Author: Molly Harper

“Did I just pass some sort of test?” he asked. “The test to determine whether your friends think I’m good enough for you?”

“Test.” I sputtered, giving a raspberried laugh. “That’s just crazy talk. There was no—yes. Yes, you did. I wasn’t intentionally testing you, but you did beautifully. Jolene was eating out of the palm of your suave and charming hand. Zeb obviously both fears and admires you. But you did turn his best friend into a vampire. He still rants about a guy who borrowed my iPod after a second date and didn’t return it. It could take some time for him to adjust to us double-dating.”

“I like Zeb,” Gabriel said. “He’s odd.”

“That he is.”

“He suits you. And he loves you, that much is obvious. You’re very lucky to have such a friend.”

“That’s very progressive of you. Some guys are uncomfortable with the whole male-best-friend thing.”

“Well, if I thought he had romantic designs on you, I would have to make him forget he’d ever met you and give him a sudden urge to relocate to Guadalajara,” he said solemnly.

“Aww, that’s so sweet.” I chuckled, kissing him. “You know, this counts as our third date since you made your ‘I’ll know when you’re ready for sex’ declaration. In human terms, that’s very significant.”

“Third date?”

“Yeah, there was an actual meal served while we were at Cracker Barrel, so I’m counting it. And the smoke-filled porch coziness and then tonight. In human dating terms, that’s three, which is like a sexual green light. So, next time, yes?”

“If the universe was fair, we would have finished what we started on the couch,” he agreed. “Next time.”

I gave him one more smacking kiss before he started his car. “And if Zeb shows up, he’s bound for Guadalajara.”

“Agreed.”

15

When you encounter unpleasantness from the human population, try to keep in mind that you will be able to dance on their graves long after they’re dead. It’s a cheering thought.

—From The Guide for the Newly Undead

As I headed toward my three-month undead anniversary, I got twitchy. Not “espresso marathon” twitchy but certainly not the sort of person you’d want to get stuck in an elevator with. My nerves were crawling under my skin. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t find anything I wanted to drink, but I still drank every drop of fake blood in the house—which I was sure would go straight to my thighs.

It took two episodes of an Intervention marathon for me to realize I was going through book withdrawal. I hadn’t purchased a new one in more than a month. And I hadn’t checked anything out of the library since the morning before I was fired…which also meant I had four books that were long overdue.

I had late fines.

I had never had late fines in my entire life.

I had to go to the library, right? It was closing in an hour, and there couldn’t be that many people there this late on a weeknight. Plus, I needed more information about wolves’ mating habits and the probability of accidental friend mauling. I’d done some research online, but I didn’t know how reliable it was. According to WerewolvesDebunked.com, werewolves manage to pass as human but they are far more in touch with their natural instincts than most humanoid creatures. It can mean a certain earthy, rugged appeal for the werewolf males who manage to hold on to all their teeth. But it also means they’re impulsive, temperamental, fiercely territorial, and not a whole lot of fun one week a month. They had my sympathy on that count.

Werewolf metabolism is so high that they have to scarf down calories all day just to sleep all night, like a mini-hibernation. Thanksgiving in a werewolf clan is like a full-on farm-animal massacre. Multiple turkeys, hams, chickens, sides of beef, legs of venison, and then they fight over the bones in the weirdest touch-football game ever. But constantly thinking and talking about food is what makes werewolves some of the best chefs in the world.

Think about it. Have you ever seen Emeril Lagasse during a full moon?

Contrary to popular myth, werewolves are born, not made. No matter how many times they bite someone, that person will not turn, though they will probably bleed profusely and will definitely be annoyed. Also, were-creatures can change day or night, no matter what phase of the moon. But their change is less controlled, more complete, during the full moon.

Personally, I thought they used it as an excuse. “Oh, I can’t remember eating your chickens and peeing on your couch. I was wolfed out last night.”

Werewolves are pack animals, led by a patriarchal alpha male. A pack generally lives in close quarters, filling an apartment complex, a subdivision, or a gated community in more affluent clans. In Southern packs, it usually means parking a number of trailers and houses on a farm. This fits nicely into the redneck stereotype of big, dysfunctional, overly close families.

After the chaos of the Coming Out, werewolves were sure that vampires had doomed themselves to extinction. Since many werewolves consider vampires to be stuck-up, pretentious snobs, they didn’t consider it a great loss. Most were-creatures watched with interest as vampires integrated into human society, but few were ready to come out into the open. Werewolves share their secrets with few select, trusted humans. Those who betray werewolf clans…well, I don’t know what happens to them, because they’re never heard from again.

While this information was a good start, it didn’t do much to convince me of Zeb’s safety.

On top of my research problems, I needed Mrs. Stubblefield’s signature to file for undead unemployment benefits, a service for new vampires. The 2000 Census showed that 29 percent of newly turned vampires lost their jobs during the unexplained three-day absence while they waited to rise. New vampires who lost their jobs could file for Council-funded benefits for up to six months. Fortunately, you didn’t have to prove that losing your job was a result of being turned. And since people expected me actually to pay for my synthetic blood, I was going to need all the help I could get.

Besides, I had to face the library sometime, right?

Well, I couldn’t. I got as far as the book drop in the parking lot and had a crisis of spine. I pictured having to make eye contact with my former coworkers, checking books out from the public side of the desk, looking Mrs. Stubblefield in the eye, and watching Posey incorrectly shelve books. I just couldn’t do it.

So I shoved the books into the drop and ran away like a girl. It took me a few blocks before I realized I’d forgotten my car, which was becoming a bit of a habit. I slowed on a seedier section of Main Street, with its big decaying brick structures from the town’s boom days. My parents never ventured through this part of town when I was growing up, and my mother offered dire warnings of what might happen if I did. And now that I was walking down the dark, weed-choked street, I could see why. I passed several pawn shops, liquor stores, a shop with cardboard sign over the windows that simply said “Videos.” And on the corner, I noticed a little blue sign that read “Specialty Books,” in peeling gold paint.

Half-Moon Hollow’s literary outlets were limited to an ailing Waldenbooks and the library. How could there be a bookstore in this town that I was unaware of? Of course, this place didn’t look as if it was a member of the local chamber of commerce.

Sure that I was about to enter a cleverly disguised adult bookstore, I pushed the door open. An old cowbell tinkled above the door as I walked in. It was an Ali Baba’s cave of literary treasures, their cracked spines winking out at my superhuman eyes through the incredibly bad lighting. I loved old books as much as the next bibliophile, but these were crumbling, suffering. I wandered the shelves, running my fingers over the spines. The shop offered everything from sixteenth-century manuscripts hand-copied by monks to old Tales from the Crypt comics, but finding either on purpose would be a small miracle.

Hanks of herbs hanging from the ceiling, candles of all colors and shapes, and scattered crystal geodes only added to the air of committed disorganization. There was no effort to let the customer know what subjects were located where. Plus, there didn’t appear to be a division of subjects, anyway. Books on astral projection were mixed in with books on herb gardening. Books on postdeath tax issues were mixed in with guides on the proper care and feeding of Yeti.

I picked up an orange soft-cover book, titled The Idiot’s Guide to Vampirism.

“It is official. Vampires are now uncool,” I muttered to no one, as there didn’t appear to be anyone else in the building.

I shuffled through the books. There were some useful selections, but it took a keen eye to find them.

Werewolves: A Vampire’s Best Friend or Foe?

A Compendium of Self-Defense Spells.

From Fangs to Fairy Folk: Unusual Creatures of Midwestern North America.

50 Ways to Add Variety to Your Undead Diet.

Living with the Dead: How to Happily Occupy a Haunted House.

And perhaps the most bizarre title: Tuesdays with Morrie.

I was so engrossed in my task, I didn’t detect the presence over my shoulder that asked, “Oh, hello, what are you doing?”

I turned to see a skinny old man, wizened to the point of cuteness. He was dressed in a gray cardigan with skipped buttons and brown corduroy pants held up with a black leather belt and bright red suspenders. There was a Mont Blanc pen stuck behind his ear, practically lost in the frizzled gray nest of hair. A pair of bifocals, repaired with white tape and a paper clip, sat perched on his balding crown.

I looked down and saw I was balancing stacks of books in my hands. I hadn’t even realized that I’d spent about a half hour sorting the books by fiction, nonfiction, author, then subject. It was as if I were in some sort of alphabetically induced trance.

I dropped the books to the floor. “I’m so sorry. I’m a complete freak. I used to work at the library, and it—it just drives me crazy to see books so out of order.”

“It’s a pretty habit. There are more shelves in the back, you know.” He grinned. Following Gabriel’s advice, I cast out my senses, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing. He was 100-percent human, just a funny old man who loved weird stuff.

“I must be the rudest customer you’ve ever had,” I moaned, shelving the books.

He chuckled. “No, that would be Edwina Myers, a horrible woman who tries to close me down every few years. Claims I’m a bad influence. Though whom I’m influencing I have no idea.” He nodded to the empty store.

“I’ve lived in the Hollow for my whole life. How did I not know about this place?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t advertise in the Yellow Pages. And there’s a limited interest in occult books in the Hollow. We don’t have walk-in business. I like to think of the store as one of those mystical places you pass right by unless you already know it’s there.”

“But I found it.”

“Yes, you did. Gilbert Wainwright, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.

“Jane Jameson.” I reached out to shake it, then shrieked as my fingers brushed the silver band he wore around his middle finger. I yowled, and my fangs extended. A defense mechanism, I suppose, kind of like cursing when you touch a hot iron. I drew back my hand and watched the dirty gray streak across my palm fade away.

“How interesting,” he said, his voice tinged with awe as he stared at his ring. “It’s still thrilling to meet one of your kind, you know. The Great Coming Out was a dream come true for me. As a boy, I used to pretend I was a vampire hunter on a mission to kill Dracula. Or I would pretend I was the vampire, stalking the foggy streets of London for a tasty lady of ill repute.”

“You must have had a very interesting childhood,” I said, suppressing a smirk.

I don’t think he heard me, because he continued, “It came as absolutely no surprise to me that vampires lived among us, so to speak. I’ve devoted my entire life to studying the paranormal. Ghosts, demons, the living dead, the undead, were-creatures. I’ve always found it all fascinating. But still, it gives me a zing whenever I see that.” He nodded at my healing palm.