At 9:00 a.m., Stelian trudged up to 33rd floor of the Venetian and knocked gently on Helen's door.

  "Mrs. Trent. It's Stelian."

  He heard, "One second, dear!" from inside. When Helen opened the door, she was already up, showered, and dressed, wearing a nice blouse with a touch of makeup.

  "Oh. Mrs. Trent. You look nice," said Stelian, voice heavy with exhaustion.

  "Thank you! Please, call me Helen! We're family! I packed this because I thought Calvin -- sorry, Caleb -- might want to go for a fancy dinner, but I was halfway to Vegas before I remembered that Caleb doesn’t eat. Actually, I wanted to test something. One second --let’s get some light in here."

  She reached for the curtains.

  "Helen, no!"

  Too te. Sunlight flooded the room, painfully bright. As Helen blinked to adjust, she realized it wasn’t just the sun—motes of light danced across the walls, shimmering and shifting.

  It was Stelian.

  He gleamed like a Waterford crystal chandelier caught in a Fourth of July disaster video, light refracting off him in a thousand directions.

  "Sorry," he sighed, pulling a tube of sunscreen from the pocket of his cargo shorts. As he applied it, the glow slowly faded.

  Helen shook her head, smiling. "Oh, Stelian. You don’t have to apologize. You're beautiful."

  "Thank you, but... I’m really not."

  "No, you are."

  "Thank you, but... I mean... my hair."

  "So? You look sexy in a cowboy hat. I know this might be hard to hear, but you're beautiful. Pantessa knows it. And she knows how bad your haircut is, yet she’s still dating you. That must mean you’re doing something right, no? I get the feeling she’s not the type to suffer fools gdly."

  Helen motioned for him to sit on the bed. He did, and she took his hand, speaking with the warmth of someone who had decided to love him like family.

  "Caleb hasn’t told me much about the glitterboys, but he said you were new, that you were finding your way, and that people here don’t always treat you well because they’re jealous. Caleb even admitted as much and said he’s trying to be better. You're a good man, Stelian. And a few bits of glitter and a bad haircut don’t change that."

  Stelian pulled her into a hug. "You're awesome."

  "I know, dear, I know. Now, finish that sunscreen. I want to use you as a guinea pig for an experiment."

  "Okay?" Stelian watched as Helen stood, rummaged through her suitcase, and pulled out a Tupperware container filled with what looked like weird brownies.

  "So, Stelian, how are you feeling right now?"

  "Honestly? Exhausted. The sunlight doesn’t fry me, but every instinct says it’s time to sleep. If I still needed oxygen, I’d be yawning like hell."

  "I thought so," Helen said. "Try one of these."

  Stelian lifted the lid, inhaling. It smelled nice. "I should tell you-- I don’t eat. I’ll have to spit it out."

  "If I’m right, you won’t," she said. "Please. Indulge an old woman. Try one."

  He picked up a small, dark circle and popped it in his mouth. It wasn’t bad. Not amazing, but certainly edible. A familiar taste that he couldn't quite pce. And as he chewed, something strange happened. He felt... a little better. Not 100%, not even close, but a noticeable pick-me-up.

  It tasted familiar. Like... beef jerky?

  "What is this?"

  "Blutwurst," Helen said. "Blood sausage. Joshua has such a well-stocked kitchen, and I took a trip to WinCo while you and Tessa were sleeping."

  That was the taste he couldn’t pce-- cow’s blood. He’d made do with butcher scraps before when he had no other choice, but it never sustained him. Just empty calories. Junk food.

  And yet, when he swallowed, it stayed down.

  "This... actually isn’t bad. You have to teach me the recipe!"

  "Wonderful."

  "Could I have another?"

  "One more. Just one," Helen said. "We need to save the rest for Angelina. I don’t want her falling asleep over the cards and getting -- what's it -- blinded out."

  Stelian grabbed another, popped it in his mouth, then handed the container back. "Thank you."

  As promised, he went back to applying sunscreen-- everywhere except the back of his left hand.

  "You missed a spot," Helen pointed out.

  "Nah. That’s my test patch. I’m on lookout duty for Angelina. If this patch starts to glitter, there’s too much sunlight for her to be safe."

  "Ah. Like a canary in a coal mine."

  "Exactly," said Stelian. "C’mon. Let’s go wake her up."

  ***

  "Oh, this is lovely," Helen said as she stepped into the Dead Forever Experience.

  For her, it wasn’t just a psychedelic trip-- it was a trip down memory ne, back to hot Vegas summers in the ’60s, to San Francisco during the Summer of Love. As Friend of the Devil pyed overhead, she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the music wash over her.

  She wandered through the exhibits, admiring the vintage guitars and psychedelic memorabilia, smiling at the VW Microbus. "I never had one of these, but God, I wanted one so bad," she mused. She scanned the old photos, half-expecting to spot herself or Michael.

  "If we get the chance," she said to Stelian, "we should come back here. I just wish Michael were here." A wistful note crept into her voice. "Michael’s Caleb’s dad," she added, then snapped her fingers. "Oh! That reminds me-- once Angelina’s at the tables, we need to call Michael. I worry about him."

  Stelian smiled at her obvious delight. "If you can keep the whole V-thing under wraps, you should meet my mom. She’s a little younger than you, but she loves cssic rock."

  Helen ughed. "Back in my day, we just called it rock." She shook her head. "I guess you’ll see for yourself, a hundred years from now, when they put up the Chappell Roan Experience or something."

  Stelian’s expression dimmed. "I doubt it," he said softly.

  Helen gnced at him. "Why not? You said you don’t age. Caleb looks just like he did when he disappeared."

  Stelian shook his head. "It’s a hard life. A lot of us don’t make it. Not everyone can adjust. They can’t let go of their old life, or they get exhausted by the new one and they…" He trailed off, carefully avoiding the word suicide.

  Helen’s smile faded. "Oh."

  "And I can’t bme them," Stelian went on. "It’s so tough in ways humans don’t even think about. Look at all the hoops we’re jumping through just to get Angelina into a poker tournament. None of this would be necessary if we were just… normal."

  He exhaled sharply. "And you end up living with a constant fear of making a mistake. Will I say the wrong thing? Will they notice I don’t breathe, that I don’t belong? Will I be deyed past sunrise and put everyone at risk? The fear eats at you. It’s not just about the safety of our lives-- it’s about the safety of who we are."

  Helen frowned. "I… I don’t know what to say, sweetie. I’m sorry. I didn’t know."

  "It’s okay. Well, the situation isn’t okay, but you know what I mean."

  He hesitated, then looked toward a memorial for Jerry Garcia. "Actually, that’s why I look up to Caleb so much. As bad as things are now, they used to be worse—until Caleb got us organized. He helped build the community, got vampires looking out for each other. I don’t know how many of us wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. And he hates dealing with other vampires, but he did it anyway."

  Stelian crossed his arms. "He’s a good man. Life forced him to do bad things to survive, but… I think he’s finally becoming the person I knew he could be."

  The two of them finally made their way to the VIP lounge, where, undisturbed, the neon dancing bear costume y on the couch. Stelian waited near the entrance to make sure the coast was completely clear, while Helen gently jostled the bear.

  "Angelina, dear," whispered Helen. "It's time to wake up."

  "Uh, Helen," said Stelian. "Use a bit more gusto. You're literally waking the dead."

  "Oh," said Helen.

  She took a deep breath and started shaking the bear vigorously. "Angelina, it's time to wake up! Time for the poker tournament!"

  "Mmrr..." The bear mumbled, "just five more minutes."

  Angelina lingered in the dream world, caught in that delicious haze between sleep and waking. The real world could wait, couldn’t it?

  Here, in the dream, it was warm. Not the sweltering heat of the Vegas sun, but a kind warmth, the glow of streetlights and neon, the golden buzz of a city that never slept. She was with Caleb, walking the boardwalk at Coney Isnd, the salty air curling around them as the Wonder Wheel spun zily in the background. They haggled with a scalper over Broadway tickets, their ughter mixing with the shuffle of the crowd. On the A-train to Harlem, she rested her head on his shoulder, letting the rhythm of the tracks lull her as a street musician pyed saxophone in the next car over.

  Here, she belonged. No second gnces, no suspicion. Just another pair of night owls in a city full of them.

  Her body knew. It wasn’t time to wake up yet. The real world was cold and uncertain. Better to stay safe, and warm, until the sun passed and the night could embrace her again.

  "Don't make me wet willy you," said Helen, removing the bear's head, and exposing Angelina's.

  "What?" ughed Stelian.

  "I used to make Calvin -- er, when he was Calvin -- I used to use that as a st resort to wake him up when he didn't want to get out of bed and go to school. It always worked. After a while I could get him to bolt out of bed just by saying the words 'wet willy.'"

  "Hunh?" said Angelina, squinting her eyes open, and finally looking at Helen. Her eyes refused to fully focus, disoriented. She looked around at the psychedelic decor and worried she might be having a fshback to the one time she tried magic mushrooms in high school. Was this real? Was she dreaming again?

  As if to illustrate the seriousness of the threat, Helen put her finger in her mouth to wet it.

  Angelina raised an eyebrow. "Is this really happening right now?"

  "Yep. I'll do it too," cackled Helen.

  That surprisingly worked. Angelina sat up, with a groan.

  "C'mon. I've got a little treat for you. Help you stay awake."

  "Urgh. I'm sorry, Mrs. Trent, I can't have coffee. I hope you didn't get it from Starbucks, the prices here on the Strip are brutal."

  "No, I made some blutwurst snacks for you. For when you find yourself fgging." She shook the tupperware container, then opened it up and showed it to Angelina, who by this point had only extracted her head and right arm from the dancing bear costume.

  "They're good," said Stelian. "Trust me."

  Angelina popped one in her mouth and was pleasantly surprised by the taste and texture. And she was feeling herself starting to wake up a bit more. "This is like... vampire coffee. Helen, you're amazing!"

  "I know, dear," Helen smiled, satisfied. "Now let's get you signed in."

  “Coast is clear. No shinies on the way to the poker room.” said Stelian.

  Angelina finally hopped out of the bear suit, grabbed her backpack, stuffed the dirt and the hotel pillow into it, and headed out. Stelian grabbed the bear suit and the head. "Helen, you and Angelina go on ahead, I'll wrangle this ridiculous thing. Philip says that he needs to return it to his friend for a party next weekend."

  "Wait, we're not leaving it here? Isn't security they going to assume you're stealing it?" asked Angelina.

  "No, I'm just going to tell security that it's a friend of a friend's, he left it here one rowdy Vegas night, and that I'm taking it to be dry cleaned."

  "They'd believe that?" said Helen, both eyebrows raised.

  "Why not? It's technically the truth," Stelian said with a shrug, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  ***

  "Your son kissed me st night," said Angelina grinning, as she crossed the little bridge over the indoor canal with Helen. "And I kissed him back."

  "You did, did you?" Helen grinned.

  "And I think I'm going to kiss him again in the future," said Angelina. "I remember when he first told me about this idea-- how it was dumb. That one big romantic gesture wasn’t going to win me back like some cheesy rom-com."

  "It’s not the gesture," Helen said, her voice dropping to something more cryptic, "it’s the meaning behind it."

  "What do you mean?"

  Helen gave a pyful shrug. "I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but Caleb and I’ve talked about you. He expined why he was doing all of this-- and it wasn’t just to win you back. He actually thought you weren’t interested, or at least, not interested right away. But I imagine he’s a bit pleasantly surprised right now."

  "Oh? Now I have even more questions."

  "Just enjoy the moment, dearie," Helen winked. "Is that your friend Greg over there in the funny gsses?"

  Greg waved from the registration desk, motioning for them to join him.

  "Greg! Hi!" said Angelina. "Greg, this is Helen, Caleb’s m--grandmother."

  "Pleased to meet you," Greg said, shaking Helen’s hand. "Ready to sign in?"

  Angelina nodded, quickly scribbling her name on the form. Greg paid the entrance fee, and she received her seat assignment. The three of them walked over to table 13, seat 5.

  "Oh, before I forget..." Helen reached into her bag, pulling out the tupperware container of blutwurst.

  "Energy snacks," said Greg. "Smart thinking. Good luck out there, Angelina."

  "Thanks, Greg! And thanks Helen!"

  The overhead announcement rang out: "Pyers competing in the 1500 Venetian Deep Stack Extravaganza, please take your seats. Py will begin in 10 minutes."

  "Right," said Angelina, straightening up. "That’s my cue."

  ***

  Caleb’s dreams were anything but restful.

  He and Angelina were running. Sprinting across the Strip. Bolting through downtown. Barreling down Fremont Street. Running from something—something terrible. Something powerful.

  A cackle echoed behind them. Renfield? No. It wasn’t him. This was something new. Something he hadn’t pnned for.

  Suddenly, the world was too bright. The neon signs shattered, their flickering glow repced by something real. Exposing.

  Caleb looked up and saw it: a massive, red, floating eye, pulsing with fury.

  A voice crashed over the city like thunder:

  "?tiu ce e?ti, strigoi!"

  The words cracked through him like a whip. He wasn’t Caleb. Wasn’t a person. He felt seen for what he truly was -- a monster. A thing to be judged.

  Angelina dreamed of belonging. Caleb dreamed of being exposed.

  He jolted awake.

  Darkness. Silence. The familiar scent of old fabric and Angelina's perfume. He was in Angelina’s bed, in her storage locker. His body felt heavy, drained. Face-down, still in his shoes. That’s how close he’d cut it st night.

  For a moment, he y there. His mind might have been pying tricks on him, but he remembered that right before he got inside -- just for a second -- he could have sworn he’d heard sizzling.

  His stomach twisted.

  Never, ever again. Grand romantic gestures be damned. Social convention be damned. He was not cutting it that close next time.

  Then he remembered: Angelina kissed him st night.

  And just like that, everything felt a little less terrible.

  He pulled out his phone. A lot of messages.

  Philip said he’d picked up the suit from the Venetian’s dry cleaning service without hassle. Good. One less thing to worry about.

  Stelian reported that the tournament was down to four or so tables-- close to the money. 24 pyers left, with the top 15 getting at least a min-cash. Last Stelian checked, Angelina had around 150k in chips, which told Caleb exactly nothing. Without knowing the blind levels or average stack, that could mean she was the chip leader or one bad beat away from elimination.

  Joshua had forwarded a message from Dracu, along with a scanned sketch of Renfield. Apparently, Dracu found it in the forbidden wing under a stack of 1850s Scientific American magazines.

  The sketch showed a gaunt, middle-aged man with hollow cheeks, a receding hairline, and piercing, hungry eyes. The kind of eyes that saw too much. A genius. A madman. Maybe both.

  It wasn’t anyone Caleb recognized. He hadn’t expected it to be, but that would’ve made things easier. He’d swing by the business center at the Venetian, print out some copies, and ask around. Maybe someone in the community had seen a guy like this.

  But the real highlight? The photos his mother sent of Angelina.

  She looked tired but happy, focused, in her element. In one picture, she was standing, nervous-- then in the next, sitting back down with a visible wave of relief on her face. All-in for her tournament life, most likely. And she survived.

  Also, she was eating brownies?

  Yeah, he’d have to ask about that.

  Right. Back to the Venetian. When Angelina won the whole thing, he wanted to be there to celebrate. And if she busted out, he’d be there to catch her.

  Either way, sitting on his ass wasn’t getting him there any faster.

  ***

  Caleb arrived at the Venetian just before the dinner break. He spotted Angelina folding her st hand as the dealers and staff started bagging chips for the break.

  “Caleb!” she squealed, and before he could even react, she was on him, squeezing him in a bear hug.

  “Hey! Missed you too!” Caleb ughed, returning the hug.

  Angelina pnted a few quick butterfly kisses all over his face.

  “You would not believe how tough it was to stay awake,” she said. “If it wasn’t for your mom, I think I’d have fallen asleep and been carted off to the morgue. Or worse, blinded out.”

  “Does that have something to do with the brownies?” Caleb asked, eyebrow raised.

  “Blood sausage, actually,” Angelina said with a grin. “Your mom is a genius.”

  “They always said I got my smarts from Dad,” Caleb quipped. “How are you holding up?”

  Angelina sighed. “A couple of scary moments. Effective stacks are 70BB, hero is the effective... Middle position bets 2BB, Hijack calls--”

  “Hold up, what? You’re gonna need to transte that for me.”

  She smirked, eyes twinkling. “Okay, okay. So, I’m holding pocket queens on the button -- heart and diamond -- and a vilin opens with a small raise. I decide to squeeze to 9BB. Middle position calls, hijack folds. Flop is Q-T-8, two spades. I’m sitting pretty with top set, but the board’s super-wet, right? So I need to protect my hand without overcommitting. I make a half-pot bet to deny equity.”

  “Uh-huh... and then?” Caleb was already lost.

  “I get called, and I’m left with 50BB in my stack after the turn, where the pot’s 42BB. So unless the turn is a jack, nine, or a spade, I’m committed to shoving.”

  “A cssic maneuver,” Caleb nodded seriously, though he didn’t actually understand any of it.

  “Yeah, well, the turn’s a brick, so I shove for value. I figure the guy could call with T-8, QT, maybe even JJ... but no. He flips over Ace-Jack off. I had him beat the whole time, but I still had to fade a king.”

  "What a *fish*!" said Caleb, proudly.

  "I mean, I was expecting to at least see top-top there."

  “Yeah, naturally... obviously. At least top-top," Caleb nodded.

  "Problem is, I've been pretty card dead and I'm in the mid-stack range nine spots from the money, which just kills action, so I'm only down to about an average stack size. Thirty five big blinds."

  "...and that's..."

  "Bad," said Angelina, kissing Caleb on the nose. "But I'm working on it. Thank you for pretending to know what I'm talking about. It's sweet. How are things going otherwise?"

  "Good. I got a break in the Renfield case from Dracu and--"

  Angelina quickly cleared her throat. Scott Lupescu was heading towards them from behind Caleb's shoulder. Poker shop talk was okay. Vampire shop talk, not so much.

  "Oh my god, that's Scott Lupescu!" said Angelina, instantly starstruck.

  Caleb turned around. It was the nice guy he met st night. He waved.

  "Caleb!" said Scott. "And this must be Angelina Nuit, I've heard a lot about you."

  "Oh my god. Caleb. Did you set this up?" asked Angelina in a hushed whisper. She quickly offered a handshake to her favorite pro.

  "Yes. Angelina. That's me. That's... oh my god, you've been my favorite poker pyer since... ever!" she said.

  Scott warmly smiled, absently fondling the pendant that never left his neck.

  "Yes, well, I've been keeping an eye on you. On both of you. Good luck in the tournament, though not too much luck -- I've got a horse in the tournament as well. Diane Sweet. She's at the next table over." Scott motioned to a young woman in a Blue Jays jersey, and waved.

  "Oh yeah," said Angelina. "I think we're the st two women in the tournament, actually."

  "Did I mention that Angelina is like, your biggest fan, Mr. Lupescu?" smiled Caleb.

  "Oh my god," muttered Angelina in embarrassment, and giggled.

  "You mentioned something like that," Scott said, nodding. "Say, Angelina, I know that Greg put you up for this tournament, but I'll admit that I'd want to... stake you in the future."

  "Yeah, she's really good," said Caleb. "I mean, Angelina, you're having fun, right?"

  She really was. She was beaming, in fact. "It's hard getting used to the ICM model from cash, but I think I'm holding my own. I have to admit, I was getting a little bored at the cash tables. This is really exciting."

  "High variance, tournaments," said Scott. "All it takes is one bad beat, and you're dead. But yeah, after the tournament, let's talk. Actually, Caleb, do you py at all?"

  "I used to," said Caleb, "But it was penny-ante stuff with friends at home games. I'm not -- what's the word you use, Angie? -- 'rolled' for even the 1/2. Times are tight."

  "Well, if you're looking for smaller stakes than the casinos offer, I know a few home games here in Vegas. Unraked, safe, good action. If you're looking to get back into the game, I could take you to the VIP lounge, we could talk it over. Won’t take but a moment -- you'll be back before py resumes."

  Caleb was intrigued. If he got good, he could spend more time with Angelina. He could be part of this world, too.

  "Oh, that sounds... yeah, that sounds great, Caleb!" said Angelina. "You should do it! Also, it gives me time to say hello to everyone. I think I just saw some of our friends walk in."

  Caleb smiled. His luck certainly was turning.

  "Sure, why not? Lead the way, Scott. I’m all ears."

  ***

  Caleb went with Scott into the elevator, and was surprised to find he pressed the elevator button for the 35th floor.

  "Hunh, I'd think the VIP lounge would be closer to the tables," said Caleb.

  "Well, yeah, but the tables are often close to the slot machines; and those slot machines make an awful racket."

  Caleb nodded. That made sense. Probably.

  "I know, right? Does every slot machine need a theme song and a dancing cartoon frog?" Caleb said. "And don’t get me started on those fifty-line things. What happened to just three reels, a lever, and a shot at the jackpot? I miss the old Wheel of Fortune ones."

  "Wow," Scott said. "Bit young to be nostalgic for 90s slot machines. What were you, a toddler sitting at the bckjack table with a juice box?"

  "Right," said Caleb, trying to recover. "I couldn't gamble, but my parents used to. They’d, uh, let me sit on their ps. Supervised, of course. Just watching. Not gambling. I was, like, a little, little kid."

  The elevator dinged, and Scott stepped out, smirking. "This way," he motioned, heading to a door beled "Roof Access."

  "Doesn't that go to the roof?"

  "Kind of," Scott said. "It's a speakeasy thing. Keeps out the riffraff. Vegas is full of little secrets like that -- if you know where to look." He gnced at Caleb. "I imagine you've got a few secrets yourself."

  "Yeah," he admitted, "a couple." Scott really seemed like a nice guy. Really trustworthy. Friendly almost to a fault. He really knew how to put people at ease. No wonder Angelina liked him.

  Caleb followed Scott up one more flight of stairs, where Scott held the door open. "C'mon, we have to walk a little bit on the roof to get to the VIP room."

  That tracked. Sort of. Lots of casinos had rooftop lounges. He'd been to the Voodoo Lounge at the Rio once, and--

  --and then he stepped outside. Onto the Venetian’s ft, deserted roof.

  Caleb stopped walking. The air felt too still. No neon glow, no bass thumping from a hidden nightclub. Just the cold expanse of rooftop.

  "...Huh." Caleb frowned, squinting at the eerie quiet. He took another step forward, but something didn’t feel right. He halted again, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence.

  "Strigoii s?-?i arate chipul," Scott said, his voice now cold. The sound of the roof door locking behind him echoed in the stillness.

  Caleb turned around. "There's that word again. 'Strigoi.' What does that mean, exactly?"

  "Oh, you don’t know?" Scott smirked. "It means ‘vampire.’ And I just said: Let the vampire show their true face."

  "...Oh." Caleb exhaled sharply, the realization smacking him in the face. His mind raced, spinning into overdrive. He couldn’t believe he had walked right into this.

  His frustration boiled over. “This is a trap, isn’t it?” he muttered, the words falling out of him before he could stop them.

  "I'd say a prayer if I were you," Scott said, stepping closer, his voice cutting through the air, "but I don’t think God takes your calls anymore."

  Caleb stepped back, heart pounding, but Scott kept closing in, steady and relentless. He drew a wooden stake from his belt and a dagger from behind his back. Caleb’s eyes flicked to them before darting back to Scott’s face.

  "But you seemed so nice," said Caleb.

  "It's called having a poker face," said Scott.

  "You know what, that-- that tracks," Caleb said, trying to back away, but his voice was a little thinner than before. Scott didn’t even seem to notice-- just kept following him step by step. Menacingly.

  Caleb kept his composure, but the tension in his chest was building. It’s just a roof, man. You can get out of here. His mind raced for an escape pn. Scott didn’t know what Caleb was capable of-- right? Right.

  But still… Caleb had to stall. He had to keep Scott talking. If he could get something out of him, maybe he could turn this around. Maybe even find a way to use it against Renfield.

  Maybe. Caleb wasn’t so sure of his own pn, but hey, it was better than no pn.

  "Ah, can't we talk this over?" Caleb said, fshing a grin he didn’t feel. "I mean, you clocked me, fair py. But hey, I’m like... the nice vampire. Like Angel. Or Count Chocu. You know, the fun, breakfast-cereal kind."

  "Please," Scott said, his tone cutting through the air. "How many people have you killed, Caleb? You’re not exactly the nice type. You’ve done terrible things. You’re just too busy pretending you haven’t to care."

  "Honestly, it's not as many as you'd think," Caleb shot back quickly, though his words felt hollow. "Although, actually, you might save more lives by helping me out. See, it’s a long story, but--"

  Scott cut him off. "It’s too bad you won’t have time to tell it!" he yelled, lunging at Caleb with the knife.

  Caleb dodged just in time, but the bde sliced through the air with a sharp whoosh, grazing the sleeve of his denim jacket. It was too close. Caleb’s heart raced, adrenaline flooding his veins.

  Alright, a roof. Cssic. Rookie mistake, really. I can just--

  Caleb took a running start, hopping once, twice -- he didn’t feel the rush of wind or the familiar sense of weightlessness. He should be flying. Why wasn’t he flying?

  He tried again, a little more desperately this time, but his body felt heavier. Slower. More... grounded.

  “What are you doing?” Scott asked, eyebrows raised, as Caleb gave another awkward hop.

  “I... uh…” Caleb floundered, his face flushing.

  "Oh my goodness. Are you trying to fly away?" Scott said, his voice dripping with mockery. “That’s hirious. Right. Stay still, and I can make this quick.”

  "Nope!" said Caleb, who took off at a run, occasionally hopping. Why wasn't it working? And why was he feeling so slow, and heavy, and lumbering and--

  Caleb cursed under his breath as he stumbled. It must be that damn amulet.

  Scott Lupescu -- that smug asshole -- actually had an anti-vampire doodad of some kind. Caleb’s stomach dropped. That was why he couldn’t fly. Why he felt like he was running through mosses.

  Goddamnit!

  AnnouncementThank you to GameKat on the Red Chip Poker discord for helping me with the poker terminology.