The dinner party was charming in that old-world kind of way. Candlelight flickered off polished silver. Velvet curtains, mahogany walls, the scent of aged wine and roasted meat.

Then I saw her.

Noticed her.

A flash of pale fingers, too fast, too fluid dropping something into my mashed potatoes while the others laughed at some story I hadn’t been listening to.

She looked up at me. Smiled. The kind of smile that made your skin tighten, but not in a good way.

“Everything alright?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head. Her earrings caught the light tiny rubies shaped like droplets.

I forced a grin. “Yeah, just wasn’t hungry after all, long day.”

“You haven’t even tried the potatoes. I made them myself.” Her eyes didn’t blink. Not once.

I slid my plate away casually. Reached for bread instead.

She leaned in, voice a whisper. “Don’t ever want something a little more… organic.”

She grabs my thigh.

I froze. My glass slipped in my hand.

She giggled, covering her mouth. “Kidding, of course.”

But I wasn’t laughing. Neither were the shadows that seemed to lean closer behind her.

Across the table, her reflection was missing from the wineglass.

And I realized…I was the only fresh blood in the room.