Most awkward dinner date ever.

I finished as quickly as possible without choking, went outside to set up the sprinklers to water my herb beds, then headed up the stairs to the book nook. I tucked the Care and Feeding guide away behind the encyclopedias just as Cal was climbing the steps behind me. Somehow I thought that he would find an instruction manual for his species condescending.

I ducked into my bedroom to change into some comfortable yoga pants and a jade-green “Camp Half-Blood Hill—Demeter Cabin” T-shirt. Jane had gotten Gigi hooked on the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series, and Gigi had found the T-shirt on a particularly devoted Etsy fan site last Christmas. Unfortunately, it had been washed a few too many times and had shrunk a bit. But it was soft and comfy, and I wasn’t going to slink around the house in a silk teddy in my downtime.

By the time I emerged, Cal was settled on the window seat, looking through my new titles. His eyes scanned the Greek-style letters stretched tight across my chest. “Demeter? The goddess of harvest and plenty? That’s fitting. You do look particularly … bountiful in that shirt.”

“It was a gift,” I told him tartly, climbing onto the window seat. Cal’s legs were stretched toward me, his back propped against the wall. I copied his pose, careful not to let our feet touch. “Gigi bought herself a Hermes Cabin T-shirt. We wear them when we make s’mores.”

“Hermes.” He frowned. “God of thieves?”

“God of athletes,” I reminded him.

“He was never my favorite,” Cal said, shrugging. “There was an altar to the gods in my home, although my wife paid particular attention to Ares and Athena, to bring me strength and wisdom in battle. Anything to bring me home safely. I put a little something extra to pay tribute to Hestia, to help my wife along as she learned to cook. But she noticed, and the maelstrom that followed wasn’t worth risking it again.”

“Your wife was a bad cook?”

“Terrible.” He laughed, his face softening to a contemplative smile. “She made bread you could use as a discus. She just never got the knack of it. But her parents loved her too much to tell her how unappetizing her efforts were, so she left their house believing that she was quite the capable housekeeper. I don’t know how she managed it, but she burned a pot of boiling water once. The hem of her dress caught fire, and she ran out of the kitchen, stripping the smoldering material away. The pot boiled dry and cracked. She ended up standing in our courtyard, as naked as a plucked goose! I tried so hard not to laugh. But she was so indignant, standing there, arms crossed, mouth set in a firm little line, while she glowered up at me. And when I wrapped a spare cloak around her shoulders, all she said was, ‘Thank goodness we don’t have servants!’ And then she swept back into the kitchen to finish the meal.”

“And how was it?”

“Barely edible,” he said, shuddering. “But we laughed over it, eventually. We didn’t have many times like that. I haven’t thought about that day in … far too long. I’d almost forgotten about it.”

His eyes had a faraway look, as if he was scanning his internal banks for more memories of his wife, his family. His brow creased, a straight little line forming between them. Was he upset that he had to try so hard? Could he not remember what she looked like? In another thousand years, would he struggle to remember my name? Would I qualify for a spot in his recollections? It seemed unlikely that he could forget someone who tripped over his half-dead body and smuggled him away like a thief in the night. But Paul had only remembered me when he had no other options. This did not bode well.

Depressed by this train of thought, I asked, “What was her name?”

“Euphemia,” he said, smiling.

“Euphemia and Cletus?”

“Don’t start, woman.”

I nudged him with my foot. “It’s a sweet story, Cal.”

He smiled at me, catching my foot by the ankle and squeezing it gently. “Thank you for reminding me.”

I nodded, pleased that he seemed happy for the moment. Chewing on a strand of licorice, I dug into my new books and searched for any information on plants that had a paralytic effect on vampires or encouraged their bloodthirst. But this was a new field of plant research for me, and the work was slow. I took notes, made a little chart to cross-reference, and eventually threw it out when it started to look like a tiny inked-up patchwork quilt.

Frustrated, I crumpled up the paper and threw it into the wastebasket. I turned back to the shelf, letting my eyes wander over the gilded titles. I needed inspiration. I needed something that would connect all of the little bits of information floating around in my head. There was something itching at the corner of my brain, something I was missing, something I should know—

“Oh!” I exclaimed, launching myself at the window seat. I balanced one foot on the edge—right between Cal’s thighs—as I strained to reach a book on the far top shelf.

“Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing the position of my foot warily. I ignored him and jumped to the floor, A Guide to European Wildflowers in my hands. I opened it, grinned widely, and showed him a picture of vibrant blue blossoms.

“You, my friend, were poisoned with a combination of wolfsbane and bittersweet nightshade!” I exclaimed.

“That’s a poetic combination. What are you basing this on?”

“Pure conjecture,” I deadpanned. When he rolled his eyes, I explained, “OK, so we’ve discussed the fact that aconitine showed up in the Blue Moon poison, yes?” He nodded. “Aconite is another name for wolfsbane.”

“I thought we’d covered the fact that I’m not a werewolf.”

“According to this, aconite is sort of a catchall supernatural plant. It’s sort of funny that humans got this one right. Botanists believe that early Europeans attributed the plant’s supernatural quality to the unearthly blue color. Anyway, according to The Natural Versus the Supernatural, the plant contains an enzyme that basically opens up vampire neurotransmitters to constant stimulation. Your muscles, your nervous system, your vascular system are all wide open. If someone were to combine the plant’s effects with another compound …”

“I take it that’s where the bittersweet nightshade comes in?”

I opened The Natural Versus the Supernatural, pointing to the relevant passage. The illustration showed a climbing vine plant with strange purple flowers. The blooms hung from the stem in an arch, puffing out like a sultan’s cap over a distinct yellow stamen.

“Bittersweet nightshade contains a glycoalkaloid poison called solanine.”

“Do you know what a glycoalkaloid is?” he asked suddenly.

“I happened to perform very well in chemistry, thank you, so yes.”

“That is far sexier than I anticipated,” he said, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “Have I mentioned that I adore your little blouses and pencil skirts? I’ve never worked full-time in an office, but I think I would enjoy chasing you around my desk in the outfit you wore to work today.”

“Why am I the secretary in this scenario?” I asked. “I could be your boss.”

“Fine, you could chase me around your desk.” He sighed. “I would enjoy it either way.”

“Stop sidetracking me with premeditated sexual harassment,” I snipped. “Now, in humans, this causes dizziness, fever, intestinal chaos—the descriptions of which I will spare you—and sometimes paralysis. But vampires don’t get dizziness, fevers, or the intestinal pyrotechnics. Instead, you just get the paralysis. That might not be so bad, except, thanks to the aconitine, all of the little transmitters in your brain are wide open, so it’s a total shutdown of your systems.”

His face darkened, and my triumph at having found the answer was diminished. Someone had tried to tear him down completely, to make him defenseless, helpless, so they could sneak into his house and finish him. I couldn’t find the words to comfort him or to help him see that ultimately, it didn’t matter, that he’d outmaneuvered them anyway. So, I just kept talking.

“The only treatment for the poison is feeding, flushing it out with fresh blood,” I said, pointing to the page. “Unfortunately, in you, this seemed to trigger the emetic aspects of the solanine, and you vomited. A lot. On me.”

“Message received. I will stop vomiting on you,” he grumbled. I grinned cheekily and nudged him with my elbow.

I thumbed to an index of each plant’s ideal growth conditions. It was a concise little chart with color photos and a handy little map illustration with each entry.

“I think we can safely assume that whoever is diddling with the blood supply is the same person who poisoned you. If we could just figure out where this person is growing this stuff, it might help us figure out what they’re using for the mass poisonings.” My finger traced down the index, stopping next to a cluster of small white flowers with yellow centers. “That’s weird,” I mumbled, flipping through the pages for the plant’s full entry. I hopped up to grab The Natural Versus the Supernatural, finding the plant bolded in the index under “highly dangerous.”

I studied the illustration in Jane’s book. I murmured, “Glossy green leaves, white flowers, spots on the … how many plants could there be that look like that?”

“Is this a private conversation, or can anyone join?” Cal asked dryly.

“Cute.” I pulled a face at him and showed him the illustration. “When I was looking at the lab reports before, I couldn’t figure out why chemicals found in lungwort were showing up in the poisoned vampire’s blood. This plant in Jane’s book, fangwort, would be very similar in structure and chemical makeup. Jane’s book says it ‘fires the bloodlust of vampires to a painful degree; they will recognize neither friend nor foe.’ It’s supposed to grow in hot, humid areas of the Iberian Peninsula—you know, modern-day Spain, Portugal, a little tiny bit of—”

“I know where the Iberian Peninsula is, Iris.”

“I know, I know, you probably built the first road or furrowed the first wheat field ever sown there.”

“Brat.”

“Cradle robber.”

“Grave robber.”

When I couldn’t come up with a sufficiently snarky insult, I went on. “Fangwort is supposed to grow in the warm, humid areas of the Iberian Peninsula. But I swear to you, I’ve seen it before. I remember spotting something like that on one of my mom’s hiking expeditions. She used to take me on these hikes through the woods to find interesting plants for her garden. We’d cut a sample to dry and another to plant. She loved using wild, uncultivated flowers in her beds. She said it kept her gardens honest. And in general, they were heartier than what you buy at a nursery. And I remember seeing something like this weird-looking plant on one of the last trips we took before she died. Mom liked it, but we’d already taken so many that day that she didn’t want to be greedy. But—”

I hopped up, dashing to the bookshelf. I ran my fingers along the spines until I found the spiral notebook I was looking for.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for my mom’s cutting journal.”

“What is that, exactly?” he asked. “Was your mother a particularly violent woman?”

I shoved at his shoulders absently as I searched the shelf. Mom’s journal was a thing of beauty. A smooth canvas cover embroidered with little spring green leaves, hand-stitched by Gigi as a Girl Scout/Mother’s Day project. Inside, Mom had catalogued every interesting plant we’d seen on our hikes, by date, including the latitude and longitude, the size of the bed, a description of the environment, and a sketch of a sample. My mother’s neat block print brought a strange longing sensation that I hadn’t expected. I missed her so much. I missed the way she teased a laugh out of us when we were upset. I missed the way she cheated at Monopoly and tried to make us think that we’d just forgotten that she had hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place. I missed knowing that we were safe and that Mom and Dad had everything in hand.