Authors: Under Suspicion
I watched Vlad’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows come together. “The Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement. We don’t shorten it.”
Will’s expression said he was waiting for more, and Vlad rolled his eyes.
“Yes, we are a rather secretive organization.”
I cleared my throat. “But isn’t VER—sorry, the Empowerment Movement—isn’t it basically running the UDA now? I mean, you’ve got Eldridge and Dixon and now you.”
Vlad looked positively disgusted and ignored me completely. “As I was saying, the Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement is a rather secretive organization. To you people. But there are instances—like the egregious and degrading portrayal of our kind, especially just to make a few bucks—that demand we not stay silent. As I mentioned, this will be a peaceful protest.”
Will blanched. “I suppose that’s good to know.”
Vlad looked toward the window wistfully. “Originally we were going to have a parade.”
I swung my head to gape at Vlad over the seat back. He looked slightly sheepish as he angled himself away from a lone shaft of sunlight. “That one fizzled, for obvious, we-burn-in-sunlight reasons.”
Will leaned forward toward me, pressing himself into the front seat. The stubble on his chin brushed my ear, giving me a completely inappropriate little thrill.
“This bookstore we’re headed to have an adult section?”
“You’re disgusting,” I muttered.
“I’m only human, love,” Will said, winking.
I gritted my teeth, clamped my knees together, and tried to focus on the San Francisco streets racing toward us and the bits of my life flashing before my eyes. I almost took a bite of the dashboard when Nina spied a parking spot the size of a postage stamp and attempted to wedge her car into it. My heart was pinballing against my rib cage as Nina made her way into the spot, “tapping” the bumpers before and behind us because “that’s what they’re there for, silly.” Once she had parked, Nina killed the engine and went to work smoothing her hair.
“We’re here!” she crowed joyfully. “How’s my hair?”
“Great.”
I slammed the car door behind me and watched Vlad beeline to a group of vampires, all similarly attired as Count Chocula, all looking distressed and sullen.
Behold the bastions of Hell: a group of immortal teenagers decked out with hair gel, black nail polish, and toothy protest signs.
The VERMers were huddled together in some sort of fang-tastic motivational meeting. I half expected them to pile all their pasty hands together and then do one of those bouncy, inspirational cheerleader yells: “Vampires, vampires, vampires, YEAH!”
Will was doing an almost imperceptible bounce from foot to foot and I put my hand on his arm. “Don’t worry. The VERMers talk about empowerment, but they still get their blood from bags. You should be fine.” I smiled warmly.
“And I suppose you consider that the kind of pep talk that should be comforting?”
I rolled my eyes and yanked Will after me as I tried to keep my eye on Nina, who was elbowing her way through glamoured teenagers. The teens eyes were glazed, their breathing slow; it is this “glamour” that gives vampires their instant allure and constant access to willing necks.
I pointed to a particularly affected girl. “Remind me to get after Vlad for using glamours.”
“Isn’t that kind of their,” Will made air quotes, “thing?”
I mimicked his quotes. “Their “thing” is like shooting fish in a barrel. Now come on.”
When we finally got through the double glass doors of Java Script, the crowd was thinner, but not by much. I realized I was still gripping Will’s wrist, so I let it go. My fingers brushed his and he paused; then he laced his fingers through mine and little pinpricks of heat shot through my body. The gesture might have been completely platonic and under the guise of guardianship, but there was something about the way our hands fit together that gave me pause.
“I think they’ve set the author up over here,” Will said, letting go of my hand.
I followed him and Nina through the stacks of polished hardbacks, best sellers, and reader recommendations to a life-sized cardboard cutout of Eliza Draconie. Eliza stood one-dimensionally six feet tall, looking smug in head-to-toe leather and shoes to die for. Plumes of orange and pink smoke were painted behind her, to give the “just stepped out of a cheery, fashionable Hell” look.
If only.
Nina whipped around Eliza and stopped dead; Will and I, in turn, rammed into each other.
“That’s Edie Havenhurst?” Nina gasped.
I don’t know what I expected from a woman who spent her life writing about fictional vampire fashionistas, but Edie Havenhurst was not it. And judging by Nina’s slack-jawed expression, Edie didn’t meet her expectations, either.
Edie was sitting behind a table stacked with pink-spined paperbacks that reached to her shoulders. The elegant blond waves that were a shoulder-sweeping halo in her “About the Author” picture stuck out in random arches now, with black roots giving way to brassy blond streaks that made her thick eyebrows look even darker, dwarfing her already small brown eyes. She wore no makeup, and rather than the selection of haut couture that Eliza Draconie sported, Edie Havenhurst wore a nondescript turtleneck sweater and pants suit.
“She’s wearing sneakers!” Nina hissed.
Underneath the table Edie’s legs were crossed at the ankles, the hem of her pants rising enough to show off thick white sport socks and those roundy boat shoes that are supposed to tone your thighs and firm your ass just by virtue of lacing them up.
“I expected Steve Maddens, at the very least.” Nina shook her head disappointedly.
“Nina, if you love her books, you shouldn’t—”
“Judge a book by its cover?” Will said with a satisfied grin.
I linked arms with Nina and guided her through the crowd. “We’re here. You might as well get your book signed.”
We stopped in front of Edie’s table and I felt Nina stiffen, heard her let out a tiny yip. Her eyes were Disney cartoon wide, and her small chin hitched upward, with lips slightly parted. I started to panic.
I knew this look.
I loathed this look.
I followed Nina’s laser-sharp gaze and gave a little yip myself.
He was beautiful. He was hunched over, with one perfect, large hand resting on Edie Havenhurst’s shoulder. Even in this crouching state you could tell that this man was tall, commanding; he wore his confidence as well as he wore his relaxed Chinos and his smart blue button-down shirt. His eyes—an amazing cross between golden wheat and burnt sugar—were focused wholly on Nina.
The bookstore din seemed to fade and I realized I was trapped inside Nina and Mr. Perfect’s lovestruck bubble. I stepped forward and gave Nina a hard, for-her-own-good shove.
She pitched forward, breaking the mesmerizing stare, throwing her copy of Fendi and Fangs forward so that it hit poor, unsuspecting Edie smack between her too-small eyes.
While Edie rubbed vigorously at the red spot that the book had left, I noticed that her fingers were short, her nails stubby and bitten to the quick, and that I had likely lost Nina forever.
“Oh geez,” I breathed out.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want my best friend to find true love. I did. For years I lived vicariously through Nina’s never-ending parade of well-muscled party boys and San Francisco power brokers. She brought home millionaires and dukes, and they almost always left with all their blood. But when her eyes went wide and her lips pursed like that, I knew there was going to be trouble—and I was the one usually up to my neck in it.
“Oh, are you okay?” His smooth voice matched his burnt-sugar eyes.
“I’m fine.” Nina’s voice came out soft and breathy—like a sex kitten or Michael Jackson.
“I’m Nina.”
“Harley.” The man held out that perfect hand and Nina grasped it; the whole exchange happened just above Edie’s dark roots.
“I’m Sophie and we were just leaving.” I thanked Edie for politely ignoring the Taylor Swift video going on above her, jammed Nina’s now-signed copy of Fendi and Fangs into my purse, and pushed Nina away from the signing table.
“Harley.” Nina was mouthing the word, her tongue snaking over her lips. “I think I’ve found my Prince Charming.”
“Oh, not again,” I groaned.
Before I could suck in a breath, Nina shook me off and disappeared back into the crowd of gawkers and vampire fans. She pushed her way through them with purpose and I knew—with a sickening, sinking feeling—that she was headed back toward Prince Charming, in search of her happily-ever-afterlife. The people around me seemed to close in, their voices churning around me, and I could hear the vague pulse of the VERMers’ protest cries outside. I felt myself being jostled and tugged by the crowd moving toward Edie. Sweat started to bead at my hairline as panic gripped my chest.
And then there were hands on my shoulders. I sank back against a warm body and glanced up at Will, who slipped his arms around me—part Guardian, part friendly protection—and pulled me to the empty table that Alex and I had shared a day earlier. I sank down gratefully, using my fingertips to rub small circles on my temples until I could feel the tension loosen.
“I think I was about to have a panic attack,” I said.
“Should we get out of here?”
I shook my head. “I can’t leave without Nina. She could be in”—I paused—“love.”
Will looked alarmed, leaning into me. “Is he ... ?”
“A vampire?” I supplied. “No.”
“Is that allowed?”
I shrugged as Nina wound her way through the crowd to where Will and I were stationed.
Harley was walking behind her, and both were beaming wild, maniacal, puppy love grins.
“Crap,” I muttered under my breath.
“Will, Sophie.” Nina tore her eyes away from Harley in a way that made it obvious that it pained her to do so. She looked at Will and me. “This is Harley. Harley, my best friend, Sophie, and her friend Will. Harley is a writer.”
“Like the Havenhurst bird?”
Harley raised a fawn-colored eyebrow. “Not exactly.”
“Harley writes nonfiction. He’s here on a publicity tour.”
Without missing a beat Harley presented me with a thick hardcover book, the title Vampires, Werewolves, and Other Things That Don’t Exist in bold red letters on the cover.
I stopped, grinned, and showed the book to Nina.
“Did you see this, Nees? It’s a book about legends.”
Usually the word “legend,” or the indication that Nina herself is nothing more than a fig-ment of some Hollywood film crew’s imagination, made her bristle, made her tongue flick over one sharp fang as if to prove her “real-ness”—but apparently, her bubble of Harley love worked like a snuggly force field and she ignored me and the book.
I tried to hand it back to Harley with a “Wow, looks interesting,” but he held up a hand and, like a benevolent ruler, shook his head.
“You take that copy for yourself. My treat.”
I looked down at the book in my hand, the giant yellow ribbon marching across the bottom of the front cover boasting: FREE PROMOTIONAL COPY. DO NOT SELL.
“How nice of you. I’ll treasure it always.” Because it was right about the perfect thickness for spider and general bug smashing. “But we should really be heading out now.”
I reached out to grab Nina’s arm, but she held out her keys and dropped them in my hand.
She linked arms with Harley and rubbed up against him.
“Would you mind taking the car home? Harley and I are going to have coffee. He is just so fascinating.”
I could have answered, or stripped off all my clothes and tap-danced naked to a “Yankee Doodle Dandy” medley. It didn’t matter. Will and I ceased to exist as Nina and Harley basked in the glow of adoration. And I’m pretty sure they were both adoring Harley.
“Harley, Harley, Harley! There you are!” A small, round, balding man was gruffly pushing people and making his way toward the café. When he saw us, he stopped, pulled out a yellowed handkerchief, and mopped his clammy brow with it. His eyes were slate gray and they were narrowed, laser sharp on Harley. As he rushed toward us, I noticed his gray suit had a weird, glossy sheen. Although perfectly tailored, it still hung oddly on the little man’s potato-like body.
“Roland,” Harley called out, his jovial voice cutting through the coffeehouse din. “Nina, everyone, this is my agent, Roland Townsend.”
“Charmed, charmed,” Roland said, without offering a hand or looking away from Harley.
“I’ve been looking all over for you. The guys from Twentieth Century Fox want to have dinner with you.”
Harley looked from Roland to Nina and grinned easily. “That sounds great. Tell them we’ll do it tomorrow at Gary Danko. And add one.” Harley held up an index finger and bobbed Nina gently on the nose with it. I felt my afternoon cookie lodge somewhere in my throat; judging by the disgusted snarl on his face, I knew Will felt the same.
Roland watched the exchange and continued sweating like a sponge; our proximity made me feel sticky. The handkerchief came out again and made its rounds over his bald crown.
“Plus one?” he asked, with his bushy gray eyebrows raised. “Her?” He gestured toward Nina.
Harley cocked his head, his eyes studying Nina. “Her. That is, if she’d care to join me?”
This is the point in most male-female relationships where I melt into a bowl filled with jelly and pull out all the stops in my impressive vocabulary, using homemade words like “leh” and
“wah.” But Nina handled everything like a pro. She cocked her head so that her hair fell over one shoulder, a few glossy strands seductively crossing her cleavage. She licked her top lip with the tip of her tongue in a way that suggested something sexily sinister and smiled coyly.
“Pick me up at seven.”
Will and I were waiting on the sidewalk outside the bookstore while Nina finished up her shopping/flirting/ judging of fashion-flawed writers.
“So,” Will said, his hands jammed into his pockets, “that Harley guy. He’s ... one of them?”
I frowned. “One of who?”
“You know,” he dropped his voice. “A demon or something.”
“I don’t think so. Why? Do you think so? Did you see his feet? I didn’t notice if he had hooves.”