Witches & Vampires & Ghosts - Oh My!

Witches and Vampires and Ghosts - Oh My!

Three Magical Cozy Mysteries

Cate Lawley

Contents

Adventures of a Vegan Vamp

About Adventures of a Vegan Vamp

Prologue

1. The Night I Died a Little

2. The Flu

3. How Am I Alive?

4. New Doctor, Not Witchdoctor

5. Mother Knows (Me) Best

6. Rats vs. the Flu

7. Getting a Life

8. Not a Pimple in Sight

9. My First Real Vampire Ever

10. Farewell, Mrs. Arbuthnot

11. Not Breaking, Definitely Entering

12. Vampire Tears and Crocodile Smiles

13. Silent Corpse, Chatty Spirits

14. Paranoia and the Inquisition

15. Ratodile

16. Pushing the Baggage…Into a Black Hole

17. My First Sleepover…Basically

18. My First Magic Sword Ever

19. A Girl and Her Sword Are Never Parted

20. One of These is Not Like the Others

21. Barefoot Hero

22. Life Sucks? Get a Life Coach

Night Shift Witch

1. One Step Closer to Financial Freedom…and Dead People

2. Epic Fail, Witch-Style

3. Lessons Learned from Twinkles the Cat

4. Beyond Epic Fail, or Could this Day Get Worse?

5. How Dead Is Dead?

6. My Ex-Knight in Less-than-Shining Armor

7. Modern (Paranormal) Policing

8. The Witching Hour…or Happy Hour?

9. The Butler Did It

10. The Ice Queen Did It

11. The Mistress Did It

12. Dancing with a Devilish Vamp

13. Cooking Up a Corpse

14. That Voodoo that You Do…that Isn’t Voodoo

15. The Plan

16. The Other Plan…

17. Bullets, Bad Guys, and Lessons Learned

18. My Hero, or Forms in Triplicate

Death Retires

About Death Retires

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Cate Lawley

Adventures of a Vegan Vamp

A Vegan Vamp Mystery

About Adventures of a Vegan Vamp

Undead and vegan? Not the afterlife this girl had planned. 

Waking up thin is one thing. But waking up gaunt, hangry, and undead makes for a very bad day. Mallory's killer better hide, because she's just discovered blood, meat, and dairy don't agree with her, and a future with no cheese is grim indeed. She's out to find her killer...and maybe a vegan cheese that doesn't melt her nose hairs.

Click to see how Mallory conquers a killer hunger while hunting a deadly vampire.

Prologue

Idied a little. I wish I could say it was a blur, but it’s a blank. A mystery. I was an anxiety-ridden, overachieving, successful (and perhaps not entirely likable) professional—and human. I definitely started this story very human. But now I’m none of those things.

This story is about the murder of that woman and catching the man who killed her. It’s also about how I became a vampire and also a little about how becoming a vampire was the best thing that could have happened to me.

1

The Night I Died a Little

M allory, darling, you’re buying tonight, aren’t you? Liz, with her sleek red hair, high cheekbones, and long legs made my skin itch with jealous annoyance.

How could she even walk in those impossible heels?

Sure. I knew she’d ditch her usual drink for a premium, but that was Liz.

Actually, that was the entire work gang: Liz, Shelley, Martin, and Penelope. They invited me when they wanted free drinks, because I picked up the tab when I tagged along. At least, that was my suspicion. I made more money than the rest of them, and they knew it. That created tension.

How was it my fault they couldn’t negotiate their salary better?

I handed the bartender my debit card and pointed to the fearsome foursome to my right, indicating I’d be paying for their round.

The guy was kind of cute in a tight-T-shirt, skinny-jeans, bearded-hipster way, but he didn’t make eye contact. He grabbed my card, swiped it to open my tab, and handed it back to me.

Cute bartender guy didn’t even look up when I gave him my drink order: a white wine spritzer. I might not be five foot nine with killer cheekbones and a glamorous sense of style, but not all of his patrons could look like Liz.

At least he was fast. My drink arrived—after Liz’s, Shelley’s, Martin’s, and Penelope’s—but still pretty quickly. I tried not to sigh. My suit was expensive and well-tailored, my makeup reasonably fresh, and I was having a good hair day. And—the most important factor—I was picking up the tab.

So what was it that made people like the hipster bartender slip right over me as if I didn’t exist?

Or like I smelled really bad? I discreetly sniffed. No. My supercharged twenty-four-hour antiperspirant was doing its job.

He was just a jerk with a brain that worked significantly less than his biceps—or some other part of his anatomy.

Liz turned to include me in the conversation, so I inched closer. It had to be work related.

Penelope had a self-satisfied smirk on her face. "I was just saying, our new boss plans to fire two people from our division. I heard from a very reliable source. And you know how much they like to clean out inflated salaries whenever the opportunity arises."

My lips curved slightly. Or those with the lowest performance evaluations.

Penelope’s nostrils flared. The spiteful heat of her stare bounced off me with no effect. Again, not my fault that she spent as much time on social media as she did doing client work.

Still, when looking at tightening up the budget, it makes sense that bloated salaries would be targeted. Martin looked at me with a certain glee that made him appear, just for a moment, as vicious as he actually was.

Martin was not someone I envisioned as having a mother. Hatched, maybe, but not born.

A half-swallowed chuckle almost gagged me, but I managed to keep white wine spritzer from spurting out my nose—barely. The image of Martin emerging fully formed, more reptile than mammal, from the remains of an eggshell was impossible to erase. I tried not to snigger.

He was such a loathsome being that I couldn’t help but cling to that image as my own private revenge. I would never forget the opportunities he’d stolen from me, the rumors he’d spread, the trouble he’d stirred up with clients. I’d overcome the obstacles he’d thrown in my path, time after time, but he’d made my life—my success at work—much more difficult.

Martin glared, as if he could see the image I’d conjured. Really, Mallory. No one will be surprised if they fire you. Your interpersonal skills are somewhat lacking—as I’m sure more than one supervisor has told you. You’re not popular with the clients.

Which wasn’t exactly true. I was quite good at my job, and I may not always make the best first impression—helped along by a quietly whispered word or two by Martin—but when it came down to getting work done well, my clients knew I was reliable. And organized. Efficient, overachieving, hardworking… I was all of those things.

Perhaps that explained why my coworkers never accepted me. Why I was always on the outside looking in. I was substantially better at my job, and that made me less likable. At least I was self-aware enough to realize it. Changing it? That was simply a step too far. I am what I am.

I understood all of this, but why they additionally felt the need to blame me for their failings, that was a puzzle.

How Penelope’s Facebook addiction, Liz’s penchant for sleeping with married coworkers, and Martin’s general sliminess—all factors that had impeded their careers—were any fault of mine, I would never understand.

My eyes passed over Shelley. At least Shelley was okay. She’d never been blatantly spiteful like the others in my division, but she was hardly warm.

I closed my eyes and imagined I was at home in my apartment. A restful space away from these people. It was exhausting being the person everyone blamed and no one liked.

Why do it? I didn’t need the hassle. Fitting in wasn’t worth it—especially when there was zero chance I’d ever actually be accepted. When I opened my eyes, a second wine spritzer was in front of me. I tried to catch the bartender’s gaze to thank him, but he’d already moved on to a blonde, beautiful customer.

I drained my first drink and quickly started in on the second. As soon as I finished it, I was headed home. And I was done with these little after work gatherings for good.

Thankfully, my apartment was within walking distance, so I could chug that spritzer with a clear conscience.

2

The Flu

Why did my mouth feel like it had been stuffed with cotton balls? I tried to swallow and almost threw up in my mouth.

Not good. Very not good. I held my breath and fought the urge to swallow again.

I needed to be absolutely still. Moving made me want to ralph, and I would never make it to the bathroom.

Even the thought of moving made my head pound with a vicious rhythm.

My eyelid cracked of its own volition and the pain at the base of my skull and behind my eyes ratcheted up. I carefully shut my eyes and lay very, very still.

Finally, after counting backward from a hundred, I started to feel myself drift away.

A desert surrounded me. A cool desert. A cool, dry desert.

Slowly, I became aware of the feel of the sheets against my skin, the pillow under my head. And then the parched, cottony feel of my mouth.

I almost groaned—almost—but then I remembered the gut-piercing, brain-pounding pain from earlier. The feeling that my head would explode into a billion tiny pieces. So I didn’t make a sound.

Time passed. A little? A lot? I lay in my bed—still, in pain, and afraid—for I don’t know how long…but then I realized I was thirsty. Wandering-the-desert, no-water-for-days thirsty.

I opened my mouth a little and experimented with moving my lips. The pulling sensation that forewarned of cracking skin stopped me.

Water had never sounded so glorious. I could feel it slipping past my lips, moistening my mouth… And then I did groan, because there was no water.

And my head exploded in pain, followed by a black nothingness.

Someone had superglued my eyelids shut. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realized that was B.A.D. Kidnapping, home invasion, a Criminal Minds-type serial killer—scenarios flashed through my mind.

But I wasn’t afraid. I experienced, in fact, a complete absence of fear. I was simply too tired to feel any strong emotion.

I must have drifted off to sleep again, because when I woke up I vaguely remembered thoughts of superglue and kidnapping, but this time I realized how insane that was, mostly because I could open my eyes—just.

It took some delicate prying, but I managed to eventually see the light of day. I’d had allergy attacks that left my eyes crunchy—I lived in allergy central, a.k.a. Austin, Texas—but the crud in my eyes was something entirely different.

Whatever the funky goo was, the effort of unsticking my eyelashes from it had wiped me out. I lay on my bed and tried to summon up sufficient energy to move, but it wasn’t happening.

Lying there with my mind awake and my body incapacitated, I couldn’t help but dwell on my drier-than-dirt mouth. I tried to lick my lips, but it didn’t help.

I needed a drink. Water. I almost shivered, I was so excited. The thought of water was finally enough to make me think about getting up.

At least the gnarly headache that I’d been sporting the last time I woke up was gone. But I had crystal-clear memories of that pain, and it was those memories that made me cautious. I slowly rolled onto my side. My muscles protested. The deep muscle aches made me wonder if I’d come down with the flu.

Headache, nausea, aching muscles—I stopped inventorying my symptoms and lifted the back of my hand to my forehead and then my cheek. Dry and cool to the touch; no fever. A feverless flu? I also had the oddest feeling that I hadn’t moved since I’d fallen asleep. And I never slept on my back; I was a side sleeper.

Flu or no flu, that water wasn’t getting any closer. In one quick motion, I rolled off my bed and onto my feet—and promptly collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Abstract thoughts of superglued eyes and kidnapping hadn’t done it, but now I was worried. I needed a drink. How long had I been asleep? And I still didn’t feel like I needed to pee. I always had to pee as soon as I woke up. I had to be dangerously dehydrated.

Where was my phone? I usually left it plugged in next to my bed, and it was hard to believe I’d slept through my alarm. Mustering up enough energy to crawl, I inched my way to the bedside table where my phone was plugged in. With what seemed a monumental effort, I grabbed the phone. I propped myself up against my bed and tapped the screen.

Nuts. Fourteen missed calls, twenty texts…how…? It was late and I’d missed work, but fourteen missed calls. A nasty feeling washed over me. The wallpaper on my phone had a large digital clock that read nine fifty-three—but there was no date. I flicked the screen down. My eyes didn’t want to focus. Or my mind was playing tricks. Friday the twentieth. That simply wasn’t possible; I’d gone for happy hour drinks on Tuesday. I couldn’t have been in bed for three days. Someone would have checked on me…wouldn’t they?

After dialing voicemail, I tapped the speaker button and then started to scroll through my texts. After five minutes it was clear: no one had thought to check on me. I’d been berated for not calling in, for missing appointments, and for failing to attend meetings. By my boss and my coworkers. By voicemail and text. I’d made a mistake, and they’d reveled in it.

The effort of retrieving my phone had so depleted my strength that I couldn’t do more than lie on the floor. So I curled up and wallowed in self-pity.

To be so alone that no one suspected I was unwell or injured after I’d been missing for three days? Miserable. Pathetic. A desolate existence. I realized as I cried that no tears fell.

I hacked out dry sobs that burned my throat, because I’d never made it to the bathroom for that drink of water.

3

How Am I Alive?

Iwas broken.

Something was wrong with me, with my body, and I had two days to find out what it was. Two days, and even then I’d probably be begging to keep my job, if those texts and voicemails were any indication. I needed to sort out what was happening to me, and I also needed some kind of believable excuse explaining away my three days off the grid.

Last night I’d eventually managed to make it to the bathroom, consume an unbelievable quantity of water, and fall asleep again. Here it was, ten a.m. on Saturday, and I still hadn’t peed. What person goes four days without peeing?

After trawling the internet, I discovered people did go four days and even longer without urinating, but none of the scenarios I’d found seemed likely to apply to me. Thank you, Google.

Going to the doctor seemed wise, imperative even…except for the part where I had to get out of bed, get dressed, and actually get there. I rolled over in bed. Then I rolled again and sat up. The soreness was gone. I was exhausted, yes, but the deep muscle aches had vanished.

Tired I could manage. I’d pulled a few all-nighters in business school and knew some tricks. Group projects still left a nasty taste in my mouth. There was always one underachiever who didn’t do their part, and never in a predictable, manageable way. Experience taught me that I could push through exhaustion with determination (which I had in spades), caffeine (which waited in the kitchen), and a shower (which sounded delightful).

After I’d put the kettle on to boil and ground some fresh beans, I sat down with my laptop at the kitchen table. I drafted a quick note to my boss that I’d come down with a terrible flu, hadn’t left my bed in days, and would be back to work on Monday. I groveled as best I could, reread it to make sure I sounded sincerely apologetic without tumbling into desperation, and then clicked send.

It all sounded reasonable enough but for one small detail: my boss had actually met me. Anyone that had spent more than a few minutes with me would know that I’d call in in between puking bouts. The only thing that could keep me from calling in was a coma. Or death. The piercing whistle of the kettle distracted me from pursuing that morbid thought.

Five minutes later, I marched into my bathroom with my French-pressed coffee in hand, ready to tick off the next item on my list. A shower should be a nice pick-me-up. Although—oddly enough—I didn’t feel like I’d spent the last four days sick in bed. And I hadn’t noticed any weird odors.

If you didn’t shower for four days, you smelled. A simple fact of life every woman past puberty understands. But what would I tell my doctor? I’m fresh as a daisy even when I don’t shower—isn’t that weird? I shook my head and turned to flip the water on.

Hot coffee splashed my thighs as my mug fell from nerveless fingers, and the sound of shattering ceramic echoed in my ears as if from a great distance.

The gaunt-faced image across from me jumped, and I yelped in surprise.

Her mouth moved as if yelping in surprise.

I took a cautious step away from her…and she did the same in reverse.

Oh, no. Nononono. I lifted my hand to my shockingly thin face. No.

My knees ceased supporting my weight, and I sank down to perch on the lip of the tub. And for the first time since I’d gained consciousness the previous evening, I looked closely at my hands. Long, elegant fingers. Too thin to be my fingers. I inspected my right hand and found no age spot just below the knuckle of my index finger. No blemishes at all. The fine lines that had become invisible to me over the last few years were marked now by their absence.

My forearms had become a series of interconnected freckles more years ago than I could remember. Since my mid-twenties, maybe? A light, even tan now covered my forearms.

I dropped my head into my hands, but that was a mistake. My own flesh felt alien. My face had once had a pleasant roundness to it that I’d become accustomed to. The new sharpness of my chin and the definition of my cheekbones felt foreign under my fingertips.

Inhale, two, three. Exhale, two, three. Inhale, two, three. Exhale, two, three.

That therapist had been good for something after all, because when I opened my eyes I had a plan. I stood up and stripped off all of my clothes. I was taking a shower, because that had been the plan before I’d found some alien person’s body had replaced my own.

I tried not to think too much as I scrubbed myself down in the shower. I was about to wash my hair when I realized that it was clean. I usually had to shampoo daily. Not thinking, Mallory. Just showering. And I rinsed my hair really well without shampooing it. On a whim, I went ahead and conditioned it so I’d have the perfumed illusion of having washed my hair.

When I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, I found the hem, as always, just above my knee, but my towel wrapped much further around than it should. Without pausing to acknowledge the gaunt, dark-headed woman in the mirror, I left the bathroom for my walk-in closet.

Smacking the light switch on gave me an odd sense of satisfaction. Maybe if I slammed a door, I’d feel even better. I steeled myself, then let the towel drop. Turning to the full-length mirror, I tried to examine the woman standing there dispassionately. The eyes were mine. So much larger in my now too-thin face, but the shape, color, and the thick lashes were all me. A glimmer of hope pushed past the panic. I was still in there. The shape of my face had changed significantly, but the flare of my eyebrows was the same, as was the shape of my nose. As I tilted my head to the side, I realized it was really my jaw line that had changed the most.

My gaze slipped lower to prominent collarbones and—

No way. I could see my ribs, barely, but I could see them. And my D cups had diminished to a less voluptuous A or B. I wasn’t sure which, because I couldn’t remember having ever been an A or B. I had starved, literally, in four days. No one lost that much body mass that fast.

That’s why I was so tired. And also why my brain had ceased to function properly. If I hadn’t eaten in four days, of course I was tired. And my blood sugar was low. I threw on some yoga pants and a T-shirt—nothing else would fit—and hopped on the scales in my bathroom. I’d lost twenty-five pounds. How was that possible?

I stepped away from the scales and tried to decide if I was actually hungry. I wasn’t. What was happening to me? I didn’t even know what I would tell my doctor. He was a stuffy old guy who barely spoke ten words to me during any visit. He’d think I’d starved myself, but I would never. I liked food. And while I’d been a little overweight, I didn’t have a serious problem with the way I looked before. Sure, I envied more glamorous women—who didn’t? I squeezed my eyes shut. Looking so different, feeling so alien in my own body, I missed being a little overweight, because that was me.

Food—that was my next step. I needed to eat something.

En route to the kitchen, I contemplated my two biggest dilemmas: what story could I tell my coworkers to explain my rapid weight loss? And how could I convince my doctor I hadn’t developed an eating disorder?

If I couldn’t sell my doc on the fact that I hadn’t suddenly stopped eating, then he wouldn’t bother to figure out what was wrong with me. And as I realized the truth of that conclusion, I also realized how insane it was that he was still my GP. Why was I still seeing that clown? It was past time to find a new doctor who might actually listen and perhaps believe me when I said I wasn’t starving myself.

A knock on the front door startled me. Once I’d recovered from the shock of the unexpected noise, I detoured from the kitchen to the front door. I was even a little bit happy to have a temporary distraction from the craziness of my dilemma.

But then I opened the door to a shocked neighbor, and it occurred to me (belatedly) that interacting with people who knew me as twenty-five pounds heavier might not be advisable.

Hi, Mrs. A. How have you been?

My, but you certainly look different, don’t you, Mallory? Have you been ill? Not that you look, uh… You look just fine. She pursed her lips together.

I scrambled to think of an excuse, any excuse, for my appearance. Diet pills from Mexico… I shrugged, leaving the rest to her imagination.

I see. She frowned, clearly disapproving of such newfangled methods. She’d told me not long after I moved in that she enjoyed a brisk walk twice daily and ate salad for dinner every night. From the context of the conversation, it had been a not-so-subtle hint that I should consider doing the same. Mrs. A’s face cleared, and she leaned forward. "Well, it’s just that I’ve been knocking and knocking. I didn’t want to use my key, just in case…in case you might have company." She whispered the last word like it was a secret she was hiding from nosy neighbors. Except she was the only nosy neighbor on this side of the fourth floor.

I stood up straighter and bit my lip in an effort not to laugh. Once I let the hysteria take hold, it might not let go.

Mrs. A was embarrassed that her thirty-nine-year-old neighbor might have had male company overnight. The absurdity of it all was too much. I’d been dying—literally wasting away in my apartment—and the only neighbor with a key was too embarrassed by my (wholly imagined) sexual marathon to use her key.

Biting back a laugh that was sure to be wildly misinterpreted, I said, No, I haven’t had any company. Just a little flu bug. Thank you for checking on me.

She gave me a sweet, grandmotherly smile, but she had a wicked glint in her eye—like she knew the real story. I see. Well, if I’d known you were sick, I’d have brought over some homemade chicken soup for you.

Mrs. A had a vivid imagination, and she did love to spy on the neighbors—but envisioning an orgy in my apartment was a level beyond anything I would have previously expected of her. She needed to get out more. I smiled and tried to look thankful—even though I’d tried her chicken soup. That’s so kind of you, but I’m on the mend now.

I took a step back deeper into my apartment, hoping she’d get the hint.

Mrs. A was no one’s fool. You let me know if you change your mind about that soup. Bye for now. She gave me a jaunty wave and headed back to her apartment just across the hall.

As I closed the door, I gauged my level of hunger. All that talk of chicken soup should have sparked a little twinge of hunger—but no. Time to try a little food and see if that perked up my appetite. Sometimes all it took was that first bite, and then, poof, my stomach was jumpstarted. Not that I’d gone quite this long without a meal, but in my school days, I’d definitely skipped a few.

As I wandered into the kitchen, I considered my current mental state after four days with no food. How I wasn’t lightheaded and seeing stars, I had no clue.

Nothing in the pantry looked particularly appealing. The refrigerator had been practically empty before I’d fallen ill, so I wasn’t holding out much hope there. Orange juice looked good—probably because my mouth still had a cottony, dry feeling. I drank straight from the carton as I perused the rest of the contents. Sandwich meat that had been opened longer than seven days, bread for toast, a questionable tomato, and more condiments than any three people needed.

Eventually I settled on peanut butter toast. Easy, filling, and about all my bare cupboards were going to yield.

It wasn’t until I loaded my toaster oven that the oddness of drinking straight from the carton hit me. Normally, I found that disgusting: backwash in the carton, the juice sitting in the fridge, and the bacteria from my mouth growing and overpopulating the previously pristine orange juice… I blinked. My scalp wasn’t crawling. I had no urge to immediately chuck the OJ into the trash or brush my teeth. Bizarre.

Not that I was OCD. I was just particular. And I didn’t like bacteria and germs. Or bugs. Or sick people. My hand was moving toward the carton of OJ for another sip when the timer on the toaster oven dinged.

Apparently I was thirsty enough not to care about bacteria, because that OJ sounded really good. I shrugged and chugged the rest of the juice.

The peanut butter melted as I spread it on the warm toast, and the nutty aroma filled the room. My mouth watered. I took a bite, and as the gooey peanut butter hit my tongue, I experienced my first pangs of hunger.

I savored the warmth of the peanut butter and the crunch of the crust. It was heavenly.

A strange sensation was the first indication that all was not well. Nothing I could pinpoint, just a notion that something wasn’t quite right. If only that feeling had persisted for more than a few seconds, I might have realized what it meant. The contents of my stomach were spread on the floor before I could even think about making it to the bathroom.

Tiptoeing around the mess, I made a dash for the sink. I rinsed my mouth as best I could, but when the acrid taste in my mouth was finally gone, I didn’t know what to do. Was it the orange juice? The bread? The peanut butter?

I had managed to keep down the water I’d drunk so far, but that was all I knew for sure.

As I rinsed my mouth a second time, I realized I still had no good story for my doctor and a nasty mess to clean up. Trawling the Internet for a new doctor just moved up my to-do list. I had to sort myself out, and preferably before Monday. My job was my life—so technically, my life was on the line.

And then there was the question of how much longer I could go without food. Maybe there was more to my life than my job. Was my actual physical well-being in jeopardy? But that couldn’t be. I didn’t feel that bad.

I threw a mountain of towels on the floor so that there was no way I’d be contaminated by orange juice/peanut butter puke, and then chucked them all in the wash. Germs and bacteria may be less freaky today, but puke was still disgusting.

As soon as all traces of mess had been erased, I realized my short bout of activity had drained whatever energy reserves I had. I filled a pitcher with water and grabbed a cup to set on my bedside table, and then I followed the very inviting call of my bed.

4

New Doctor, Not Witchdoctor

My eyelids popped open. I did a quick check for eyelid gunk, but my eyes were surprisingly clear of superglue funk. A buzzing energy filled me, not unlike a massive caffeine high. Not traditionally a morning person, that was more than a little surprising.

All of that energy was accompanied by a massive thirst that reminded me of the pitcher I’d filled earlier. I turned to my bedside table, planning to drain the pitcher—but it was already empty. Odd. I didn’t remember waking up, and certainly didn’t remember drinking an entire pitcher of water.

I made my way to the kitchen in search of liquids. I even considered braving some milk. But sanity returned when I remembered my earlier puke-fest. Water for now. After drinking three tall glasses, I filled a fourth glass and sat down at my computer. I needed to go to the doctor, preferably right now, while I still had the energy to get dressed and leave the house. Who knew how long that would last? And I needed a new doctor. My guy wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t have weekend hours—and he just wasn’t going to work.

Three rejections later, I’d exhausted the only options that fit my needs. Finding anyone with weekend hours, who was accepting new patients, and took my insurance, was apparently an impossible task. I tried to take a drink, but found I’d drained yet another glass of water. I stared at the empty glass. That was not normal.

I tried not to get frustrated, but I was on the clock. Who knew when my little energy boost would fade away, and I’d end up passed out in bed again for several hours?

With renewed determination, I scratched insurance off my list of requirements and kept searching. Five minutes later, I’d found a doctor who shared a clinic with several alternative medicine practitioners. Not sure how I felt about that, but she had weekend hours and the website declared, New patients welcome. I wasn’t holding my breath, because two other traditional doctors had said the same—but that didn’t include new patients to be seen this weekend.

Also, I wasn’t entirely sure what alternative medicine meant in the context of this practice. The two doctors on staff were both MDs, but it looked like the practice offered some other therapies. Maybe that meant they’d be open-minded about my weird symptoms? Or at least not assume I was starving myself intentionally. The thought was enough for me to dial the number.

Doctor’s office. How may I help you? The chirpy voice on the line sounded helpful enough.

I’m in urgent need of an appointment this weekend. Do you have any available?

Are you already a patient with us?

I wanted to groan in frustration, but managed to filter out my annoyance—I hoped. No, but I really do need to see someone quickly.

Well… The young woman on the phone at least pretended that she wanted to help. So far, that was much better than the other calls.

I tried for a little pity. My symptoms have been rather alarming, and I don’t think an ER visit is going to be any help.

A loud sigh puffed across the line. Tell me what your symptoms are, and—no promises—maybe we can fit you in on Monday or Tuesday.

That was the best offer I’d had so far.

Rapid weight loss, persistent and unquenchable thirst, aching muscles—though that’s gone now—and long periods of sleep. Oh—and I can’t seem to keep food down. I reviewed my mental symptom checklist. I think that’s it.

All right. I’ll check in with the doctor, but she’s quite busy today. We may not be back in touch until Monday. And if at any time you feel like there’s an emergency, you should seek help from an urgent care facility or the emergency room.

Yes, I understand that. I mentally shrugged as I gave her my contact details. Losing twenty-five pounds in days was likely a really big emergency—but I was mobile and staying hydrated. And I really, really didn’t want to go to the ER. What would the ER do for me besides send me a massive bill? I was walking and talking and had no pain.

I was scrolling through alternative choices online, holding on to the ridiculous hope someone would see me before Monday, when my phone rang.

As I tapped accept, I realized it was the number for the alternative medicine clinic. Hello?

This is Dr. Dobrescu. Is this Mallory Andrews?

It hadn’t even been five minutes, so the doctor obviously hadn’t been that busy.

Yes, that’s me. Do you think you might get me in?

When did your symptoms start? Brisk and businesslike, Dr. Dobrescu wasn’t messing about.

Maybe Tuesday? As I told your receptionist, I’ve been sleeping quite a bit, so I can’t say exactly.

Are you missing any time?

I’m not sure what— I suddenly realized I had no idea how I got home from the bar. Two white wine spritzers wouldn’t have that effect. Ah, maybe.

Silence followed.

I checked to see that I hadn’t accidentally ended the call, but it was still live on my end. Dr. Dobrescu?

As soon as you can, come in.

I’m sorry?

We’ll fit you in. When can we expect you?

The clinic had gone from maybe Monday or Tuesday to come in now in the space of minutes, and I hadn’t even mentioned exactly how much weight I’d lost. I didn’t think my symptoms were that specific—at least not according to Google. But given my situation, especially the part where I needed to show up at work on Monday to keep my job, I could hardly be choosy. I can be there in forty-five minutes.

We’ll be ready for you.

I ended the call and then found myself staring at the phone. We’ll be ready for you. The call had been just a little bit off. Or my imagination was running wild. Probably the latter given my less-than-stellar reasoning skills on an empty stomach.

Rooting around in my closet finally produced an old tennis skirt that almost fit and an only slightly oversized T-shirt. I skipped my usual shower, because I was on a tight timeline. I felt like a narcoleptic time bomb.

As I zipped along in my flashy red Audi TT, two things bothered me. I’d never thought my car was flashy before today, and I was less comfortable driving a new sports car than I was with the sad state of my attire. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in public looking quite so rumpled. But the normal anxiety—that what would people think feeling that I normally suffered—simply wasn’t there. It was liberating.

The office wasn’t at all what I expected; it looked like any other doctor’s office. The only thing different from my regular, cranky-old-man doctor’s office was the speed with which the staff ushered me into an exam room. I typically waited fifteen to