Page 50 of My Mr. Vampire

Morning light spilled into the kitchen. Morgan sat across from me. Her curly hair was still messy from sleep. She scrolled through her phone while I absently stirred the cream into my coffee. She was spending more nights here with me.

The TV hummed in the background. It was just enough noise to fill the comfortable silence between us. A certain tone in the news anchor’s voice made us both look up. Our movements were synchronized like besties who’ve rehearsed the same routine.

“We begin this morning with breaking news from the Southside,” the news anchor stated. Her professionally somber face betrayed just enough emotion to signal that whatever came next wasn’t your everyday tragedy. “A United States postal worker was found dead early this morning in the West Woodlawn neighborhood in what Chicago police are describing as a targeted attack.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, her finger pausing mid-scroll. “That’s terrible. Is she black?”

I half shrugged, wondering the same thing when the anchor continued.

“The victim has been identified as 37-year-old Chanel Taylor, who had worked for the postal service for over eight years. An investigation is underway. So far, there is no one in custody.”

My spoon clattered against the porcelain. The name, my name—hung in the air between us. The news flashed a candid photo of the lady on the screen. It was a pretty woman with darker skin than mine, hair pulled back in neat box braids, and a smile that suggested she was caught mid-laugh when the photo was taken.

“That’s so weird. She has your exact name.” Morgan said, putting her cell phone down completely now. Her pewter eyes were wide while voicing the strange coincidence.

“Yeah,” I managed one word. My voice sounded distant even to my own ears. “Weird.”

The anchor droned on about police having no suspects yet, about how Ms. Taylor was beloved in her community, about how anyone with information should call the number at the bottom of the screen. I couldn’t fully focus on the words. Instead, I was caught with the uncanny feeling of hearing my name attached to a murder victim. It was like glimpsing at my own ghost.

“It’s not like it’s an uncommon name,” I said finally, trying to sound casual. “I mean, Chanel is pretty popular for our age demographic, and Taylor is practically Smith these days.”

Morgan tilted her head. Her cascading curls fell over one shoulder. “Still. Exact same name, same city? That’s some freaky shit right there.”

“In the grand scheme of weird and freaky, I think the stuff I told you about the paranormals’ top that news story.”

“Well, ain’t that the truth.” Morgan’s face softened immediately. “Sorry, Coco.” She used the nickname that’sbecome her exclusive right, except for her brother Mitchell. He called me Coco, too. “But you have to admit it’s odd.”

“It is, but I know there’s a lot of Chanel Taylor’s out there in the world.”

“Maybe you should tell Zand when he gets here.”

I shook my head, perhaps too quickly. “He’s got enough on his plate with whatever’s happening at The Castle. Besides, it’s just a coincidence.”

Morgan shrugged, but her eyes lingered on me with that look she gets—like she’s trying to read between lines. I didn’t even know I was writing. That’s the thing about friendship that survived trauma; it creates a shorthand, a sixth sense for when the other person is more affected than they’re letting on.

I turned back to the TV, where they moved on to the weather.

“You’re thinking about it too much,” Morgan said, reading me like a true best friend. “It’s just one of those things.”

“What things?” I asked, genuinely curious about her thought process sometimes. This time.

“One of those flukes. Like when you see the same number over and over again all day long. Instead of playing the lottery that day, we ignore it and the next day we forget all about it.”

I almost smiled. Almost. But the chill in my chest hadn’t dissipated, and I couldn’t help wondering if this was more than statistical probability.

In my old life, before Zand, before vampires became more than fiction, I would have dismissed this happenstance entirely. Now the boundaries between possible and impossible have blurred beyond recognition. Seeing the victim with my government name gave me the creeps. Could it be a bad omen or just a coincidence?

“I’m going to go and login to the J.O.B.”

“Already?”

“Yeah, I got to make that money. Your man should be home soon.”

“Oh, it’s that late.” Which was early morning.

The loft elevator door opened, and we both turned to see Zand. He moved with a fluid grace that still caught my breath. He’s been at The Castle all night.

“Ladies,” he said, his voice was low and gravelly. He shrugged off his black coat, revealing a crisp black shirt with the top buttons undone. Despite his obvious look of exhaustion, he was still impossibly handsome. Vampires were like humans. They needed sleep, and they got exhausted, just like the rest of us.

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