Page 15 of Hot Vampire Next Door: Season Four

I swallow hard, realizing there were clues dotted in my past about who I was and how I was different.

Fae babies are notoriously fussy now that they’ve been sealed off from the fae realm and all of its power and magic.

My mom complained more than once that I was just as bad.

“Get up,” I say to them, but my voice is weak and too quiet.

I’m lacking conviction, overwrought with fear.

Why the hell are they kneeling? Didn’t Stanley say I was the villain? Shouldn’t these people be afraid of me or outright hate me?

Of course, Stanley did tell me that kneeling is customary, if not compulsory.

But I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it.

“Get up,” I try again, this time louder.

The crowd stands to their feet just as Bran steps off the curb, putting himself between me and them. With the waning moon, it’s hard to make out all of their faces, but the crowd is spread out all the way to the opposite side of the street. There must be close to fifty of them.

“Why are you here?” Bran asks them, keeping his voice level because Bran knows how to act when in the face of something unexpected.

I wish I had his spine of steel. I wish I had his confidence.

Someone in the center of the crowd starts forward and the others go quiet.

The hair lifts on my arms and along the back of my neck.

I can’t be sure if it’s the night or some baser instinct, if it’s my fae side taking notice of this man as he steps forward into the pool of light cast from The Greasy Spoon’s windows.

My first thought is: I’ve never seen this man before. I would remember him if I had. And my second thought is: how odd that I’ve never seen this man before.

His dark hair is shorn practically to the scalp on the sides, maybe to make it easier to see the intricately knotted tattoos on the side of his head. The top is left long, and several strands hang in his face.

His ears are pointed, meaning he’s full blood fae.

I should have seen him before.

How have I never seen him?

And why aren’t my ears pointed?

Instinctively, my hand trails up to the soft shell of my ear where it rounds like a mortal’s should.

There are so many questions still, too many unearthed answers.

When the fae comes to a stop just a few feet from Bran, he clasps his hands behind his back and the metal rivets in his leather clothing glimmer like gold. More metallic threads shine in his highly decorated tunic.

Now that he’s much closer and in the light I can tell his hair isn’t black but midnight blue, like a pool of expensive ink spilled across a desk.

He looks like he stepped out of a child’s fairytale book. Even in a place like Midnight Harbor, he looks like he doesn’t quite belong.

“What’s your purpose for being here?” Bran asks, bypassing any kind of introduction.

“My purpose,” the man says, “is no concern of yours.”

Bran’s shoulders rise slowly with a deep breath. “Excuse me?”

“Bran—” I thread my hand with his and give him a squeeze. He shifts, tipping his chin so he can look at me over his shoulder. “Be nice.”

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