Page 83 of Hot Vampire Next Door: Season Three

“If it’s not Damien,” Bran says, his words turning coarse, “then I don’t—”

“There’s someone at the front door,” she blurts.

Bran’s brow furrows. “Who?”

“A brownie.” Her gaze darts to me. “Says he knows Jessie. Says it’s time they talk.”

“The fuck is a brownie doing here?” Bran says.

A tingling numbness rushes down my limbs. “The letter,” I say. “The one my mom wrote.”

Bran sighs. “Fuck.”

“Yes.”

My mom mentioned a brownie in her letter, the one she crossed paths with in the park when I was just a year old. The same one who knew instantly what I was and asked my mom if she stole me.

“What do we do?” I ask.

Bran turns a circle, his hands on his hips as he considers it. “If a brownie wants to speak with you, he’ll find a way. It’s better to do it on our territory, when we know the lay of the land.”

I nod. “All right. I’ll follow your lead.” I don’t want Bran to worry about where we stand.

He starts for the French doors. Jimmy and I follow him out and down the hall and to the front door.

“Where is he?” Bran asks.

“He refused to come in,” Jimmy answers. “He’s on the front porch.”

I have to quicken my pace to keep up with Bran’s determined gait. At the front door, hand on the knob, he hesitates.

We all know that everything has changed. But a fae showing up on our doorstep is a true marker of it.

Bran pulls the door open.

I immediately recognize the brownie.

It’s Stanley from The Greasy Spoon.

The cook who makes the best grilled cheese in all of Midnight Harbor.

Usually I see Stanley in his Greasy Spoon uniform—a pale blue shirt with his name embroidered over a pocket on his chest, The Greasy Spoon logo embroidered on the back. Now he’s in a pair of dark trousers and a rough cotton button-up shirt with a tweed cap on his head.

In this setting, he seems different. Less grizzled diner cook, more withered fae. Like he just stepped out of the hollow of a tree and has yet to shake off the magic of the forest.

“Stanley?” I say and come out on the porch. “You’re a brownie? How come you didn’t—”

He takes a mirroring step back. “You used your magic.”

I level my shoulders, feeling defensive of it. “Yes. It is my magic, isn’t it?”

“They’ll feel you,” he says.

“Who?”

His eyes dart to Bran just behind me. “This your idea?”

“Of course not, old man. I tried to stop her.”

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