I looked at the spread again. Dark blue cover, silver lettering. “The first true tale from the undead trenches.” Sure.
I knew who had written it: Jon Delk, formerly of the vampire-hunting Blade Warriors, current hot author. Not that he knew it—thanks to a bit of quick memory wiping.
Of course, the sourcebehind the author had been me.
A few months ago, Jon had come by to talk me out of marrying Sinclair. A college student by day and ferocious vampire hunter by night, he'd sworn off the stake a few months ago. Meeting me had made him see a whole new side to vampires, I gathered. These days he and the rest of his little Cub Scout den from hell asked questions first and staked later.
Grateful for Delk's change of heart, I'd told him my story, which he used for a college paper. Then the manuscript disappeared, and Sinclair made Jon forget he'd written it. Problem solved. Right?
A fresh new take on the vampire tale from someone who's actually been there , according toPublishers Weekly .
“Jon's gonna be pissed,” I said, shaking my head.
“Only if we tell him.”
“Of course we're gonna tell him! We can't not tell him. That would be—”
“The feelings of the infant who wrote this are the least of your problems,” Marjorie pointed out sharply. “I can assure you, the vampire community will not be happy about this. We have spent a millennium in hiding; you've been in power for about a year, and now—”
“Charming anti-Anne Rice tale from a vampire with real world problems!” Marc read helpfully.
“We need to deal with this now,” Sinclair said quickly. “If we cannot stop the book's publication—”
“What's the spin?” I asked.
“Do you even need any?” Jessica asked. She looked a little like a cornered mouse when we all stared at her, then spoke up again. “Nobody's going to think there arereally vampires running around. I mean, look at this ad. If you were reading it, would your first thought be,oh my gosh, this is real, cover the kids in garlic and sprinkle the doorstep with holy water ? No way. It's obvious that it's a fiction book pretending to be nonfiction.”
“Except,” Marc said, “it's nonfiction pretending to be fiction.”
“Right, but what live human being—other than the very few of us who already know—will realize that? Of course, if you try to get the book pulled, that reallywill get people interested. Who's trying to stop this book? Why? Are they a satanic cult? Do they worship vampire mythology?” She paused for dramatic effect. “Then: why do they act like vampires? Do they really think they are? And wow, why don't any of them have suntans?”
Marjorie leaned forward and whispered in Sinclair's ear. He nodded.
“What? What was that? Don't keep secrets. Are you keeping secrets? Marjorie, don't you know the whole 'share it with the class' rule?” I said.
“I was only asking,” she said, “if your friend knew she was ill, and I was speaking privately because it was off the topic, and I didn't wish you to think I wasn't paying attention.”
“Thanks, but I did know,” Jessica said. She even smiled. Marjorie didn't, and I realized Jessica had made a classic mistake where vampires were concerned. Marjorie may have sniffed out Jessica's cancer, but she didn't give a shit if this specific blood-sheep ever recovered. She was just curious about Eric's feeding habits.
“Getting back to business,” Tina said. “I think Jessica makes an excellent point. Trying to restrain a book only increases its impact.”
“Very well,” Marjorie said. “I only wished to bring this to your attention. What you do with this information is entirely up to you.”
“Somebody better bring it toJon's attention,” I muttered, closing the catalog and trying to hand it back.
She gave me a chilly smile. “No, thank you, Majesty. I have plenty of copies.”
“Well, thanks for bringing that extra special bit of fun into our lives,” I said back, with equal warmth. Which was to say, with no warmth.
“Any excuse to spend extra time with Your Majesty.”
“I'll see you out,” Tina said, rising and gesturing to the door.
“Thank you,” Sinclair said politely, staring down at the catalog with a thin twist of his mouth, “for stopping by.”
“Yeah, thanks loads.”
“Majesties. Dr. Spangler. Miss.” And off she went, ready to spread more joy to other vampire households.
Chapter 16
“There is a book about you?” Alonzo asked, his dark Spanish eyes aglow.
More pop-ins! Oh, wait. It was possible Tina had mentioned the Europeans had scheduled another meeting. At least we were in one of the parlors this time, instead of being ambushed in the kitchen by bitchy librarians. In fact, this was my favorite parlor (who knew I'd ever live in a house where I'd have a favorite parlor?), with the cheerful candy-striped wallpaper and blond wood furniture. Big east-facing windows let in tons of natural light (I assumed), and the room was heated by a gorgeous, midnight blue ceramic stove in the corner.
I was beginning to feel like I was spending half my (new) life in parlors. Thank heavens we had four, or I would get bored with the wallpaper. Now the idea of opulent mansions suddenly made sense.
“Really and truly,” I answered Alonzo. “Look: we only told you guys so you wouldn't freak out if you, you know, happened to be in Barnes and Noble looking for some light reading before you iced the girl at the coffee counter.”
“I appreciate the genuine concern in your otherwise needlessly provocative statement,” Alonzo said. He shot his cuffs and looked at his watch, a big chunky silver thing that looked like it weighed down his wrist. He did it so often I assumed it was some sort of tic.
“Provoke this,” I retorted.
“The book is not quite out yet,” Sinclair pointed out, clinging to hope like a balding man with a sparse comb-over.
“Yes, it's a bright new fall offering,” I added. “Place your orders now. Beat the rush!”
“I'd like to beatyou ,” Sinclair muttered, which I didn't think was very unifying of him. Then, louder, he added, “We are, as you say, keeping you in the loop.”
In fact, there had been a wicked big argument about it. My initial take was, let them read about it on theNew York Times bestseller list. Who cares about their feelings? I mean, Gawd. Look at the sitch. We've got bigger problems than a book about my alleged (what was the opposite of alleged?) life story. Like Jessica beingdeathly friggin' ill . Sophie needing revenge. The Europeans needing to kick me out and take over. Maybe on that last one; it was possible they only needed to clear customs on the way home. Anyway, a book nobody would think was true was the least of my problems.
Tina and Sinclair were adamantly opposed to my own superior point of view. Like parrots playing off each other, they kept telling me in grating and repetitive ways that it was better to tell these Europeans about the book before they found out themselves and used our silence. Use it how, they didn't elaborate.
Anyway, since my number one complaint about being dead was that nobody told me anything, I eventually agreed to let Alonzo and the others know. For once,I'd called the meeting (well, Tina had called for me). For once,I was expecting company. Yeah! How 'boutthat ?
“I confess,” Alonzo was saying, “I have no idea what to say. This is an unusual problem.” He gave me an admiring look.