Page 1 of Craved By the Werewolf
1
VALA
The last haunting note of "Moonlit Confessions" faded into silence. I let it hang there for three beats—just long enough for the ache in the song to settle into my listeners' bones.
"That was Lunar Howl with their latest single, dropping exclusively here on the Ridge FM." My voice cut through the stillness of the studio. "If that didn't stir something primal in you, check your pulse. You might already be dead."
The red ON AIR light glowed above me, a steady reminder that somewhere out there in the shadows of Mystic Ridge, people were leaning in to listen. The night owls, insomniacs, and creatures who preferred moonlight to sunshine. My people.
Through the glass, Mika was perched in the control room like a smug gargoyle, headset crooked on her head. She caught my eye and started the finger countdown—three... two... one—before pointing at the blinking line on the phone board. Line Two. She mouthed take it.
I tapped the button. "Line two, you're on with Nightingale. Confess away."
A cheerful female voice came on. "Hi, okay, this might sound weird?—"
"Darling, you're calling me at nearly 3:00 AM. Weird is our baseline."
"Right. So... there's a new orc at work. He's huge, green, very polite. But when he smiles at me, I swear my knees actually buckle. Is it bad that I want to ask him out? Like, is there an orc dating etiquette I should know about?"
"Oh, I love this already," I said, leaning forward. "Okay, rule number one: orcs appreciate honesty. Rule number two: they also appreciate snacks, preferably something meaty. If you really want to make an impression, pack a lunch big enough to feed a small army and casually offer him half."
She giggled. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. And if he likes you, you'll know. Orcs aren't subtle. Just... maybe do your first date somewhere with sturdy furniture."
By the time we hung up, she was laughing, I was smiling, and Mika was pointing at another blinking light—this time, Line Four.
I hit the button. "We've got time for one more confession before I release you back into the wild. Line four, you're on with Nightingale."
"Hey." Male voice. Hesitant. With a rasp. "Long-time listener, first-time caller."
"What's eating you?"
"My roommate's a vampire..."
"That's not a problem."
"No, you don't get it. He's... old school. Like, refuses to use modern technology. No phone, no email, no streaming anything. Says it 'dilutes the blood.' But that's not even the worst part."
"Go on," I purred.
"He keeps his coffin in the living room. Right in front of the TV. And I can't move it because, well... he sleeps in it during the day. Which means my Netflix setup is basically coffin, coffee table, couch."
I bit back a laugh. "You're telling me you're living in a full-time funeral home aesthetic?"
"Yes. And he keeps the thermostat at fifty degrees because anything warmer makes him 'sluggish.' I wear a hoodie, hat, and gloves indoors, and he just sits there all smug in his velvet cape."
That cracked me. "Let me guess—he also complains about your garlic bread?"
"Every. Single. Time. Says it's an assault on his 'delicate constitution.'"
"Alright, here's what you do," I said, leaning toward the mic. "Tell Dracula to keep his meat locker in his own room. Shared spaces are for the living. As for the coffin—suggest a nice armoire. Still gothic, totally his aesthetic, and doubles as storage."
"That's... actually brilliant."
"I do my best. And maybe slip him a bottle of O-negative as a peace offering. Nothing says 'sorry about the garlic' like a good vintage."
He laughed, low and relieved. "Thanks, Nightingale."
