Page 87 of Vampires and Violas

“Max is here. Don’t you want to support him and meet his pre-vamp?”

“Yes, I guess.” I sigh, knowing there’s no way I’m getting out of this. “Do you think Dylan’s going to serve us all smoothies?”

“Not likely. High-quality matcha is expensive.”

“Is that what makes them frog-colored?”

“I believe so. And I would think a vegetarian would have a different view on green smoothies.”

“I like greens just fine, just not pureed into baby food in a blender.”

The elevator opens, and we walk down the hall until we reach the right apartment. I glance at the vampire as we wait for Dylan to answer the door, smiling at the cupcakes he’s carrying.

“What?” Cassian asks.

“You used pink frosting.”

“It’s strawberry.”

“And sprinkles.”

Playing up his accent, he waggles his dark brows. “They’re fun and flirty.”

I laugh. “Never in my life have I heard someone refer to sprinkles as flirty.”

“Well, now you have.”

“Do you miss food?” I ask him.

“I eat food every day.Multipletimes a day, even.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’ve never tasted modern food, if that’s what you’re getting at. It’s hard to miss something you’ve never had.”

“Okay, yeah. But at first, did you struggle when you couldn’t eat…I don’t know. Your pottage?”

He smirks. “I wasn’t a peasant.”

“I’m worried I’ll miss things.”

Cassian looks at me sharply. “You’re not a vampire, Piper. Why would you miss them?”

Dylan finally answers the door. His eyes sweep over us and land on the plate in Cassian’s hands. Wrinkling his nose like the little snot he is, he deadpans, “Cupcakes. Cool.”

“They’re certified organic,” I tell him. “Made with ancient grain flour that was ground by baby goats in California.”

He studies me for a minute. “Really?”

I walk past him. “No.”

Max is already here with his pre-vamp. I haven’t met her yet, but I know her name is Hillary, and she’s in her early fifties. She’s been in the first stage for about twenty years and just moved here from Idaho to be closer to her kids.

Basically, she’s the training wheels version of a pre-vamp—perfect for a new conservator like my brother. But why she’s suffering through a support group, I don’t know.

“Piper,” Max calls across the room when he sees me, looking a touch nervous.

I make my way toward him. About half the regular attendees are already here, crammed in Dylan’s small living room. It’s a dark, masculine space, but it’s immaculately clean. A sepia-toned photo is the focal point over the television, featuring a horse and a pig in a top hat. The furniture has an industrial vibe, with metal pipe frames and black leather upholstery.

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