Chapter 1

Humans … pets, meat, or mates.

I’m almost certain that’s what the sign above my head reads. With a groan of pain, I roll onto my side, coughing and curling up into a ball. My head is ringing, and I’m seeing double, so maybe I just imagined it. What a weird thing for a sign to say, right?

I must’ve fallen and conked my head. That’s all I can think to explain both the confusion and the pain; my leg is killing me. That, and I’m not sure if I’m too hot or too cold. Is it possible to be both things at once?

“Roll her over.” A female voice relays the command in a tone that’s calm enough, but edged with a nervous energy that makes me feel twitchy. Roll who over? I wonder, just before tight fingers curl around my arms and legs. I’m forced onto my back with no energy to fight off the change in position.

The world spins around me like I’m on a carousel, and then I’m staring at that damn sign again.

Humans … pets, meat, or mates.

That’s definitely what it says. There are other languages written above and below it, but I don’t recognize a single one of them. Halloween prank? No, it’s July. Premature October decor it may be, but the sign wasn’t hanging at the Princess of Pop’s fundraiser, the one she was hosting at her fancy-pants apartment building. That’s the last thing I remember, standing on the roof of that high-rise with my best friend, a pair of paramedics, a lawyer, and an angry pop star.

Oh, and a possum. Can’t forget the possum.

“She’s bleeding.” A male voice this time, grim, tight-lipped. I can’t exactly see him, but the way his words come out, clipped and perfunctory, it’s obvious that he doesn’t like what he sees. “There’s a piece of shrapnel embedded in her thigh.” There’s a heavy pause between that sentence and the next, but as much as I try to squint and focus on the man’s face, all I can seem to look at is that stupid sign. “If we try to remove it, she might bleed out.”

“If we don’t remove it, who will?” the woman asks, her voice as grim as the man’s. “I worked as a remote medic for years; I can do this.”

“Shit.” The man curses and then exhales, like he’s bracing himself for an unpleasant task.

“Eve?” I recognize that voice: Jane Baker and I have been best friends since junior high. Well, she kicked me in the crotch and stole my boyfriend in junior high, but I forgave her a year later and we’ve been close ever since. “Oh my God, Eve. You’re bleeding everywhere …” Her voice trails off with a hiccup as I blink through the static and try to find her in a sea of blurry faces. “Is she going to be okay?”

In the twelve years since I’ve known Jane, I have never heard her so afraid.

“I have no fucking clue.” The female voice—the one who claimed to have been a remote medic—grinds those words out just before she tears my pants open. “The more humans we have to fight these things, the better.”

Um. Excuse me. What things are we talking about exactly?

I feel cool air on my legs, the brush of warm fingers, and then … nothing.

Whether I’m dreaming or dead, I have no idea.

But between one minute and the next, I’m lying on my back staring at that strange sign and then, I’m in my own bed and groaning at the sound of an incoming call.

“It’s not okay to be awake this early on my day off!” I shout out, aware that this entire scenario isn’t real. Or, if it is, I’ve lost my mind. This is exactly what happened this morning, before the sign and the bleeding and Jane asking if I’m going to be okay.

I’m twenty-five years old; I know a dream when I see it.

My bedroom door opens, and there’s my mother, standing stiffly in an apron with a mixing bowl clutched in one arm. She’s frowning at me as the ringing stops and then promptly picks up again. Based on the ringtone—some horrid pop song by Jane’s star client—I know exactly who it is that’s on the line. It’s her, my future ex-bestie.

“Can you please answer your phone? Jane’s called the house a half-dozen times already.” Mom slams the door—that’s her prerogative since I live with her well into adulthood—but I grit my teeth anyway, snatching my phone up and slapping it against my ear as I answer it.

“You called the house?” I accuse, because although my parents have a landline like it’s 1996, that doesn’t mean anyone calls it other than Jane Baker. “Remind me again why I moved back in with my family. I’m practically thirty years old.”

“Because you need to save up for a house, and I convinced you it was a smart idea? Also, you’re only practically twenty-six,” Jane replies, but then she goes dead silent, and I know this is going to be bad. Jane is never silent unless she wants something, but knows she’s likely to be told no. The silence is only there to buy her some time to figure out how to manipulate the other party involved. Usually, said other party is yours truly. “Can you do me a huge favor?” she asks, and I hang up.

Because I know what that favor is going to be.

If it weren’t for Jane, I wouldn’t own a successful catering business or be making good money. It’s because of a favor for Jane that I got the opportunity in the first place. But I just got off a ten-day stretch of working one gig after another, and I am not cobbling together some half-assed affair on my one day off. Jane calls back, and I sit up before I answer, frowning at my bed-mussed hair in the floor-to-ceiling mirror across the room from me. Sharp green eyes glare back. I am not a morning person.

Or … I draw the phone away from my ear to check the time. Apparently I’m not a twelve-thirty in the afternoon person either.

“Why do you hate me so much?” I ask when I answer, and Jane sighs in relief.

“The first guests are expected to arrive around six, but Tabbi won’t be making an entrance until around seven-thirty.”

Of course not. Why should the party’s hostess arrive at her own fundraiser on time?

With my free hand, I reach up to untangle my hair. At this point, I’ve forgotten all about the Humans … pets, meat, or mates sign, and I’m fully embroiled in my memory of this morning. I’m picking at rat nests in my auburn waves and yawning like it’s any other day.

“Tabbi,” I huff, gaze shifting to the tabby cat sprawled across the end of my bed. I’m mildly allergic to cats, so I get hives whenever I pet her, but eh. It’s worth the pain. I smile and wiggle my fingers to entice the cat—her name is Annabelle—but she ignores me, licking her shoulder in disdain. The ‘Tabbi Kat’ I’m referring to (pronounced just like tabby cat) is a famous pop star and Jane’s spoiled, pretentious hellion of a client. Tonight, Tabbi is hosting a fundraiser in her penthouse apartment, smack-dab in the center of the city.

I forced Jane to hire another caterer; I worked with Tabbi once and swore never to do it again.

But alas, there’s nobody in this city who’s as hardworking or reliable as I am (much to my own detriment).

“I told you that you should’ve let me hire you in the first place,” Jane whines as I swing my legs out of bed and yawn for the hundredth time. Four hours of sleep is just not enough, especially not after having slept two-to-three hours a night for the past week and a half. I feel like I’m dying. No, at least if I were dying, I could sleep.

And maybe I am? Seeing as I’m reliving a day that already happened.

“Did the original caterers give you a reason for canceling?” I ask, and then Jane goes silent again. See what I mean? She’s trying to find a way to convince me that this isn’t her fault. Or rather, that it isn’t Tabbi’s fault.

“Tabbi fired them this morning …” Jane hedges, and I hang up again. She promptly texts me the address and the specifics as I drag my tired body to the shower. Of course Tabbi Kat fired her caterers the morning of a big event. Nothing else would make a lick of sense.

I shower and then make phone calls in various states of undress. One phone call in my panties, another after putting on my bra, a third after yanking on my black slacks. Once I’ve got a crew together, I head out and down the stairs.

“Are you working again today?” Mom calls out, but I only offer up a wave of acknowledgement. I don’t have time to argue with her right now. She thinks I work too much, that I need some time off … and she’s right. I just can’t agree with her on that until tomorrow.

“Eve?” Dad asks as I sweep past him and toward my van—the homeowners’ association has been all over my parents’ ass about having me park it elsewhere—hopping in as he approaches the passenger side window. I roll it down and give him a look. “Where are you going? I thought we were playing golf today.”

I’m not a big fan of golf, but I play with my dad on the weekends just so we can spend time together. Regretfully, I’ll have to cancel today.

“Where else? I’m off to save Jane’s ass from an evil pussy.” I offer up a tight smile as Dad frowns and steps back, so I can pull out of the driveway.

“Work on cleaning up your language while you’re at it. You’re practically thirty years old.” My father goes back to washing his car as I catch sight of my younger brother standing on the porch. Shit. I promised to let him borrow my car for his date tonight.

I stop in the middle of the street, reverse back toward the driveway, and roll my window down.

I toss the key fob onto the grass as Nate gapes at me, and then off I go.

“I knew you could do it.” Jane is beaming at the sea of aristocrats, musicians, and politicians that are milling around Tabbi’s penthouse apartment, chowing down on onion-mushroom sliders and bruschetta topped with tomatoes and basil. Since the Princess of Pop is a proud vegan, there’s no meat to be seen. “Everyone seems to be enjoying the food.”

I’m sweating profusely in my long-sleeved white button-down and black slacks, but I make myself smile anyway. Who knows what sorts of clients I might pick up from this event?

“Only by the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin,” I reply, still smiling and nodding at passersby. My gaze shifts over to Tabbi Kat, dressed in a sparkly pink bikini top with an oversized cardigan in the same color. She’s got on baggy, acid-wash jeans and clunky sneakers. Also, she’s holding a pet opossum—you know, the only North American marsupial with the hairless tail—which is sort of her trademark thing. I don’t agree with it, but what can I do? The girl is a multi-platinum bestselling diva with a temper.

The possum climbs onto her shoulder and crouches there, hissing at people as they pass by, and I give Jane a look.

“It’s only going to take one person, one bite, and it’s curtains for the poor guy.”

“This possum is a girl,” Jane whispers, leaning in close to me. “The other one passed away from old age just a few months back. Apparently, they only live for about four years.”

I feel the edge of my lip curl up in disgust; there’s nothing about Tabbi that I like.

As if she can sense that we’re talking about her, she turns and saunters over to us.

“I’m done with the party now. Can we ask everyone to leave?” she whispers, as if Jane is her personal assistant as well as her manager. Over the last two years, I’ve also seen Jane act as Tabbi’s mother (they’re only five years apart in age), her therapist, her personal shopper, her maid, and one time, her bodyguard. Jane literally took a bullet for Tabbi. Well, so it was a rock fired from a slingshot, but it still left the nastiest purple-blue bruise on Jane’s rib cage.

“We can’t ask them to leave just yet.” Jane puts on her prettiest smile as Tabbi tosses pink-tipped blond hair over her shoulder and scowls at the gathered crowd of millionaires like they’re so much trash. “Why don’t you have another drink and—”

“Oh, what a beautiful animal!” a man exclaims, stepping forward and reaching out to pet the possum without bothering to ask permission. As wild animals are wont to do, the creature bites down hard on the man’s hand, and he howls in pain. Apparently, possums have extremely sharp teeth.

That’s how we end up on the roof of the apartment building: me, Jane, two paramedics, a pop star, and a lawyer.

“I’m going to have that rat removed and euthanized,” the man hisses. The possum—I’ve been told her name is Madonna, after the Virgin Mary and not the singer—hisses right back at him, and he balks. “How dare you cart around such a dangerous beast.”

“Go ahead and call animal control!” Tabbi is screaming, just barely held back from physical violence by Jane’s surprisingly strong grip. That girl can bench press a hundred-and-fifty pounds, believe it or not. How I’m involved in this mess, I’m not sure, but I guess I’m just up here for moral support. “Call them and see what happens! I will ruin you.”

“Go ahead and try,” the man replies smugly, allowing one of the paramedics to examine the bite on his hand. It’s not really all that bad. To put it nicely, I feel as if he’s … sort of a little bitch. “I have connections you wouldn’t dare dream of, little girl.”

Oh. Wow. I don’t like Tabbi, but the patronizing tone this guy is taking on would have me in a rage, too.

Tabbi manages to escape from Jane’s grip, the possum clinging to her shoulder as she throws a punch that rocks the lawyer on his feet. He stumbles back, clutching at his face as far more blood streams from his nostrils than ever came from the bite on his hand.

I stand there gaping as Tabbi shakes her hand out, sniffling as she slides her phone from her pocket and flicks it open—it’s a Z Flip, obviously. Samsung is one of her sponsors. Maybe … not after this clusterfuck though.

“Can you guys come up to the roof?” she asks, sniffling sadly, tears welling.

“You didn’t invite those weirdos you met in the club the other night, did you?” Jane whispers, eyes flicking from the yowling lawyer to Tabbi to me. Clearly, she’s begging for help here. “If you did, then uninvite them; I don’t trust them. Besides, if you haven’t noticed, we’re in a bit of a pickle here.”

“Pickle?” Tabbi asks, looking at me for some reason and not at Jane. “Did I do anything unreasonable here, Evelyn?” she asks, and I sigh. I’ve mentioned a good two dozen times before that my name isn’t Evelyn; it’s just Eve. No matter. We have bigger fish to fry.

“You punched the mayor’s lawyer in the face just now,” I remind her, and Tabbi turns a look over her shoulder, Madonna’s tiny, clawed feet clutching the fabric of the pink cardigan for support. It’s a ridiculous situation, something I’m bound to find funny later. Jane and I will settle in with some saké, sushi, and a playlist that does not include any of Tabbi’s music, and we’ll howl with laughter over this.

For now, I try my best to take control of the situation. Jane’s got that look on her face that says she’s about to panic.

“This prick?” Tabbi asks, turning around like she’s ready to fight again. “Some washed-up old man with an ugly hairpiece? What is he gonna do, huh?” she queries, crossing her arms obstinately. After a moment—and I wish I could make this up—she gets her phone out again, popping open her selfie-stick, and then starts to film something that’ll inevitably go viral as soon as she posts it. “Some guy slapped Madonna, and she bit him. Then I punched him. Who’s at fault here?” she asks as Jane’s eyes get wide, and she lunges forward.

“Do not post that,” she grinds out as I snatch Tabbi’s phone from the end of the selfie stick.

“You’ve just forfeited your entire career, sweetheart,” the man snarls, swiping blood from the lower half of his face. He points at Tabbi with a shaking hand as the two paramedics exchange a look, standing there with their bags in hand and looks of unbridled annoyance on their weary faces. When there are lives to save, here they are, stuck in a rooftop garden with a pop star and a lawyer. Gross. “I never allowed my daughter to listen to your music; it’s garbage.”

“Excuse me?” Tabbi breathes, as I hold up my hands, trying to step between her and the lawyer.

“Oh, and the food tonight?” he adds with a sly smirk, stepping up far too close to me to be civil. “It was inedible.” The man squeezes my ass, and I turn suddenly, elbowing him in the face on ‘accident’.

“Oh my God, oh no.” I put my hands over my mouth to hide my own smirk. The guy is just gushing blood from his nose now. “Did I accidentally hit you?”

“All of you bitches are in trouble now!” the lawyer—I’m not sure what his name is—screams as he backs up toward the door.

It opens then and two men step out, both of them tall and muscular and identical. They even saunter forward in unison, arm muscles bulging beneath the sleeves of their too tight t-shirts. Matching smarmy smirks. Tight jeans draped over thick thighs and bubble butts. Holy crap. Not only are both guys gorgeous, but they’re almost … inhuman. Who has skin that perfect, hair that shiny, abs that tight? They’re barely human.

Then again, this is exactly the sort of crowd that Tabbi usually hangs out with. Other than the twin thing, they don’t look any different than the six-foot-four models that Tabbi dates and discards on the regular. What’s new?

“Boys!” she whines, putting one of her hands on either of their chests as they step up on both sides of her. “Can you please take me with you? Wherever. Anywhere. I’d jet off this fucking planet if I had the chance.”

The two dudes turn a look on one another that creeps me out. It’s even worse when they smile and one of them rubs his large hand in a circle on Tabbi’s lower back. It doesn’t look comforting; it looks assessing. Clinical. Huh.

“Don’t worry, Tabbi Kat, we’ve got you.” The first man flicks a coy look over his shoulder, his smile growing even wider as I find myself taking an unconscious step back. Jane notices and reaches out to grab my wrist.

“Get your hands off of me.” The lawyer slaps away the female medic’s hand and storms off in the direction of the door.

“Oh no you don’t,” the second musclehead purrs, and then he’s moving to block the lawyer from leaving. “You’ve made our kitty cry.” His hand comes out and wraps around the lawyer’s neck, causing the man’s eyes to bulge almost comically out of his head.

“Oh, shit,” I murmur, lips parted in shock.

“Um, Eve,” Jane whispers, her voice strangled in a way I’ve only ever heard the day her mother was arrested. She’s looking up so, as expected, I also look up.

That’s when I see it: an angry-looking vessel crafted out of some strange iridescent metal.

Uhh …

Someone is screaming bloody murder—it might be the lawyer—and then that’s it.

I’m opening my eyes to find that goddamn sign again.

Humans … pets, meat, or mates.

However you choose to interpret that … it doesn’t bode well for me, now does it?