Page 6 of Bitten Vampire

I stand alone in the cold, drizzle spattering my face and wind tugging at my hair. Is this really happening?

“You should have thought of that when you let that uncontrollable beast into my home. Actions have consequences, Winifred.”

“I’ll fix the door, and I will wash all the flowerpots. Please, Derek—” I will beg on my knees for a roof over our heads. Pride is useless if we end up dead.

“No,” he snaps, and the window slams shut.

Stunned, I stare at the glass, a deep sigh building in my chest. Then I keep moving. What else can I do?

One by one I rescue the rest of my belongings. It’s like playing Tetris, cramming everything into the tiny boot, the footwell and the passenger seat. The large bag of dog food—for sensitive skin and stomachs—that was shoved out of the front door gets wedged in next, followed by Baylor’s bowls. The dog eats better than I do.

I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door, letting out a shaky breath. No tissues in sight; they are likely buried behind half my life. I wipe my nose on the back of my hand, determined not to break down.

“Come on, Fred. Everything will be all right. This is just a blip.” It has to be. Everything happens for a reason, otherwise the universe would be chaos. Yeah, everything happens for a reason and the good people, the special people, die first.

My lower lip trembles. Amy would be so disappointed in me. We have nowhere to go, and we can’t even stay in a guest house or hotel. They won’t take a dog and me. I refuse to abandon Baylor.

I have no idea what to do next.

If only Derek would let me fix things. I understand why he’s angry. The hole in the door was huge, with wood chunks all over the carpet, but he didn’t need to hurt me or throw us out.

It’s a nightmare.

Baylor whines, snuffles and pokes his tongue through the grille, trying to reach me.

“It’s all right, buddy,” I murmur, trying to convince us both. Something else occurs to me: I didn’t get a chance to compare the splinters on the floor with the size of the hole before we were shoved outside. So I have no idea if he swallowed any.

For all I know he munched on a chunk of ’80s lead-painted wood. Who knows what that will do to his stomach. My gut twists. We are looking at an expensive emergency vet visit.

“We will see the doggy doctor to make sure your tummy is all right, and then we’ll find a new home.” I rest my hand against the mesh. “Everything’s going to be fine. I won’t let you down.”

I can’t let him down. Amy adored him—her fur baby. What kind of person would I be if I gave up on him?

I still can’t believe I’m in this situation.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Derek glaring through the window as he sticks a sign on the glass:Room for rent.

I huff out a bitter laugh. If I stay here much longer, he will call the police. I groan and start the car, the engine rumbling to life. Slowly I pull out of the driveway. Surely everything’s going to be fine.

It can’t get any worse.

Chapter Three

With Baylor chewinghis way through plastic, wires and wood, I’m beginning to feel embarrassed every time we set foot in the vet’s office. Like I’m the incompetent fool, the hapless pet parent dragging in her Husky sidekick yet again.

I half-expect them to report me. But after a thorough exam, the vet concludes he’s fine—no splinters, no paint ingestion—and sends us home with orders to keep an eye on him. Looks like I’ll be on poo patrol for the next few days. Lovely.

I drive to a nearby supermarket and park at the far edge of the car park, away from the bustle. Rain patters against the windscreen, and behind the ominous clouds, the sun hangs low, stretching shadows across the tarmac. Daylight is fading fast, and I’m no closer to finding aplace for us to stay tonight. I need to find a place for us to live.

My shoulders ache, my eyes burn, and anxiety gnaws at me. Since online searches in the vet’s waiting room haven’t worked out, I decide to try the old-school route: I unfold a local newspaper and circle listings with growing desperation.

“Hello, yes, I’m calling about the room?—”

“The room’s gone.” Click.

That listing only went live on Friday. I sigh, press the phone to my forehead, then move on.

I try another. “Good afternoon. I’m calling about the room you have for rent?”