The Vampire Book of the Month Club

  Published 2016 by Medallion Press, Inc., 4222 Meridian Pkwy, Suite 110, Aurora, IL 60504

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  Copyright © 2016 by Rusty Fischer

  Cover design by James Tampa

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress

  Prologue

  Scarlet Stain takes a deep breath, kicks out the vent cover with her thick-soled boots, and before the heavy metal grate can clatter to the tile floor—thus alerting her captors—she reaches down to catch it with an expertly trained hand.

  Years in the Afterlife Academy for the Exceptional Dark Arts have trained her well, and she quietly slides the grate to the side even as she pokes her long, slender legs through the small opening.

  The drop is far, but she’s been trained on much higher assaults, though it doesn’t help that the floor is slippery. She lands silently, feeling a pinch in her left knee.

  She looks at the old scar, resting there just between her long, knee-high boots and short, thigh-high black skirt: an old war wound, left by her archnemesis himself, the dreaded and powerful Count Victus.

  She slaps her hands together, rubs them briskly as her martial arts instructor back at the Academy trained her to, and applies them to her wound. Once the healing warmth spreads through her knee, she stands, defenseless, looking around for something to use on her appointed mission. Fortunately, her escape route has dropped her right into the kitchen area.

  She grabs a paring knife and shoves it into the waistband of her short skirt, slips one more into the heel of her boot, and makes quick work of carving the tip of a spare rolling pin into a stake fit for Count Victus himself.

  She stands, ready to do battle, and skulks to the kitchen door. Outside the greasy circular window a conclave rages, the annual meeting of vampire royalty. Fifty of the world’s most powerful vampires are seated in one ultrasecret room deep underground.

  This is the Council of Ancients, the best of the best, the most influential, wealthy, powerful, and lethal gathering of vampires ever held. And she is here to slaughter them.

  All of them.

  Every last stinking, bloodsucking, life-draining one of them!

  That Scarlet was able to find the location of this year’s conclave means little compared to the fact that she was captured so soon after arriving. The thought that it might have been a trap set by Count Victus has naturally entered her mind, but . . . what of it? She has a job to do, and—trap or no trap—the time is at hand. Now she has overpowered her captors, leaving them lying in pools of their own vampire blood, and has found the heart of the party in record time.

  On the other side of the kitchen door, Count Victus sits at the head of a regal table filled with devastatingly handsome vampires. All are well over six hundred years old. All look striking enough to lounge around in tuxedos swilling scotch out of crystal glasses in some fancy cigarette ad.

  But these men are lethal, and it is Scarlet’s job to wipe them out, one by one. She knows it’s a suicide mission to attack one such Ancient, but all fifty of them—in the same room—at one time?

  Suicide: there’s simply no other word for it.

  She takes another deep breath, grabs her stake, and pushes through the kitchen doorway, odds be damned . . .

  I sigh, frown, and make some other woefully pitiful and decidedly self-indulgent author-type noises before closing the sleek silver laptop without saving the document.

  Ugh, another one bites the dust!

  Half an hour of work, a whole page of manuscript, flushed down the toilet. Or, in this case, that little bulging trash can in the lower right-hand corner of my laptop screen.

  But it’s the only thing to do.

  It just doesn’t . . . feel right, you know?

  And it hasn’t for some time.

  I can already imagine the irate user comments on my latest book blog if the page I just deleted were ever to make it to print:

  How did Scarlet find the conclave so easily? In book four you said Count Victus used his “cloaking scent” to mask his true presence. Have you forgotten so quickly, Nora?

  How could Scarlet grab the air-conditioning vent before it clattered to the floor? Wouldn’t a little thing we call “gravity” make that impossible, if not highly improbable? I mean, what’s next? Are we going to find out her father is really Stretch Armstrong in book six?

  Wow, Nora, some coincidence her escape route led her straight to the kitchen, a kitchen full of . . . weapons. Hmm, coincidence much? Next time, why not just have her drop into an armory and load up on machine guns? Try harder!

  Where were all the kitchen workers while Scarlet was stealing knives and whittling down rolling pins into lethal stakes? Surely with fifty hungry vampires to feed, there must have been some hustling and bustling going on in that kitchen when she dropped in unannounced? I work as a waitress at the local diner part-time after school, and I can tell you the only time the kitchen is that empty is before we’re open—or after we’re closed.

  How, if she hasn’t been able to kill Count Victus in your first four books, will Scarlet Stain be able to kill him and forty-nine other equally powerful vampires at the same time?

  How come you used the word conclave twelve times on the same page?

  And you know what?

  They’d be right.

  My publisher doesn’t understand why I can’t just “whip out another Scarlet Stain” adventure, but . . . it’s not so easy.

  After four books, it’s like I’m running out of plotlines, using too many coincidences to put the heroine of my books, Scarlet Stain, in just the right place at the right time.

  Sure, it’s easier on me, but these girls today are so sophisticated. They hop on those kinds of things in a hot minute.

  For instance, in book three I made the mistake of introducing a new character to my Better off Bled series, a mysterious and (of course) handsome runaway who rescues Scarlet Stain from Count Victus in a weak moment.

  That was all well and good, except that it just so happened this particularly mysterious and handsome runaway was a—wait for it—zombie who couldn’t feel pain, who couldn’t die, and who couldn’t be turned into a vampire, and let me tell you . . .

  Chicks.

  Went.

  Absolutely.

  Vine-swinging.

  Hair-pulling.

  Fist-pumping.

  Nuts!

  They flocked to my book blog and called me a cheater, a phony, and threatened to never read another Scarlet Stain adventure again unless I killed off the character. I did, on the very first page of my next book.

  At last they were happy, but that happiness came with a price (at least for me, anyway). Now it’s like I’m too paralyzed to finish the book, afraid to make another mistake like that again. I sigh and look out the coffee shop window, where I see the sun has set (like, hours ago!).

  I check my heart-shaped watch and curse under my breath.

  If I don’t skedaddle, tout de suite, I’m about to be late to yet another book signing.

  I slide the cursed laptop into my messenger bag, nosh on the last wedge of stale biscotti that’s bee
n sitting unattended for the last few hours while I wrote my latest misguided scene, and toss the wrapper and my empty hot chocolate cup in the trash on my way out the door.

  The evening air is crisp and cool this time of year, and I pull my jacket closer to my throat to keep out the chill.

  My publisher, Hemoglobin Press (get it?), always makes sure to release the latest Better off Bled title in October, just in time for plenty of brisk sales before Halloween.

  I check my watch again and do the mental math: the Books ’n Beans megastore is on the corner of Maple Drive, which is two blocks away.

  I can usually make it in ten minutes, walking at a comfortable pace, which is about all I can do with these stupid stiff black heels I always wear to these signings, but I have only eight minutes if I want to make it on time.

  I shrug, pull the messenger bag closer for warmth, and settle on being fashionably late. (Hey, it’s an author’s prerogative.)

  The heels click loudly on the pristine sidewalk of another spotless Beverly Hills side street, where I’m surrounded by clean trash cans and shiny No Parking at ANY Time signs every few steps.

  During the day this street—more like an alley, really—would be bustling with Porsches and BMWs and all types of delivery vehicles, but now it’s disturbingly deserted and all kinds of spooky.

  Well, I shouldn’t be surprised.

  It’s late for a school night, but the girls love these nighttime book signings, so as usual, I have to give the fans what they want.

  Forget the fact that I’ve already put in a full day of school, done my homework and my laundry, and would love nothing more than to crash in my dorm suite and chill.

  Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I couldn’t afford to go to Nightshade Academy if it weren’t for the fans.

  The street is dim and quiet, with fall leaves blowing in the vacant road and crinkling underneath my scraping heels. I think, for the first time, that I should have walked the main drag, just to be under some better streetlamps and, you know, around other living people who might hear me shout if something bad actually happened.

  This backstreet might be empty and cold, but it’s the shortest route, and I hate to be late.

  When I stop to adjust my messenger bag, I hear the footsteps. They stop moments later.

  I turn, see nothing, and smile.

  Ah, if only my fans could see me now, the horror writer spooked by the age-old Case of the Phantom Footsteps!

  How many times have I written this very scene in one of my books, some thoughtless teenager walking carelessly down a deserted alley in some gritty city, being stalked by an unseen force that leaves—insert scary movie announcer voice here—phantom footsteps?

  But this time it’s different. I’m not some thoughtless teenager; I’m not exactly careless; this is a perfectly desirable street in the middle of Beverly Hills—pretty much the safest place on earth—and no one is stalking me. (I wish!)

  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?”

  Chapter 1

  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.