She reached the front door of the Institute and threw it open. The sun had just set. A glum vampire stood in the doorway, carrying several stacked boxes. He looked like a teenager with short brown hair and freckled skin, but that didn’t mean much. “Pizza delivery,” he said in a tone that suggested that most of his closest relatives had just died.
“Seriously?” Emma said. “Malcolm wasn’t making that up? You really deliver pizza?”
He looked at her blankly. “Why wouldn’t I deliver pizza?”
Emma fumbled at the small table near the door for the cash they usually kept there. “I don’t know. You’re a vampire. I figured you’d have something better to do with your life. Your unlife. Whatever.”
The vampire looked aggrieved. “You know how hard it is to get a job when your ID says you’re a hundred and fifty years old and you can only go out at night?”
“No,” Emma admitted, taking the boxes. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“Nephilim never do.”