I briefly entertained the idea of moving after college, but it seemed wrong somehow. Every time I looked at jobs in other states, I got this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if the planet were tilting off its axis. So I stayed, because this was my place in the world.

My weird tendencies were lovingly tolerated by kith and kin, who—with the exception of Aunt Jettie—figured I’d eventually “grow out of it.” And when I didn’t, they made a hobby of worrying about me. When would I meet a nice boy and settle down? When would I stop working so much? Why did I seem so uninterested in the things that mattered so much to them? I ended up a permanent fixture on the prayer list of the Half-Moon Hollow Baptist Church, where Mama had simply written “Jane Jameson—Needs guidance.” Every time a member of Mama’s congregation saw me at the library, she pinched my cheeks and told me she was praying for me.

It was a little vexing, certainly annoying, but I knew it came from a loving place. These were people who saw me play a sheep in the Christmas pageant for five years running. They sent me care packages when I was taking college exams. They stood by me and helped me through Aunt Jettie’s funeral. Now, for the first time, I was afraid of seeing my neighbors, my family. It was only a matter of time before they found out about me. I couldn’t survive on sunscreen and my wits, such as they were.

In Half-Moon Hollow, vampires still occasionally died in “accidental” fires or falls on handy wooden objects. That’s why few local vampires had come out of the coffin, so to speak. People stopped talking when the new vampire’s parents walked into the room. Their families were frozen out of their churches, their clubs. Friends stopped calling. And eventually, the vampire either left town or succumbed to injuries sustained during a tragic “drapery malfunction.” But I wasn’t going to leave the Hollow. I didn’t care if Grandma Ruthie got kicked out of her bridge club. I didn’t care if I got funny looks at the grocery store. I wasn’t leaving my home, the only place I knew. I could only hope my friends and neighbors were rational enough not to go the pitchfork-and-torch route. But even if they did, I was pretty sure I could outrun them.

I wandered the food aisles out of habit and got a little depressed at all the foods I couldn’t eat anymore. I had the store to myself, apart from the lethargic stockers replenishing the shelves. They didn’t make eye contact, but I think that was more of an “I’m pissed off at the world because I’m stacking cases of adult diapers at two A.M.” thing than anything to do with me.

I forced myself to walk away from the food when I found myself tearing up over a box of Moon Pies. Fixating on delicious regional snack cakes that you can’t digest anymore cannot be good for one’s mental health.

The “special dietary needs” aisle was hidden in the back, between the health and beauty aids and the gardening section. I turned the corner of the feminine-products aisle, thankful that was something I’d never have to deal with again, and found a teeming hive of vampire activity.

“So, here’s where all the customers are,” I murmured, watching as a vampire lady compared the labels of Fang-Brite Fluoride Wash versus Strong Bite Enamel Strengthener. Farther down the aisle, a vampire couple argued over whether they’d had Basic Red Synthetic Plasma for dinner too many times in the last few months. An older vampire gentleman invested in some lubricating ointment I didn’t want to think about until I was several centuries older.

I’d never ventured down this aisle before, because, frankly, it just had never occurred to me. As a human, my shopping trips usually focused on getting in and out of the store as quickly as possible before Fitz destroyed the house in search of Milk-Bones. Plus, the stigma attached to those who were seen shopping in the vamp aisle made it about as desirable as openly perusing hemorrhoid medications on a busy Saturday afternoon. But no one even took notice of me here. Much like humans, the vampire shoppers seemed to be “in the zone,” zeroed in on what they needed so they could get out and get back to their lairs.

The range of choices was overwhelming. Fake blood, protein additives, vitamin solutions, iron supplements. The companies couldn’t seem to figure out what sort of packaging would attract undead attention. Skinny Victorian glass bottles with filigreed labels. Round, vaguely Japanese pop-art jars in candy colors. Opaque plastic coffins with cartoon Bela Lugosi faces etched into the front. The combination was jarring and left me a little disoriented.

A vampire female who was turned in her late twenties passed by on my left. She seemed to be moving in slow motion, her long blue-black hair swishing behind her in a shining curtain. She made capri pants and Crocs, a combination which I think should be outlawed in the state of Kentucky, look good. She was so…put together. She seemed comfortable as a vampire. Carefree, like someone you’d see in a nonthreatening shampoo commercial.

I found myself following her, tossing one of everything that she chose into my cart. Fang-Brite Fluoride Wash, Undying Health Vitamin Solution, Basic Red, Razor Wire Floss. I followed her all the way down the aisle until she reached the mega-dose SPF 500 sunscreen. I waited in agony for her to decide between Face Paste and Solar Shield (“Tested on astronauts, to be used in emergency daylight situations” versus “Guaranteed protection against reasonable sun exposure for up to thirty minutes”) and finally realized I was behaving in a rather creepy manner.

I backed away, narrowly avoiding bumping into the ointment guy. But I did grab some of that sunscreen, because you never know.

As I headed toward the checkout, I was struck by a gnawing anxiety. The cashier was going to see my purchases and know that I was a vampire. It felt like the first (and last) time I bought my own condoms at the drugstore near my dorm. No matter how much other random stuff I threw into the cart to distract her, that cashier knew exactly what I (and the colorful assortment of latex I was purchasing) would be up to later. What if the Wal-Mart cashier knew my mama or recognized me from the library? Any anonymity I had would be shot as soon as the cashier woke up from her postmidnight-shift stupor and started making phone calls to the kitchen-and-beauty-parlor gossip circuit.

Aw, hell. I had to do it sometime. Besides, I was going to get pretty hungry without faux blood at home, and that could put me in a precarious moral position with my whole “no forcible feeding” stance.

Fortunately, I underestimated the apathy of employees forced to work the midnight shift. The cashier didn’t bother looking up at me, much less pay any attention to what she was halfheartedly dragging across the scanner. The closest thing to communication I got was when she grunted and pointed to the total on her register screen.

Grocery shopping at two-thirty A.M. is the only way to go.

I lugged my lone bag of groceries up the front steps, only to find a slender redhead in a black sundress sitting on my front porch swing. I stopped in my tracks. I stared at her. She stared back. I tried to cast out my senses to pick up any evil tendencies.

Nothing.

She rose on her mile-long legs and spoke in a voice utterly without accent. “Hello, I’m Andrea.”

She smelled human, normal. In fact, she smelled great. Earthy and fresh, like something just baked. She had a face made for another century, for high-waisted lace gowns and hairstyles involving ringlets. Yet, here she was, standing on my porch like a nocturnal Mary Kay lady.

It seemed to be my turn to talk. “Can I help you?”

“Gabriel sent me.”

“For…?” If Gabriel sent someone to give me an after-undeath Goth makeover, I was going to be seriously pissed. Andrea stood and unknotted the silk scarf at her throat. Even in the dark, I could make out the healing bite marks, the purpling bruises.

“Wait, are you a pet?”

More important, was she Gabriel’s pet?

She laughed, a soft, silky whisper that made me feel frizzled and oafish. “I’m a freelance blood surrogate. I have friends in the vampire community. Friends who enjoy my company and my discretion.”

I remained silent. How exactly was that different?

“I’m AB negative, so I’m a popular selection,” she added.

“That’s a rare blood type. Only one percent of the population has it,” I blurted. “Bet you’re popular down at the Red Cross.”

“Yes, I’m sort of a delicacy,” she said, smiling. “How did you know that?”

“The brain may die, but my compulsion for useless trivia lives on,” I said, ignoring the frown that marred her alabaster brow.

Andrea was clearly unaccustomed to not being jumped the second a vampire spied her snowy swanlike neck. “Gabriel said you were nervous about feeding from a human. So he sent me over to help you through it. I think he’s worried about you, to be honest. It’s kind of sweet.”

I rattled my keys not so subtly and motioned toward my front door. “I’d really rather not.”

Andrea was even less accustomed to being turned down flat. Suddenly awkward, she strode toward me, her gait unsteady. “It’s OK, I want you to. I enjoy it.”

I heaved my groceries onto the hall table and closed the door. Even without my ghost aunt lurking about, I didn’t want this conversation happening anywhere near my home. It was just unseemly. If I could have found a polite way to heave this woman off my porch, I would have. Damn Mama and her hereditary devotion to hospitality. “Look, Andrea, I haven’t completely decided where I stand on the feeding-on-humans issue. What’s the vampire equivalent of a vegan?”

“There isn’t one,” she insisted. “What can I do to make this more comfortable for you?”

“Get a tourniquet and a glass, and take your neck out of the equation?”

She laughed and led me to the porch swing, where I sat as she tipped her head back. I opened my mouth, extended my fangs, and leaned toward her. I saw her pulse beating beneath her skin, her living, human skin. Every nerve ending was an opportunity for me to cause her pain. She took a steadying breath when she felt my nose awkwardly brush her ear. It reminded me of how I used to exhale sharply when I was stuck at the annual library blood drive.

“I can’t,” I said, giving her a helpless, apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I’m just afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry about being nervous. A lot of vampires have trouble with this from time to time. It happens to everyone.”

“If I was a forty-year-old man suffering from erectile dysfunction, that would be a great comfort to me, thanks,” I said, even as the thirst sent my stomach rumbling.

“Think of me as a free-range animal,” she offered.

“That’s…a brilliant idea,” I started, until I pictured her being led into a slaughterhouse by vampires wearing black cowboy hats and Dracula capes. “But not helping.”

Seeing a chink in my argument, Andrea smiled and crooked her head back, offering her delicately veined throat. “Don’t think of me as male or female. Or even human. Think of me as a cheeseburger on legs. That seems to help the newbies with pacifist tendencies.”

I waited for icky visuals involving an undead Ronald McDonald, but none came. “Oddly enough, I think that might work.”

I leaned toward Andrea, who happily settled into her “feeding position,” head tilted back, arms relaxed. She moaned as my lips skimmed her throat.

“Um, if I’m going to do this, you can’t do that,” I told her. “Vampires do not suddenly become sexually ambiguous the moment they’re turned…unless, you’re Angelina Jolie, and then we can talk.”

Andrea silently leaned back and offered her jugular. I found a place on her skin that hadn’t been marked and sank in my teeth. Her blood was warm, alive, and electric, flowing freely into me and flooding my senses. True to her word, Andrea was delicious, with a delicate, floral flavor under the hemoglobin. Absently, I wondered if blood types were like wines. Maybe type O negative was full-bodied with undertones of oak. Or if you want something light with hints of tropical fruit, type B positive.