We pulled up to Mildred’s, the truck engine coughing twice before settling into silence. A young woman stood out front, her stance stiff with uncertainty. She couldn’t have been more than college-aged, her freckled face framed by a cascade of long, wavy hair the deep, vibrant green of a forest after rain. Her skin had the color and texture of tree bark, faintly ridged like growth rings at her neck and wrists. But it was her eyes that drew the most attention—shy, wide, and darting, as if every glance cost her something precious.

Hexborn come in all forms. Most blend in, passing for ordinary until you catch some subtle tell—a too-sharp glance, the almost imperceptible hum in the air around them. Some don’t even know what they are. But then there are those like her, who might as well have been carved from a fairytale: striking, otherworldly, impossible to ignore.

I stepped out of the truck, tugging my jacket tighter against the early morning chill. The hunger had ridden with me the whole way, simmering just below my skin. The fangs, too, had come down, pricking at my lip every time I flexed my jaw. By now, it was less a question of whether I’d slip, and more a matter of when.

The girl tensed as I approached. I tried to smooth my expression into something neutral, even pleasant, but when I smiled, she flinched visibly. Her grip tightened on the dark wooden box she carried, fingers curled around its edges like it might bolt from her hands.

“You’re from Mildred?” I kept my tone low, as unthreatening as I could muster. It didn’t help.

She swallowed, nodding. “Uh, Mrs. Marshall said I should… give this to the man outside.”

I let out a breath, already regretting whatever fresh hell this errand would bring. “Too busy to bring it herself, huh?”

“She said that I should tell you not to give me any guff.” The girl’s words came out fast and anxious, but she paused, visibly steeling herself. “And that she knew you’d waste the first batch. So she made these extra. She said to be careful with these—they’re supposed to last you a month.” Her voice gained strength as she spoke, each word more solid than the last. “But she also said we’ll need more Nightstone soon.”

I nodded, taking the box from her. It was heavier than it looked, the faintest pulse of warmth radiating through its polished surface.

“Thanks,” I managed, my voice rougher than I’d intended. I half-turned, wanting to say something more—apologize for my nature, maybe, or at least assure her I wasn’t about to lose control right there on the sidewalk. But the words stayed locked in my throat.

When I looked back, she was gone, slipping inside Mildred’s without a sound. Another one of her wayward souls, folded neatly into the odd tapestry that was this place.

I stared down at the box in my hands. The hunger gnawed at me, sharper now. Mildred had sent me just enough to survive. Enough to remind me that survival was all I could hope for. Still, there was something kind in the familiarity of it, in having someone think about you. A warmth that crept in uninvited, even when you knew the bill would come due—and with Mildred, it always did, and it was never cheap.

I slammed the truck’s door shut behind me, the smell of rift and something darker spilling into the air. Time to go.

----------------------------------------

The sun clawed its way over the skyline, its jagged light spilling through the diner windows like a crime scene spotlight. Mabel’s Diner didn’t wake up so much as fail to ever sleep, its rhythm a cocktail of chaos and routine. The regulars were where they always were—anchored to their personal corners of the universe. The wiry old man nursed his coffee like it owed him an apology. A frazzled mother played defense against twin toddlers wielding jelly packets with the precision of assassins. A pair of construction workers barked over plates of bacon and eggs, their stories escalating with every bite, each laugh louder than the last.

The smell of burnt toast and frying butter was thick and crowded the space as much as the voices and the clang of dishes. I slid into the booth by the window, the faux-leather seat sticking uncomfortably. Across from me, Al was already halfway through his first cup of coffee. His hands dwarfed the mug, thick and scarred, like he’d wrestled gods for sport.

The waitress came by, pencil poised, and I waved her off with a simple, “Coffee. Black. And strong enough to raise the dead.” It wasn’t sustenance, but it was enough to fake it. The hollow ache in my gut—the kind that vials and cheap caffeine couldn’t touch—was manageable. Barely.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Al grinned at her, ordered a feast that could feed a football team. Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. Biscuits drowning in gravy. And waffles—why not?—swimming in syrup. He tacked on grits like he was throwing in a joke.

“Early bird special,” he said with a shrug when I raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t know a bird that eats like that,” I muttered, pulling my coffee closer.

Al’s laugh rumbled low, filling the booth like it belonged there. It was easy, for a moment, to forget what we were—what I was. Two monsters among the unsuspecting, blending in just enough to pass for human.

The food hit the table, and Al attacked it like it owed him money. Fork stabbing, knife slicing, syrup oozing across the plate like a crime scene. Between mouthfuls, he leaned back, his eyes steady on me—watchful, probing.

“So,” he said, dragging a napkin across his mouth with exaggerated care. “You gonna clue me in, or do I have to play detective?”

“Oh? Thought that was my gig. You’re not stepping in on my turf, are you?” I kept my tone flat, almost bored, but I didn’t meet his gaze.

“The fangs and all,” he said, gesturing loosely with his fork. “You gone and got yourself Devil Kissed or something?”

I took a long, slow sip of near tasteless coffee. “Or something.”

“Jack,” he said, his voice dragging my name out like a reprimand. “You’ve always been tight-lipped, but you’re killing me here.”

“Am I?” I said, deadpan. “That’s a twist.”

“Cute.” He jabbed his fork into what was left of his waffles, his smirk twitching into something sharper. “You gonna make me guess?”

I shrugged. “By all means. Guess away, Detective.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Nah. You’re too much work, Jack. Always were.” He tilted his head, studying me like I was an equation he couldn’t quite solve. “But you look worse every time I see you. Like, bottom-of-the-barrel bad. Even for you.”

“And yet, here I am,” I shot back, pushing the coffee cup to the edge of the table. “Alive and kicking. Well, kicking.”

“Barely.” He leaned forward, his grin fading into something more serious. “I’m not trying to push, Jack. Just… whatever you’re caught up in, you know it’s bleeding through, right? You don’t just look bad—you look hunted.”

I shrugged, the universal deflection.

“Thanks for the pep talk, Al,” I said, my tone dry as the coffee. “Always a ray of sunshine.”

He didn’t laugh this time, just studied me as the next round of “breakfast” arrived.

“You could’ve ended me back there, you know. No one would’ve blamed you—not even me.”

“And yet, here you are,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Early bird special and all.”

His jaw tightened, the grin slipping away like a mask he was done wearing. “You know what it means, Jack.”

“I know.” My words came out clipped, sharper than I intended, and I felt the sting of regret almost instantly. “It was nothing.”

“My life is not nothing.” His voice carried an edge now, low and steady, the kind that dared you to argue. “A Blood Debt is a Blood Debt.”

I leaned back, the booth creaking under me. “Then I’ll break it. Waive my claim. You’re clear.” To punctuate the words, I grabbed the edge of the knife by my plate, slicing my palm in one quick motion. Blood welled up, dark and deliberate, as I extended my hand across the table.

Al’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. “Don’t be an asshole, Jack. I might be a lot of things, but I don’t welch on debts.”

“Call it whatever you want.” I waved my bloody hand at him. “But you’re off the hook.”

He didn’t blink, didn’t even breathe for a moment, then shook his head with a low, humorless chuckle. “You think it’s that simple? That you can just cut your hand, mumble some words, and poof—it’s gone?”

I met his gaze, unflinching. “That’s exactly what I think. I’m not in the game anymore, Al. I don’t qualify.”

Al leaned forward, his voice dropping to a growl. “Well, you’re wrong. You haven’t left us, not really.”

I took a deep breath, resigned. Al wasn’t the letting-go type. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice dropping low enough that the chatter around us blurred into static. “I know something, Jack. Something that could cost me everything if the wrong ears catch wind.”

“Then don’t tell me.” My voice was flat, the words final.

“I don’t have a choice. A life for a life, Jack.”

I set the mug down harder than I meant to. “You always have a choice. I don’t need your sacrifice.”

He met my eyes, steady and unflinching. “It’s about your daughter’s killer—Jack, they’ve been lying to you.”