When the bell over the door dings, Ronan barely looks up from the stack of invoices on the counter in front of him. “Take a seat anywhere,” he says, wondering why Kipp is taking so long. He likes Kipp, and he appreciates the help, but she has a habit of taking a few too many breaks throughout her work shift.

Then again, it wasn’t her night to work anyway, and it’s not like the diner is full. The only guest is Stuart, in his booth by the window as usual, doing his crossword and sipping his diet Coke.

Ronan remembers when he first started working at the diner, taking too many breaks like Kipp. For him, it was always sneaking out back to smoke or staying late to drink beers with Hazel even though they were still underage. He was young, too young to really know himself. Yet he was self-assured enough to know that his friendship with Hazel would always be there, their lives entwined.

Regrettably, though, they hadn’t been the closest when Hazel disappeared. Their friendship slowly faded after she started dating Ezra, who always seemed a little too opinionated about Hazel’s social life.

Ezra was the same with Harvest, too, either tagging along when they made plans or making some excuse as to why she couldn’t do something without him. He knows Harvest caught Ezra checking her phone on at least one occasion, which horrified him when she told him.

Ronan finally looks up at the group who have just entered the diner, only to realize that they haven’t sat down.

The vampire standing in front of Ronan looks young, though he probably isn’t. His skin is pale and smooth. His brown hair is cropped close on the sides and swept back away from his face. He is wearing a suit with no tie, and the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned. It’s a deceptively casual sort of style that only comes from centuries of practice and a personal tailor on retainer.

He smiles at Ronan, but the movement doesn’t reach his crimson eyes. He places his hand on the counter and leans just slightly, as if settling in for a chat with an old friend.

The two men with him are also vampires. Both are of similar build—tall and burly—with stoic expressions, their dark eyes focused on Ronan. Personal security, he thinks, taking in their all-black attire. One of them sniffs at Ronan and mumbles, “Dog,” under his breath.

“I’m Grayson Locke,” says the vampire in the middle. “I think you’ve heard of me already, Mr. Kelly, so I won’t waste our time with introductions.”

Ronan folds his arms across his chest. He remembers Harvest mentioning the name Locke. Quinn said Grayson Locke gives vampires a bad name. “Would you like to see a menu?” he asks with feigned innocence.

Locke looks like he might laugh, but he takes a casual look around the diner instead. The diner is suddenly too quiet. There seems to be a shift in the air—an imminent threat that Ronan feels in his belly. He clenches his fist in anticipation, feeling his nails sharpen into claws.

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Locke nods his head, and the vampire to his left turns around to look at Stuart, the only guest in the diner. “We’re closing early,” he says, motioning for him to leave.

Stuart looks at Ronan, equal parts worry and confusion flooding his face.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ronan says, grateful that Stuart listens to the silent plea in his voice and leaves. Ghouls can be dangerous, but Stuart is no fighter.

Neither is Ronan, for that matter. He tightens his fist.

The bell over the door is still jingling when Locke says, “Where’s Hazel?”

“I don’t know.” The words are barely out of Ronan’s mouth before Locke reaches out. Ronan is taken off guard, having expected the imminent violence to come from one of the bodyguards. Locke, it seems, doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.

Ronan feels the ring on Locke’s index finger slicing through the skin on his cheek as it makes contact, a sharp sting that draws a thin line of blood. He takes an involuntary step backward, reigning in his instinct to retaliate by taking a deep breath and letting the pain wash through his chest. His hands curl into fists again, tighter this time, with claws so sharp that they almost pierce his palm. There is blood in his mouth, and he swallows. “Tell me what you want and get out,” he says quietly.

“Hazel stole from me, and I want my product back.”

“And why do you think I can help with that?”

“I don’t,” Locke says casually, taking a step toward the counter. Picking up a menu, he eyes it disinterestedly before letting it fall back onto the counter.

He continues to take in his surroundings as if he has never been inside a diner before. He pauses at the various portraits of the Rosenbloom family on the wall. Some of them date back to the 18th century and probably shouldn’t be hanging in a greasy diner facing a window, but each of them is encased in a protective spell.

Locke leans close to a portrait of Gifforn Rosenbloom and almost reaches out to touch the frame. He seems to sense the spell, pulling his hand back just in time. He finally turns back to Ronan. “I was hoping the younger Rosenbloom sister would be here. But perhaps you will do instead.” Locke smiles tightly, eying Ronan with an expression caught between distaste and amusement.

“I still don’t get why you’re here. I haven’t spoken to Hazel in years,” he says.

When the next hit comes, Ronan is expecting it, having seen the small twitch in Locke’s hand. Locke’s fist lands in Ronan’s palm, who utilizes the second of Locke’s surprise to land his own punch. His claws slice through Locke’s skin before the two bodyguards grab Ronan. One holds Ronan’s arms while the other kicks him in the stomach with a steel-toed boot. Ronan coughs, his stomach clenches, and a few drops of blood from the punch earlier land on the scratched linoleum floor.

Locke laughs, his canine teeth sharp. The cut on his cheek heals quickly, and he wipes away the line of blood with a silk handkerchief, then tosses the cloth on the floor. “I know Hazel perhaps even better than you. She’ll come rescue her little pup. And when she does,” Locke leans closer to Ronan, his copper-tinged breath brushing against Ronan’s lips, “tell her I want my product back. Who knows? I may leave the little sister alone if Hazel returns it all.”

He gives Locke a reluctant nod, and the vampire restraining him lets him go with a shove.

Locke seems satisfied and turns to leave, but then he motions toward the bodyguards. “Just a warning shot,” he says.

The last thing Ronan sees is the barrel of a gun before a silver bullet is lodged in his shoulder.