Freddy was going to die.
Again, technically.
Freddy was going to die for the second (and hopefully final) time.
It was his own fault, really. He just didn't feel right being a blood-sucking monster of the night, he had spent long enough trying not to be a complete piece of shit human (to very little success).
That was his punishment: he had been a bad, bad boy for twenty-two years, and now, after failing to hunt for the entirety of his vampire-hood, he was going to starve.
Unless a mouth-watering therapist could give him the discipline he's been missing?
Amelia needed a new couch.
She was a respected clinical psychologist with a thriving practice specializing in the troubles of supernatural creatures. The couch her clients sat on had to be in perfect condition, because something had to be. Her mind was unreliable, the deep churning chaos suppressed only by strict personal rules.
Don't work past insurable hours.
Don't answer the door for a handsome stranger.
Don't fall in love with a vampire.