Hot for a Vampire Slayer

T he abbess once told me that the real problems are rarely the ones we spend our time worrying about.

It was, I believe, in the context of me fretting over the pain of getting a tooth pulled—as opposed to, say, the fires of eternal damnation.

At the time, I cradled my swollen cheek and rolled my eyes, but this might be the day I seriously reevaluate my centuries-deep poor opinion of her, because she was obviously right.

Lazlo doesn’t remember who I am, and I’m ready to panic about it. But that’s barely an issue, especially when confronted with an even more pressing discovery.