Condemned

2 | Jael

Finally, there's a thump on the roof. It's about goddamn time!

Yes, Ivy is late . . . again.

She knows my shift starts at two—and that's AM not PM—and is well aware of the penalties I'll endure if I'm late. I've learned not to wait for her or rely on her, but I can't exactly leave Sam here alone with that piece of shit still out there.

Ivy told me she'd take over—she has "spells" to work on downstairs anyway—and no one messes with Ivy. She also said, hours ago, that she wanted to "spend some time with me," but, looking at my smartwatch, I'll only get about five minutes. And she'll insist that I bring her up to date.

Priorities...

Ivy swings through the window I left open for her, the screen long gone. She brings the rain and mist into my humble abode. She doesn't believe in doors. With a broomstick being her favorite mode of transportation, she doesn't walk or drive much, either.

She's never seen. Never heard. Unless she chooses to be, like when she lands on the roof of this place to announce her arrival.

"I can't believe we actually got one." She lowers her hood. Her long black ringlets cascade down her back, seemingly untouched by either the wind or rain. "Our first victim." She says that with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, a demure smirk on her red lips, and her thin eyebrow peaked.

I pocket my hands and shrug, an uneasy feeling snaking through my gut. "Someone would eventually be desperate enough." Then I take a gulp, almost afraid to ask. "What's this about anyway? You never really explained."

Her eyes dart to something on my work shirt. It wasn't more than a crumb, but she takes a moment to dust it off. "I need a human virgin to make a potion."

That deserves a chuckle. "You really think you're going to find one of those on Craigslist?"

Good luck with that.

Sam is timid and young, and judging by the hoodie—big enough for her to swim in—she isn't the promiscuous type. She's a cheerleader, though. A good one.

Thank you, YouTube. Getting a glimpse of her craft was halfway uplifting.

She's the kind of cheerleader you would put at the front, center, and top for all the reasons you would suspect. And, unsurprisingly, when I was skimming football stats and bios, I found her prick of a boyfriend—Ted Moeller, lucky number 13.

Should I say ex-boyfriend?

Hard to say. Once these girls get the I'm-broken-and-sorry-and-it'll-never-happen-again speech, they tend to take these juiced-up bastards back. Or another one takes their place, the bed practically still warm and damp from the last asshole.

Well, whatever this dude is or was to Sam, he's violent and crazy. If this monster wasn't summoned by sex in some way or form, then I'm out of guesses already. What else could she have done? Or not done?

Oh, shit. Maybe she is someone who would still qualify.

Ivy, not moved or amused by my Craigslist comment, opens my closet. After sifting through the few button-up shirts that I own, she picks out the shiny black one that she gave me and hands it over.

"You don't like the one I'm wearing?"

She shoots me a glare and then starts unbuttoning my shirt for me.

"All right. Once you have your virgin, then what?" I ask, taking off the flannel and draping it over the foot of the bed. When fur is not an option—and it isn't always, depending on where I'm stationed—it's my favorite work shirt at this time of year. It's the warmest and most comfortable.