The witch who’d cursed me was dead now. No chance to get her to reverse the curse.

Which meant I had to find the answer on my own. If I ever lost my chain—the only thing keeping me from truly becoming a creature of darkness—then I was seriously screwed.

And so was anyone who crossed my path and looked remotely appetizing.

I shuddered at the thought and willed myself to concentrate on something, anything, else.

I stirred the cocktail in front of me with a swizzle stick and stared down into its orangey depths. I pushed the cherry down, holding it under the surface as if trying to drown it.

After a moment, I let it bob back up to the surface.

Dark and miserable.

Just my type.

I pushed the drink away. With my luck, Mr. Dark-and-Miserable had poisoned it.

“Hey, can I get a shot of B-Positive?” I asked the bartender.

A couple of seconds later he slid a shot glass filled with familiar red liquid in front of me.

Don’t get grossed out. It’s really not that bad.

Blood is sent to places like Darkside by professional blood delivery services. They get their blood from willing donors who are paid well for their contributions. It was all very civilized. The rarer the blood type, the more expensive the shot.

I stuck with B-Positive. It was my fave. Because of the name, I could fool myself into believing it would cheer me up.

I tossed the shot back and waited for the euphoria to hit me.

A couple of minutes later I was still waiting.

The complimentary drink rested on a Darkside coaster. Other than the logo for the club, I noticed something else on the thick, round piece of cardboard. Handwriting. In blue ink.