Page 4 of Heir of the Beast

Because they do not take breakups that well. They want to find you and bring you back to talk.

11:49 p.m.

“Oh noooo,” I hiss to myself. My heart starts the crazy drumroll again as I run to snatch my purse and iPhone. I grab the now dim letter and stuff it into my leopard pack, saying a prayer as I run out the door.

I really hope the glowing letter is not a figment of my imagination, or I will never let myself live this down.

I am going to need help if I’m going to find this guy in eight minutes. My violet romper says that I’m cute and approachable, maybe I could find some defenseless guy to help me look.

Luckily, I live one block from the French Quarter. I should be able to find help. I’m only 5′5” for crying out loud—like, I’m adorable.

Damsel in distress.

~5 minutes later…~

Wrong.

“Excuse me—” I am aggressively shoulder checked by what appears to be a vampire in a bright purple cape and excessive costume makeup.

“Hey!” I get out and shoot him poison-death-rays out of my eyes. He will die a painful death tonight. Or maybe karma will at least grace him with explosive diarrhea.

Somebody must know something! I run up to a group of middle-aged tourists who seem to be well into their cups, all sporting tall hurricanes and loud laughter. “Hi, could you help?!”

I try to show them my golden letter. “I need to find a charming man. I know I sound weird, but it’s kind of for a game show.” I wave my hand as I explain. “I would guess he would be wearing a suit—”

They push past me like ~I’m~ the crazy one. I grit my teeth in embarrassment. That man with the camera is wearing white socks with his Velcro sandals! A true crime to humanity.

Karma really has her work cut out for her tonight.

I am on my own.

Two-and-a-half strained minutes pass without luck. I see no signs saying: Over here, looney ladies! Fairy Godmother Inc.!

What the heck was I thinking, only leaving myself ten minutes to find this mystery man? What does that even mean?

I’m a horrible procrastinator, always waiting until the last minute to make up my mind. I just like to think it keeps things interesting. I’ll keep telling myself that and not panic.

I’m bumping into people left and right, and I manage to step on some hot gum that now makes a sticky sound every time my black wedge heel hits the ground.

Perfect.

I check my phone.

11:59

“I’m a pumpkin!” I yell in defeat, feeling failure seep into every inch of my body. I read over the letter again, and it gives no clear directions. Son of a monkey’s uncle! “I’m a rotten pumpkin,” I moan to myself.

Cue crazy tears.

I’m probably going to start Mrs. Flow. I’m usually not this emotional.

Lies.

A lady with her gummy-faced child ushers him to move past me faster as if I might reach out and grab him like ~oogy boogy~!

“Oh great!” I get out as they pass. “I’m a child-scarer.” I moan. I sniff. But what kind of mother keeps her kid up this late anyway?

I feel a hand touch my arm. I whip around to stare at a tall, lovely redhead, her hair cut to an A-line at her shoulders. Her white summer dress is pretty, and her smile even prettier. She looks like a Southern Belle.

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