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“Already contacted my graphic designer.”

Tess was always on top of things. You wouldn’t think that someone who partied and dated as much as she did would be able to run a whole empire, but she did. Without missing a step. In stilettos.

An icon, really.

An inspiration.

If she could get over her ex leaving her for the Prince of Darkness himself, while launching a massively successful podcast, securing a book deal, and landing insane brand deals in the process, then I could get over selfish Brad, deal with a little rejection, and outline my next book.

But after handing Tess her heating pad, getting myself a slice of banana bread, and sitting down with my notebook, I stared at the blank page… with freaking Silas’s voice and words in my mind.

And a spark of an idea formed.

CHAPTER FOUR

[ “PHILOSOPHY IS JUST vampirism for ideas, bro.”

— Bloods and Spuds- Episode 35]

Silas

“Yo, dude!” a slow, drawling voice called as I approached the radio station.

There, leaning against the wall amidst a cloud of rank-smelling smoke was one of the two hosts of that loathsome podcast that involved getting high and trying to analyze and extrapolate on both human and paranormal philosophies.

The one and only episode I’d ever tuned into had devolved into hiccuping laughter and sheer idiocy.

Idiocy, it seemed, was popular these days. Bloods and Spuds was the tenth most popular paranormal podcast on the West Coast. Which only seemed to be evidentiary support of my belief that the intelligence levels of humans and supernaturals alike were on a steep decline.

“I don’t have time for your imbecilic podcast.”

“Yoooo. He totally talks fancy like that IRL, man,” the one with the long brown hair said to the one with the long blond hair.

“And you ‘totally’ say ‘IRL’ in real life.”

“Dude, you gotta try to keep up with the times. Just because we live forever doesn’t mean we gotta get trapped in the time we were turned.”

“I refuse to allow internet shorthand to become part of my personal lexicon.”

“No, man, yeah, I get it. Like I totally heard someone say ‘unalived’ in a normal conversation the other day,” the blond guy said, nodding slowly. “Like, I get it that the censors don’t let us use certain words online. But real life ain’t online. No one’s gonna shut your shit down if you say ‘murdered’.”

“Precisely. If you’ll excuse me, I’m on in ten minutes.”

“We just need two of them to convince you to be on our show, man,” the dark-haired one said. I should probably learn their names. They’d introduced themselves at least three times already. The names just refused to stick.

“As I’ve said before, I’m not going to be featured on your… podcast.”

“It would help your reach, man.”

“Doubtful,” I said, yanking the doors open and moving inside. They wouldn’t follow me. They were banned from smoking inside, and the blond had just lit another of those noxious joints. I’d had enough of that scent from my regrettable visit to that damn three-day musical sex-fest called Woodstock in the sixties. I’d been trying to get a feel for the culture. But I’d left after the first night, deciding that the real counter-culture story was likely still in San Francisco, not on some dairy farm in rural New York.

The troll on the folding chair glanced up over the top of his book with a topless man and a heavy-breasted woman, the paperback looking comically small in his massive hands.

What was his name again?

Grim?

Glam?