When this was over, if I never saw plaid or flannel again, it would be too soon.

“Two in one day,” Sal said, letting the envelope fall to the table. “One guess who this is from.”

But we did not have to guess, and we probably didn’t even have to open it to know the contents. The front of the envelope was written in blood, the crude signature of the Blood Clan, and it was addressed, venomously:

To the Disgraced Drakes, Reginald and Charlotte

I huffed. “We’re a disgrace? They would bleed puppies if the Elders allowed it.”

Reg took the envelope between the tips of two fingers and pried it open, careful to avoid the address, but more blood was waiting inside. They had used it to script the entire letter.

“It looks like they’ve been playing with their food,” Reg said with disdain.

I sniffed at the red scrawl, but my mortal nose could not detect whether the blood was human or animal. In either case, it was wasteful and, to my new human senses . . . kind of gross.

Most of it was hard to read, due to where the blood had run or smudged, but we got the gist. The Blood Clan leaders had not only refused our request but they had also forbidden anyone in the clan from sponsoring us.

“‘Imagine,’” Reg read aloud from the letter, “‘Bone asking Blood for favor for free. Centuries, Bone hoard wealth that ought be shared with Blood and other clan.’”

“Oh, this again.” I rolled my eyes. “If the Bloods ever climbed out of their coffins for anything but dinner, maybe they would have a few bucks of their own.”

“This grammar is atrocious,” Reg said. “I’ve always detested the way this clan speaks. Where did they come up with this dialect, anyway? It’s so primitive.”

“Better primitive than pretentious.” I would have laughed at my own jab if I didn’t feel like crying. “What else does it say?”

Reg turned the paper over in his hands. “That’s pretty much it. There’s something about entitlement and superiority and . . . I think this bit is a vague threat that they might come feed on us now that we are . . .” He squinted at the page. “Tasty little humans.”

Sal humphed. “Let them try.”

“You going to protect us, slayer?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing a few Blood vamps decorating my fence,” he growled. “Probably not the lot you want sponsoring your appeal anyway. I hear they’ve been giving your Elder Seat some trouble lately. Feeding without cleaning up their messes. Risking public exposure. Best not to get mixed up with them.”

Reg tossed the letter aside. “Two rejections in less than twenty-four hours.”

“It will be a while before you hear from the third,” Sal said. He stood to stir his stovetop concoction. “Shadow Clan rarely uses a courier. They prefer to send letters the old-fashioned way.”