Charlie
I woke up feeling like I'd been run over by a truck full of emotional baggage, then backed over again for good measure by a steamroller of existential dread.
After hearing Apollo and Cyrus last night—hearing about the wolves, the vampires, the mysterious potion that apparently made me supernatural catnip—I'd gotten maybe three hours of sleep. And those three hours? Pure nightmare fuel. My brain had helpfully provided me with a greatest hits compilation of every horror movie I'd ever watched, except I was the star and my acting skills were limited to screaming and running in slow motion.
Through it all, one thought hammered against my skull like a deranged woodpecker:
I refuse to be helpless.
I wasn't going to be the damsel in distress who stood around wringing her hands whi
