Yeah, I said tail.

No horns, no bat wings, no cloven hooves, and Mom swears I don’t have a birthmark that reads 666 on my scalp. Since I trust her, I haven’t shaved my head to check. Mostly, I take after her. I have her pert nose, her cheekbones, her chin. I inherited her fair skin and that white-blond Scandinavian hair everyone thinks comes from a bottle.

But I have my father’s eyes, which are as black as the pits of . . . well, you know. And a cute little tail, which I’ve learned to tuck as carefully as a drag queen tucks his package, only back to front.

For the record, I’m not actually the spawn of Satan. My father’s name is Belphegor, lesser demon and occasional incubus. Here’s another piece of advice: If you’re vacationing in Pemkowet, or anywhere on the planet with a functioning underworld, do not mess around with a Ouija board. The spirit you summon might just pay a visit. Mom learned that the hard way, and I’m living proof of it.

Daisy Johanssen, reluctant hell-spawn. That’s me.