The Vampire Book of the Month Club (24 page)

She too has blossomed since becoming one of the undead, her skin a surprisingly appealing slate of clean lines and sharp edges, her eyes once so lively now dark and alluring, her muscles more defined, her movements—like Wyatt's and like mine—more limber and self-assured.

She's even started doing her own stunts on the show and no longer complains when the shoot stretches overnight and she's able to give in to the insomnia all three of us have shared since the fateful events of that torturous, then freeing week that seems so long ago.

I smile, watch my best friends and fellow vamps stand next to each other, and reflect on where we've been, where we are, where we're headed.

Life hasn't been easy since I turned over those three flash drives to my editor at Hemoglobin Press, but it certainly hasn't been dull; that's for sure.

We still have our busy schedules: Wyatt with his constant modeling, Abby with her shoots and reshoots, me with the heavy edits my editor demanded—to say nothing of a full course load at Nightshade Academy.

And always, always, the danger from Reece is ever present.

Sure, he let us go after turning us, but then, what choice did he have?

The Council of Ancients decreed his punishment, and he was forced to abide by it, even if it meant his face would remain horribly disfigured for eternity.

And he certainly couldn't have turned in my book by himself, not without raising questions about why I wasn't doing it and where I went and what he did with me.

And so he let us go, swearing his oath of revenge that if we did anything to ruin the conclave, he would personally devour our worlds and torture us for the rest of eternity.

We believed him, but with the conclave less than a month away, that doesn't mean we still don't have a few tricks up our sleeves.

Now all we have to do is survive the first few days of the winter solstice.

If we can do that, our plan might just prevail.

Well, I'd hardly call it a plan—hunch is more like it, but it's better than nothing.

And after all, the lives of nearly thirty thousand people depend on us.

Hey, nothing like a little life-or-death pleasure to put oral reports and pop quizzes in perspective!

I hear a throat clearing, shattering me out of my reverie.

I look up and see another vannabe standing in front of me, book outstretched in pale, black-tipped fingers, toe tapping impatiently, dark lips curled into a permanent scowl that only manages to crease the heavy pancake makeup she has slathered on for my benefit.

“Name?” I ask, stifling a yawn and hoping she won't notice.

She doesn't. “Countess Cruella the Second,” she says proudly, daring me to dispute her with dark eyes surrounded by even darker mascara.

I smile and sign per her request.

Around me, though I know the noise level hasn't changed any, the room grows silent and dark, as if someone has pulled a plug but only I can see the difference.

My cold skin tingles, and my nostrils flare involuntarily, but there is no smell to alert me, no change in the room's temperature to cause the sudden decrease in skin temp.

My hand begins to tremble around the pen between my fingers. My shoulders tingle as if someone is reading over my shoulder. I force myself to focus on my signature, slowing it down so my writing doesn't careen off the page and onto the tablecloth.

As I hand the book back, I suddenly realize the reason for my discomfort: a cloaked figure—dark, shadowy, and somehow vaguely familiar—lingers by the Books 'n Beans café. OK, so cloaks aren't
exactly
a rarity at these freaky late-night signings, but this cloak looks particularly authentic. Most of the costumes worn by my fans are amateurish at best, like curtains with the rods taken out or leftovers from Halloween rooted out of the clearance aisle in early November. The vannabes dress more authentically, but those are girls, and this cloak is definitely hiding a very male body.

I cut a glance to Wyatt and Abby, hoping they've seen, but Wyatt's showing off my autograph and Abby's making gag-me faces at it. Neither has seen, nor is likely to spot, the cloaked figure just beyond the line of fans and vannabes.

I strain my eyes, looking for something identifiable to confirm this connection we seem to have, for some distinguishing mark or some reason I should be feeling the way I do, but there are too many people, too many distractions, to focus.

Countess Cruella the Second is blathering on about something book-related, something she obviously feels really inspired about, and I smile and nod, watching desperately as the cloaked figure fights against the crowd of fans to reach the bookstore exit.

I feel trapped and smothered and eager to get up and follow.

But I can't just stand up and desert my post, not with a line of a hundred or more fans still waiting for my autograph.

Besides, that would alert people, make them wonder why I'm acting so strangely, and as surely as I'd be following the cloaked figure, they'd be following me.

And where would I lead them? What if the man in the cloak is dangerous? Am I willing to lure innocent victims to their deaths just to satisfy my own morbid curiosity? No, there's still too much of the human in me to become that cruel that fast.

I do my best to ignore Countess, fan though she is, and watch the cloaked figure carefully. It's not easy. He's chosen his wardrobe well, black being the predominant color at a vampire book signing. But he is taller than most of the girls and more solid. Evil wafts off him, turning my stomach as if I suddenly opened a Dumpster full of decaying bodies.

I can't believe how revolted I am, how alert and reviled I feel simply at his mere presence.

Am I overreacting?

Or reacting appropriately to a threat?

To a very real, very present danger?

I'm still getting used to the vamp in me, still uncovering hidden meanings and physical reactions I find hard to master with so much else going on in my life.

The shape pivots and sidesteps a random coven. He zigs, he zags through the boisterous, young, hormonal crowd, always careful to avoid showing his face.

I admit, I almost miss it myself. But then, just before he flees the store altogether and blends into the darkness outside, he can't resist glancing over his shoulder for one last look at the guest of honor.

I am waiting for him, purposefully, relentlessly . . . patiently.

I catch his glance. He turns away quickly, unsure of what to do, then stops, the door half open, letting in the chilly air of another October evening in Beverly Hills, and turns back.

Our eyes meet, or should I say, my eyes meet his eye. Singular.

The scar tissue looks even worse now, dead and decaying, like a gray stain across his permanently shut eyelid. I can't help but smile to see the damage I inflicted, little old me, with the very laptop he forced me to write
his
book on. If I thought he looked ugly before, it's only gotten worse. His skin is twisted and sallow, a cross between gray and yellow, the scars running like melted rivulets down his once-handsome face. It's like a mask, so rubbery and awful. Others must think it's fake. Only those who know better realize it's the real thing.

Somehow that makes it even worse.

The smile of satisfaction tugging at the corners of my lips infuriates him, and he exits roughly, nearly knocking down a trio of young Goths just showing up late for the signing.

They grumble but make way, the intensity of his scowl—to say nothing of the burnt side of his face—shocking the fake gaiety right out of them.

I watch him for as long as I can and then turn back to Cruella.

She is still talking, smiling, clueless to my anxiety and suffering, and I nod, hoping she can't see the goose bumps on my forearms or the hair on the back of my neck standing up or the bleak hopelessness splashed across my pale face.

She turns to exit the line, and I frown, unable to conceal my powerful emotions any longer.

Wyatt sees it, gives me a
What's up?
look from across the room as Abby, too, shows concern.

I think briefly of alerting them somehow to Reece's presence, but then I stop and remind myself:
It's not them he's after, is it, Nora
?

Instead I rub my eyes and put my clasped hands to the side of my head in the universal sign for
sleepy
and watch them smile with relief.

They turn to each other, whispering in their own intimate, before-we-knew-Nora secret language as I grab a fresh Sharpie to sign another hundred or so books before I can finally call it quits and collapse into bed for another few quick hours of sleep before the day begins anew.

As I greet another fan, sign another book, and begin the process all over again, I can't help but think how alone—how utterly and completely isolated—I am in this crowded room.

How alone I'll always be, singled out for destruction by an evil force more powerful than I can ever hope to be. How alone I'll always be until I can snuff Reece out for good and accept the fact that I will live forever.

As I look at the cover art while preparing to sign yet another copy of Better off Bled #5:
Scarlet's Sacrifice
, I suddenly realize the similarities between myself and my fictional heroine.

Now I too have a nemesis, though he is half as charming and twice as deadly as poor fictional Count Victus.

And, alas, I'm not alone in writing my own ending.

For Reece will surely play a part in whether I live or die—and how painful an experience each might be.

I open the book to the title page, look up, and smile at the next vannabe in line.

“Let me guess,” I say, Sharpie poised for another autograph. “Countess Esmeralda the Fifth?”

“Close,” says the pancake-faced teen. “Esmeralda the Sixth!”