Take one brooding vampire doctor, add in a nurse with an incurable brain tumor, and brace yourself for the perfect Halloween getaway!

I’m Hannah. I did everything right: college, landing a job as a nurse, and working my butt off. Then I learned I’m dying. Forget being responsible. I’m going to live every last second of my life to the fullest. What’s the biggest priority on my bucket list?  One last fling. But will anyone want to date a terminal cancer patient? Well, a girl is entitled to a secret or two, right?

My name is Dr. Nathaniel Thorne. For centuries, I have waited for my vampire bride, searching diligently but never finding her. Only she can bring my cold, dead heart back to life. Then she arrived, bruised and battered, practically at my doorstep . . . but the fates are cruel. My fated bride is dying. Can I convince her to love me and choose eternity by my side while the blood still flows in her veins?

***Get ready for a guilty-pleasure holiday escape. All the best Halloween traditions will be honored: from killer costume parties, to haunted hay rides, to incredible decorations, more candy than you could ever eat, and plenty of paranormal creatures that go bump in the night.

Happy Halloween! Scroll down to get your copy today before the clock strikes midnight 🙂

CHAPTER ONE

NATHANIEL 

Another day. Another night. Another century. Time drags on . . . endlessly. And still I am alone. Ten centuries I’ve waited for my bride, searching diligently but never finding her. I fear I never will. There once was a woman who captured my interest. I dared to hope she might be the one, but she was not capable of bringing my dead heart back to life.

That was several hundred years ago, and I have not even courted a woman since. Dated, I amend silently, for that is what they call it now. Sometimes my archaic mind struggles to keep up with current phraseology. No, I haven’t cared to date in centuries. What would be the point? Only my bride can fill these never-ending nights with meaning. 

Of late, it seems as though more and more of my friends have found their fated-mates. This has forced me to re-examine the bleakness of my existence, to admit that I may never find my bride. Most vampires don’t. A vision of my solitary existence, stretching across countless millennia, envelopes me in a cloud of melancholy.

Perhaps it is time for me to retire my current alias and vacate my practice here in Los Angeles, but I am weary of starting from scratch. Countless times I’ve built a new life, a new identity, only to be forced to abandon it. No. I haven’t been here long enough for the mortals to become suspicious of my immortality yet.

My tall, strong body is forever frozen in its warrior prime. I appear exactly as I did in my thirties before I was reborn as a vampire over a thousand years ago. My face is lineless, and my complexion unchanged even though I have not seen a sunrise in centuries. My dark hair will never turn gray, but without my fated bride, my lonely existence feels more like a prison sentence than a reward.

As technology has advanced, it has become increasingly more difficult to live among the humans. And yet that same technology has allowed for incredible advances in the medical field. Colleagues around the globe refer their patients to me.

I have a stellar reputation for solving the mysterious cases that baffle other specialists. My secret diagnostic tool—my vampire nose—is better than any modern invention. In many cases, my acute sense of smell informs me exactly what is wrong with a patient. I know blood . . . intimately. I can scent many things in the human body, such as the noisome sourness of blood-borne pathogens, the odor of poisons, of out-of-sync hormones, the blockages in arteries, and so much more.

I’m finished with my last patient, and nothing else requires my attention. So I sit listlessly at my desk, my indifferent fingers tracing the dark wood grains, while the haunting strains of Bach’s Partita for Solo Violin No. 2 in D minor wash over me. The music speaks to me, feeding my melancholy soul as I scan the most recent batch of referrals on my computer.

I select mortal patients according to need, rather like a remote triage. For the easy remedies, I merely give my colleagues a pointer or two. I personally accept only the most complex and incurable cases. I have no need of money, having already amassed more wealth than I could ever spend. I have dedicated my immortal life to saving others as atonement for my past.

My emergency line rings. When my intern Maximon fails to answer, I pick up the receiver. Lately, he seems to be failing at all of his duties. After hearing the patient’s symptoms, I instruct her to come in immediately, directing her to the subterranean entrance that I use for my “special” patients.

There is a hidden component to my clinic: I provide care for supernatural patients who would otherwise not receive adequate care from human doctors. The paranormal world must be kept hidden at all costs. I’ve seen what happens when the humans’ pretense of power is threatened. I am tired of senseless wars and death.

I stride angrily from my office, intent on hunting down my useless intern. It is after hours, and we are the only ones here. With no front desk staff, he is supposed to fill the roles of receptionist, nurse, and my general assistant. 

“Maximon? Where are you?” I call out, not bothering to mask my irritation.

There is no sign of him, just a blaring TV he left on in the waiting room. Once again, he has left the premises without telling me, let alone obtaining my permission. I spy the remote sitting on the front desk and retrieve it. I enter the waiting room where a large flat-screen mounted to the wall in the center of the room is playing the first Twilight movie. I grimace in distaste.

I regret letting my friend Lugus convince me to hire his nephew. Like his uncle, Maximon is a leprechaun—a trickster in training. Fortunately, the youth has not come into his magical powers yet, so his tricks are tame. I believe someday he will become a great doctor, but I am not sure I will survive the transition.

No doubt he thought this was hilarious. A movie about a vampire hiding in plain sight among humans probably seemed like a parody of my life to him. I work diligently to mask my vampire nature from others. How dare he put my secret at risk? I glare at the screen even as I find myself mesmerized. I try unsuccessfully to change the channel.

“This infernal remote is broken.”

I press the power button to turn the television off, but that doesn’t work either. I’ve seen all the movies in this franchise. In fact, I have probably seen everything featuring vampires, from Bela Lugosi’s Count Dracula to the more recent adaptations like The Vampire Diaries and the Twilight franchise.

Human portrayals of vampires are comical. On screen, Bella boldly admits that she knows he is a vampire, even though she is alone with him in the scary forest. Then, the so-called vampire forces her to follow him so he can reach the “sunlight” and show her what he really is. I scoff at the “vampire’s” feigned angst as he bares his skin—all glitter and sparkles.

This is not even remotely accurate. A vampire’s skin would catch fire if he did not find refuge in the dark immediately. He would literally burn to ash. Hollywood never gets it right . . .  so why is everything bothering me so much tonight?

As if the sparkles were not bad enough, the undeserving fool turns his back on his fated bride and walks away. Does he expect her to follow him again? My outrage is palpable.

“You do not turn your back on your bride! You do not storm off in melodramatic angst. You pursue her. You woo her. Then, when she agrees, you claim her and bind her to you for eternity!” I shout at the screen.

The way the female traipses after him with those wide, love-filled eyes—I clutch my chest, my dead heart aching with yearning. The fool on the screen is a child, barely a hundred years old. I’ve waited centuries for my bride, and what does this “Edward” do? He throws it all away as though that makes him noble.

He acts as though her devotion is a burden, while I crave exactly this. Rage lances my breast, and I clench my fists, snarling when I realize I have reduced the remote to dust with my unchecked strength. I flee the waiting room. I have a patient to care for. Yet my dread lingers. Will I ever find my bride?

I descend to the sublevel, taking the stairs two at a time. The fairy flies inside the moment I open the door. She wasn’t exaggerating. Her condition is critical. Oozing lesions cover every bit of her emaciated frame.

Fairies customarily exude ethereal beauty, but all traces of that are absent. She’s unable to use her glamour, which means she’s incapable of disguising herself. Her wings droop in exhaustion. She’s tiny and highly vulnerable in this state.

“I will carry you,” I state crisply, not waiting for an answer. I quickly bend and scoop her up.

“Thank you, Dr. Thorne! I can barely fly.”

I stride into the first examination room and shut the door. I cup her closer and inhale deeply. A metallic odor with hints of garlic assaults my nasal passages.

“Ella, you positively reek of iron.”

“What?” she protests. “No. I would never go near iron. Everyone knows fairies are allergic.”

“You have acute iron poisoning. Have you acquired some new jewelry?”

“No,” she replies as though mystified.

“Can you transform into your human form? I need to start an IV, and it will be much easier if you are larger.”

“I’ll try,” she whispers.

There’s a look of fierce concentration on her face as the air around her shimmers and shifts. Then, like a camera coming into focus, she grows. She closes her eyes, and her head slumps back on the pillow. Now a full-sized woman lies on the exam table, looking even worse than the miniature version. Her skin has a waxy gray pallor and is covered with oozing green lesions.

I retrieve a blanket from the warmer and spread it over her shivering body. My heightened senses discern a dangerously slow heartbeat. Her blood halts and stutters, flowing erratically through her veins. I must act quickly, or she will perish. Blood transfusions are tricky for her species, so I will do my best to cleanse her blood and remove any impurities.

I tear open a sterile needle pack and deftly pierce her vein. I proceed to set her up on dialysis, watching with satisfaction as the blood flows from her body into the machine. It’s filtered before flowing back into her body. Magical beings heal far more rapidly than humans. Within moments, the lesions fade, and her skin tone brightens from gray to a healthy rosy hue. She beams at me with a lovely fairy smile, which actually helps to lighten the gloomy fog I have been wallowing in all evening.

“I feel so much better already,” she sighs in her lovely, lilting voice. 

“And you look better too.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” 

“You’re most welcome. Now we must ascertain how you received a lethal dose of iron so you can protect yourself.”

“I really don’t know.”

“What did you eat today?”

“I was in the forest, and the sweet alyssum was blooming, so I drank quite a bit of nectar.”

“No iron there. Did you consume anything else?”

“Oh, when I had on my human glamour, I bought some cornbread and local honey from a street vendor.”

“That is where the iron came from,” I state with confidence.

“What? But I eat bread and honey all the time!”

“I’d be willing to wager that they cooked the cornbread in an iron skillet.”

A look of horror crosses her lovely face. “Why would they want to poison me? I’ve never done anything to hurt them!”

“They were not being malicious. It’s a common practice for humans to use iron cookware. You must be more careful if you’re going to eat food prepared by humans. Discard whatever is left of that bread. Do not touch it with your bare hands.” 

“Yes, Doctor. Of course.” 

I turn off the dialysis machine and remove her IV, not bothering with a Band-Aid because her supernatural healing abilities will quickly seal the wound now that she is no longer filled with the toxic ore. Her glamour is at full strength as she waves goodbye and heads out the door. I do not speak of payment. I leave such mundane tasks to my staff.

After she’s gone, I linger in the doorway, peering into the parking garage. It is night. I could go out, maybe to a club. I visualize the scene. Loud. Chaotic. The moment I enter the establishment, the humans—especially the women—will be drawn to me like the tide obeying the pull of the moon. The image sickens me. I don’t want any woman; I want my woman, my one and only bride.

I have no interest in empty, meaningless relationships. I shake my head wearily and head back up the stairs to my office to peruse more case files. Opening my refrigerator, I pour a drink from my private blood-donor stash. My nights are endless drudgery. I’ve seen it all, done it all, and there’s nothing that could fill this empty eternity—nothing but her.

HANNAH

I wake to the familiar throbbing in my head that never lets me get a good night’s rest. Peeling my eyes open, I check the time. Even the soft, rose-colored light setting on my phone is too bright. I’d love to lie in bed longer because I’m always tired, but I have to get ready for my twelve-hour hospital shift. Pushing myself up, I swing my feet off the side of the bed. A wave of nausea hits. It’s so frequent that it hardly even registers as abnormal anymore. 

I pop a pill for my nausea, letting it dissolve under my tongue, and slowly dress. I never have to deliberate over what to wear because blue scrubs are mandatory hospital attire. They’re boring but comfy—like wearing pajamas to work. 

I tie the string over my tummy and resolve once again to get serious about my diet. A few months ago, I lost ten pounds, but then I gained it back plus a few more. I need to lose ten to twenty, but it’s so hard to eat right and exercise with my schedule.

I pull open a dresser drawer of socks in all the colors of the rainbow. There are stripes, polka dots, and wild patterns in every style, including anklets, knee-highs, and even toe socks. My wardrobe never varies, but I add some flair with crazy accessories. Thank goodness whoever wrote the hospital’s employee handbook never thought to specify sock color.

After brushing my thick blonde hair, I put it in a loose ponytail so as not to exacerbate my headache. Peering into the mirror, I use concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes. I’m pleased with the results when I apply a light dusting of powder and put mascara on my lashes. I probably shouldn’t bother with the makeup, but I’m still hoping to meet Mr. Right. I’m twenty-five years old, and I’ve never been in love. You never know . . . today might be the day I meet him.

***

Two of my patients just got discharged, so it’s pretty calm on the floor. Of course, that could change in a heartbeat. I’m sitting at the nurses’ station, and my charting is done, so I’m occupied with one of my favorite pastimes—scrolling through Pinterest on my phone for dream vacation ideas and pinning them. I have no money saved for a trip, and I’ve never been on a real vacation. But dreaming is free.

“Donuts!” my co-worker Chelsie calls out.

My stomach growls. Donuts are a favorite of mine. “None for me,” I say despondently as I sip the coffee that I’m drinking black, even though I’d love to dump in twenty sugar packets. My new diet has officially been kicked into high gear. 

“Me either,” my bestie, Ava, says as she gazes longingly at them. “That’s more carbs than I can have in a week.” 

Ava and I have been off and on the diet train together as long as we’ve been friends. She always complains that I look just fine, and she’d like to lose a lot more than my ten to twenty. I’ve always thought she was beautiful with all her curves. 

After high school, I moved from Iowa to Nashville for college and never left. I got a job offer at the hospital when I graduated, and that’s where I met Ava. We’ve been thick as thieves ever since. My phone buzzes. It’s the doctor who did my scans last week. Hopefully, I’ll get answers about my headaches and nausea.

“Hello,” I say, putting the phone to my ear.

“Hannah, this is Dr. Brown’s office. Your test results are in, and Dr. Brown would like you to come in to go over them.”

“Can’t I just look at the results in my portal?” 

“No, he wants to see you in person. He has time now if you can slip away.”

“Okay. That should work.”

I hang up my phone and turn to the charge nurse.

“Is it okay if I take my break? Dr. Brown has my results, and he wants to go over them.”

“Sure. I’ll cover your patients.”

“Thank you!” I pop a couple of painkillers and then leave. There’s a cute doctor I don’t recognize in the elevator. Good thing I put on makeup. We don’t talk, but I can sense him checking me out. I tilt my head and give him a little smile as I step out onto the ninth floor. The receptionist ushers me past the full waiting room. There are definite perks to being a nurse here at the hospital.

“Hello, Hannah. Please have a seat,” Dr. Brown says, joining me in the exam room.

“Hi, Dr. Brown.”

I can tell from his body language and tone that it’s not good news.

“I printed a copy of the report for you, but would you like to see the MRI images first?”

“Yes, please.”

He turns on the screen, and my world implodes when I see the large mass on my brain stem. A cluster of smaller tumors has spread down the spinal cord, and there are even some on the cerebellum.

“These are my scans?” I rasp, suddenly clear about why I’ve been having headaches and nausea.

“Yes. I’m so sorry, Hannah.”

“Surgery?” I ask in a choked voice.  

“The size of the largest mass and the location make surgery impossible. We can biopsy the individual tumors, but even that would be risky.”

“If it’s too risky to surgically remove the largest tumor, what would be the point of biopsying?”

“You would have answers as to whether it’s malignant or not.”

“From your experience, would you say this is grade four glioblastoma multiforme?” I ask, knowing instantly that I’m terminal.

“We wouldn’t know for sure without biopsy findings,” he says, not wanting to confirm, but also not refuting my self-diagnosis. 

“And even if it isn’t cancer, this is a death sentence,” I say, wanting to skip any conciliatory response from him. 

“I don’t want to give you false hope. Yes . . . I’m afraid that is exactly what this means.”

There is an earnest, caring expression highlighted in the depths of his warm brown eyes, no doubt honed from decades of delivering bad news. He gives me a moment to process the bombshell. My life is over. I know from my experience on the neuro floor before I switched to general that I don’t have long to live.

“No biopsies,” I tell him. “I’m guessing I’ve got about six months or less.”

“Let’s get you scheduled for radiation and chemotherapy. That might shrink the largest mass and buy you some time.”

“How long?”

“Possibly up to a year.”

There’s a look on his face that lets me know he doesn’t even believe I’ll have that long, but he doesn’t want to say it.

“Thank you, Dr. Brown, but no.” 

“Hannah, I’m advising you to start treatment right away. There are several promising clinical trials that we could apply for.”

Maybe I’m being rash, but I’ve always been a decisive person. 

“I’m not going to spend what little time I have left being even more nauseous with chemo.”

His face blanches as he hurries to come up with an adequate response.

“I understand your concerns, but—” 

“No. But thank you for your time,” I say.

I rise unsteadily to my feet and leave. I see the cute new doctor in the hall, but I don’t bother to meet his gaze. My feet drag as I walk to the elevator. I am overwhelmed by the unfairness of my situation. I’m only twenty-five. I never got to experience that great once-in-a-lifetime love. That cute new doctor might have been “the one,” but it’s too late.

My whole life has changed in an instant. Who would want to date someone who’s about to die? I don’t need anyone’s pity.

The universe is cruel. I feel like my life is the punchline in a sick joke. I was the responsible one who went to school and studied hard. No partying for me. Then I got this job, working insane hours with no time for dating.

And now? Now it’s too late. There won’t be any “grand passion” in the fleeting time I have left. I’m furious. I feel like I’ve wasted my whole life. If I’d known how short it was going to be, I would have made different choices.

One thing is for certain: I won’t be spending what little time I have left working. In a flash of clarity, I vow not to spend another day in this hospital—not as a patient and certainly not working.

I take the elevator down to the second floor and head straight to Human Resources. I walk up to a quiet, elderly lady whom I remember from the onboarding process when I was hired.

“I quit. Effective immediately.”

She gives me a blank look, so I tell her about my terminal diagnosis.

“But Hannah, if you do this, your insurance benefits will stop at the end of the month.”

“And?”

“That’s tomorrow, September 30th.”

“I understand. I don’t need insurance. I’m refusing all medical procedures.”

“You could pay for COBRA.”

“No.”

When she sees that I can’t be swayed, she puts a rush on my exit paperwork. Within two hours, everything is finalized. I even sign the forms to begin the process of cashing out my 401K because, let’s face it: I won’t be around for retirement. 

I leave the hospital, determined never to return. I don’t have the courage to say goodbye to my co-workers. However, once I’m alone back at my apartment, I text my best friend.

Hey Ava, I had an emergency and had to leave. There is something important I need to tell you. Do you have time to talk later tonight?

She texts back a few minutes later.

We all wondered why you didn’t come back. I’ll call tonight when I get off work, or do you want me to come over?

I think about it for a minute and then text her back.

Just call me. Please tell everyone I’m sorry I bailed on the rest of my shift. I’ll explain everything tonight.

Setting down my phone, I sink into my recliner and stare listlessly out the window. Scarlet leaves fall from the big oak tree. It hits me like a punch in the gut that summer is over, and fall will be finished before I know it. Then comes winter. I despise the cold grayness of winter, even though it’s milder and shorter here in Nashville than it was back in Iowa.

My favorite season is summer, but I’ll never see another one. I don’t want to spend my last days bogged down in a depressing Tennessee winter! We may not get a ton of snow here, but the weak sun bums me out even when I turn on all of the lights.

Maybe I should leave Tennessee altogether. I could go on a big vacation . . . the trip of a lifetime. I’ve never had a real vacation. I’ve always wanted to, but I was too busy being responsible and adulting.

But where would I go? I don’t have a passport, and I don’t really have the energy to travel overseas anyway. I could go somewhere warm, somewhere without even the possibility of snow. Tears leak silently down my cheeks.

I will endure this—alone—as I have every major event in my entire life. I have no family. There’s no one to turn to. I never even knew my father. My mother was an only child and all of my grandparents passed away before I was born. After my mother died of cancer, I spent the rest of my childhood being passed from one foster home to the next.

“Well, I’m certainly not going to spend the rest of my life crying about this,” I mutter angrily, scrubbing a hand across my tear-streaked face.

Releasing a loud sigh, I roll my shoulders back and straighten my spine. Next, I grab my phone and scroll through my Pinterest board. It’s time to finally plan a real vacation. Where do I want to go for my first and last trip ever? What’s my dream destination?

***

Three weeks later, the doorbell rings, and it’s Ava, ready to drive me to the airport. Sure, I could’ve called an Uber, but I wanted a chance to say goodbye properly.

“Girl, I still can’t believe my bestie is leaving me,” she cries, giving me a fierce hug. 

She’s worked tirelessly to help me clear out my apartment. All that’s left is my bed, which she’s taking because it’s better than hers.

“Did you find someone to help you move the bed?” I ask.

“Yep. My little brother and one of his friends.”

“Good. Here are the keys. Please drop them off with the building manager when you’re finished.”

“Is that tiny thing all you’re taking?” she asks, pointing to my suitcase.

“You bet. I’m buying a whole new wardrobe when I get there.”

“L.A. I can hardly believe it.” She smiles sadly as she grabs the handle and pulls it behind her.

I sling my big purse over my arm. “Yeah, it’s always been a dream destination of mine.”

“I get it, girl. Tennessee is gloomy in winter.”

“It’s better than Iowa, but the sunshine in California is calling to me.”

 It’ll be my first and last vacation. My Pinterest board is full of ideas, and I plan on doing them all.

“Sounds amazing, but how about you change that mulish mind of yours and let me come and see you out there?” Ava asks with tears in her eyes.

“Hey, stop that. No crying. Remember? I’ll consider it, I just think it will be too hard.”

“I get that.” She nods and swipes the back of her hand across her eyes. “So . . . you okay for money?” 

“Yes. I increased my credit limit, so I can max out my credit card. I cashed out my 401K, and it’ll be deposited into my bank when that all gets finalized. No more budgeting for me.” I pretend to laugh, but the joke falls flat.

I refuse to get caught up in sadness. That’s why I intend to surround myself with strangers. I don’t need anyone’s pity or sympathy. I want to have fun, laugh, and live life to the fullest. I may not have long left, but I will spend what I do have on my own terms.

CHAPTER TWO

HANNAH

The Los Angeles skyline comes into view. I’m so glad I chose the window seat. I try not to blink as I soak it all in because I don’t want to miss a single detail. The skyscrapers are lit up like magic. I’ve seen it all in movies, of course, but a shiver of excitement runs through me as the plane lands at LAX.

It registers again that I’m really doing this. After three weeks spent going through—and getting rid of—everything I owned, I made it. I’m finally here for my dream vacation. Too bad it took a terminal diagnosis to get me here. I’m determined to enjoy myself before the cancer progresses to the point that I can’t have fun anymore. 

Six months is the most I can hope for, and that is in no way guaranteed. I’ll live each day as if it’s my last because it very well could be. I can’t wait to try all sorts of amazing food, and I’ve got a long list of places to try. 

I’ll eat lobster as I enjoy the view from the Santa Monica Pier. I’ll sample fried rice and Kung Pao chicken in Chinatown. The reviews say that Los Angeles has excellent Mexican food, and I can’t wait to try the regional specialty, Oaxaca mole. Of course, I’ll have Italian dishes too, and I just might eat donuts every morning. No more counting carbs for me. My short-lived diet is officially over. This girl will eat absolutely anything and everything she wants. 

I’ll see all the sights. My Pinterest board is chock-full of amazing things I have planned. I can’t wait to go to all the theme parks. I’m not sure my nausea will let me do any roller coasters, but I’m certainly going to give it a try. I’m very excited because they’re all decked out for Halloween, which is my favorite holiday. 

I’m going to do celebrity home tours and swim in the ocean. I may need to buy a wetsuit because I’ve read that the water is cold. This is my first real vacation, and I want it to be perfect because it’s also my last. 

Of course, it’s depressing that I’ll be alone for my one and only vacation, but I can always reach out to Ava if I change my mind. For now, I’m determined to make the best of my situation. After disembarking from the plane, I follow the signs to ground transportation because I don’t need to go to the baggage claim. One more reason traveling with only a carry-on suitcase and a purse has major perks.

It’s a bit of a trek, but I find the exit easily enough. I step outside, and I’m shocked when the cold air assaults my skin. Brrr. What the what? Isn’t California supposed to be warm?

Then I remember reading that L.A. is warm during the day but cool at night, so I guess this is normal. It is nearly midnight, after all. I stop and unzip the outside pocket of my wheelie bag to pull out my sweater. I slip it on as I figure out what I need to do next. There’s a line of taxis waiting by the curb. I walk toward them, and one of the drivers makes eye contact. He motions me over and opens the back door. I smile and head straight to him.

“Where to?” he asks, putting my suitcase on the other side of the back seat.

“The downtown area,” I tell him.

“Anywhere specific?”

“Uh, not really. Could you just drop me off somewhere with good hotels, restaurants, and maybe clubs nearby? I want to look around and get a feel for the area before I pick my hotel.”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” he replies dubiously.

“I’ve read that downtown Los Angeles has a very active nightlife. I want to see the area in person before I decide which hotel to stay at.”

If I don’t like my hotel, I will move to a different one tomorrow. In fact, I think I’ll be a nomad and try different areas. Hollywood, Venice Beach, and Orange County all sound fun too.

The driver drops me off right in front of a hotel in an area with skyscrapers. I see another hotel just down the street. It’s well lit, and I hear music coming from several nearby buildings. 

“Is this what you’re looking for?” the driver asks.

“Perfect,” I gush. I pay with my credit card and add a big tip. I’m determined to live life large and be kind and generous at every opportunity. He helps me with my bag, which isn’t really necessary since it’s so small.

“Bye bye, and thank you so much!” I wave at him. He chuckles, probably tickled by my Midwestern ways.

Now, what should I do? I could just check into this hotel because I’m tired. The two-hour time difference is definitely catching up with me. But I need to get my body adjusted to California time, so instead, I turn and walk down the street. Who knows? I may like the looks of another hotel better. I continue for about a block, and a shiver of excitement runs through me when I see a line of people. A pulsating techno beat emanates from the building they’re waiting to enter. 

I’m certainly not dressed for clubbing. I’m also pulling a suitcase, but that sure looks fun. Note to self: buy a sexy dress when I go shopping tomorrow so I can check out that club! I mentally add earplugs to my list so my head doesn’t explode from the intense volume.

For now, though, I want to get the lay of the land. I pass two more hotels and some restaurants that look promising. I should probably check into one of them, but on a whim, I venture even farther. I’ve never felt so adventurous in my whole life, which is silly. But who cares? It’s not like I have an audience.

A few blocks later, I’m feeling tired. The burst of adrenaline that came over me after arriving in L.A. has dissipated, and I’m starting to drag. Also, the vibes on this block are different. This side of the street is taken up by a hospital. It appears that I can’t escape the medical world even when I try. It’s not exactly deserted here, but there aren’t as many people on the sidewalk on this block. 

I’m preparing to turn back and check into one of the hotels I already passed when I notice a man with a baseball cap shading his face walking toward me. Another guy emerges from the parking deck at my side. Goosebumps pop up on my arms, but when the guy in the parking garage makes eye contact and smiles, I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. I’ve been watching too much TV. Not every guy out at night has nefarious intentions.

“Do you have the time?” he asks.

I step up to the garage, closer to him. “Sure,” I say, dropping the handle of my suitcase to unzip my purse. “My phone is in here somewhere,” I laugh, searching for it.

“Don’t bother,” the guy from the sidewalk says as he comes up behind me, shoving me further into the garage. They both pull ski masks down over their faces. 

“What are you doing?” I ask. I’m dumbfounded to realize I’m surrounded now, as three more men slink out from where they were lurking behind a parked minivan. They have on ski masks too, and they’re all wearing dark clothing. My breath catches. One of them has a gun pointed at my chest. My heartbeat accelerates as they herd me farther into the parking structure. 

One of them has my suitcase, and another one holds a knife. The tall one tugs at my purse. Stubbornly, I hold on to it, clutching it to my chest.

“Don’t be stupid. Hand it over,” he hisses.

“But why?” I ask, bewildered and frightened as I try to back away from them.

“Because we want your phone and your money, of course.”
“No!” I shout at him, holding it tight. 

I’ve already had my future stolen from me thanks to the stupid tumors. I’m not going to stand for these thugs taking my purse, which has my driver’s license, credit card, Social Security card, and birth certificate—literally everything of importance.

“Give it over!” the one with the gun growls. 

I spin around, trying to get away. Someone’s hand yanks on the strap, wrenching it against my collarbone. The purse stays fast because I have it looped over my opposite shoulder. I jerk away, hugging the bag tight as I slip out of his grasp. I run deeper into the dark parking deck. Too late, it dawns on me that by leaving the lit sidewalk, I’ve written off any hope of help.

They close in, their laughter telling me that they let me escape on purpose. Their enjoyment of the chase sickens me. They’re playing cat and mouse, and I’m the mouse. I scream for help, running toward a door off to the side. They’re faster than me, and one of them reaches the door first, cutting me off. I’m surrounded. My breath comes in jagged pants as I swivel to stare at my masked attackers. 

The bite of the pistol slamming into the back of my head communicates that they’ve grown tired of the chase. Did they have to hit me in the head? I cry out in agony, stumbling, but still trying to hold on to my bag as one of them shoves me forward, slamming my shoulder into the cement wall.

I’m stunned by the impact, incapacitated. He savagely jerks me backward and then slams me to my knees on the concrete floor. He kicks me onto my back, and I whimper in pain. 

I’m sprawled in a dazed stupor as his foot grinds into my abdomen for leverage. The knife grazes my shoulder as one of the thugs cuts the strap. Their trophy—all I have left in the world that matters to me—is pulled from my limp fingers. With that purse goes my financial freedom and the ability to take my last vacation . . . to go out on my own terms.

“Help! Please!” I whimper, praying my life won’t end like this.

His booted foot lifts and then pulls back. I hold my breath as I ready myself for another vicious kick . . . but it never comes. 

A tall, dark-haired angel in a white lab coat appears from nowhere. He pulls my attacker off of me. It’s a miracle. A real-life hero is going to save me! My rescuer jumps several feet in the air, and my attacker goes “splat” against the concrete ceiling, landing with an ominous thud. 

As quickly as my hope rises, it plummets. My hero isn’t real. It appears I have a new symptom, courtesy of my brain tumors—hallucinations. There’s no way anyone is strong enough to throw a grown man like that or jump that high.

The other four men rush my non-existent rescuer at once. Of course, the thieves don’t have the requisite honor to fight him one at a time. The action unfolds like a movie; then again, it’s all in my imagination anyway, right? It doesn’t seem to matter that they’re cheating because my fantasy rescuer is a superhero.

I hear something snap. A rib, maybe? My hero elbows the one coming up behind him, and at the same time, he scissor-kicks the shorter one in the face. One thug’s head snaps back so hard I wonder if his neck is broken. They both crumple to the ground, instantly disabled. The thug holding my purse is closer to the exit. He pauses briefly in indecision before turning and sprinting away. 

The muggers on the ground shuffle awkwardly to their feet, hands pressed against their worst injuries as they stumble out of the parking garage. My dreamy rescuer in white starts to chase after before jerking abruptly to a stop. He turns back and stares at me intently. Is it because I look pathetic, lying in a crumpled heap on the ground?

Time slows, and my delusional fantasy escalates to a whole new level as the dreamy hunk of a man gives me a scorching look that has my skin sizzling. Yes, he’s incredibly handsome, but he also looks worried and concerned. Why is he looking at me like I’m the thing he desires most in the world?

My new hallucinatory symptoms can’t be too bad if he is what my mind has conjured up. A dreamy superhero doctor? Yesss, pleeeease! Time speeds up again as he rushes over and kneels down beside me. His hand tenderly cups the back of my head, gently supporting my neck.   

What’s the rush to get up? Why not just lie here and enjoy this? I try not to think about the fact that in the real world I’m probably lying on the cold concrete alone and bleeding to death. There’s no way this gorgeous specimen of a man is really cradling me tenderly in his arms.

His Adam’s apple moves when he swallows. Whoa, that’s surprisingly sexy. I don’t think I’ve ever really looked at a guy this closely, definitely not one this good-looking. If I wasn’t so out of it, I would probably feel nervous, but all of my inhibitions fled when my pathetic life flashed before my eyes.

My focus drifts upward, taking in his square-cut jaw with that hint of black stubble. My attention lingers on the fullness of his lips. As long as I’m having this delightful fantasy, why not go with it? What would those lips feel like pressed against mine?

I’m about to kiss the figment of my imagination—because why not? He brushes a strand of hair out of my face. I push myself up, eager to kiss the man I’ve conjured up to spend my dying moments with, which sends a stabbing pain into my skull. The last things I see before I pass out are his seductive black eyes boring into mine.

NATHANIEL

MINUTES EARLIER:

I should have departed hours ago, yet still I linger at my desk, caught in the grips of ennui and apathy. I’m listless, paralyzed by the unchanging sameness of my days. Immortality is a terrible, ceaseless torment without end.

“This way lies madness,” I admonish myself.

Why am I still here? I accomplish nothing by scrolling through endless case files that I’m no longer capable of comprehending. I power down my computer and contemplate calling one of my friends, but the last thing anyone needs is exposure to my dark, melancholy mood. So, I refrain from reaching out. Isolation is best.

I need to find something to occupy myself with. But what? I sigh. It is past midnight, and the City of Angels comes alive at night. Once again, I contemplate going to a club; what else is there to do this late? I visualize how that would play out. I would walk in. Heads would turn. The vampire allure is such an unfair advantage. The danger of what I am attracts them—all humans, male and female. It is a key element of survival for my species . . . and I despise it.

There was a time when such powers were needed to eat, but with the advent of blood donation, this has become unnecessary. I do not want to bite some random stranger’s neck. The act is so intimate and forced at the same time. No, I abhor the very notion.

I stand, palming my keys as I swiftly descend to the lower level of the parking garage. I think I will go for a run in Griffith Park. Who knows? I might get lucky and get attacked by a vicious mountain lion.

Perhaps a black bear will wander into the area. It is not completely beyond the realm of possibility. I experience a tepid spark of interest. I have not tasted fresh, warm blood in a while. The bagged variety I keep on hand has everything required to sustain me but is as bland as the rest of my existence.

That is when I hear it. The sound is faint, weak, and muffled by concrete walls and the steel door that lay between us. But my ears detect it because of my ultra-keen vampire hearing. A woman screams in the parking deck. I react without hesitation, bounding to the exterior door and ripping it open. 

The smell assaults my nostrils, and I gasp as all of my neurons fire in unison. Blood. But not just any blood. This blood stands out from all others—a unique potpourri. I am crazed by this smell. How very uncharacteristic of me. As a doctor, I have long since desensitized myself to the smell of human blood. 

But I am far from immune to this scent. This is something entirely different. I’m enchanted. Tantalized. Mesmerized. The sweet burgundy calls to me like a fine wine. Must taste, something primitive inside of me calls out.

I see her across the darkened garage. She is helpless, surrounded by thugs. I roar in anger, leaping over the cars that separate us. It matters not that I am revealing my hidden self to these humans. I bare my fangs without conscious thought and grab the one who is swinging his leg back to kick her.

Snarling, I jerk him backward, snapping his wrist before his boot can follow through to her unprotected abdomen. My powerful legs push off, leaping away with the thug in my arms. In a frenzy, instinct takes over, telling me to get him away from her. I don’t hold back as I toss him up against the ceiling, and there’s an awful smacking sound before gravity propels him back onto the unforgiving concrete.

I fight to incapacitate all of them, yet I bite no one. My fangs lengthen as I struggle against the primitive urge to feast on their blood and tear them to pieces. This is a line I will not cross—one I have not crossed for a thousand years. Her attackers are cowards, and within moments, they all scurry out of the parking deck like roaches. 

Chase. Kill. Devour. The characteristic drive that is part of my very DNA compels me to pursue my prey. Long-subdued instincts return full force along with the desire to protect the woman. The need to hunt is palpable, but my compulsion to return to her is stronger still.

The woman whose blood calls to me is crying. I must protect her. I catalogue her injuries, kneeling beside her and brushing loose blonde curls from her face. Her honey-colored hair is so soft. She’s beautiful. I listen carefully, and I’m relieved to hear her heart beating strong and sure. She smells . . . incredible . . . like sunshine on a summer day.

Not that I have seen the sun in over a millennium, but the heat radiating from her and onto my skin is so warm it raises the temperature of my cold, lost soul. I inhale her scent once more, this time detecting subtle notes of citrus blossoms and freshly cut grass. The aroma washes over me, and I press a hand wistfully to my heart.

Her guileless blue eyes bore into mine, and I am undone. For once, I am proud of what I am. I am strong. I can protect her. I am elated by the instant attraction I see mirrored in her eyes. It does not matter at all that she is human. I forget that I am a doctor and a vampire and regard her with the eyes of a man, a man bewitched.

Her luscious, thick blonde hair curls around my fingers. My eyes rake over her delectable body. She is all soft curves and fine lines. She’s not bony and thin, a modern beauty trend I detest. I feel the urge to claim her. But this is something I could never do to anyone but my bride, for only she will have the power to restart my cold, dead heart.

I know for a fact I have never seen her before, but something about her is hauntingly familiar. She raises herself up partway, and I hold my breath when it looks like she is going to kiss me, an action I would most definitely welcome.

That’s when she passes out and slumps limply into my arms. Every fiber of my being is screaming at me to help her, to shield her from harm. They’ve hurt her. I snarl, fighting the renewed urge to hunt them down as I begin a thorough inspection of her lush body. I’m searching for signs of injury when I gently move aside the thick hair at the nape of her neck and feel blood coating my fingertips. The sight and the smell of her blood are almost my undoing. My hands shake as I resist the urge to taste it, to see if it is as sweet as I imagine it is.

I groan, dropping my hand back to her side. With utmost care, I lift her head and examine the back of her skull. There is a small wound with slight swelling. This wound is not life-threatening, but something else is wrong. For all that it calls to me, I scent something wrong with her blood. Internal bleeding, perhaps?

Fortunately, we are in the parking deck attached to my facility. The urge to protect her propels me inside. It would be so easy to hurt her with my superhuman strength, so I grip her carefully against my chest, holding her easily in my arms as I swiftly mount the stairs to my clinic. I cannot comprehend my feelings. Never in my long life have I experienced the level of desire and concern I have for this woman.

A loud thundering fills my ears. It pulses. It pounds. It is beyond merely hearing. I feel the sound on a molecular level. What is this? Can she hear it too? She is still unconscious, yet I am certain this sound will wake her. It is so loud that people must be able to hear it from the street. I cannot place what this relentless pounding could be. Are they using a jackhammer on the level above us? Is it an earthquake?

That is when I determine that the sound is not originating from outside at all. It is coming from inside . . . inside of me. In a rush, I feel it. It’s a landslide. Unstoppable. Pulsing. Throbbing. I gasp as I take the first real breath I have breathed in centuries. Air rushes into and out of my body. I inhale again. I am so shaken, I almost stumble.

My heart. 

Is beating. 

She . . . is . . . my . . . bride. 

My bride has brought my cold, dead heart back to life.