made life tolerable were the little luxuries I allowed myself under my new Council-approved personal budget.
I squeezed my little bottle of imported, hand-blended body wash, personally prescribed for my scent by the parfumeur in Paris I’d used for more than a century. It was sinfully expensive, but the scent reminded me of the deep, misty woods that had surrounded our home in the old country, one of the few pleasant associations I had with that godforsaken patch of dirt. Also, Jamie liked to follow the elusive traces of amber and floral notes until his nose was buried in the creases behind my neck, my knees, and any number of more interesting locations, so it was worth every penny. It was important for any woman to have a signature scent, but for a vampire, maintaining that air of mystery and allure was barely scratching the surface of essentials.
Unfortunately, when I squeezed the bottle, a watery, weak green substance splattered against my bath puff, leaving the faintest hint of scent. The normally thick, luxuriant foam was replaced by what could only technically be considered lather in that there was a bubble or two.
I hissed an irritated, unnecessary breath through elongating fangs.
Brianna.
My campus-assigned roommate, Brianna Carstairs, was a recently turned wannabe goth from West Virginia who called herself Galadriel Nightshade. She actually referred to herself as a “night childe,” in a totally unironic fashion.
Having been turned by her boyfriend in some sort of prom night pact gone tacky, Brianna was eighteen years old, with all of the entitlement you’d expect of someone who called growing up in a gated community outside a place called Shepherdstown her “living hell.” In addition to her deplorably messy feeding habits and a tendency to lose any object she was not currently holding and then accusing me of stealing it, Brianna also helped herself to anything on my side of the room. Whether it was my Fang-Brite toothpaste or my vintage Chanel purse, if she felt she needed it more than I did, she took it. I once laid out an outfit on my bed to wear to my evening classes, only to turn around and find her wearing it!
And now she’d used most of my hideously expensive imported body wash and thinned it out with water, hoping I wouldn’t notice. Like I was some insipid suburban parent too stupid to keep track of the levels in her vodka bottle. This time, she’d gone too far.
I rinsed off the thin bubbles and slapped my fuzzy pink robe around my damp body. My superhuman grip twisted the metal shower stall handle into a useless coil as I burst out of the tiny cubicle. As angry and righteous as any conquering queen, I strode down the hallway, terry cloth clutched at the neck. I would have my revenge. I would grind fiberglass into dust and sprinkle it into her sheets. I would inject colloidal silver into her blood supply so she would flail helplessly as her esophagus melted. I would tie her to a chair and make her watch Highlander 2: The Quickening on a constant loop with her eyes taped open.
When Jane Jameson-Nightengale had insisted on sending me to the college for my rehabilitation, I’d begged the Council’s upper echelons to let me live in off-campus housing. There were any number of lovely, vampire-friendly apartment buildings near campus. But no, I’d been informed that learning to live in harmony with humans in less luxurious circumstances would encourage personal growth. And I’d been denied a private room, because the Council (Jane) thought that sharing a nine-by-nine cell with another person would be yet another opportunity to build my character.
I had enough damned character. What I didn’t have was my body wash.
I threw open the bathroom door, face in full snarl. Several of the girls from my floor, female vampires ranging from eighteen to one hundred and eighty, were scattered around the hall, chatting happily, discussing assignments or even the upcoming Wildcats basketball season. But when they saw the furious expression on my face, they all stopped talking and ducked into their rooms, like a herd of antelope scattering when they sensed a lion coming near. Doors clicked shut. Whispers echoed through cheap pressboard. Good. It was nice to know I hadn’t completely lost my touch.
I turned the corner toward room 617 and nearly mowed down a tall masculine body, a tall masculine body that happened to smell very familiar: fresh-cut grass and leather.
Jamie.
I relaxed against him. Sweet, affable Jamie Lanier,