1. Ava

"Boomer, down!"Eloise's voice, a striking blend of stern command and barely contained giggles, pierces through the solid oak door of my cluttered office. Boomer, our resident snack obsessed Bernese mountain dog, is rumored to possess the spirit of a mischievous ancient wolf. Despite Eloise's, my colleague and a seasoned vet tech who has worked alongside me for years, earnest efforts. Her tone lacks the ironclad firmness required to curb his mischief.

The ongoing ruckus in the hallway pulls my attention away from the cluttered desk, where charts and papers from today"s hectic schedule are piled up. Should I step in to help Eloise with Boomer, or does she have it under control? Lost in thought, I pick up my once steaming cup and take a contemplative sip.

Cold, as usual.

Suddenly, a piercing scream ricochets through the clinic, shattering the last vestiges of my indecision. "Looks like it's going to be another late night, Bean," I murmur to the nosy corn snake, who's peeking out of her smooth, speckled rock with curious, glinting eyes. She surveys the scene—me, then the chaos beyond the door—before gracefully slithering back under her shelter, clearly deciding napping trumps drama. "Same, girl, same."

Eloise's plea escalates to a crescendo. "Boomer!" she bellows with renewed vigor. I can hear the dog's owner too, her voice a blend of exasperation and futile calmness. Memories rise of when I recommended an exemplary dog trainer to Boomer's well-meaning but na?ve parents. They laughed off my concerns about his growing size and blossoming stubborn streak, a decision they now regret, if the yells I hear are any indication.

With a sense of urgency, I rise, my movements brisk and decisive. Shrugging off my lab coat, I stride through the clinic, the labyrinth of corridors familiar and comforting. I take the staff-only route, briskly navigating the maze until I reach the chaotic heart of the clinic. When I fling open the sliding door, the scene unfolds like a comedic tableau—Eloise, arms flailing in a dance of desperation, trying to coax Boomer onto the scale, and his owner, a whirlwind of frizzy hair and frazzled nerves, standing helplessly by. Exhaustion and defeat appear on both women's faces.

"Dr. Martinez," the owner says, her relief palpable as her stormy blue eyes meet mine. "I am so glad you're here." Her name dances just beyond the edges of my memory, elusive as ever. I remember pets' names, habits, and the subtle nuances in their barks and purrs with ease. Their owners, however, are an entirely different challenge.

My gaze shifts to Boomer. His tongue lolls out in a carefree droop, and his eyes twinkle with a blend of innocence and impishness. "Boomer," I call, injecting a blend of reprimand and affection into my tone. I square my shoulders, prop my hands on my hips, and give him a look that's part motherliness, part drill sergeant. "Step on the scale." In a surprising display of obedience, he gingerly steps onto the scale, his bulky frame graceful, then he turns to me expectantly, as though expecting a gold star for his minimal effort. His behavior is an unspoken challenge within our own little power struggle. Despite his tender age, Boomer's spirit mirrors the warnings I voiced.

While Eloise busies herself with the clinical details, I engage in a more primal contest with Boomer—a silent assertion of wills. It's an amusing battle, considering the debunked myth of the alpha dog, particularly in the realm of shifters, but in the nuanced dynamics of wolf packs, such hierarchies are mere folklore.

Alphas are rare. They are a spiritkin that can inflict their power on others, and not all spiritkin hold that power, only a select few.

"One hundred and thirty pounds," Eloise announces, her voice tinged with disbelief, shattering the silent standoff.

I click my tongue in mock disapproval, my eyes softening despite my stern front. "Boomer, you've been raiding the neighborhood snack stash again, haven't you?" Flashbacks of his previous escapades—filching treats from unsuspecting kids while escorting them to the bus stop—flood my mind. The saga reached a climax when a parent appeared at his owner's doorstep, bewildered by the trove of Oreos, chips, and gummy worms amassed by this furry bandit. They discovered the hoard after questioning Boomer's owner. She went to his little doghouse out back and found his secret stash of goodies.

Honestly, I have a very similar stash in my nightstand, hidden in the secret compartment. My grandfather is a carpenter and loves hidden drawers. They're perfect for a late-night candy stash.

Boomer's response is a low, almost conversational grumble, as if he's arguing his case in doggy court. "It's time to find that hidden willpower of yours," I chide gently, "which is probably buried beneath all that fluffy fur."

His mother's voice, laced with a cocktail of defeat and confusion, cuts through the room. "He gained weight?" she asks. "I even changed the locks. How is he still escaping?"

"He has," Eloise confirms, her tone clinical yet sympathetic. "Five pounds."

"All right," I say, holding Boomer's gaze, our silent battle of wills reaching a crescendo. "How about we add an extra walk each day? Maybe there's a little one out there who could use a big, brave guardian like you."

Boomer's response is a proud, protective bark, his chest swelling slightly as he embraces the role of a furry sentinel.

I turn to his mother with a practical solution in mind. "Have you considered installing an indoor camera? I'm curious about his Houdini-esque escapades."

"It's arriving tomorrow." Her sigh is a blend of weariness and anticipation. "So we're scheduling another weigh-in next month?" she inquires.

"Indeed," I reply Boomer's expression seems to flicker with a hint of canine contrition. "We need to stabilize his weight to prevent health issues, like diabetes."

Boomer barks, a sound that, despite the lack of a common language, conveys a mixture of acknowledgment and mild protest.

"You're all set to go," I tell his owner, her name still an enigma to me. "Eloise will schedule next month's appointment." As a parting gesture, I ruffle Boomer's fur, eliciting a lazy, contented lick from him.

"I don't know how you do it," his owner marvels, her eyes wide with admiration. "You're the only one he listens to, and you're so…" She gestures toward me, searching for the right words.

"Small?" I supply helpfully.

"Yes!" she exclaims with a relieved smile.

"I prefer fun-sized," I respond with a playful wink as I make my way back to the staff corridor, the door closing behind me with a soft click. She isn't wrong. At five-two, my stature is modest, but my presence—a whirlwind of curves, flowing brown hair that never quite stays in place, and a heritage rich in Spanish culture—leaves its own mark.

Dogs always listen to me, cats too, although they often express their reluctance with a symphony of meows and hisses. It's like pets tune in when I speak directly to them, their ears perking up and eyes focusing. This gift, my unique connection with animals, is the very reason I ventured into the world of veterinary science, despite my apprehension about the endless years of academia. Initially, the thought of sitting through long lectures and studying into the night was almost unbearable, but something shifted during the clinical rotations. Suddenly, the world of animal care came alive for me. Before I knew it, I was not just getting by, I was thriving, graduating a year early, which was a feat that surprised everyone, myself most of all.

I tread softly down the dimly lit hallway, its walls adorned with faded pictures of animals I've treated over the years. Each step is careful and deliberate as I peek into the shelter area. I make it a ritual to ensure no pet accidentally remains behind at the end of the day, particularly after that unforgettable incident when a forgotten pet resulted in a confrontation with an irate owner. She had every right to be upset, though her demeanor was less than pleasant, hence our strict adherence to pickup hours.

Honestly, the human aspect can be the most challenging part of my job. Sometimes, handling pet owners feels like navigating a minefield. They can be unreasonably demanding, making me daydream about drastic escape plans.

Why must people be so perplexing?

Feeling reassured that it's just us in the clinic, I make my way back to my office. Upon entering, I discover that Bean, my mischievous corn snake, decided against her usual nap. Instead, she embarked on one of her impromptu adventures.

"You little escape artist," I chide with a mix of exasperation and affection. This isn't her first escapade, and I have a sneaking suspicion she does it to test me, particularly on weekends like this, when she's supposed to accompany me home.

"Ava!" Eloise's voice travels from the front of the clinic. The sound of her approaching footsteps, a rhythmic tap against the linoleum floor, grows steadily louder. "Do you need anything before I leave? I have a date with a vampire tonight and barely an hour to switch from vet tech mode to date night glam."

"Use the de-scenter at the front," I suggest, kneeling down to begin my search for Bean. My first stop is her favorite hiding spot—the large, lush snake plant sitting in the corner of my office. The plant's irony as a hiding spot for an actual snake never fails to amuse me.

"Did Bean pull her usual Houdini act again?" Eloise asks as she leans against the doorframe, observing my search efforts.

I glance up at her, noting the glaring contrast between us. Where I embody a more classic look, with my long brown hair and soft brown eyes, Eloise is a striking figure of modern beauty, with platinum blonde hair, a canvas of colorful tattoos adorning her arms, and an aura of confidence that says she's not to be trifled with. It always brings a secret smile to my face when pet owners assume she's the more capable handler. Their surprise when I step in, calm and collected, is a small but delightful victory.

"Yes, and on a weekend too. You'd think after all this time, she'd stick to the routine," I mutter, my hands gently parting the leaves of the snake plant, searching for any sign of Bean.

"As for the de-scenter," Eloise continues, "you're cool with me taking one, right?"

"Absolutely," I reply, my attention still on the hunt for Bean. "We hardly ever sell them anyway."

"That's because they are more of a spiritkin necessity. Humans rarely see the need," Eloise points out with a playful roll of her eyes, "and they are definitely not coming to a vet clinic for their spiritkin needs."

I chuckle, crawling toward the window where the sunlight streams in, bathing the room in a warm, golden hue. "It seemed like a smart addition at the time," I admit. "So where's this vampire taking you?"

"Donatello's," she replies, her voice tinged with excitement. "I met him on that dating app I've been raving about."

I let out a resigned sigh, my hand brushing against the cool, hard edge of my desk as I move. "Not this again," I grumble, even as a glimpse of pink catches my eye behind the planter.

"Just give it a chance, Ava. Download the app and set up a profile. No need to upload a photo if you're not ready. Just existing on there as a woman is usually enough."

"I'm not downloading Find a Mate," I insist, pulling back a leaf to reveal nothing but a small pile of snake droppings. "Great," I mutter, rising to take a better look around.

Eloise raises a pierced eyebrow, her expression a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "She left you a present, didn't she?" Her tone, rich with the dry humor typical of our exchanges, accompanies her handing me a wipe from the dispenser adorned with whimsical animal motifs. "And it's not called that," she remarks.

"Enchanted mate, soul finder—whatever it is, I am not downloading it," I declare firmly, cleaning up Bean's mess. That snake, a master of hide-and-seek, loves to keep me guessing. Or cursing her under my breath.

"Otherworldly Connections," Eloise corrects me. "You might find it intriguing, Ava. Tell me, when's the last time you…you know?"

Not finding my elusive snake among the lush green leaves of the snake plant, I stand up and then slump back into my office chair. It's one of those old, squeaky ones that's seen better days, but it's comforting. "Are you really asking about my sex life?"

"Yes. When was the last time you bumped uglies? Rode a stallion in the bedroom rodeo? Played hanky-panky? Cleaned the cobwebs out of the womb room?" Eloise reels off her creative euphemisms, each one more outrageous than the last, while her eyes twinkle with mischief.

I have to cut her off, or she'll keep going. "Eloise," I interrupt, my laughter echoing in the small, cluttered space of my office. "Womb room?"

"Well, yeah," she replies nonchalantly, shrugging a delicate shoulder adorned with a tattoo of a mythical creature. Her black lips curve into a mischievous smile. "Why not give it a try? I'm concerned about you, especially after…" She hesitates, her eyes briefly clouding with concern. "You know."

I know all too well. That wound is still a raw, aching spot in my heart, pulsating with memories. "Mama," I whisper, the word heavy with unspoken sorrow.

"You've buried yourself in work these past few years," Eloise observes softly.

"Five years, and they still haven't found who or what did that to her," I say, my voice tinged with frustration and grief. They found Mama in the spiritkin slums of Mystic Falls, a place people whisper about in hushed, fearful tones. Right on Merger Ave. A wolf pup discovered her naked, battered body in an alley. At just forty-five, someone cruelly snuffed out her life. We all suspect hunters—those who believe that if you aren't human, you don't deserve to breathe—but Mama was a hundred percent human. She had no reason to be there.

Not to mention my father blames the spiritkin. Each group continues to point the finger at the other, and I sit here, without answers.

If her blood had been drained, I'd have strong words about Eloise's date with a vampire. Instead, I change the subject. "What's Boomer's mom's name?"

"You're dodging the topic, Ava," Eloise chides gently, shaking her head, her earrings jingling softly. "It's Rosie."

"She doesn't strike me as a Rosie." I clear my throat, turning my attention to the charts sprawled out on my desk amidst various veterinary tools and personal knickknacks, waiting for Bean to deign to grace us with her presence. "Okay, text me when you get to Donatello's, and again if you decide to do anything else."

"I might not text back if things get interesting," Eloise says with a coy grin. "He's bringing his bonded. Three delicious, sculpted vampires, and not the sparkling kind either…or at least I hope not." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "I might just become their vampire bride."

"And what, exactly, are your plans with all of them?" I ask, half in amusement, half in disbelief. Spiritkins, with their innate tendency to form tight-knit groups, intrigue me. Once, it was about survival, but now, it's more about their heightened desires.

"Babe, there are three of them. Just think about the possibilities," Eloise says, her laughter mischievous and infectious. "Ever tried double penetration?"

"Like, one in the pink and one in the stink?" I venture, trying to keep a straight face.

"Nope," she replies, her eyes alight with a challenge. "I'm talking about two in the same?—"

"Enough!" I exclaim, feeling my cheeks flush with shock and amusement. "Out, now!" I point emphatically at the door.

"See you Monday!" Eloise calls, her laughter echoing down the hall as she strides toward her intriguing night.

Once the door shuts, I turn my attention back to the charts, sighing as I settle into the rhythm of my work. "Bean, you better come out soon, or no yummy mouse for you," I warn, though we both know she'll get her mouse.

When I'm halfway through the first chart, an insistent sensation, like a tiny inferno, erupts in my pocket. It's not just heat, but a fierce curiosity that compels me to download that app. Reluctantly, I pull out my phone, its screen glowing in the dim light of my cluttered office, and start browsing the app store. Deep down, I've always known which app Eloise was talking about, but who really wants to admit they are turning to an app for their happily ever after?

Not this self-reliant veterinarian. No thank you.

I've dabbled in those mundane human apps before. Most of them are nothing but a ticket to a disappointing rendezvous in some dingy alley. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Never again. Feeling both defiant and resigned, I tap download before tossing my phone onto a pile of scattered papers and veterinary journals across the room.

"What are you doing, Ava?" I chide myself, massaging my temples with ink stained fingers, already regretting my impulsive decision. "Your mom would have thrown a fit." True, Mama didn't exactly hate spiritkins, she just didn't embrace them with open arms like some did.

And what would Daddy think of this latest escapade?

Glancing at the clock, I note it's almost four in the afternoon—time to close up the clinic. The charts can wait until tomorrow. "All right, Bean, let's head home," I announce to the empty room, standing up to shed my well-worn lab coat. I drape it carelessly over the back of my chair.

That's when a subtle movement catches my eye. "Bean?" My gaze homes in on the bookshelf, a towering, old thing crammed with medical textbooks and various knickknacks. "Bean," I repeat, a mix of astonishment and annoyance coloring my tone. She somehow slithered her way up to the top, and she's peering down at me with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. "And how am I supposed to rescue you from there?"

I grab the rickety folding chair from the corner, its metal legs screeching against the tiled floor. Placing it in front of the bookshelf, I hesitantly step onto it. This isn't the most sensible decision I've ever made, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I remember asking Dad for a stool for such occasions, and he responded with his typical teasing, suggesting I just grow a few more inches instead.

I balance precariously, but I'm still a few inches short of reaching Bean. Biting my lip, I gingerly step onto a lower shelf, already envisioning the potential disaster.

"Bean," I coax softly, watching her tongue flick out to taste the air, curious yet cautious. Stretching as much as I can, I almost brush her scales. "Come on, girl, time to climb down." She inches forward, tempted by my voice. Reaching even farther, I almost feel her within my grasp, but then I shift my weight a bit too much, and a sense of impending doom washes over me.

Time seems to crawl to a halt, but it's no ally. My arms flail in a desperate attempt to regain balance, and then, in a moment of panic, I grab for the bookshelf.

Big mistake.

In a surreal, slow-motion collapse, the bookshelf and I crash backward. One second, I'm reaching for Bean, and the next, everything is a blur as we hit the ground with a thunderous crash, the bookshelf pinning me beneath it.

Later, I might reflect on how my brain, anticipating the pain, blocked out the memories.

Now, with Bean awkwardly perched on my neck and my breathing becoming labored, I notice my phone, the screen flickering with the newly downloaded app, lying just within reach. It's mocking me.

Trying to detach myself from the reality of my current predicament, I awkwardly wiggle my arm out from under the shelf and grasp the phone. Fortunately, I don't need to do much. With a rapid series of clicks on the side button, it effortlessly handles the hard part for me, even activating the speakerphone.

"911, what's your emergency?" comes the reply, sounding almost too cheerful for the situation.

Gasping for breath, I manage to get out, "Shelf. Snake. Fall," and then I let my head fall back with a thump. My brain should have had the decency to knock me out, but no. Here I am, painfully awake and aware. It seems my brain already did its part by fast-forwarding through the actual fall, sparing me the immediate sensation of the crash.

My ankle throbs with an intense pain, signaling it's probably broken.

"Ma'am, do you have an emergency?" The voice on the other end sounds more alert now.

"Yep," I wheeze out. "Ava Martinez," I rasp, feeling a sharp pain in my side. Oh yeah, that's definitely a broken rib. I might be a veterinarian, but I know enough about human anatomy to recognize that.

Meanwhile, Bean, unfazed by the chaos she's caused, curls up on my neck and drifts off to sleep. The audacity of her acting as if she's not responsible for this fiasco is almost comical.

"Can you tell me your location, Ava?" I hear typing in the background.

"Vet Clinic on Main," I gasp out between sharp intakes of breath. Breathing is becoming a real challenge now.

"Ma'am, I'm sending an ambulance. Stay on the line with me until they arrive, okay?" The dispatcher's voice carries a note of urgency, but I don't respond immediately. "Okay?"

With a grumble, I acknowledge her and shift my focus to the water stains on the ceiling. Lying here, immobilized, I can't help but reflect on the series of unfortunate decisions that led to this moment.

The number one offender? She's currently taking a nap, curled around my neck.

Even worse? At that moment, my memory flashes back to five years ago.