Sneak peek and update!

Hello my lovelies!

As promised, I'm going to share a sneak peek of my new novel draft!

But first, a quick update. Thank you to everyone who has ordered Awakening the Wild Witch. I'm so happy to have this book out in the world! If you've ordered from my website, your book will be on the way.

I'm also setting up bundles of my Myrtlewood Mysteries on the website which will be available on sale! Stay tuned for these if you're interested in collecting the paperbacks, hardback or the deluxe hardbacks with the gold foil, decorated edges and book mark ribbon!!! These are printed in the UK so shipping costs can be high, but I'm hoping that with the bundle discounts they will be more palatable!

Once I've finished sorting out all these upgrades for my website and special editions (yes, the Crones books are getting foil covers too!) I will be back to writing novels again. I've got the second Kotahi Bay to work on, the 6th Crones book to write, and some more ideas to percolate towards the 10th Myrtewood Mysteries book which I hope to start in the next year.

Yes, I know that's a lot of projects. I like having a lot of projects but only do the focussed writing or editing of one at a time. I know many of you are waiting for more Rosemary and Athena, but I don't want to rush them. The last thing I want with a long series is to feel like I'm writing out of pressure rather than inspiration. Inspiration, I find, comes in it's own time, not bound by earthly schedules!

Now for news of my new project

When I first began the Crones series and Gillian emerged as a side character, I knew she had a story to tell, right from the beginning. I've been thinking about this one for a couple of years already, and it was fun to dive in and begin writing!

This new book is set in the same world as the Myrtlewood Mysteries and the Crones - in fact, it's Gillian's story. If you've read the Myrtlewood Crones you'll probably recall how Delia's daughter, Gillian, has been acting very strangely, and if you've read the 5th book in that series you'll know why! Well, Gillian's story has been a lot of fun to write so far. I'm not sure exactly when it will be ready for publication, but I do have a first draft.

It's written in a slightly different style from most of my other books, in first person, from Gillian's perspective. I wanted to go for a Bridget Jones meets Buffy vibe! I hope it works for you.

Please let me know what you think!

Blessed be

Iris xx

Gillian's story

CHAPTER ONE

Bloody freezing this morning. London winter has no mercy, especially not for someone who overslept after hitting snooze four times. Story of my life lately.

Standing in kitchen, making packed lunches while shouting upstairs. "MERRYN! COAT! NOW!" Why does my voice turn into Mother's when stressed? Mental note: work on calm, empowered tone as suggested by self-help podcast I fell asleep to last night.

Emma, my perfect seven-year-old neighbour, walks past window with her equally perfect mother. Both immaculately dressed with matching scarves. Emma clutching science project that probably explains climate change to world leaders. Her mother catches my eye. Waves. I wave back with jam knife, accidentally flicking glob onto window. Fantastic.

"We're going to be late again," Merryn informs me as she finally appears, coat unbuttoned, radiating seven-year-old disappointment in my parenting abilities.

"We're not late until we're actually late," I mumble, filling travel mugs with coffee that's too hot to drink but absolutely necessary for survival. My hair is doing that special thing where it looks both flat and frizzy simultaneously.

Keyne slides into the kitchen in his socks, a five-year-old tornado of energy despite the ungodly hour. "Mummy, can elephants catch colds?"

"What? I—" The toast pops. The coffee I’m pouring overflows. A lunch box falls to the floor, spraying grapes everywhere. "Shoes, Keyne. Focus."

Ten minutes, one minor mitten crisis, and a last-minute toilet emergency later, we're finally in the car. The heater's blasting but still not touching the chill. My brain is a fog of school projects due, groceries needed, and work deadlines looming.

As we inch through London traffic, the forecast promised "wintry showers," that delightful British euphemism for "miserable precipitation that can't decide if it's rain, sleet, or emotional tears from the sky."

I absently glance at the date on the dashboard.

December 5th.

Wait.

My heart does a sudden flip, then starts racing.

"Oh my gosh," I whisper, causing Merryn to look up from her book.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I say, a smile spreading across my face. "Actually, something's very right."

"What?" Keyne pipes up from the back seat.

"Today's just... special. I forgot it was today."

I catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror – my unruly hair and tired eyes suddenly seem less tragic. There's a glimmer I haven't seen in quite some time.

As we creep forward in traffic, I notice a billboard advertising "NEW BEGINNINGS START HERE" for a furniture sale. A shop window declaring "FRESH START" for January gym memberships. The universe is being rather heavy-handed with symbolism today.

I should remember to text Tilly. She'll be outraged I nearly forgot our celebratory drinks tonight. She's been counting down to this day with more enthusiasm than I have, marking off calendar days like we're awaiting parole.

We arrive at the school gates where Mrs. Harrington stands like a Victorian headmistress, clipboard in hand.

"Bye, my loves," I say, leaning over to kiss them both. Keyne accepts graciously while Merryn wipes her cheek dramatically afterward.

Merryn's lunchbox chooses this moment to pop open, spilling apple slices across the pavement. Keyne announces loudly that his socks don't match, as if this is breaking news rather than his daily state of existence.

Mrs. Harrington approaches, steam rising from her coffee cup like dragon's breath in the cold air.

"Running a bit behind schedule today, Gillian?"

"London traffic," I reply with what I hope is a winning smile. "Absolute nightmare."

She doesn't smile back. Instead, she makes a note on her clipboard, which is definitely not recording my wit and charm.

As I drive away toward the office, I feel a strange tingling sensation. Like the world has shifted slightly. Like something is watching me. Probably just anticipation. Or possibly the three cups of coffee I downed in lieu of breakfast.

I glance at my watch. Need to be at the solicitor's by two. Need to pick up cake for tonight. Need to remember this feeling – this precise moment when everything is about to change but hasn't quite yet.

***

I arrive at the office seventeen minutes late, which by Monday school run standards is practically early. The lift goes straight to my floor without stopping—convenient for normal people, terrifying for those carrying precarious coffee cups while attempting to apply lipstick.

The doors slide open and I step forward confidently, colliding with Martin from IT. My coffee performs an elegant arc through the air before splattering across my cream blouse in a Jackson Pollock-inspired disaster.

"Oh blast, I'm so sorry!" Martin stammers, frantically offering me a handful of tissues that appear to have been in his pocket since the last millennium.

"It's fine," I lie, dabbing uselessly at what is clearly a permanent addition to my wardrobe. "Gives it character."

Martin hovers awkwardly. "I could get some soda water from the kitchen?"

"No need," I say, waving him away. "Brown is the new cream. Very on-trend."

I make a beeline for the ladies', where I attempt emergency blouse surgery with paper towels and hand soap. The result is a damp, slightly less coffee-coloured patch that now looks disturbingly like a map of Australia.

Standing at the mirror, I try to salvage what remains of my dignity. Hair—restyled into what I'm calling an "intentionally tousled look." Makeup—enhanced with a strategic second layer of mascara to distract from everything else. Blouse—now artfully tucked into my skirt in a way that mostly hides Australia.

Somewhat restored, I head to my desk, dropping my bag just as Tilly spots me and makes a beeline across the office floor.

"You're here!" she stage-whispers, in a voice that could probably be heard in Glasgow. "Today's the day!" Her eyes are practically sparkling with vicarious excitement.

"Shhh," I hiss, glancing around nervously. "Yes, two o'clock at the solicitor's. But let's not broadcast it to the entire fourth floor, shall we?"

Too late. Tilly's already perched on the edge of my desk, legs swinging like an overeager schoolgirl. "Six hundred and twelve days of legal faffing about, and finally—FREEDOM!" She does a little shimmy that sends my stapler dangerously close to the edge.

"Tilly," I plead, "could we perhaps not—"

"Oh come on, Gill! It's huge! By three o'clock today, you'll officially be free again. No more sharing a surname with the world's most self-important—"

"Is there a reason Accounts is holding court at your desk, Gillian?"

Neville's voice cuts through our conversation like a frozen knife. My soon-to-be-ex-husband and unfortunately-still-current boss stands behind us, arms folded, expression suggesting he's just discovered something unpleasant on his overpriced leather shoes.

"Just discussing the Henderson account," I lie, my voice impressively steady.

"The Henderson account?" Neville raises an eyebrow with practiced condescension.

Tilly slides off my desk with surprising grace. "Just catching up on filing procedures," she offers. "Retention policies. Very dull stuff. I'll get back to my spreadsheets now." She gives me a tiny thumbs-up behind Neville's back before scurrying away.

"The Morrison presentation needs to be completely redone," Neville says, dropping a folder onto my desk with unnecessary force. "They didn't like the approach."

Translation: Neville didn't like the approach but is blaming the client.

"The approach you specifically requested?" I ask, instantly regretting the words.

His jaw tightens. "The approach that clearly isn't working. Fix it by Thursday."

"The presentation is tomorrow at nine."

"Then I suggest you work quickly." He turns to leave, then pauses. "And Gillian? You've got something on your blouse."

As he walks away, I resist the overwhelming urge to throw my half empty coffee cup at the back of his perfectly coiffed head. Six hours. Just six more hours until I'm legally free of him, even if I'm still professionally shackled.

I've applied to fourteen jobs in the last month alone. Fourteen variations of "dynamic team player with exceptional communication skills seeking new opportunity." The problem is all the decent firms for my skillset are either in Central London (impossible for school runs) or not hiring (recession, budget cuts, the usual). But something will come up. It has to.

Two o'clock can't come fast enough.

My phone buzzes with a text from Tilly: "HE'S SUCH A TOOL. Drinks still on for tonight? Bringing party hats."

I smile despite everything and type back: "Absolutely. No party hats. One drink only."

We both know that last part is a lie.

11:18 PM. Tequila consumed: 4 (possibly 5?). Dignity remaining: minimal. Current marital status: gloriously divorced.

After-work drinks had never felt so deliciously improper. I raised my margarita glass for what must have been the fifth toast of the night, somehow managing to poke myself in the eye with the cocktail umbrella. Freedom tastes like tequila, poor decisions, and mild ocular trauma.

"To the death of Gillian Bennett and the rebirth of Gillian Spark!" I declared, salt rim catching on my fingertip as I brushed a strand of hair from my face. Thirteen years of calculated movements and careful words dissolving with each sip.

"This is going to be a day to remember," Tilly practically shouted, clinking her glass against mine with enough force to make the bartender wince. Tequila sloshed onto the already sticky bar top. "I can't believe you finally did it. You're finally free of the Beast."

I smiled at my best work friend, watching the neon bar lights reflect in Tilly's dark eyes. Ten years we'd worked together at the firm. Ten years of hushed conversations by the coffee machine, of Tilly witnessing the slow demolition of my self-worth. Ten years of "Have you seen what Neville's done to the Henderson account?" and "Did you notice Neville took credit for your work again in the meeting?"

"I've never felt so terrified and excited at the same time," I admitted, the words sticking in my throat like peanut butter. "Like standing at the edge of a cliff with a really lovely view."

The freedom felt almost as daunting as the thought of staying one more minute in that relationship. After ten years, I'd developed a Neville-radar that anticipated his reactions before I'd even finished forming a thought.

9:47 PM. Glasses consumed: lost count. Self-reflection: dangerously honest.

"To Neville Bennett," Tilly announced to the entire bar, swaying dangerously on her stool, "the world's biggest wanker, who never deserved my friend!"

The bartender shot us a look; we'd clearly crossed the line from "respectable working women having a civilized drink" to "potential problem customers who might start a revolution."

"And to my mother's maiden name," I added, "which I am proudly reclaiming as we speak. Goodbye, Bennett; hello, Gillian Spark."

"Does this mean you're officially... re-Sparked?" Tilly asked, then dissolved into hysterical laughter at her own joke.

I drained my glass, welcoming the burn of tequila. How many nights had I sat at our dining table, reviewing spreadsheets while Neville critiqued my work, my appearance, my very existence? How many mornings had I applied concealer to the dark circles under my eyes, practiced my smile in the mirror, and walked into the office to face him across the conference table?

"You know what the worst part is?" I asked, attempting to signal the bartender for another round but somehow just waving at a confused man by the jukebox. "I still have to see him every day at work."

Tilly's eyes widened. "You're not quitting?"

"Can't afford to." I shrugged, the weight of my financial reality dropping onto my shoulders like a wet duvet. "School fees, mortgage, the small fortune I spend on concealer to hide evidence of my general life despair..."

"You're braver than me," Tilly said, patting my hand and missing twice before making contact. "I would've just burned the whole place down and collected the insurance."

"I did consider arson," I said thoughtfully. "He’s not worth the risk.”

11:32 PM. Poor life choices imminent: several.

Three more rounds later, I finally checked my watch. "It's after eleven. I should go." My speech was only slightly slurred, which I considered a remarkable achievement given that the room had started rotating gently to the left.

"Stay at mine," Tilly offered, her words considerably more garbled than mine. "Dan's away on business. We can drink more and make a voodoo doll of Neville."

But I shook my head, immediately regretting the sudden movement. "The babysitter will be expecting me." And charging me her special "it's-nearly-midnight-you-disaster" rate.

It wasn't until I left the bar that the terror really set in, compounded by the tap of footsteps behind me in the dark side street. The streetlights were spaced too far apart, creating pools of darkness between each halo of yellow light. I quickened my pace, my heels clicking loudly on the pavement like a metronome of panic.

The footsteps behind me accelerated.

Bloody hell. Of all the nights to be followed down a dark alley, it had to be tonight. Couldn't the universe let me enjoy one single day of freedom before throwing another crisis my way?

I fumbled for my phone, dropping my purse in the process. As I bent to retrieve it, a shadow fell across me.

Mental note for future reference: dark alleys after tequila are never a good idea. Second mental note: really must sign up for self-defence classes.

Before I knew it, everything went black.

The scent of incense. Blood. Chanting.

Waves of cold water flowing over me.

Time unknown. Location: own bed (unexpected). Hangover status: bizarre. Head: spinning literally, not figuratively.

I groaned and opened my eyes. I was in my own bed, but everything was upside down. The ceiling seemed to be below me, the floor above. My head pounded with each heartbeat. This was such an odd hangover. No pain in my head or dryness in my mouth. Only a peaceful calm and masses of confusion.

I closed my eyes again, trying to remember how I'd gotten home. The last thing I recalled was bending down for my purse, and then... nothing. Had I been mugged? Drugged? Had I accidentally joined a cult again? (University was a complicated time.)

I rose from the bed and was startled by how fluid the movement felt. No aching joints, no morning stiffness—none of the perpetual fatigue that had become my constant companion. I glided through the house, wondering if I was still dreaming. The familiar hallway of my suburban home looked different somehow—colours more vibrant, edges sharper. I could see individual flecks of dust in the air where shafts of moonlight cut through the darkness.

Moonlight. It was still night. Not morning.

Wait. How did I get home? Did I drink so much I blacked out? Did I call a taxi? Did I sleepwalk? Is sleeptaxiing a thing?

A scent drifted over me, fragrant and delicious. Something I'd never smelled before yet recognized instantly on some primal level. It drew me down the hallway like a cartoon character floating toward a freshly baked pie.

I pushed open the door to the children's room. Two beautiful cherubs lay sleeping in their beds. Merryn's curls fanned out on her pillow, Keyne's little arm dangling over the edge of his bed. Two gorgeous... delicious...

Alarm bells blared in the back of my mind.

Wait. Delicious?

THESE ARE MY CHILDREN!

I shook my head, trying to clear it. What kind of horrible mother thinks her children smell delicious? Not in the normal "baby's head" way, but in a food way?

Images flooded back—school lunches, bedtime stories, the constant juggling act of motherhood and full-time work while Neville claimed he was "too busy" to pick them up from school. The memory of Neville's cutting remark when I'd asked him to watch them for a weekend: "You wanted them so badly, you deal with them."

And yet...their scent was different now. Intoxicating. Overwhelming.

I took a step closer, breathing in the smell, mouth watering... a sharp pricking sensation on my lower lip, a force inside me driving me closer. I ran my tongue over my teeth and felt something wrong—something sharp, something changed.

Balderdash. Had I broken a tooth during my blackout? Just what I needed.

I was within arm's reach of both beds when something hard hit my abdomen. I found myself sailing backwards through the air. I reached out and kicked back, to no avail. The world was a blur around me.

CHAPTER TWO

Time unknown. Location: definitely not home. Surroundings: suspiciously Gothic. Head: spinning. Status: extremely confused.

Cold. Stone against my cheek. The scent of dust and old leather.

My eyelids fluttered open to a world suddenly too sharp, too intense. I gasped, my head spinning with disjointed fragments of memory. Children. Hunger. A stranger's voice telling me something terrible had happened.

My fingers clutched at velvet beneath me. Not my bed. Not my house. Panic surged as I pushed myself upright, the room tilting sickeningly around me.

Bloody hell. Have I been kidnapped? Is this some bizarre tequila-induced nightmare?

Stone walls loomed close, adorned with tapestries showing faded scenes of hunts and battles. Carved wooden furniture, dark and oppressive, crowded the space. A candelabra threw shimmering light across a ceiling so high I could barely make out the ornate patterns carved into ancient beams.

Goodness. I've been kidnapped by medieval reenactment enthusiasts. Or possibly time-travelled to a scene befitting a BBC period drama.

"She's awake," a voice said, crystal clear despite its softness.

My head jerked toward the sound. A woman stood before me, tall and commanding. Waves of midnight hair cascaded over shoulders draped in black fabric that seemed to absorb the candlelight. Her dress hugged her figure before pooling around her feet, sleeves nearly brushing the floor. The scent of something floral yet sharp—violets perhaps—emanated from her.

Gorgeous stranger count: 1. Self-consciousness level: skyrocketing.

She was stunning. Not normal-person stunning, but impossibly stunning. The kind of stunning that makes you immediately aware you have a smudge of mascara under one eye and possibly something stuck in your teeth.

"Where—" My voice caught, my throat burning with unexpected dryness. Dratt, I sounded like I'd been gargling gravel.

My gaze darted around the room, landing on a blonde man lounging in a high-backed armchair. His casual polo shirt looked jarringly modern against the Gothic backdrop, the bright blue fabric offensive to my sensitive eyes.

Gorgeous stranger count: 2. Self-consciousness level: astronomical.

He looked like he'd walked off the set of a luxury watch commercial. Perfect jawline, perfect hair, perfect everything. The kind of man who would never look twice at me in a bar—unless I was spilling a drink on him, which would be more my style.

"Is this a hallucination?" I asked, though I wasn’t sure why I’d be talking to said hallucination.

I looked down, seeing my work skirt covered in a fine layer of grey dust. As I brushed at it, the sensation of fabric against my fingertips felt exquisite, every fibre distinct. I could trace each individual thread, could feel the minute differences in texture where the fabric had worn thinner over time.

Great. Even my skirt was broadcasting its imperfections to my suddenly hypersensitive fingers.

"Have I been drugged?" I asked, trying to organize my scattered thoughts. "Did something happen at the bar?"

"Of course she doesn't know what's going on," came another voice, young and petulant.

My head snapped toward the sound. A girl stood across the room, her hair pulled into tight pigtails, her face childlike but her eyes ancient. The dissonance made my stomach lurch.

Creepy child warning bells: deafening.

"You didn't follow the protocols," the girl continued, arms crossed over her small chest.

"How are we supposed to follow the protocols, Maman?" The dark-haired woman's voice carried a hint of exasperation. "I told you, we found her. We didn't make her."

The room seemed to pulse with tension. My ears picked up sounds from far beyond the walls—wind whistling through cracks in stone, distant voices too faint to decipher, my senses bombarded with information I couldn't process.

Current sensory overload level: 11/10. Chances of maintaining dignity: rapidly diminishing.

My legs trembled as I stood, muscles responding with unnerving precision. No ache in my back, no stiffness in my knees. Just smooth, fluid movement that felt foreign in my own body.

"I'm sorry," I said, the polite words falling from my lips automatically, as they always did when I felt threatened. Always apologizing—to Neville, to clients, to everyone. "I better be getting home to my children."

The memory of Keyne and Merryn hit me with physical force. Their faces swam before my eyes—Keyne's gap-toothed smile, Merryn's solemn eyes. Then another memory: standing over them, inhaling their scent, wanting something terrible.

No. My children. My babies.

"Your children are fine, my dear," the dark-haired woman said, her voice cutting through my spiral of panic. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Azalea Burke."

The name seemed heavy with significance I couldn't grasp. She said it like I should recognize it, like she was a celebrity making a grand entrance on Graham Norton's couch.

"This is my husband, Charles," Azalea gestured toward the blonde man, who inclined his head slightly. "Excuse his poor taste in clothing."

Charles's lips quirked into a half-smile. I could hear the rustle of fabric as he shifted in his chair, could smell something like aniseed and vanilla emanating from him.

"And my mother, Dora," Azalea concluded, indicating the girl with pigtail plaits.

I blinked, certainty growing that this was some bizarre dream. "Your mother?"

The creepy child is her mother? What kind of supernatural family tree nightmare is this?

The room swam around me again. The candlelight seemed to leave trails as my eyes moved, the flames burning too bright, too colourful.

"That's a long and complicated story," Dora said, her childish voice at odds with her weary tone.

"I think you'd better tell her what she's become," Dora added bluntly.

What I've become? What on earth does that mean?

"Excuse me?" My tongue flicked instinctively over my teeth, finding them feeling ordinary if unusually clean, but something felt different. "What's happening to me? Why am I here? Why can I hear everything so... clearly?"

"I'm afraid there's been an incident," Charles said from his armchair. His voice resonated pleasantly, like a cello's lowest notes. "But the good news is you've been given a rather unique opportunity."

"What kind of opportunity?" The words tasted bitter in my mouth.

"Eternal youth is nothing to scoff at," Azalea said, the silk of her dress whispering as she moved closer. I could see every individual eyelash framing her dark eyes, could count the tiny stitches in the seams of her dress.

Close proximity to impossibly beautiful woman: extremely intimidating. Self-esteem: plummeting.

I gulped. "Is everyone here this..." I gestured vaguely at her general perfection, unable to find the right words.

Azalea exchanged an amused glance with Charles. "You mean attractive? Yes, it's part of the package. Helps with... persuasion."

"We tone it down for regular people," Charles added with a wink that made something flutter in my stomach. "Otherwise it causes chaos. You'll learn to control it."

Control what? And what does he mean by "regular people"?

"Eternal youth? Right." I stepped backward, my heel striking something solid. I scanned the room looking for a door, an escape. "I need to go home to the kids."

"I'm afraid you can't do that," Azalea said. "You're not safe around your children."

The words triggered a cascade of sensory memory—the warm, sleeping forms of Keyne and Merryn in their beds, their scent rich and intoxicating, calling to something primal and hungry within me. The way my mouth had watered, an unfamiliar sensation as my teeth seemed to shift.

My hand flew to my mouth. The room spun again, colours bleeding into one another, sounds amplifying until the crackle of candle flames sounded like bonfires.

"What's happening to me?" My voice came out muffled behind my hand.

What am I going to tell the kids? What am I going to tell my mother?! "Sorry Mum, can't make Sunday dinner, I've been kidnapped by beautiful people with a creepy child who's actually someone's mother."

"Everything's different now," Charles said. The leather of his armchair creaked as he leaned forward. "You can't go back to your old life. You can only go forward. You'll see there are certain advantages to being one of our kind."

One of their kind?

I shook my head. "You're all mad."

Charles reached toward a small table beside him, lifting a small silver object. The soft ring of a bell cut through the room like a knife.

Moments later, the door behind me opened. I whirled, nostrils flaring at a new scent—something rich and metallic that made my entire body tense with sudden, desperate want.

A thin delicious smelling man in formal attire stood holding a silver tray. On it, a single crystal goblet filled with deep crimson liquid. The scent emanating from it was the most exquisite thing I had ever encountered—complex, inviting, delicious.

"Your first refreshment," Azalea announced, satisfaction colouring her tone. "Do enjoy it. It's so rare that we indulge in the traditional source these days, but it is believed to help you settle in."

I tried to step back, but my body betrayed me. My hand reached for the goblet of its own accord, drawn by an instinct as powerful as gravity. The crystal was cool against my fingers, but the liquid inside radiated warmth.

"What is this?" I whispered, even as I raised it to my lips. Something told me I knew exactly what it was, but my mind refused to form the terrible thought.

The first drop touched my tongue, and the world exploded.

Sensory explosion level: off the charts. Dignity: gone entirely.

Flavour cascaded through me—rich, complex, alive with history and emotion and life itself. Heat spread from my throat to my limbs, every cell in my body singing with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. My skin tingled with electric sensitivity, every hair standing on end. Colours intensified, sounds clarified, scents blossomed into sparks of information.

I drained the goblet in seconds, then stood trembling, overwhelmed by the experience. A little moan escaped my lips before I could stop it—the kind of sound I hadn't made since that experimental phase in university.

How embarrassing.

As the goblet emptied, reality crashed down on me. The metallic taste. The crimson colour. The primal need it satisfied.

Blood. I just drank blood. And I loved it.

I gasped, nearly dropping the goblet. "What have you done to me?"

The room shimmered around me, reality settling into a new configuration. I could see even more details. Everything had taken on crystalline clarity—the individual threads in the tapestries on the wall, the minute cracks in the ancient stone, the complex patterns in the wood grain of the furniture.

I looked down at my hands, startled to find my skin luminous, flawless. I touched my face, feeling the sharper definition of my cheekbones, the smoothness of my skin.

"Come," Azalea said, taking the empty goblet from my unresisting fingers. She led me across the room to an ornate mirror in a tarnished frame.

I gasped at my reflection. My hair gleamed in copper tones, each strand distinct and perfect. My eyes, once a muted green, now sparkled like peridot. My features remained recognizable but enhanced, as if an artist had taken my ordinary face and perfected every line.

I looked... good. Better than good. Stunning. The kind of stunning that would make Neville's jaw drop and his new 20-something-year-old girlfriend (yes, of course there was one) seethe with jealousy.

"You're still yourself," Azalea said, watching my reaction in the mirror. "Just a new and improved version, as they say on those strange entertainment boxes you humans enjoy. Charles is a huge fan of reality television, of course."

You humans? Wait...

The pieces clicked together with terrible clarity. The enhanced senses. The blood. The supernatural beauty.

"I'm a... vampire?" The word felt ridiculous coming out of my mouth, like something from a teenage novel.

"There it is," Dora said with childish satisfaction. "She's caught on."

"What happened to me?" I asked, unable to look away from my transformed reflection. My voice sounded musical even to my own ears. "Who did this to me?"

"That is a mystery," Charles said from behind me, his reflection joining mine in the mirror, "which we hope to unravel in time. We got an anonymous tip about you and arrived at your house just in the nick of time."

"They do say it's important to wake up in your normal surroundings to adjust," Azalea added, "but it wasn't safe."

The memory of standing over my children's beds returned with visceral clarity—the scent of their breath, the sound of their heartbeats, the overwhelming hunger I had felt.

"Keyne and Merryn," I said, their names catching in my throat. "Are they…"

"They're here in the castle and well looked after. Don't you worry," Azalea assured me, but there was something evasive in her tone.

I spun around, the room blurring momentarily with the speed of my movement. "You've kidnapped me. You've kidnapped us."

"No," Charles said firmly. His heartbeat remained steady, unfaltering. "We've merely rescued you. It would have been devastating–carnage–had we not."

The truth of his words crashed through my defences. My legs gave way beneath me, and I sank to the stone floor. Sobs wrenched from my chest, though no tears came. The hunger I had felt standing over my children's beds... the primal urge to feed... I would have harmed them. Killed them, even.

First I become a vampire, then I nearly eat my own children. This is officially the worst week of my life.

"It's enormously dangerous for your living loved ones when you first turn," Azalea explained, her voice softening slightly. The rustle of her dress sounded like waves as she knelt beside me. "There are many tragic stories. We do our best to prevent new vampires from harming their families nowadays."

"The tradition used to be that one killed and took vengeance on all of the living when one turned," Dora said from across the room, her childish voice carrying a disturbing note of nostalgia. "But these days, everything's far too civilized for my tastes."

I looked up at the eternally young face, wondering what horrors those innocent-looking eyes had witnessed. Had committed.

Note to self: Never be alone with creepy vampire child.

"Well, I'm glad my children are okay," I said, struggling to compose myself. The absence of tears felt wrong, another reminder of my changed nature. "But I can't just leave my life. I have a job. I have a mortgage. I have pilates on Thursdays. And I’m guessing now I can't be out in the sunshine. Is that true?"

My fingers traced the sharp edges of my new teeth, the physical evidence I couldn't deny.

"It tends to be," Charles confirmed with a sympathetic nod. "The sunshine part, that is. Mirrors, crosses, garlic—mostly human inventions. But sunlight... sunlight remains problematic."

Great. Now I'll never get to use those expensive sunglasses I bought last summer.

As I sat on the cold stone floor, surrounded by strangers who were now my kind, I realized that my life—my human life of spreadsheets and school runs and enduring Neville's criticism—was over.

Days until I can see my children again: unknown. Supernatural hotness level: unexpectedly high. Existential crisis level: extreme.