The Great Vampire Vanishing Act

The Great Vampire Vanishing Act

The Alpha strides through our front door like he owns the place, which, in pack hierarchy terms, he basically does. Twenty armed werewolves follow him in a formation that suggests they're expecting to find either a supernatural war zone or at least evidence of recent vampire activity.

I hold my breath as we cross the threshold, bracing myself for the moment when the Alpha's enhanced senses pick up the lingering scent of six vampires who were literally sitting in our living room eating cookies fifteen minutes ago.

Any second now, he's going to smell them. Any second now, he's going to realize that his Beta has been harboring enemies in his own home. Any second now, we're all going to die horrible, traitorous deaths.

Any second now.

The Alpha stops in the middle of our living room, his massive frame taking up approximately half the available space, and takes a deep, deliberate breath through his nose.

I wait for the explosion. For the accusations. For the inevitable death sentence that comes with being caught red-handed with vampire contraband.

Instead, Alpha Thorn looks... confused.

He takes another breath, deeper this time, his brow furrowing like he's trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle with his nostrils.

Then another breath.

And another.

Around him, the other pack members are doing the same thing, their heads tilted like confused golden retrievers trying to figure out why the promised vampire scent isn't materializing.

"Interesting," the Alpha murmurs, which is not the word I was expecting to hear in this situation.

I glance around our living room, expecting to see... well, something. Evidence of recent vampire occupation. Maybe a lingering coffee cup or cookie crumb. At the very least, some indication that six supernatural creatures were just having a family meeting on our furniture.

Nothing.

Not just no vampires. No trace that vampires were ever here. The coffee table is clear except for our usual clutter—Mom's magazines, Dad's reading glasses, Amy's collection of sparkly hair ties that she leaves everywhere like glittery breadcrumbs.

The cookies are gone. The thermos is gone. Even the delicate teacup that Evelyn was sipping from has vanished like it never existed.

More importantly, there's no scent.

I mean, I can't smell vampire scent because I'm apparently supernatural-nose-blind when it comes to my mate and his family, but judging by the increasingly confused expressions on everyone else's faces, there's literally no trace of vampire presence in our living room.

Which is impossible.

Vampires don't just vanish without leaving any evidence behind. They're supernatural creatures, not magicians. And six vampires spending twenty minutes in a small space should leave a scent trail that lingers for hours, maybe days.

But somehow, our living room smells like... our living room. Pine cleaner and Dad's coffee and that weird vanilla candle Mom insists on burning even though it gives everyone headaches.

No vampire scent whatsoever.

The Alpha takes one more deep breath, then turns to stare at my father with an expression that suggests he's not sure whether to be disappointed or suspicious.

"Beta Claw," he says formally, using Dad's official title instead of his first name, which is never a good sign in pack politics.

"Alpha Thorn," Dad responds, his head still bowed in submission but his voice steady.

"I received a report," the Alpha continues, his voice carrying the kind of authority that makes furniture nervous, "that vampires were seen entering this house."

"Vampires?" Dad's voice climbs about half an octave, and he does a pretty decent job of sounding shocked instead of guilty. "In our house?"

"According to my source, yes."

"Your source?" Mom pipes up from her position next to the staircase, where she's still maintaining proper submissive posture despite the fact that someone just accused her family of treason. "Who would make such an accusation?"

The Alpha gestures toward the front door, and one of the pack members—a weaselly-looking man with thinning hair and the kind of mustache that suggests he makes poor life choices—steps forward with the expression of someone who's about to deliver news he's very excited about.

Mr. Jingles.

Of course it's Mr. Jingles.

Mr. Jingles, who lives next door and has been trying to undermine my father's position as Beta for the past ten years. Mr. Jingles, who complains to the homeowners association about our lawn maintenance and reports us to the pack council every time our music is too loud after 9 PM. Mr. Jingles, who would probably sell his own grandmother to organ dealers if it meant getting Dad's job.

I hate Mr. Jingles with the burning fury of a thousand suns.

"Alpha," Mr. Jingles says, his voice dripping with fake concern and real smugness, "I saw them with my own eyes. Five vampires, maybe six, walking right up to the front door like they owned the place."

"Five or six?" the Alpha asks. "Which is it, Jingles?"

"Six," Mr. Jingles says decisively. "Definitely six. Pale as death, dressed in black, moving like... like predators."

I have to give him credit for accuracy, even though I want to strangle him with my bare hands.

"And they entered the house?" the Alpha presses.

"Through the front door," Mr. Jingles confirms, practically vibrating with excitement. "Bold as you please. Like they were invited."

The implication hangs in the air like a accusation written in neon letters.

"Invited," the Alpha repeats slowly, his gaze shifting to my father. "By whom?"

"I have no idea what Mr. Jingles thinks he saw," Dad says carefully, "but I can assure you that no vampires have been invited into this house."