The Vampire Book of the Month Club (2 page)

But I could have sworn I heard the footsteps trying—and failing—to keep step with mine.

I quicken my steps and put my head down, eager to get back into civilization again.

I'm four minutes from Books 'n Beans when I hear the footsteps again.

This time I know they're there. The scraping is loud and not in sync with my own. But I don't turn around because whenever I do, there's a pause. There's no one standing there, let alone chasing me with arms out wide or a big butcher knife in each hand.

I head straight for the First National Bank at the corner of Maple and Elm, the big mirrored one with streetlights beaming down.

I force myself to walk slowly. I clutch the messenger bag close to my side so it doesn't swish against my coat, hold my arms still so my coat won't rasp against my linen shirt.

I even hold my breath, trying to muffle my panic.

Now the only sound is my heels against the concrete.

And, of course, the footsteps of whoever is following me.

It's full dark out now, the street is deserted, and there's no one to help—no one around—if someone
is
following me.

I look left and see the bank's parking garage. I look ahead and see the megabookstore still too far away to be of any help.

But I can't look behind me for fear that someone will actually, you know, be
standing
there.

I finally reach the bank, smile at my reflection in the wall of mirrored glass—pause only slightly to stroke an auburn lock behind my ear—and walk briskly ahead.

The footsteps follow, but they must be echoes of my own shoes, because for the entire length of this humongous mirrored bank, I can see no one behind me.

No streaker in a long overcoat.

No escaped convict in orange prison scrubs.

No lunatic in a hockey mask with a chainsaw.

No Wolfman, no zombie, no mummy, no vampire on my tail.

Of course, a vampire—a
real
vampire—wouldn't cast a reflection, but . . .

Come on, Nora. Seriously?

We're going there?

Really?

On the way to a book signing where you're going to be autographing copies of your new
vampire
book?

Irony much?

I stand still, only to catch my breath. (I really need to get out from behind my laptop and move more often!)

Suddenly footsteps break the silence, heels on concrete forcing me to look back. This time I see a flash, a dark shape, moving quickly.

I look away too soon to see anything more, just that something is back there and gaining fast. So I run, something I haven't done in—gawd, who knows how long? I'm moving fast, sprinting in these stupid pumps and feeling awkward with my laptop bag slamming into my hips and the coat bunching up under my arms and the collar scratching my neck.

Am I seriously doing this?

Running?

In the middle of Beverly Hills?

But fear makes us do stupid things, such as look like a fool even in a world where YouTube exists and any number of fans could be shooting this right now, the harried author running from her own vivid imagination! (Idly I wonder how many hits something like this might actually get.)

Almost there now, almost, but not close enough to find safety in numbers. Anything could happen before help might arrive, all because I chose to spend the last two hours writing one more stupid page I'm never going to use in a book that I'll apparently never finish!

I start to breathe a sigh of relief when I finally see the alley behind Books 'n Beans just across the street, the back door already propped open and awaiting my arrival—they know me so well—when a hand grabs my elbow.

I whip around, messenger bag raised like a shield, room key up like a weapon. (Don't laugh. I saw it on
Dateline
once, or was it
20/20
?)

A plump teen waves a book in my face. “Nora?” she says, eyes wide as saucers. “Nora
Falcon
? Is it really
you
?”

I gasp, laugh, and sigh all in an instant.

What a dope I am!

I stop, stand still, feel a sudden thwacking sensation in my chest from too much exertion. I put my hands on my knees, catching my breath. All this time speeding up, slowing down, looking back, peering into mirrors, and I've been running from . . . a fan!

With eager hands, she shoves a copy of Better off Bled #4 at me.

I scramble for one of the six brand-new Sharpie pens in my bag.

“I can't believe it. My friends told me I was stupid, waiting around the corner for you to show up, but I know from that interview you gave in
Teen Talk
that you go to Nightshade Academy and your favorite coffee shop is the Hallowed Grounds, and I whipped out a map and figured, ‘If she lives so close, she probably won't drive. Plus she's always talking about being a vegetarian, so that must mean she goes green, which probably means she doesn't even own a car, so . . . if she walks, this is the way she'd go!' And here you are! I can't believe it. My friends have been waiting in line for, like, hours to meet you. I just got here!”

“That's great detective work,” I say, finally finding a Sharpie and pulling off the cap with my teeth.

“You think?” she asks, all braces and glasses and platinum-blonde curls.

I nod, holding the front flap of the book open with my pen poised.

“Gwendolyn,” she says, already knowing the drill.

I write a short personal note, sign it with a flourish, and hand the book back. I'm so grateful she's not a mummy or a werewolf that I'd gladly buy her a lifetime supply of Scarlet Stain books instead of just signing the one.

She reads it, smiles, and kind of lingers there on the sidewalk, eager to chat.

I'd love to. Man, I would
much
rather stand on a dark backstreet and talk to one fan than sign books for three hundred, but duty calls.

“Are you coming to the store?” I ask, inching toward the back entrance and hoping she'll get the hint.

“Heck no.” She laughs, already wise beyond her years. “That's for suckers! I already got my autograph. I'm heading straight for eBay!”

I frown, then laugh. “Well, off with you, then. I better get going and make sure your friends don't have to wait any longer.”

“OK,” she says.

I wave and start walking.

So does she. “Hey, I meant to ask,” she says over her shoulder, clutching the book to her chest as she stands in the middle of the deserted street, “was that your boyfriend just now?”

“W-w-what? Huh?” My heart's suddenly pounding again. “When? Who?”

“You know,” she says conspiratorially, “the hot guy behind you who disappeared the minute I showed up?”

There is one at every book signing.

I call them vannabes, short for vampire wannabes.

You know the type.

They're not just Goth; they're
way
Goth.

They don't merely read vampire books or watch vampire movies; they inhale them—lots of them, as many as their fake-contact-lensed eyes can endure.

They are allergic to the sun, to human boys, and apparently to modern fashion.

They dress as if they're out of an old
Dracula
movie, with frills and lace and pancake makeup and old hair combs.

I worry about them because they don't just like vampires; they want to
be
vampires. As in, literally, they want to feast on blood, live forever, have sharp teeth, and sleep by day, live by night—eternally. At least they
think
that's what they want, but they think they want it
more than anything
.

Some are young—too young to be reading my books (which can get a little racy and a
lot
violent, if I do say so myself), let alone be out past midnight at one of my standing-room-only book signings.

This one is roughly my age, seventeen or so, washed out, trembling in anticipation over meeting
the
Nora Falcon, author of the best-selling Better off Bled series featuring the fictional heroine Scarlet Stain, she of the flowing red locks, bodacious backside, and elite vampire-slaying legends.

“I can't believe it's
really
you.” She squeals as she hands over the fourth and latest installment in the series,
Better Bled Than Dead
. “I've read all your books. This is by far the best!”

“Thank you,” I say, hoarse from three straight hours of saying thank you. “That really means a lot to me . . .” I leave an intentional pause there at the end as the international sign for
Insert your name here
.

She blurts, “Anastasia,” and averts her gaze.

“Anastasia.” I sigh, pausing before committing it permanently to the inside jacket of the thick book I'm holding. “Is that your
real
name?”

“That's the name my coven gave me,” she says somewhat self-consciously, looking to her left.

I follow her glance to a trio of identically dressed girls waving.

I wave back and murmur, “Some coven.”

Anastasia says, “I know, right?”

And the way she says it, I can't tell if she's being self-deprecating or actually believes it's
some coven
.

“Maybe I should address this to your
real
name,” I suggest, somewhat maternally, although we're clearly the same age. “You know, just in case you want to show it to your grandkids one day.”

She takes a step back. “Well, why would I have grandkids?” she asks, snipping off each word like a tailor on a strict deadline cutting a hemline.

Uh-oh, she's not just a vannabe; she's a true believer. They're even worse. They believe vampires are real, and they hang out in covens and get dressed up and go to book signings at midnight.

“Well, you know, just in case you and your . . . coven over there grow up, get married, and have—”

“Grow up!”

Now her coven is no longer waving but looking like they're about to curse me from where they stand slurping frozen lattes in the bookstore café.

“Vampires never grow up. You of
all
people should know that, Nora Falcon!”

The bookstore security team—two bookish geeks barely older than me wearing mustard-yellow Books 'n Beans cashier aprons—look at us anxiously.

Really anxiously, as in,
We hope you know what to do in this situation, Nora, because one of us just wet his pants.

I smile, wave, and nod to let them know I'm OK and turn my attention back to Anastasia. “Silly me,” I say through clenched teeth. “Of course you're right,
Anastasia
.”

She calms down a little as I make a big show of writing the following in her book:

To Anastasia, a true believer, loyal fan, and beautiful soul.

All my best,

Nora Falcon

She looks at it, sighs, harrumphs, and then holds it triumphantly over her head for her whole coven—all three of them—to see.

I reach for my second bottled water of the evening and turn to greet the next girl in line.

Only, it's not a girl—and he.

Is.

Hot.

Now, fair warning, I am
not
one of those girls who throw the word
hot
around loosely.

When you go to a school like Nightshade Preparatory Academy for Exemplary Boys and Girls in a place like Beverly Hills, well, hot guys are literally a dime a dozen.

I mean, these are guys who get paid to be hot: athletes, movie and TV stars, male models, that kind of thing.

These are the guys you see walking around half-naked in shaving cream commercials, wearing next to nothing in underwear ads, or leering at you from billboards as you drive to the mall.

So when I say this guy is hot, I mean hotter than hot. I mean
red
hot: flawless skin, high cheekbones, dark hair cut short—just right for an action figure.

“Uh, hi, um, hellooooooo,” I stammer and purr, and now it's my turn for trembling hands as I reach to grab the copy of
Better Bled Than Dead
.

He holds it just out of reach, making me look even more awkward as warmth creeps up my throat and into my cheeks.

“Can I just say,” he oozes in a voice as smooth as caramel drizzling across a butter pecan sundae (both of which I could die for right about now, btw), “what an honor it is to meet Nora Falcon?
The
Nora Falcon.”

“Please,” I gush as he finally hands over the book. “I bet you say that to all the best-selling authors.”

Ugh. Did I really just say that?

To
him
?

What a totally ridiculous thing to say to the first, and possibly only, hot guy to ever show up at one of my book signings.

I search his movie-star-handsome face for signs of revulsion and see only the darkest chocolate-brown eyes I've ever had the good fortune to peer into, live and in person. “Actually,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially as a wisp of spicy cologne wafts pleasantly off his broad chest, “this is the first time I've ever been to one of these. But when I heard you'd be here tonight, I just couldn't resist.”

I blush and open the book cover, and a piece of paper falls out. “Oops.” I reach for it as it flutters onto the predictably black tablecloth the bookstore has used to cover up the fold-up picnic table I'm sitting at (you stay classy, Books 'n Beans), surrounded by towering stacks of my new book.

As I reach to hand it back, I take a peek and see it's a class schedule for none other than . . . Nightshade Academy.

What are the odds?

He reaches for it with long fingers tipped by manicured nails. “Sorry. I don't know
how
that got in there.”