Page 36

He nods toward the prescription. “Did you have your follow-up with your doctor?”

I nod, struck mute.

I haven’t seen the man since last week, but I’ve thought about him more than I probably should.

Sadly, I might have had a chance with him at some point, but there is no real or alternate future where I can imagine ever fessing up to Noah about my new diet.

“How did it go?” he asks.

“Um…fine. It was fine.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I’ve got to go.” I hold up the bag. “The pharmacist says I need to keep my prescription refrigerated. It was nice running into you.”

Just before I dart, an amused smile passes over his face.

“Bye, Piper,” he calls.

I hurry to my car, refusing to make eye contact with anyone else.

Once I’m safely tucked into my house, I pull the two bottles from the bag. They look like any other liquid medicine, their contents masked by the amber bottle.

Filled with dread, I unscrew the top and peer inside. The blood is congealed and cold, and my stomach revolts.

They can’t be serious. Fake or not—yuck.

I glance at the clock on my stove, realizing it’s time for dinner. My first dose is going to have to wait until morning because I can’t stomach both a steak and blood this close together.

Quickly, I stash the bottles in the door compartment of the fridge, next to a bottle of mustard.

“Tomorrow,” I sternly tell myself. “I’ll take it tomorrow.”

My phone pingswith a text at ten after nine in the morning. I sit up in bed, groggy. I stayed up last night reading Dr. Granger’s pamphlets. All the information is a blur.

Two big things stood out, though—if I take my blood as prescribed, I can go in the sun again as long as I wear good sunscreen. And I can eat fruits and vegetables.

Apparently, real vampires can’t do either of those things. Vegetables are forbidden, and they can only go out during the day if there’s heavy cloud cover. The virus completely alters the way their systems work, and they become full-fledged, night-dwelling carnivores. No wonder I only saw Ethan in the evenings.

Thank goodness I’m only pre-vampiric.

My phone chimes again, reminding me I have a text. I stretch, yawning, and then remember that I’m supposed to meet my conservator this morning.

I looked up the definition last night, curious because I hadn’t heard much of that word. The dictionary gave me a few definitions, but since I’m not a piece of art or a protected swampland housing an endangered species, only one makes sense. Apparently, a conservator is a legal guardian appointed to protect a person incapable of taking care of themselves.

I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Already irritated about the whole thing, I check the text.

Montgomery: This is Montgomery York. I will come by for an introduction at ten.

No, “Good morning, how are you?” He didn’t even bother to ask if ten would be all right. I’m pretty sure we’re not going to get along.

Groaning, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and hurry to the shower. I barely have enough time to get ready.

As I shampoo my hair, I ponder this Montgomery York. Will he be old? Young? My mind imagines all kinds of people, but it settles on a middle-aged man of medium height who carries a clipboard as he follows me around and observes me like I’m a zoo specimen.

I almost don’t bother to blow dry my hair, but I’d rather make a good impression. I don’t want to be forever thought of as that “frumpy vampire girl.”