Page 24 of The Midnight Frequency

Was that harsh? Maybe.

But like it or not, radio was still a results-based industry. No one wanted to give a time slot to someone who couldn’t at least bring in a steady number of listeners.

As for me, well, I would have to hope that three weeks was long enough to get a nice chunk of a first draft done while the inspiration was still in the building. If he got axed, I could just pray that the story itself evolved beyond the source material and carried me through to the finish line.

The rest of the meeting involved discussions of ways to increase ad revenue (houses in the Hamptons simply must be purchased, after all), competitors, and, of course, Steve’s chair.

Did I ask for the raise I’d been wanting (and earning) for over a year? Nope. That didn’t happen.

But with a new book brewing in my mind, all that practical stuff fell away anyway. There would always be a meeting next month. And the month after that. Over and over until the sweet release of the age of retirement. Or, you know, a freak bestselling book.

A girl could dream.

I made it back downstairs just in time to see one of the station’s only succubi pull one of the little plastic globes out of the vending machine and read it aloud.

“Trust the vibes, not the voices.” That was even more vague than mine had been. But the inhumanly gorgeous succubus nodded, tucked the fortune between her breasts, and headed back to her studio.

“Are you Maggie?” a man in a black-and-white delivery outfit asked.

“I am.”

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said, but he sounded relieved enough for me not to narrow my eyes at the accusation of his words. “Can you sign for this?”

He handed me a clipboard.

“I might be able to. If you tell me what it is.”

“I’m from Vitalis Blood Services.”

Vitalis Blood Services?

“Oh, is that…” I started, looking down at the cooler, “is that blood?”

“It is.”

“And my name is on the order form?”

“It’s for a… Silas Ashford, but the troll at the door said you were who would sign for it.”

“Right. Okay,” I said, pulling out the pen and scribbling my name.

I’d never heard of this Vitalis place before, but blood banks that catered to vampires were commonplace. Humans (and certain paranormals) could donate for a premium fee. The blood was then categorized, rated, and sold to the vampires (and certain demons) via a menu.

I dated someone once who claimed he paid his way through college selling plasma at one of those places. Was he perpetually cold and pale from the anemia? Sure. But he’d gotten himself a degree and a high-paying job because of it.

“Have a good day,” I said, taking the cooler from him and walking it down the hallway to Silas’s empty studio before making my way back to my office to finally sit down, kick off the tight shoes, and take a deep breath before I looked at the pile of problems that had accumulated over the morning.

I paused only to order myself some breakfast, then as I waited, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from moving over to the station’s dashboard for streaming.

The usual top twenty were right where they belonged—top streams across the board, with only slight dips here or there.

But The Midnight Frequency had the downward tilt mentioned in the meeting.

Until last night.

Last night.

When I’d called in.