Page 1 of Little Fangs

1. MICAH

I’d wished to die a thousand times. I’d wished for a love, a wanting, and a belonging.

I guessed I was bad at wishing.

Until they kicked me out.

Battered and bruised, I fell through the forest, my body bouncing from tree to tree, snapping logs, crunching twigs, my strength coming and going with deep breaths. I should’ve waited for sunlight, I should’ve let the morning take me. Better yet, I should’ve just let them kill me and suffer the Council’s consequences.

I had nothing now.

Everything I had was still at the manor, and I was too weak to fight for it.

Life had cursed me with a blessing, and in return, I did nothing. My life had been teetering on the edge of eternal Hell and the hazy focus of a dull sunshine. The only difference between then and now was freedom.

Willow’s End was supposed to be a sanctuary town of supernaturals, some with great abilities and others with damning secrets they’d take to the grave. I didn’t know where I fell in all that. Being a vampire meant immortality, or at the very least the idea of it. I was turned in an experiment performed by a captive vampire who agreed to make an army of vampires for the frontlines of war.

I’d agreed, but they didn’t tell me. Not really. I was twenty-something, the something was now just a thought, because I didn’t reflect my age—or the spaces I found myself living in.

And now, those same people who were turned with me had forced me out.

The only thing I’d managed to steal away from them were their enchanted gold bracelets. The same ones that gave them the ability to walk in the sun, to resist UV light. They didn’t notice; they were far too busy punching me to even bother to check their wrists.

Three of them. There used to be five of us. Brothers. One died.

And our Master. Ludmila. The captive vampire. We broke free with her shortly after turning. She led us, until three years ago. She cut us free to join the Council, giving us complete autonomy before leaving Willow’s End. She’d protected me from them. She’d always told me to be strong, to face fear head on, and I thought I’d be able to.

But I couldn’t.

I fell to my knees, my bones aching as if cement had been poured into them or my feet wore cinderblocks. I opened my hand to see those golden bracelets. Mine was taken the day Ludmila left. Told I didn’t deserve to be in the sun. Told I didn’t have the guts to go out and do what was necessary for a vampire.

And they were right.

I lived off blood bags and scraps they gave me from cups. Sometimes pranked into drinking acidic, congealed blood. I didn’t like hurting people, and I barely had fangs, so when I was forced to bite something, I had to tear into the skin with all my teeth.

I sobbed into my fists as I surrendered to the ground.

In the distance I heard voices, people—humans weren’t usually out here by choice after dark. The town knew it was dangerous.

I couldn’t bring myself to my feet as I recalled the awful games my brothers had played with out-of-town humans, chasing them through here, forcing them to grow tired because the adrenaline aged their blood like an old wine. I didn’t know the difference; all I knew was I needed blood to survive.

The voices grew closer.

Dragging myself through the dirt, my brain unable to stop flashing images of all the teddies and stuffed animals I was leaving behind—forced to leave—I tried to drive my fists into the cold fall dirt, but I didn’t have the energy to exert or strength to give.

Eventually, I dragged myself close to a cabin on the edge of town.

The porchlight flashed on as I approached and I quickly recoiled, hiding behind a large log shed. The voices in the distance had stopped calling out each other’s names now, probably just some teens getting drunk. I screwed my eyes shut, hoping that those monsters I’d once called brothers didn’t get them.

Peering out from behind the shelter, I noticed a large man with a big chest, shaped like a top-heavy triangle. He wore a tight, dirt-stained tank top and a pair of overalls rolled down to the waist. He stood at the open door for a moment as a large gray Maine coon cat walked between his legs.

“Misty,” he called out after her, shaking his head before combing a hand over his head, removing his beanie to reveal short black hair. “Don’t be back late.” He huffed, shutting the door and the porchlight turned off.

Misty approached me, her eyes glittering like diamonds, staring at me the entire way as she walked, cutting through the grass. She pounced from pieces of wood until she stood on the frame of the woodshed, her eyes wide, shimmering silver.

“Hi,” I whispered, and the word was heavy in my throat from crying. I gulped hard on the knot. “Hey.”

She lay there, getting comfortable as she stared. I knew she couldn’t speak, or wouldn’t, though there were stranger things that happened in Willow’s End. I wasn’t sure this cat couldn’t say a word, unless that word was meow.