Nora Walker, a psychic vampire, is conscripted into a task-force of supernatural legends that care more for themselves than the cataclysmic threat they face...
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There was nothing more wholesome than drunk girls in a nightclub bathroom. Hair ties were passed around as freely as compliments, while santiser was whipped out from handbags to accommodate for the lack of soap in the dispensers. There was no shortage of shoulders to cry on, selfies to be taken, makeup and body sprays to be shared. It was enough to restore one's faith in humanity.
It made me want to crack my skull on the edge of the sink.
A woman burst from the stall behind me, pulling the glittery fabric of her dress down her thigh. "Your eyeliner is gorgeous!" she exclaimed, staggering to the sinks in four-inch heels. "How long did it take you to do it?"
I met her eyes briefly in the mirror, offering a thin-lipped smile. "A couple of minutes," I said, searching her face for a hint of jealousy or insecurity. I'd been practicing for years, and most girls got frustrated when they realised how much longer it took them to achieve the same results.
But all that registered on her face was wonder and pride. "Slay queen!" she crowed, fumbling with the handle for the tap. A tiny line formed between her carefully plucked brows as she tried to turn it, hands slipping on the steel. She was too inebriated to grip it properly.
The brunette by the hand-dryer noticed her predicament. "Here," she said, reaching over to turn it on. "I used this one before, it sticks a little."
And thus began the age-old conversation about how much they liked each other's outfits - and how dumb their exes were for dumping them. Where did you get your shoes from? I love your curls so much! You're going to make him so jealous...
I sighed, shaking my hands dry in the sink. I'd come here hoping to find someone miserably drunk, puking up their guts in the toilet, but it seemed I was out of luck. A shame, I thought, shaking my head. There was nothing quite like the despair of someone riding a wave of nausea they couldn't escape. And the undercurrent of regret and self-loathing they felt, for putting themselves in that position in the first place...
My eyes narrowed on the heart-shaped face in the mirror. I'd been sweating too much; my foundation was starting to run thin, the freckles dusting my cheekbones peeking through. Rifling through my handbag, I pulled out my go-to pencils and powders, deciding to touch up my brows while I was at it. I'd gone to great lengths to disguise the true colour of my hair, readying the roots whenever the ginger started to show again, but I was too nervous to permanently dye my eyebrows. What if I left it in too long and burned through all the hair, leaving nothing but rashy skin behind? Or worse, the dye sank into my skin and stained it for weeks? My stomach clenched just thinking about it.
"I wish I had freckles," the hand-dryer lady sighed. "Why would you cover them up? They're so pretty!"
I stiffened, the foundation sponge stopping just shy of my cheek. "They remind me of someone I'd rather forget," I said curtly. Really, it was none of their business.
