My friends and I settled into a comfortable routine. We exchanged life stories. We watched out for each other and I thrived.

I should have known my comfortable existence wouldn’t last.

Premonition didn’t warn me as I hung upside down on a pole, my ankles crisscrossed while my anaconda thighs gripped the upright bar. My hands cupped my breasts-which were barely hidden by my pasties-while my hips dry humped the steel support, multitasking at its best. I was in the midst of my routine, sucking in all the thick, sexual energy, when they walked in.

Shit. Fuck. Oh crap. About two dozen curse words went through my mind when I saw them, my long lost brothers. Or should I say rejected lovers-although given their rough ways many would have said rapists-for after the change, I went from little sister to coveted object. Their appearance couldn’t bode well. I pretended not to notice them, hoping I’d get lucky and they wouldn’t recognize me.

Their freakish yellow eyes zeroed in on me immediately, shooting down that wishful thought. I hid my own special eyes behind contacts of dull brown. Apparently violet colored eyes, ones that appeared lit up from within, weren’t the norm for humans. Imagine that. But mundane human disguise or not, I couldn’t mask my scent and I could see them sniffing the air as they took seats close to the stage. They didn’t make it to the pervert row, that first rank around the stage where leering men sat with eager faces and enjoyed the up close and personal show. But the trio didn’t sit far behind and I could see them muttering to each other even if I couldn’t hear their words over the blaring rock music.

Probably planning ways to capture me and take me back to their lair for some devious torture.

Okay, that was a tad melodramatic. They probably didn’t have a lair, but I wasn’t kidding about the capture part. They wanted me because of what I could do. Or should I say, what my blood was capable of.