He screwed the cap off the vodka and took a long pull. If he found out I was sneaking gulps he

might have gotten mad. But then, I didn’t think he’d notice. Dad never noticed I’d been sneaking

Jim Beam. It tasted foul, but it did steady you. Gran always said a bit of hooch was good for the

nerves. Her people had been rumrunners back in the day.

I pushed the flannel shirt aside. He winced. There were claw marks, but the blood didn’t look to be

all his. He was only scratched, the scratches flushed and angry, diagonally across his chest. One of

them jagged down like something had tried to eviscerate him, but it petered out. He was lucky.

“Jesus. What did this?” My hands moved all on their own, opening the Medikit and sitting it in the

dry sink. I grabbed his shoulder. He sank down on the toilet. Thank God the lid was down. We had a

running battle going on over that. He was male, after all.

“Nasty things. Nothing a nice girl needs to know about, eh Dru?”

I rolled my eyes, opened up the cabinet, and got the peroxide down. He took another shot of vodka.

“Is it raining out there?”

He shook his head, still swallowing. His throat moved. He closed his eyes, but not before I got a

flash of color—yellow, like sunshine.

But August’s eyes were dark. I didn’t know then that he was djamphir . Whenever I thought about

it, it made sense. He’d been struggling to keep the aspect down so I wouldn’t ask him questions,

and I’d been oblivious.

Hey, I was young. And I didn’t even know djamphir existed. I’d heard of suckers, of course—everyone who interacts with the Real World knows about them. But Dad never said a word about halfsucker vampire hunters. I never had a clue.

I had the scissors and was cutting his tank top before he realized it. “Settle down,” I told him, slapping his left hand away. “Let me look. I patch up Dad all the time.” When I glanced up, he was

looking at me, and his eyes were dark again.

“It’s no problem, Dru. I heal quick.”

He did. They were already fading, the claw swipes on his chest. “Jesus.” I ripped open a packet of

gauze. “I’m going to clean them anyway. You never know.”

“If it makes you happy.” He shrugged, wincing, and lifted the vodka bottle again.

He stayed long enough to change into fresh clothes and smoke one of his weird foreign cigarettes

while I fixed an omelet. He lived on eggs and vodka. Said it kept him young. I mean, he was what,

twenty-five? At least, he looked twenty-five. God knows how old he is. If I ever see him again,

maybe I’ll ask.