Chapter 1

Charlotte Sanguinite POV:

"Sorry, sorry!" I pushed my way past the customers already lining up in front of the counter to get their coffee. I missed the bus! "I'll be with you in a minute, Jazz! I didn't wait for my colleague's response, rushing into the back room and throwing open my locker. I stuff everything inside, running my fingers through my long, red curls before tying them up in a tight bun. I'm already aware of the prominent bags under my forest green eyes. No amount of ice or cold spoons has been able to get rid of them.

Fortunately, I was smart enough to put on my uniform before leaving home. Vampires can move fast, but while I'm of that species, aside from the blood I have to drink regularly to survive, I don't have any of their special attributes. Which is why running all the way from my apartment to the small coffee shop on Northeast 4th Avenue has me out of breath. I wheeze a bit before hurrying back out front. Jazz, with her pink hair and bold silver eyeshadow, has the customers eyeing her with blatant interest.

"Three lattes and two espressos, Charlotte," Jazz says, her voice throaty. I notice the red marks around her neck and press my lips together, trying to rein in my curiosity about what she and her boyfriend, Marcus, were up to last night. Jazz and Marcus have a similar style of dressing: outrageously bold hairstyles, dark leather clothes, and more often than not, spiked chokers around their necks. The only reason Jazz works here is that her father recently bought this café. That's not to say that Jazz isn't a hard worker or a nice person. She looks intimidating, but she's a sweetheart.

"Gotcha." I tied the apron around my waist before calling out, "Sorry, folks. My bad. "I'll have your coffee with you in a jiffy!" "Did you work late last night?" Jazz asks, handing me another slip and bagging a muffin. I yawn as I froth some milk in a jug. "Yeah. I was making the dough, so Gina could get a head start on the croissants. Got home around two."

"Did you log your hours?"

"Yup," I grin. "Need the overtime."

"You also need sleep." Jazz gave me a sharp look as I handed her two of the lattes. "You look like death warmed over."

"You have such a way with words, Jazz." I rolled my eyes at her. "New customer. Look out."

She gets back to taking orders and filling up the cash register while I keep preparing the early morning caffeine drinks that nearly the entire street drops by to purchase. Having a coffee shop located in such a busy business district of Portland has its advantages. I always wondered why the previous owner sold off this place. But Jazz's father, with his magic business touch, has brought new life to it. A wooden ambiance that provides a romantic setting in the evenings and a comfortable workplace for freelancers in the mornings has brought a lot of customers here. Which means the tips are hefty.

It takes us more than an hour to get through the majority of the morning rush. At the end of it, Jazz stretches her arms over her head. "Man, I hate the morning shift."

"Why did you get assigned to the morning again?" I asked her as I prepared a vanilla frappé for her. I'm already munching on a muffin.

Jazz rounds the counter and sits down in one of the booths, stretching her legs over the seat. Dad caught me sneaking out with Marcus for a concert.

His plan is to work me to death, I guess.

I glanced at her wrist. "From the look of it, you still managed to sneak out again last night."

She smirks and tries to rub away the stamp mark from the club she must have visited. "Marcus had his band playing there. I swear, if it weren't for the trust fund, I would have moved out the minute I turned eighteen, two months ago."

"Sure," I scoffed. And leave your old father alone in that mansion of his?

With no one to look after him? I doubt it."

"I could do it!" Jazz tries to sound convincing, and I laugh, handing her the drink.

"Jazz, you love your dad. You're not going anywhere. He's just worried about you. You know that."

The teenager sips her drink. "Marcus understands me. I don't know why that's so hard for Dad to get."

"I wish I could help you in that department," I murmured as I looked out the shop window, "but my father didn't care what I did."

"He threw you out, didn't he?" Jazz gives me a curious look. "Sorry, I heard Grace talking about it."

I shrugged, warming my hands by wrapping them around the hot cup of coffee I'd made for myself. Yeah. When I was fourteen, eight years ago, I guess.

You're lucky to have a father who cares about you, Jazz. I always say people should count their blessings.

Jazz is quiet, her expression pensive.

I rarely talk about my past. I try not to think about my family or my clan. I don't help that the compound where my clan lives is on the edge of Portland. At times, I've considered moving away, but I guess I don't have those kinds of guts.

I see a man crossing the road, and my eyes widen fractionally. "Uh, oh, it's that guy. I'm going into the back."

"What guy?" Jazz straightens up and peers around the booth. When she sees him, the corner of her mouth tightens. "Really, Charlotte. What do you have against him? It's not his fault his face is scarred."

"It's not the scar," I say, starting to stand up. "I just don't want to talk to him."

Just then, a ringtone blares in the café, and Jazz reaches for her pocket. She blinked at the name on the screen before giving me an apologetic look. "Sorry, it's my thesis supervisor. "I have got to take this." I watched her reach for her backpack and take out her laptop. "I'm going to need the back office." Great. I really didn't want to have to face this particular customer. Body tense, I slid through the gap to get behind the counter. The door opens, and an older man walks in. If it weren't for the terrible scarring on the left side of his face, he could almost be called handsome. His nose is a little crooked and his eyes a deep, cerulean blue. His dark brown hair is carefully styled, and he's wearing a gray suit that is covered by a long overcoat, a staple for the chilly autumn weather we're experiencing. I would put him in his mid to late thirties. But it's not his scar or his age that bothers me. Nor is he a rude person. What bothers me is what he is. A wolf shifter. Wolf shifters have always had a barely cordial relationship with vampires. But a couple of years ago, my father and my older brother, Clyde, got caught selling a drug to the shifters that had negative repercussions on the latter. The shifters were in cahoots with two Alphas, and at the end of it all, Clyde paid with his life. Ever since, Beruth Sanguinite, my father and the leader of the Nelo Clan, has not given up on his purpose: to drive out the wolf shifters altogether. Clashes have become more commonplace between shifters and vampires, and I try to stay away from a lot of them. The scarred man approaching me was an Alpha, a prominent one. Alphas have a harsher energy about them. Vampires don't have a very keen sense of smell, but we can read energies. This man has a blazing form, and it's intimidating. Ever since I joined this coffee shop, he's been coming in daily, and I've been avoiding him. He must know of my existence, obviously, since wolf shifters can pick up even the slightest of scents, but he's never said anything, and he hasn't stopped coming here.

Nervous, I waited for him to approach me, a small knife in my hand under the counter. I know a knife isn't a sufficient weapon if he decides to reach over and rip my throat out. I don't even have the fast reflexes my kind typically has; I'm a defective vampire up against an Alpha.

Anxiety fills me as he gets closer.

"What can I get you, sir?" The words tumble out of me so fast that they're almost unintelligible.

He blinks at me, and I see him take a discreet sniff of the air.

My heart nearly crawls into my mouth at the sight.

"I—We have—We have a special of the day, th—the Halloween Pumpkin Frappé."

My hand is gripping the knife so tightly, the blade slices my skin.

The scent of my blood is thick in the air now, and the Alpha studies me, frowning. I'm going to hyperventilate. I know I am.

This is not how I planned on dying. I still have my laundry hanging outside on the balcony. Who's going to bring it in if I'm dead?

The thought is so utterly ridiculous that I blink, finding some sanity in the chaos building in my mind.