Page 2 of The Good Vampire’s Guide to Blood & Boyfriends

“Coffee?” Brennan said.

“Man after my own heart,” Cole had said, and Brennan remembered vividly the secret smile he’d given him then. Really, if not from the Southern drawl, Brennan couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized him based off that smile.

But once he’d offered Brennan a blanket and a mug of shitty instant coffee, Brennan had just—unleashed it all.

Word-vomited about college not being what he’d expected and having no friends and also, what the fuck are we supposed to do about the wage gap when Congress has been dragging their feet about fifteen dollars for the last decade, and does it even matter when we’re all specks in the universe who are going to die either way?

He’d been so embarrassed at the outburst he’d said most of this into his hands, shielding his face from the world.

He didn’t want to be perceived, and Cole respectfully asked questions where appropriate and agreed when he could and just. Listened.

His mug said MY WEEKEND IS BOOKED with an illustration of stacks of books, and his hands looped around it delicately.

Cole had listened, and nodded, and sipped his coffee while Brennan talked and drank his own and refused to make eye contact. After his rant, he caught his breath and realized that Cole hadn’t had to say anything and he already felt better.

“Wow, I need to go back to therapy,” Brennan had said in conclusion.

Cole snorted a laugh and then covered his mouth with his hand in apology.

“Maybe so,” he said, and Brennan still only looked at him in quick, mortified glances, but he could hear the smile in his voice.

“Either way, if you ever need some space to relax that brain of yours, this space is usually free. If it’s ever locked, you can find me, I’m—” He’d coughed. “I’m around.”

And that was when Brennan’s anxiety had finally taken the reins, because this guy worked here and had better things to do than listen to Brennan whine about his first-world white-boy bullshit problems. He shot up from his seat and put the mug on the crate like it burned.

“Right, that’s very generous, thank you,” Brennan rushed out. “I’m here a lot, I’m sure I’ll see you around. But I should go.”

And so he went!

That was it, really. A one-sided encounter that Brennan sure as hell wouldn’t be posting about on any Facebook groups.

So then, why did he feel like shit about it? Dread sunk in his stomach, a Titanic leaking anxiety.

Rooting himself back in the present, Brennan closed his laptop and started shoving his notes and computer away. The library now was as empty as it had been that night, but this time there was sound drifting up from downstairs—voices, laughter, keyboards clacking.

Brennan shouldered his backpack and headed out, across the second floor, around a student snoozing over an art project, down the stairs, and into the main area.

A quick scan showed it wasn’t crowded, and he spotted Cole with a girl who was burrito-wrapped in her blanket and literally crying into Cole’s shoulder.

“Like, does she hate me that much? Why else would she just fuck off the day after moving in?”

Brennan hesitated at the door, social norms telling him not to eavesdrop. His curiosity won out, as always.

“Well, did you tell your RA?” Cole asked.

“She said it was nothing,” the girl said. “But it’s been days now. What if something happened to her?”

Brennan froze. A girl, missing, the day after students returned to campus. Also known as the day Brennan was turned into a vampire during a car accident he didn’t fully remember.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to clear his head from the fog that descended when he went too long without snacking on some poor squirrel.

He was so thirsty his throat felt like a rash, which was getting fucking old, to be frank.

He’d accomplished nothing yet except new levels of thirst and anxiety.

As if sensing Brennan’s gaze, Cole looked up from across the way and spotted Brennan. His head tilted ever so slightly, and Brennan did what he did best: he ran.

brENNAN’S JOURNAL

More thirst = senses go haywire? Everyone smells like a goddamn smoothie.

RANT

How many fucking woodland creatures do I have to kill to stop being so goddamn thirsty?

Nothing seems to help. It dulls the ache for a while but doesn’t satiate it.

I have a hypothesis, but I’m going to consider some other options before I start having an existential crisis about something that might not even be the case.

Fuck .

Substitutes?

Coffee—miraculously, helps temporarily

To test

Coconut water?

Iron supplements?

Sturbridge’s campus was full of open spaces and greenery, lots of shady trees and curving pathways, and that was part of why Brennan had chosen it: it had a storybook charm that Brennan had fallen in love with.

But over a year in and he’d still never felt part of the story—just a visitor, a side character.

It was a beautiful backdrop he didn’t belong in.

But he loved jogging through the lush forests that surrounded the campus, with their meandering paths and steep inclines.

In early high school, when Brennan had his first experiences with existential dread–induced insomnia and couldn’t sleep, with nothing else to do, he started jogging.

It helped, mostly. He guessed some of the stuff they say about endorphins must have been true, because if he pounded the pavement hard enough, all the oppressive problems of the world scattered away from him. For at least a little while.

But this? This could barely be called running—he was flying.

Everything was faster and sharper, each step launched him farther, and each movement was steady and instinctive even as he moved at a speed he knew he’d never run before. That possibly no human had ever run before.

How fast can I run? Another question for the journal. How fast can a human run? The average person? An Olympic athlete?

Once he was far enough away from campus to not encounter a stray jogger, he skidded to a stop. He processed a skittering sound up a tree, a blur of motion. Instinct took over, easy as breathing, and he dove at the squirrel and then bit down and—

Look—Brennan used to escort spiders in his apartment outside because he didn’t want to kill them. He was a vegetarian. Two days ago, if someone had asked him, like, You wouldn’t attack a wild squirrel, right? he would have been confident in the answer. But life was full of surprises.

It was sweet relief with a quick chaser of deep shame, next-level post-nut clarity where afterward he was left to clean up the mess he’d made. Except the mess in this case was a lifeless squirrel body.

Brennan did the same thing that he had done with the two squirrels and one rabbit he had drunk the blood of in the past two days: he knelt down and started digging. It felt like the least he could do.

He eased the squirrel’s limp little body into its grave, sweeping loose dirt over it until it was buried. For good measure, he plucked a few wildflowers from the brush and put them on the patch of upturned soil.

“I’m sorry,” Brennan said. He stood up, brushing dirt off his hands and knees.

Brennan pushed forward. He hadn’t realized it, but his feet were leading him to the bridge he’d promised his mom and two therapists he wouldn’t return to.

Begrudgingly, he would admit they had been right, considering it was where he’d been hit by a car and turned into a vampire, but explaining as much to Dr. Morris would probably get him back in the psych ward.

The sight of it—the small, arched stone bridge over a narrow bubbling creek, the path leading to a dead end of thick brush—used to bring him comfort. It was his place, far enough from campus and deep enough into the woods that he could be alone, think, get away.

But then everything in March happened, and now it loomed, shadowy and foreboding.

The narrow wood path widened ahead, and the rushing stream grew louder. Following the widening path would take you to the highway, despite the road barely being wide enough for a car. There, if you knew where to look, hidden by a cluster of maple trees, was where the bridge was nestled.

Brennan retraced his steps from that night. He’d been walking to the bridge then, too.

He slowed to a stop.

Because now, as he emerged into the clearing, he saw a car parked just before the little stone bridge, and a dark head of hair bobbing around the very area that Brennan remembered so vividly.

The car, too—a blue pickup truck, rusted and beaten half to death.

Recognition sparked and Brennan knew this was the car that had hit him.

Instinctively, Brennan dropped to shield himself from view. Very few hikers or bicyclists made it out there. That was part of the old appeal, when Brennan had wanted to be alone. In the year since he’d found this place, he’d never run into another person.

Until now. And she was hovering over the spot where Brennan was pretty fucking sure he had died two nights ago.

The person had a small, feminine frame with long brown hair, and she was bent down like she was looking for something on the ground.

Brennan was strategizing how to inch around to watch without her seeing him when he felt a vibration in his pocket.

“BACKSTREET’S BACK, ALRIGHT!”

Brennan jumped, and the girl flinched, as Brennan’s phone buzzed to life.

He dove for cover too slowly, as her head whipped toward the sound and she stared right at him.

She had a round face and pale skin, and Brennan committed it to memory as the Backstreet Boys ruined his only lead on whatever was happening to him.

In a heartbeat, the girl threw herself into her car. The engine started, and Brennan rose from his weak hiding spot to peek at the car roaring away.

Brennan bit back a curse as the car disappeared down the road and whipped his head around to make sure he was alone now, for real. The vibration and noise from his pocket died down.