Diego’s House — 9:37 AMDiego woke to knocking—persistent, rhythmic—like a woodpecker on his front door. His head felt heavy, fogged by sleep and the lingering comfort of Antonia’s Mexican refried beans. He’d dreamed of fire and falling, of a daughter’s eyes full of storm.The knocking again. “¡Buenas, señor! ¿Alguien en casa?”Simón. The milk boy.Diego rolled out of bed, stumbled to the mirror. His reflection stared back—eyes like smoldering coals, fangs pressing against his lower lip. The vampire side was closer these days, restless after yesterday’s fire, after the jump, after the healing that should have been impossible.He closed his eyes, focused on his breath. On the memory of milk cooling his throat. On the mundane. The human.When he opened his eyes again, they were brown. Normal. Or as normal as they ever got.He opened the door. Simón stood on the step, two glass bottles in hand, dew still beading on their sides.“Señor Diego! You’re up late.”“You’re late with the milk.”
Read more