“Hey, have you seen—”
“And look who else came out to see you!” Nina’s eyes were glossy and gleeful; she linked arms with Harley, who looked handsome in a brown corduroy jacket and slacks. Nina pinned us all with a warning glare. For the first time in my life, I felt a tiny niggle of fear.
Could Vlad?
Could she?
“I told them all that they didn’t have to come here, but they wouldn’t stay away!” she gushed, a perfectly convincing lie.
No, not Nina. I kept wringing my hands in an attempt to bring some blood into them; they were as icy as Nina’s. Images kept slipping through my brain: Mrs. Henderson’s ruined house, the fear in Bettina’s eyes.
The pipe was hidden under a stack of VERM propaganda.
The Vampire Empowerment and Restoration Movement. Vlad.
I worried my lower lip. Has VERM moved on from picketing and protesting to ... cleaning up?
“Sophie?” Nina was asking.
“Yes, vampires, no,” I said, forming sentences that would make my high-school English teacher weep.
Harley looked at the group of us and smiled softly. “Thank you so much. It really means a lot that you came here to hear my talk. I hope you enjoy it.”
“They all read your book. My copy. But they’re all going to buy their own. And the Kindle version, too.” Nina looked at each of us, smiling politely, the edge of one sharp fang just visible against her pink lips.
“Loved it,” Vlad said.
“Going to buy a copy for my mum,” Will reported.
“Sophie?” Nina prodded.
There was a table heaving under the weight of Harley’s books, and I eyed the cover, the faded images of vampires, werewolves, witches, and ghosts covered with big red X’s. I felt a snarl growing.
“Yeah,” I said, “I’ve been sleeping with Nina’s copy underneath my pillow. She doesn’t sleep so much, you know.”
Harley looked adoringly at Nina. “I know, she’s such a night owl.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Will said.
Java Script was starting to fill up and Harley ushered us to our seats—a few reserved folding chairs in the front row.
“You’re not planning on throwing your panties up there, are you?” I asked Nina, nudging my head toward Harley’s vacant podium.
Nina waggled her eyebrows. “Who said I’m wearing any panties?”
I shuddered, then rolled around in my chair and was half relieved, half terrified, to see Vlad and his cronies sitting in the back row. Their arms were crossed, and their faces were drawn and stern.
“Hey, Neens, has Vlad borrowed your car recently?”
Nina snarled. “He better not have. He still has a nineteenth-century driver’s license. Buggy certified.”
Just then, Roland Townsend, Harley’s sweaty little agent, took his spot behind the podium. His bushy eyebrows were just barely visible over the wooden rim. He cleared his throat, then fished another yellowed handkerchief from his suit pocket and mopped his brow.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, please may I have your attention? Please?”
The slight din of conversation in the room quieted and Roland cleared his throat again.
“How many of you believe in ghosts?”
A few people in the small crowd raised their hands halfheartedly; others didn’t even bother looking up from their iPads.
“Okay,” Roland continued. “How many of you believe in the afterlife? Heaven? Hell? Spirits who walk the earth even after their corporeal being is physically dead?”
I cut my eyes to Nina, who stayed rapt. I stared at Will, then, who rolled his eyes and flashed me his “Can you believe this guy?” half smile
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, you know my client Harley Cavanaugh from his previous best sellers. The book that stayed on the New York Times Best Seller list for a record thirteen weeks, Ghost Hoaxes and its follow-up—also a best seller—Haunted Hoaxes. Now Harley Cavanaugh comes to you with his soon-to-be best seller, the book that blows the pearly gates off the myths of angels, demons, vampires, and the like. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Harley Cavanaugh to San Francisco and Java Script!”
There was a small smattering of applause as Harley came out from behind a maroon curtain with a handwritten EMPLOYEES ONLY sign safety pinned to it. He was grinning wildly, hands splayed, apparently under the guise that the group of us, two homeless guys, and a couple of tourists who recently walked in were his very adoring public. I decided that a latte and a donut (hey, dire times, okay?) would make this situation more palatable. When I turned toward the aisle behind me, however, I was shocked to see that every folding chair was taken, and there were several people—people who looked like they knew where they were and had actually intended to be here—standing in the aisles, grinning, and clutching copies of Harley’s book.
“Christ,” I mumbled, sinking back into my chair.