[Anh Ngữ] Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1) - Robyn Peterman (English)

[Khổng Lồ Một Mắt]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Description

Vampyres don’t exist. They absolutely do not exist.

At least I didn’t think they did ‘til I tried to quit smoking and ended up Undead. Who in the hell did I screw over in a former life that my getting healthy equates with dead?

Now I’m a Vampyre. Yes, we exist whether we want to or not. However, I have to admit, the perks aren’t bad. My girls no longer jiggle, my ass is higher than a kite and the latest Prada keeps finding its way to my wardrobe. On the downside, I’m stuck with an obscenely profane Guardian Angel who looks like Oprah and a Fairy Fighting Coach who’s teaching me to annihilate like the Terminator.

To complicate matters, my libido has increased to Vampyric proportions and my attraction to a hotter than Satan’s underpants killer rogue Vampyre is not only dangerous . . . it’s possibly deadly. For real dead. Permanent death isn’t on my agenda. Avoiding him is my only option. Of course, since he thinks I’m his, it’s easier said than done. Like THAT’S not enough to deal with, all the other Vampyres think I’m some sort of Chosen One.

Holy Hell, if I’m in charge of saving an entire race of blood suckers, the Undead are in for one hell of a ride.

 

[Khổng Lồ Một Mắt]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Prologue

I drew hard on the cigarette and narrowed my eyes at the landscape before me. Graves, tombstones, crypts . . . she didn’t belong here. Hell, I didn’t belong here. My eyes were dry. I’d cried so much there was nothing left. I exhaled and watched as the blue grey smoke wafted out over the plastic flowers decorating the headstones.

Five minutes. I just needed five minutes and then I could go back . . .

“That’s really gross,” Gemma said, as she rounded the corner of the mausoleum I was hiding behind and scared the hell out of me. She fanned the smoke away and eyed me. “She wanted you to quit, maybe now would be a good time.”

“Agreed. It’s totally gross and disgusting and I’m going to quit, regardless of the fact that other than you, Marlboro Lights are my best friend . . . but today is definitely not the day,” I sighed and took another long drag.

“That’s pathetic,” she chuckled.

“Correct. Do you have perfume and gum?”

“Yep.” She dug through her purse and handed me a delicate bottle.

“I can’t use this. It’s the expensive French shit.”

“Go for it,” she grinned. “You’re gonna need it. You smell like an ashtray and your mother is inside scaring people to death.”

“Son of a . . . ” I moaned and quickly spritzed myself. “I thought she left. She didn’t want to come in the first place.”

“Could have fooled me,” Gemma said sarcastically, handing over a piece of gum and shoving me from my hiding place.

“Come on,” I muttered, as my bossy best friend pushed me back to my beloved grandmother’s funeral.

***


The hall was filled with people. Foldout tables lined the walls and groaned under the weight of casseroles, cakes and cookies. Men and women, most of whom I knew, milled around and ate while they gossiped. Southern funerals were a time to socialize and eat. A lot.

As I made my way through the crowd and accepted condolences, I got an earful of information I could have happily lived without. I learned that Donna Madden was cheating on her husband Greg, Candy Pucker had gained thirty pounds from eating Girl Scout cookies and had shoved her fat ass into a heinous sequined gown, for the funeral no less, and Sam Boomaster, the Mayor, was now a homosexual. Hell, I just wanted to leave, but I had to find my mother before she did something awful.

“I loved her.” Charlie stopped me in my tracks and grabbed my hand in his old gnarled one.

His toupee was angled to the left and his black socks and sandals peeked out from his high-water plaid pants. He was beautiful.

“Me too,” I smiled.

“You know I tried to court her back in the day, but she only had eyes for your Grandpa.” He smoothed his sweater vest and laid a wet one on my cheek . . . and if I’m not mistaken, and I’m not, he grabbed my ass.

“Charlie, if you touch my butt again, I’ll remove your hand.” I grinned and adjusted his toupee. He was a regular in the art class I taught at the senior center and his wandering hands were infamous.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying. You have a nice ass there, Astrid! You look like one of them there supermodels! Gonna make some lucky man very happy one day,” he explained seriously.

“With my ass?”

“Well now, your bosom is nothing to scoff at either and your legs . . . ” he started.

“Charlie, I’m gonna cut you off before you wax poetic about things that will get you arrested for indecency.”

“Good thinking, girlie!” he laughed. “If you ever want to hear stories about your Nana from when we were young, I’d be happy to share.”

“Thanks, Charlie, I’d like that.”

I gave him a squeeze, holding his hands firmly to his sides and made my way back into the fray.

As I scanned the crowd for my mother, my stomach clenched. After everything I had to put up with today, the evil approaching was just too much. Martha and Jane, the ancient matriarchs of the town and the nastiest gossips that ever lived were headed straight for me. Fuck.

“I suppose you’ll get an inheritance,” Jane snapped as she looked me up and down. “You’ll run through it like water.”

“Your Nana, God bless her, was blind as a bat when it came to you,” Martha added caustically. “I mean, my God, what are you? Thirty and unmarried? It’s just downright disrespectable.”

“I’m twenty-nine, happily single and getting it on a regular basis,” I said, enjoying the way their thin lips hung open in an impressive O.

“Well, I’ve never,” Jane gasped.

“Clearly. You should try it sometime. I understand Mr. Smith is so vision impaired, you might have a shot there.”

Their appalled shrieks were music to my ears and I quickly made my escape. Nana would have been a bit disappointed with my behavior, but she was gone.

Time to find the reason I came back in here for . . . I smelled her before I saw her. A waft of Chanel perfume made the lead ball in my stomach grow heavier. I took a deep breath, straightened my very vintage Prada sheath that I paid too much for, plastered a smile on my face, said a quick prayer and went in to the battle.

“Mother, is everything alright?”

She stood there mutely and stared. She was dressed to the nines. She didn’t belong here . . . in this town, in this state, in my life.

“I’m sorry, are you speaking to me?” she asked. Shit, she was perfect . . . on the outside. Gorgeous and put together to a degree I didn’t even aspire to. On the inside she was a snake.

“Um, yes. I asked you if . . . ” I stammered.

“I heard you,” she countered smoothly. “If you can’t bother to comply with my wishes, I can’t be bothered to answer you.”

“Right,” I muttered and wished the floor would open and swallow me. “I’m sorry, I meant Petra. Petra, is everything alright?”

“No, everything is not alright,” she hissed. “I have a plane to catch and I have no more time or patience to make chit chat with backward rednecks. It was wrong of you to ask me to be here.”

“Your mother died,” I said flatly. “This is her funeral and these people are here to pay their respects.”

“Oh for God’s sake, she was old and lived well past her time.”

I was speechless. Rare for me, but if anyone was capable of shocking me to silence, it was my mother.

“So, like I said, I have a plane to catch. I’ll be back next week.” She eyed me critically, grimacing at what she saw. “You need some lipstick. You’re lucky you got blessed with good genes because you certainly don’t do anything to help.”

With that loving little nugget, she turned on her stiletto heel and left. I glanced around to see if we’d been overheard and was mortified to see we had clearly been the center of attention.

“Jesus, she’s mean,” Gemma said, pulling me away from prying eyes and big ears.

“Do I look awful?” I whispered, feeling the heat crawl up my neck as the mourners looked on with pity. Not for my loss, but for my parentage.

“You’re beautiful,” Gemma said. “Inside and out.”

“I need to smoke,” I mumbled. “Can we leave yet?”

Gemma checked her watch. “Yep, we’re out of here.”

“I don’t want to go home yet,” I said, looking around for Bobby Joe Gimble, the funeral director. Where in the hell was he and did I need to tip him? Shit, I had no clue what funeral etiquette was. “Do I have to . . . ?”

“Already took care of everything,” Gemma told me. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?” I asked. Damn, I was grateful she was mine.

“Hattie’s.”

“Thank you, Jesus.”

***


Hattie’s sold one thing and one thing only. Ice cream. Homemade, full of fat, heart attack inducing ice cream. It was probably my favorite place in the world.

“I’ll have a triple black raspberry chip in a cone cup,” I said as I eyed all the flavors. I didn’t know why I even looked at them. I was totally loyal to my black raspberry chip. My ice cream couldn’t talk back to me, break up with me or make me feel bad. Of course, my love could extend the size of my ass, but I wasn’t even remotely concerned about that today. Besides, I planned a very long run for later. I needed to clear my head and be alone.

“Sorry about your loss, Sugar,” Hattie said and I nodded. Her big fleshy arms wobbled as she scooped out my treat. “Do you want sprinkles and whipped cream on that, Baby?”

“Um . . . ” I glanced over at Gemma who grinned and gave me a thumbs up. “Yes, yes I do.”

“Me too,” Gemma added, “but I want mint chip, please.”

“You got it, Sugar Buns,” Hattie said and handed me a monstrous amount of ice cream. “It’s on me today, Astrid. I feel just terrible I couldn’t be at the funeral.”

“That’s okay, Hattie. You and Nana were such good friends. I want your memories to be of that.”

“Thank you for that, Darlin’. Ever since my Earl died from siphoning gasoline, I haven’t been able to set foot near that goddamn funeral parlor.”

I swallowed hard. Her late ex-husband Earl had siphoned gasoline since he was ten. His family owned the local gas station and apparently, as legend had it, he enjoyed the taste. But on the fateful day in question, he’d been smoking a cigar while he did it . . . and blew himself to kingdom come. It was U-G-L-Y. Earl was spread all over town. Literally. He and Hattie had been divorced for years and hated each other. It was no secret he had fornicated with over half the older women in town, but when he died like that, he became a saint in her eyes.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek. Hard. Although it was beyond inappropriate, whenever anyone talked about Earl, I laughed.

“Astrid totally understands.” Gemma gave Hattie a quick hug and pushed me away from the counter before I said or did something unforgivable.

“Thanks,” I whispered. “That would have been bad.”

“Yep,” Gemma grinned and shoveled a huge spoon of ice cream in her mouth.

“Where in the hell do you put that?” I marveled at her appetite. “You’re tiny.”

“You’re a fine one to talk, Miss I Have the World’s Fastest Metabolism.”

“That’s the only good thing I inherited from the witch who spawned me,” I said and dug in to my drug of choice. I winced in pain as my frozen ice cream ass-extender went straight to the middle of my forehead.

“Are you okay?” Gemma asked.

I took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of my nose. God, I hated brain freezes. “No, not right now, but I’ve decided to change some stuff. Nana would want me to.”

My best friend watched me silently over her ice cream.

“I’m going to stop smoking, get a real career, work out every day, date someone who has a job and not a parole officer, get married, have two point five kids and prove that I was adopted.”

“That’s a pretty tall order. How are you gonna make all that happen?” she asked, handing me a napkin. “Wipe your mouth.”

“Thanks,” I muttered. “I have no fucking idea, but I will succeed . . . or die trying.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Um, thanks. Do you mind if we leave here so I can chain smoke ‘til I throw up so it will be easier to quit?”

“Is that the method you’re going to use?” Gemma asked, scooping up our unfinished ice cream and tossing it.

“I know it seems a little unorthodox, but I read it worked for Jennifer Aniston.”

“Really?”

“No, but it sounded good,” I said, dragging her out of Hattie’s.

“God, Astrid,” Gemma groaned. “Whatever you need to do I’m here for you, but you have to quit. I don’t want you to die. Ever.”

“Everybody dies,” I said quietly, reminded that the woman I loved most had died only a week ago. “But I’ve got too fucking much to do to die any time soon.”

 

[Khổng Lồ Một Mắt]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Chapter 1

Three months later . . .

“There are ten thousand ways to express yourself creatively,” I huffed, yanking on my running shoes. “My God, there’s acting, painting, sewing, belly dancing, cooking . . . Shit, scrapbooking is creative.” I shoved my arms into my high school sweatshirt that had seen better days.

“You’re not actually wearing that,” Gemma said, helping herself to my doughnut.

“Yep, I actually am.” I grabbed my breakfast out of her hand and shoved it in my mouth. “And by the way, I’ve decided to be a movie star.”

“But you can’t act,” my best friend reminded me.

“That’s completely beside the point,” I explained, taking the sweatshirt off. I hated it when Gemma was right. “Half the people in Hollywood can’t act.”

“Don’t you think it might be wise to choose a career that you actually have the skills to do?”

“Nope, I told you I’m making changes. Big ones.”

I bent over and tied my running shoes. Maybe if I just ran forever, I would stop hurting. Maybe if I found something meaningful, I could figure out who in the hell I was.

Gemma picked up my soda and took a huge swig. “You’re an artist and a damn good one. You should do something with that.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, admiring my reflection in the microwave. Holy hell, my hair was sticking up all over my head. “Why didn’t you tell me my hair exploded?”

“Because it’s funny,” Gemma laughed.

“I’ll never make it in show business if people see my hair like this,” I muttered and tried to smooth it down.

“Astrid, you will never make it in show business no matter what your hair looks like. You may be pretty, but you can’t act your way out of a hole and you suck as a liar,” Gemma informed me as she flopped down on my couch and grabbed the remote.

“Your confidence in me is overwhelming.” I picked out a baseball cap and shoved it over my out of control curls. “If the movie star thing doesn’t work out, I might open a restaurant.”

“Did you become mentally challenged during the night at some point?” she asked as she channel surfed faster than any guy I ever dated.

“Gimme that thing.” I yanked the remote away from her. “What in the hell are you trying to find?”

“Jersey Shore.”

“For real?” I laughed.

“For real for real,” she grinned.

“Don’t you have a home?” I asked.

“Yep. I just like yours better.”

I threw the remote back at her and grabbed my purse. If I was going to be a famous actress, or at the very least a chef, I needed to get started. But before I could focus on my new career, I had business to take care of. Very important business . . .

“Where are you going?” Gemma yawned. “It’s 8:00 on a Sunday morning.”

“I’m going running,” I said, staring at the ceiling.

“Oh my God,” Gemma grinned, calling me out on my lie. “Astrid, since when do you run with your purse?”

“Okay fine,” I snapped. “I’m going to run a few errands and say goodbye forever to one of my best friends today.”

Gemma gaped at me. Her mouth hung open like she’d had an overdose of Novocain at the dentist. “So today is the day? You really going to end it?”

“I don’t really have a choice, since there’s so much damn money riding on it.”

“Oh my God,” she squealed and punched me in the arm. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t be proud yet,” I muttered, praying I’d be successful with my breakup plans.

“You didn’t have to take the ,” Gemma said.

“Yes, I did,” I said and shook my head with disgust. “Nothing else has worked. Voodoo has to.”

“Voodoo?”

“Yep.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Thanks,” I said as I slapped on some lip gloss. “I’m gonna need it.”

“Yes, you are,” Gemma grinned. “Yes, you are.”

***


It was hot and I was sweaty and I wondered for the umpteenth time if I was losing my mind. I needed to stop making bets that were impossible to win. Maybe I could be a social smoker or I could just hide it from everyone. I could carry perfume and gum and lotion and drive to the next town when I needed a nicotine fix.

“Excuse me, are you here to be hypnotized?” a feminine voice purred.

I glanced up from my spot on the filthy sidewalk and there stood the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I quickly stubbed out my cigarette, turned my head away in embarrassment and blew my smoke out. Reason number three hundred and forty-six to quit . . . impersonating a low class loser.

She looked foreign—Slavic or Russian. Huge violet-blue eyes, full lips, high cheekbones set in a perfect heart-shaped face, framed by tons of honey-gold blonde hair. Absolutely ridiculous. I felt a little inadequate. Not only was the face perfect, but the body was to die for. Long legs, pert boobies, ass-o-rific back side and about six feet tall. I was tall at 5 feet 9 inches, but she was tall.

“Well, I was,” I explained, straightening up and trying to look less like a crumpled homeless mess from my seat on the sidewalk, “but they must have moved.” I pointed to a rusted-out doorway.

“Oh no,” the gorgeous Amazon giggled. Seriously, did she just giggle? “That’s not the door. It’s right over here.” She grabbed my hand, her grip was firm and cool, and guided me to the correct door. A zap of electricity shot up my arm when she touched me. I tried to nonchalantly disengage my hand from hers, but she held mine fast. “Here we go.” She escorted me into the lobby of a very attractive office.

“I don’t know how I missed this,” I muttered as she briskly led me to a very nice exam room. She released my hand. Did that zap really just happen? Maybe I was already in nicotine withdrawal.

“Please have a seat.” The blue eyed bombshell indicated a very soft and cozy looking pale green recliner.

“I’m sorry, are you the hypnotist?” I asked as I sat. Something didn’t feel quite right. What was a gorgeous, Amazon Russian-looking chick doing in Mossy Creek, Kentucky? This was a tiny town, surely I would have seen her before.

“Yes, yes I am,” she replied, sitting on a stool next to my comfy chair with an official-looking clipboard in her hand. “So you’re here because . . . ?”

“Because . . . um, I want to stop smoking,” I told her and then quickly added, “Oh, and I don’t want to gain any weight.” If you don’t ask for the impossible, there’s no way you’ll ever get it.

Miss Universe very slowly and somewhat clinically looked me over from head to toe. “Your weight looks perfect. You are a very beautiful young woman. Are you happy with your body right now?”

“Yes,” I replied slowly. Was she hitting on me? I didn’t think so, but . . .

“That’s good,” she smiled. “I can guarantee that you will never gain weight again after you’re hypnotized.”

“Really?” I gasped. My God, that was incredible. Smoke free and at a weight I liked. This was the best day ever.

“Really,” she laughed. “Now let’s get started.”

“Wait, don’t I need to fill out a bunch of forms and pay and sign my life away in case you accidentally kill me or something?”

Blondie laughed so hard I thought she might choke. “No, no,” she assured me and quickly pulled herself together. “My receptionist is at lunch . . . we’ll take care of it afterwards. Besides, I’ve never killed anyone by accident.”

“Oookay.” She was a little weird, but I supposed people with her occupation would be. She did guarantee me I would be smoke free and skinny. That did not suck. Wait . . . I needed to think this through. I was feeling unsettled and wary. She was odd, made me uncomfortable and had electric hands. On the flip side, she was very pretty, had a really nice office and promised no weight gain. Damn.

Would common sense or vanity prevail? And the winner is . . . vanity. By a landslide.

She leaned into me, her green eyes intense. I could have sworn her eyes were purple-y bluish. I was getting so tired. I prayed I wouldn’t drool when I was out.

“Astrid, you need to clear your mind and look into my eyes,” Miss Russia whispered.

“How do you know my name?” I mumbled. “I didn’t tell you my name.” Alarm bells went off in my brain. My pea-brain that never should have thought it was a good idea to get hypnotized at a strip mall on the bad side of town. You’d think a business called ‘House of Hypnotism’ might have tipped me off. Crap. These were not the decisions a smart and responsible, if not somewhat directionless, twenty-nine year old woman should make. I should have listened to my gut and gone with common sense.

The room started spinning. It felt like a carnival from hell. Blondie’s mouth was so strange. There was something very unattractive going on with her mouth. It got kind of blurry, but it looked like . . . wait . . . maybe she was British. They all have bad teeth.

“I fink ooo shud stooop,” I said, mangling the English language. I tried again. “Oow do ooo know my name?” When did I put marbles in my mouth? Who in the hell dimmed the lights and cranked the air conditioner?

“Oh Astrid, not only do I know your name,” she smiled, her green eyes blazing, “I know everything about you, dear.”

 

[Khổng Lồ Một Mắt]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Chapter 2

I opened my eyes and immediately shut them. What in the hell time was it? What in the hell day was it? I snuggled deeper into my warm and cozy comforter and tried to go back to sleep. Why couldn’t I go back to sleep? Something was wrong . . . very wrong. I just had no idea what it was.

Ignoring the panic that was bubbling to the surface, I leaned over the side of my bed and grabbed my purse. It was Prada. I loved Prada. I proudly considered myself a Prada whore, albeit one who couldn’t afford it.

Everything seemed to be in there . . . wallet, phone, makeup, gum, under-used day planner. Nothing important was missing. I was being paranoid. Everything was fine.

I eyed my beloved out of season Prada sandals lying on my bedroom floor. Shoes always made me feel better. Only in New York or Los Angeles would anyone know my adored footwear was four seasons ago. Certainly not in Istillwearmyhairinamullet, Kentucky. I got them on sale. I paid six hundred dollars that I didn’t have for them, but that was a deal considering they were worth a solid twelve hundred.

I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose and tried to figure out what day of the week it was. Good God, I had no clue. I suppose exhaustion had finally caught up with me, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I had done to be so tired. I vaguely remembered driving home from somewhere. I glanced again at my awesome shoes, but even my beautiful sandals couldn’t erase the sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.

“Focus on something positive,” I muttered as I wracked my brain and snuggled deeper into my covers.

Shoes. Think about shoes . . . not the irrational suffocating fear that was making me itch. Bargains! That was it, I’d think about bargains. I loved getting a good bargain almost as much as I loved Prada. Unfortunately, I also had a huge love for cigarettes, and I needed to love one now. Right now. I rummaged through my purse and searched for a pack. Bingo! I found my own personal brand of heroin and lit up.

WTF? It wouldn’t light because I couldn’t inhale. Why couldn’t I inhale? Was I sick? I felt my head; definitely no fever. My forehead felt like ice.

Okay, if at first you don’t succeed . . . blah blah blah. I tried again. I couldn’t inhale. Not only could I not inhale, I also couldn’t exhale. Which would lead me to surmise I wasn’t breathing. The panic I was avoiding had arrived.

“Fuck shit fuck fuck, this is a side effect. That’s right, a side effect. A side effect of what?” I demanded to no one in particular since I was alone in my room. I knew it was something. It was on the tip of my brain . . . side effect . . . side effect of not smoking. Side effect of not smoking? What the hell does that even mean? For God’s sake, why can’t I figure this out? I have an I.Q. of 150, not that I put it to very good use.

“Wait,” I hissed. “It’s a side effect of the hypnotism.”

God, that was bizarre, but that had to be it. I made that stupid with Gemma and got hypnotized to stop smoking by that big blonde Amazon at the House of Hypnotism. That’s what I drove home from. I wasn’t crazy. The Amazon must have forgotten to inform me that I wouldn’t be able to breathe for awhile afterwards. That’s what you get when you don’t read the fine print. Did I even pay her? I’m sure I’ll start breathing any second now. I’m so glad I figured this out. I feel better. For a minute there I thought I was dead.

I glanced out of my bedroom window at the full moon.

“Full moon? Oh my God, have I been in bed all day?”

I threw the covers off and stood quickly, still trying to figure out what day it was. The room spun violently and a wave of dizziness knocked me right back down on my ass. Little snippets of my dreams raced through my mind as I waited for the vertigo to pass.

God, that was a freaky dream. Oprah and Vampyres and yummy, creamy chocolate blood . . . you couldn’t make that stuff up.

The room quit spinning and I stood up slowly, firmly grasping one of the posts of my beautiful four poster bed. I reached up high above my head, arched back and popped my sternum. Slightly gross, but it felt great. I ran my hands through my hair, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and bit through my bottom lip. Mmm . . . crunchberries. I licked the tasty blood from my mouth.

I wondered what time it was. If it wasn’t too late, I could get a run in and then I could . . . bite through my bottom lip?? Crunchberries? What the fu . . . ?

In my frazzled mental state, I heard a noise in the hallway outside my bedroom. I immediately dropped to a defensive squat on the floor. Way back in high school they told us, if you hear an intruder, get low . . . or was that for a fire? Shit, that was get low for a fire . . . what in the hell do I do for a burglar?

Good God, I was in my bra and panties. The blue granny panties with the unfortunate hole in the crotch. Not a good look for fending off burglars. Not a good look ever. On my never ending list of things to do I needed to add throw out all panties over seven years old.

I remained low, just in case. I duck walked over to my closet and grabbed one of my many old cheerleading trophies out of a cardboard box so I could kill my intruder. It was plastic, but it was pointy. I’d been meaning to give them to my eight year old neighbor. Thank God I was a procrastinator. Wait a minute . . . As I death-gripped my trophy I was overwhelmed with the scent of rain and orchids and Pop Tarts and cotton candy.

What the hell?

It wasn’t a dream. She was here? And apparently from the smell of it, she had a guest. I’d just cannibalized my own lip, my blood tasted like crunchberries, I could smell people in my house, I couldn’t breathe, my skin felt icy, and I think I might be . . .

“Astrid, are you awake?” Gemma called from right outside my door interrupting my ridiculous train of thought.

Oh thank you, Jesus. “Yes.” Was that my voice? It sounded deeper and raspier. And sexier?

“Get out here,” Gemma yelled. “Get dressed and change that underwear . . . it’s nasty.”

“Gemma, I have to tell you something weird, but you have to believe me and you can’t get mad,” I said through my closed door, ignoring the insultingly accurate underwear comment.

“I think I already know,” she said from the other side.

“It’s not about my haircut.”

“You got your hair cut without me?” Gemma was appalled.

Shit, I thought she knew about my hair. What did she know then? Good God, what in the hell was wrong with my bra? The girls were spilling out of it. Were they bigger? Did my bra shrink? “Gem, um . . . I swear I meant to tell you about my hair. It was spur of the moment. Mr. Bruce dragged me into the salon and the next thing I knew, he set my baseball cap on fire, cut my hair into long layers and put in some kick ass highlights.”

“Fine, Astrid.” Her voice got tinny and high. “Just don’t be surprised if I go get a perm without you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might,” she threatened.

“Gem,” I begged, “with me or without me, Do. Not. Get. A Perm. That’s so 1980s.”

“You’re right,” Gemma sighed, “I’d get a lobotomy before I’d get a perm. What do you need to tell me?”

I gathered myself. I realized I was about to sound like an idiot, but when had that ever stopped me? I closed my eyes and let her rip. “Um . . . after my haircut, I got hypnotized by a big blonde Amazon gal to stop smoking, and now I can’t breathe. I think it must be a side effect, but it’s freaking me out.” Gemma was silent on the other side of my bedroom door.

“You can’t breathe?”

“No.” I couldn’t tell if she believed me.

“Are you sure?”

“I think I would know if I couldn’t breathe,” I shouted.

“Do I owe you a thousand bucks?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

At least I was honest. The entire reason I’d gotten hypnotized was because I’d Gemma a thousand dollars I could quit smoking. I knew she thought it was a no-brainer due to the sorry fact that this was my ninth attempt to quit in the last three months. Nicotine gum, cold turkey, weaning off and all those self-help books weren’t doing it for me. I needed outside assistance. Short of having my lips sewn shut, I hadn’t been successful at quitting. Hypnotism was a last resort because having my lips sewn shut was simply not an option.

“Where did you get hypnotized?” she quizzed.

“House of Hypnotism over by the Chinese restaurant that serves cat.”

Gemma was speechless. I was getting more nervous with each passing second. “Do you have a pulse?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, what did you just ask me?”

“I said,” Gemma yelled through the door, “do you have a pulse?”

“What kind of a stupid question is that? Of course I have a . . . ” I checked for my pulse, then I checked again, then I checked again and then I checked one more time. “Um . . . no,” I whispered.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“What’s your skin temp?”

“Really cold,” I told her.

What in the hell was wrong with her? She was awfully calm about the whole thing. She was silent for what felt like an eternity. These questions were right up Gemma’s alley. She loved all things weird, especially anything astrological or supernatural. I could tell she was thinking because she was humming ‘Billie Jean’. Gemma, besides being a Prada whore who like me couldn’t afford it, knew the lyrics to every Michael Jackson song ever recorded. She wore black for an entire year after he died. “I think I know what’s going on.” She began to hum ‘Thriller’.

“What’s wrong with me?” I shrieked.

“Come out here, Astrid.”

“Wait Gemma . . . am I dead?”

“Kinda,” she said with excitement. The same kind of excitement she exuded when she tried to convince me of Bigfoot’s existence. “Just get dressed and get out here.”

I quickly whipped on some overpriced jeans that made my butt look asstastic and put on the first shirt my fingers touched. I pulled on some hot pink sequined Converse and made my way out to my living room. That took about ten and a half steps because my house was the size of a postage stamp.

Gemma was standing by the window bouncing like a ball, so excited she was about to burst . . . and the Queen of Daytime Talk was sprawled on my couch reading my diary. Wait . . . what?

“Holy Jesus,” I gasped. “You’re Opr . . . ”

“Don’t say it,” my idol cut me off, throwing my diary aside as if I wouldn’t notice she’d been reading my most private and embarrassing thoughts. “I’m not her, never fuckin’ have been, never fuckin’ will be. If you call me that, I’ll leave. Trust me, that would be very fuckin’ bad for you.”

“Oookay, you have quite a vocabulary.” I smiled, wondering if Gemma thought this was as screwy as I did. She did seem a little freaked, but not nearly enough to merit the fact Oprah was here. “If you’re not Opr . . . I mean that woman who you look exactly like, then you are . . . ?”

I peeked around my tiny living room and looked for cameras. This had to be for a show segment. Right? Gemma must be in on the whole thing with Oprah.

Was she going to redecorate my crappy house or give me a car or tell me something wonderful about my birth mother?

That was impossible. My birth mother was actually the woman who, for lack of a better word, raised me and there wasn’t much wonderful about her. My Nana, may she rest in peace, was wonderful. Her daughter, my mother . . . not so much. Hopefully, Oprah was here to redecorate.

“You’re a Vampyre and I’m your fuckin’ Guardian Angel,” I’m-Not-Oprah grunted.

Gemma squealed and clapped her hands like a two year old at Christmas. Apparently they’d become great friends already, possibly bonding over Bigfoot. The dizziness now combined with total paranoia overtook me as my knees buckled and I dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“Wow . . . so not what I was expecting to hear.” My stomach was queasy. This was starting to make me tingle, and not in a good way. I’m-Not-Oprah had to go. “Well, golly gee, look at the time; I suppose you have a train to catch . . . to Crazytown,” I informed her in a bizarre cheerleader voice that I had no control over. “So you’d better get going.” Vampyre my ass. I’m-Not-Oprah is cuckoo loco crazy. I crawled over to my front door and opened it with shaking hands and body, letting Oprah know she had to leave.

I’m-Not Oprah had the gall to laugh, and I don’t mean just a little giggle. I mean a huge gut-busting, knee-slapping guffaw. God, I need a cigarette. Oh but wait . . . I DON’T SMOKE ANYMORE BECAUSE I CAN’T BREATHE. I was completely screwed. There had to be a logical answer to this clusterfuck. I just needed to think it through.

Ignoring the unexplainable situation in my home, I curled into a ball by my front door and went back through what I could remember. First, I’d gotten my hair cut and colored because it looked like hell. Then I chain-smoked half a pack of cigarettes getting my nerve up to get hypnotized to quit. After almost vomiting from the sheer amount of nicotine in my system, I got hypnotized to stop smoking. Good thinking on my part. Next, the ridiculously attractive Amazon woman who hypnotized me was successful because I will never smoke again. Good thinking on her part.

However, it was also beginning to look like I would never breathe again. So technically I was dead. The lack of pulse and air intake could attest to this, but clearly I wasn’t dead because I was curled up on the floor thinking somewhat coherently and Oprah was in my house . . . What in the hell was I talking about? None of this was possible. I was dreaming. That had to be it. I was dreaming. I pinched myself. Hard.

“Ouch . . . shit.” Not dreaming.

I slowly stood up, determined to kick Her Oprahness out of my house. My whole body began to tremble as I locked eyes with the insane talk show host sitting on my couch. I couldn’t believe I was standing here looking at Oprah, who says she’s not, who’s telling me I’m a Vampyre, which don’t exist, and she’s a Guardian Angel, which again . . . don’t exist. Besides, if they did, they certainly wouldn’t have a mouth like hers.

“Oh my God,” I moaned as another bizarre wave of dizziness came over me. The room grew darker and smaller. I’m-Not-Oprah and Gemma started to get blurry and a burning began in my gut. Flames ripped through my stomach and violently shot into my arms, my legs, my neck and head. My insides were shredding. I was thirsty . . . so very thirsty. God, it hurt so much. I floated above myself as my body crumpled to the floor. The buzzing in my head was deafening. I tried to take a deep breath, but that went nowhere fast.

“I’m dying,” I groaned.

Crapballs, did I have good underwear on? No! I still had on light blue grannies with a not on purpose hole in the crotch. Oh my God, I’m dying with bad underpants on. My mother will have a fit. I can hear her now, “Well, with underpants like that, it’s no wonder Astrid couldn’t get a man. She kept buying all that Prada, but she should have invested in a couple of pairs of decent panties.” This was not good.

The blazing inferno inside me consumed my whole body. It was excruciating. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. I vaguely saw Oprah coming for me.

“Kill me please,” I begged. She laughed and scooped me up like a rag doll and shoved my face to her neck. God, she smelled good. “Argrah,” I gurgled.

“Just shut the fuck up and drink,” I’m-Not-Oprah growled.

It was delicious, like rich dark chocolate, so smooth, so warm, so yummy. What was this? The pain slowly subsided and I realized I was curled up in I’m-Not-Oprah’s lap with my teeth embedded in her neck. She was rocking me like a baby.

I removed what I’m fairly sure were my fangs from Oprah’s neck. “What am I doing?” I calmly asked.

She looked down at me and smiled. Holy cow she looked like Oprah. “Drinking.”

“Drinking what?” I inquired politely.

“O negative,” she replied.

“O negative what?” I screeched, jerking to an upright position on her very ample lap.

“O negative Angel blood, dumbass,” she bellowed. She stood up and dumped me on the floor as she walked over to retrieve my diary.

“Oh my God, you’re not joking.” I was horrified.

“No, I certifuckingly am not.”

 

[Khổng Lồ Một Mắt]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Chapter 3

Gemma and I’m-Not-Oprah sat on either side of me on the floor. Gemma held my hand and Oprah just stared.

“Soooo, Gemma, I suppose you’ve met Opr . . . I mean, well you know, I mean . . . ” I was dying here. “What I’m trying to say is, you’ve met . . . dear God, help me out.”

“Pam,” they said in unison.

“Pam? Your name is Pam?”

“What’s wrong with Pam?” Oprah, aka Pam, asked, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Nothing,” I shot back quickly. That eyeball thing did not look good. “It’s just I never expected an Angel to be named Pam.”

“What the hell kind of name were you expecting . . . Tinkerbell?”

“Well, no,” I replied. “She’s a Fairy. Maybe something like Luna or Sky.”

“Holy shit, would you like to be named something like that?” Pam yelled.

I shook my head. God, she was loud.

“You know what I like about you?” she continued.

“No.” I feared her answer the same way I feared the IRS, credit card bills and Bryant Gumbel.

“I like that you have the word ‘ass’ in your name. It opens up so many possibilities.”

“That’s fantastic. Why are you here again?” I snapped

“I am here,” Pam spoke very slowly, as if I were mentally challenged, “to guide your sorry blood suckin’, Prada wearin’ ass, through the ups and downs of the Vampyre world.”

“Well, Mary Sunshine, there’s no such thing as Vampyres and . . . ” I started.

“Pam,” she interrupted.

“Oookay, Pam. I will repeat my earlier sentiment. I’m not a Vampyre, so tell me whatever it is you think you need to tell me and you can go back to Pretend Angel Land.”

“Ooooh noooo, Asshead. It don’t work like that. I’m here to stay.” Pam slapped her knee and hooted like a redneck watching a smack down on WWE.

“Astrid, it’s actually really cool,” Gemma, my very not dead human friend, tried to convince me over Pam’s ruckus. “Pam’s been telling me there’s this whole Vamp hierarchy thing; Dominions, Havens and . . . and . . . ”

“Congregants,” Pam supplied, calming herself down.

“Right, Congregants and Houses.” Gemma kept going. “There’s a King, and Warrior Princes, and Princesses.”

“Back. Up.” I practically spit. “There’s a Vampyre King?” I laughed, not believing a word.

“I would suggest you get that out of your system right now, Assface,” my Guardian Angel said. “Cause pretty soon a bunch of Vamps are gonna come ’round, and laughing at your King is punishable by death.”

“You’re joking,” I said with a huge grin on my face. I looked at Pam. I looked at Gemma. Pam. Gemma. Pam. Gemma. Nobody was smiling . . . except me. “You’re not joking.”

I was no longer smiling. Were they serious or certifiable? Maybe I was crazy. It was difficult to deny that I just drank blood from Oprah’s, I mean, Pam’s neck. And I liked it. Maybe Bigfoot did exist.

Gemma grabbed my hands and forced my focus to her, “Astrid, it’s not that bad. A slew of Vampyre girls are going to start arriving soon with gift baskets and invites to parties so you can join their Houses!”

The word gift basket calmed my impending breakdown. “What do you mean, like sorority rush for dead people?” I put my finger in my mouth and felt around for my fangs. I considered this for a moment. Gemma knew I loved free stuff. I was kind of a free sample whore. It was clear from the smug look on her face that she thought she had me at gift basket. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

“I don’t want to be a Vampyre,” I yelled, realizing that maybe they weren’t yanking my chain. “I want to chain-smoke an entire pack of Marlboro Lights and throw up! I do not want to join some Kappa Alpha Dead House and become BFFs with bloodsucking freaks that smell like the old lady bathroom at the country club.” I was on a roll. “That’s right . . . skanky, Gothy Draculas with blood breath, weird bun heads and super long fingernails that curl over at the edges because they should have been trimmed three years ago. And there’s no such thing as Vampyres!”

You could have cut the silence with a knife. Gemma looked dazed and Pam . . . well, Pam just looked confused. Gemma finally roused herself from the visual stupor that my tirade induced. “Dude, that was gross.”

“I’m not really following the country club part,” Pam stated.

“Don’t try,” Gemma told her. “I’m getting a Diet Coke, you want anything?”

“Mountain Dew or Budweiser,” Pam said.

“I’m on it.” Gemma left the room.

“What about me?” I whined. “Don’t I get to have anything?”

“You already got to have Pam,” Gemma tossed back from my kitchen, laughing like she made a good one.

I sat down on the couch and pouted. What had I done to deserve this? Of course nobody but me would do something to get healthy and end up kind of dead.

“Oh for shit’s sake, you’re not going to look like some skanky, Goth wannabe bloodsucker. What did the Vamp who changed you look like?” Pam projected as if she were speaking to a crowd of three hundred without a microphone.

The sheer volume of her question rendered me speechless for a moment.

“She looked like a Russian supermodel. Wait!” I shouted at Pam. “Do I look different to you?”

“How the hell should I know? I just met you, dumbass,” she replied.

“Right. Gemma?” I yelled.

“Behind you,” Gemma said, startling me. She handed Pam her beer. Angels drink beer?

“Gem, do I look different to you?” I asked.

“Well, you were being such a baby that I wasn’t going to tell you, but . . . You. Are. So. Hot,” she screeched. “If I didn’t like dangly parts so much, I’d consider switching teams!”

I ran to my bathroom. Holy crap, I was fast. I looked in the mirror and I saw . . . nothing. Wait a minute . . . where in the hell was I? Gemma slipped into the bathroom behind me. She showed up in the mirror, but I was M.I.A.

“Dude,” Gemma gasped, “you have no reflection.”

We stood in silence absorbing this news. I tried several different angles in case there was a trick to it, but no go. It was strange . . . my clothes were invisible, too. Anything I touched ceased to have a reflection.

“Okay, fine,” Gemma said, rubbing my back, “maybe this is the price you have to pay for being so drop dead gorgeous. Oh hell, I didn’t mean the dead part . . . I just meant . . . ”

“It’s okay,” I said morosely. “Apparently, I am dead.” My eyes filled with tears. I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose, trying to ward off the panic attack that was hurtling towards earth at frightening speeds. I was headed for a massive freakout.

Gemma grabbed me. “Let me describe you,” she said soothingly.

“Okay,” I blubbered, wiping my tears. “Oh my God, my eyes are bleeding!” I shouted.

“Shut the hell up,” Pam yelled from down the hall. “All Vamps cry blood, cum blood, drink blood. Blood, blood, blood . . . it’s all about blood with you dead people.”

“That’s disgusting,” I said. I looked at Gemma, my eyes wide, “I wonder if I have any other bodily functions?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, like do I still need to buy toilet paper and tampons?” I answered.

“NOPE,” Pam yelled from way down the hall.

“Wow, she’s got really good hearing,” Gemma grinned. “Do you want to know what you look like?”

“Um . . . yes.”

She stared at me for about a minute and tilted her head to the side. It was a very long minute. She was making me nervous.

“You’re beautiful,” she said simply. “I mean, you were beautiful before, but it got kicked up a bunch of notches. You’re the kind of gorgeous where it’s hard to stop looking at you. Your skin,” she touched my face, “is paler, but it’s perfect. It glows . . . it’s ethereal. Your hair is a darker, richer brown and really shiny. Your lips,” she examined my face, “have that I’ve-just-been-majorly-kissed swollen look. You still have that beauty mark high on your left cheekbone. Your eyes are that really cool amber gold color, but they sparkle now. And if I’m not mistaken, your eyelashes are longer, like they weren’t long enough already.”

I knew I was being vain, but I glanced toward the mirror again wondering if I just had to warm up or something . . . Nothing. Shit.

She circled me. “I gotta say, your body’s jammin’. Rock hard abs. Legs are still long. Your boobs are definitely bigger and your butt’s higher. Overall you’re beyond hot.” She smiled and squeezed my hands. “What do you feel like?”

Well, that explained my girls trying to escape from my bra. “I feel really strong and fast,” I said. “I can hear really well and I can smell things.”

“Do I smell?” Gemma did a quick pit check.

“You smell good, like rain and orchids.”

“Ooooh, cool.” She was delighted. “What does Pam smell like?”

“Pop Tarts and cotton candy. Gem,” I paused, “do I have an aura anymore?” One of Gemma’s hobbies was reading auras. She could read people before they opened their mouths. She had a gift for it.

“No.”

“Is that okay?” I whispered.

“I think so.” She hugged me. She felt warm and comfortable.

“Does Pam have one?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Gemma answered reverently, “it’s a pearly white with shots of purple and pink in it. It’s the most beautiful aura I’ve ever seen. It’s truly angelic.”

“Do you mean to tell me that foul mouthed Oprah doppelganger really is my Guardian Angel?”

“Yep,” Gemma giggled.

“Somebody up there must really hate me,” I moaned.

“Yep.”

 

[Khổng Lồ Một Mắt]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Chapter 4

It was my first full day of being dead and it sucked.

I wavered between total freakout and dead calm mode . . . it just depended on the minute. Right now I was calm. I dutifully sat on the couch, pen and notebook in hand. I was wearing my favorite worn-in red tag Levis, a totally cool vintage Tony the Tiger T-shirt and some killer Prada flats. Being dead had a few advantages. I filled out my jeans and my T-shirts like a Playboy centerfold. The girls were amazing. I was a full C cup and they stood at attention even without a bra, which was a good thing considering none of my bras fit anymore. Of course I was also dead, couldn’t breathe and had no idea if my hair was alright because I had no fucking reflection. On the flip side, my vision and hearing had also sharpened to the point I felt bionic. Not to mention my sense of smell. I’d almost passed out when I walked by my garbage can earlier. Why in the hell could I smell things if I couldn’t breathe?

Sitting here with Pam felt a little like high school, getting lectured and taking notes, but this was different. This was a class I had no desire to take.

“What did I just say, Asswipe?” Pam asked me.

“Um . . . something about how to bite mortals to drink their blood.”

“Go on,” Pam replied, putting several Piggly Wiggly grocery bags on the coffee table in front of her.

“Well, after that I’m not sure ‘cause I got so gacked I tuned you out.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re gonna end up killing somebody,” Pam said, slapping her big meaty Oprah hand to her forehead.

“No, I won’t,” I told her. “I’ll just keep drinking from you.”

“You can’t,” she yelled. She really had volume issues. “You have to drink from mortals. If you only drink from immortals, like me, you’ll get too strong too fast and you’ll be a danger to yourself and everyone else.”

Pam, being the cruel, hateful, thoughtless Angel that she was, reached into the Piggly Wiggly bag and pulled out my favorite snack in the whole world. She dug into the bag of tortilla chips and double dipped into the extra hot salsa with gusto. This was evil, considering food now tasted like sawdust to me and I couldn’t swallow it anyway. The only thing I could consume was blood. Apparently as I got older I would be able to ingest other liquids. According to my Vampyre Manual, fine bourbon laced with blood is quite the in thing for Vamps of a certain age. I watched Pam crunch and secretly hoped she’d choke, not that it would kill her. She was an Angel—an immortal, gonna live forever Angel with a foul mouth and an attitude problem.

“Shouldn’t another Vampyre be teaching me this crap?” I snarkily asked.

“Well, considering you don’t know any other bloodsucking losers, and we can’t find the idiot who thought changing you was a good idea, you’re shit out of luck,” she replied, spitting teeny tiny pieces of tortilla chips the entire time she spoke.

Speaking of the idiot who changed me, we’d already gone looking for her. For the twentieth time Pam made me go through everything that took place between me and the big blonde Amazon.

Exactly two day ago, I sat on the dirty sidewalk bemoaning my lack of willpower and wondering if I was on crack thinking it was a good idea to get hypnotized to stop smoking. It only got worse from there. The big blonde Amazon took me into her office and killed me. The End.

And then apparently I drove home and slept for thirty-six hours straight.

Pam kept digging for more details, but I had none. That’s when she insisted we visit the murder scene, hoping to jog my pathetic-ass memory. Her words, not mine. The ride over and back to the strip mall had certainly been a fun-filled hour and a half.

Gemma, Pam and I went after sundown. Pam wasn’t quite sure how I would do in sunlight. To no one’s great surprise the door wasn’t there. There was no evidence whatsoever. This confused me and made me nervous. Something wasn’t right. Pam wanted some Chinese takeout, but we forbade her. No one was going to eat cat in my car.

The real highlight of the car trip though was Pam’s backseat driving. After having threatened to pull over and put her out of the car eight times, I’d finally had it. I pulled over and turned around, ready to punch her in her big ol’ Oprah mouth and she disappeared. That’s right, she started glowing and just disappeared.

“Jesus Christ,” I said, freaking out. “Where in the hell did she go?”

“No clue,” Gemma said, looking under her seat.

“Do you think she bailed and went back to Heaven?”

“No,” Gemma replied thoughtfully. “I think she’s actually having fun down here.”

Turns out, Pam had teleported back to my house. She said I drove like a blind person on crack and she couldn’t take it. She napped for about four hours after that. Just so happens, teleporting really wears a gal out. All in all . . . just another weird day in my brand new weird fucked up life.

“All right, back to work,” Pam said with a mouthful of chips. “Tell me the history, or whatever your sorry ass can remember.”

“Give me a little credit here,” I snapped as I wracked my brain, desperately trying to remember the bizarro History of the Vampyre. Shit. “There are, um, ten Dominions,” I began, “each run by a Warrior Prince or Warrior Princess.”

“What else?” Pam asked.

“Ease up,” I told her. “The Dominions are territories. Basically they divided up the whole world into ten sections and the King gave a section to each of his ten children. Wait, I thought he had eleven children.”

“He did—one died.”

“Oh, okay,” I said wearily, praying this would be over soon.

“Name the Dominions,” Pam said.

I stretched my arms up over my head, yawned and brought them back down about face level. I began to massage my hands, left palm facing me. “Okay,” I said, “let me see . . . there’s North America, South America, Africa, Australia, Antarctica, Europe, and Asia is divided into four Dominions since it’s so large and diverse.”

“Give me your hand,” Pam said.

“No.”

“Give. Me. Your. Hand.”

I gave her my hand and she slapped me upside the head. I was busted. Thank God I was a Vampyre or else she would have given me a concussion instead of just a headache.

“You’re cheating!” she shouted.

“I can’t remember all this junk,” I said shamefully and looked down at my palm where I’d written all the answers to the questions I knew she’d ask.

“Damn it to hell,” Pam bellowed. “This is not high school. This information could mean the difference between life and death for you.”

“I’m already dead,” I snapped.

“Yeah, but you could be deader—like for real dead. How would you like that, little missy?” Pam demanded.

“Not much,” I admitted morosely.

“Did you even read the manual? Do you have any idea what can kill you?”

“I think so,” I whispered. I started to ease my way out of the room. I knew Pam was coming for me again, and she had a mean right hook.

“Don’t,” Pam said quietly. A quiet Pam was a scary Pam.

I flopped down on the couch, ready to get ripped a good one. I was an A student in high school and college. For some reason, I couldn’t absorb this stuff. Maybe it’s not that I couldn’t, it’s that I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to be a Vampyre. Vampyres were freaks of nature. Vampyres didn’t even exist. I did not want an expletive-spewing Angel to be my main food source.

I wanted to eat chips and salsa and smoke and see my reflection. I wanted to go out in broad daylight and not have to wear a shitload of sunscreen, long sleeves, long pants, a hat and huge sunglasses. I wanted to have kids someday, but that was no longer an option, what with no functioning internal organs.

I did not want to have to worry about being staked through the heart with silver or being decapitated. Let’s not forget about burning to death . . . wouldn’t want to leave that little nugget out. Those are the three real ways to kill a Vampyre. What about holy water, crosses, sunlight, and garlic? All bullshit . . . they’d just make a Vampyre laugh or piss them off. All Hollywood fairytales, although there was some truth to the sunlight myth. While it wouldn’t kill a Vamp, it could burn their skin quite badly. Who wants to look like a bloody piece of meat even for a short while?

I never really needed or wanted to know where every major artery in a human was so I wouldn’t nick it with my razor sharp fangs, inadvertently killing same said human.

Mostly I really did not want my mother to find out. I was sure in her mind this would definitely be an insurmountable hurdle to my having a big career like hers. Like that was ever going to happen. I didn’t want a big career like hers. I had absolutely no idea what I really wanted other than good friends, great *** and some Prada that was in season. At almost thirty, I worked as an art teacher at the senior citizens’ center and had just received a crazy large inheritance from my Nana. I would have preferred to have my Nana instead of her money, but that wasn’t the way the world worked.

Ask anybody who knew me . . . I was a good person. I was fun, but not extremely motivated unless it involved high fashion, art, or my friends. I’d recently heard my neighbor describe me as very smart, tall, single, financially irresponsible, quite pretty, boyfriend-less and kind. Great. I knew people in town were taking bets on how long it would take me to run through my inheritance money. Hell, they probably had good cause considering the amount I dropped on new clothes recently. The thing I was best at was shopping, but no one was lining up to pay me to do that . . . Holy shit, I was totally depressing myself.

“What would your Nana say?” Pam asked.

That stopped me. My eyes flashed and I could feel my fangs descend. “How dare you bring my Nana into this.”

She had no right to . . . My body jerked and I had a strange deja vu. I looked at Pam for a very long moment. I stared into her Angel eyes, searching for something . . . that I found. My body relaxed and I started to feel lightheaded as I moved towards her. My fangs rescinded. I felt calm and centered.

“She’d say ‘Buck up, Princess, it could be worse’,” I told her quietly. I paused, my eyes never leaving Pam’s for a second. “She sent you to me.”

Pam said nothing. She just smiled. I reached for her and gently took her face in my hands. I touched my forehead to hers and let my bloody tears flow freely.

“Did she want you to tell me anything?” I asked hopefully.

“She loves you and she always will.” Pam caught me as I collapsed and she rocked me like a baby until I cried myself out.

“I still don’t want to be a Vampyre, but I can learn now,” I whispered.

“I know you can, honey,” she said. “I know you can.”

 

[Khổng Lồ Một Mắt]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Chapter 5

She was going to die if I didn’t help her. The voice inside the tomb was not weak or sickly. It was strong and melodic and very insistent.

“Astrid, you have to help me,” she begged.

“How do you know my name?” I asked, thrown by the familiarity.

“Because you are part of me,” she replied. “Push the stone, Astrid. Help me, please. You’re the only one.”

“Why does it have to be me? I’m not strong enough,” I insisted. Then I started to cry. I should get help. Big men or the police or a crowbar.

“You are strong enough,” she said simply. “There’s not much time left.”

In that moment I knew she was right. I was strong enough. She was going to die if I didn’t get her out. Now.

I walked slowly toward the tomb, my hands outstretched. I could feel the tingling in my fingertips. It quickly spread down my arms, through my chest and into my legs. My heart was pounding inside me, my stomach felt twisted and it was hard to breathe. The wind picked up and blew my hair wildly around my head. I was inches away.

“Push, Astrid,” she gasped.

I awoke with ajerk. God, that dream seemed more real every time I had it, and I’d been having it since I was four years old. As I snuggled down deeper under my covers and tried to go back to sleep, I noticed movement on my ceiling. What the fu . . . ? This Vamp vision was insane. The tiny cracks in my ceiling looked like faces, little mini faces with little teeny hands. Some looked angry, some sad, but most of them were laughing and pointing at me. I looked around my room to see if anyone else was here. Nope. I was definitely the object of their ridicule.

“What in the hell are you guys?” I stared harder and they started to morph into hideous itsy-bitsy monsters. They were fabulously gross, kind of like the Edvard Munch painting, The Scream. They were undulating and mocking me. Well, no surprise there . . . I was still in bed at 6:30 PM.

Sleeping during the day seemed to be working for me. I felt a little bit like a lazy sloth, but I had more energy and felt stronger at night. More importantly than adjusting to my new schedule, I had successfully avoided my mother for a week. She thought I had the flu and pink eye. She hated sick people, so there was very little chance of a surprise visit.

Truth be told, I was scared to be around my mother, or any mortals, except for Gemma. I was terrified I was going to kill someone by accident and that would suck, although Pam said as long as I fed regularly, I’d never have to kill anybody. Ever. The first hunger was the worst and no others would even compare. Thank God.

I guess I had always imagined Vampyres to be bloodsucking killers. It turns out we’re only bloodsuckers. The killing is optional. So naturally I still hadn’t fed from a mortal yet. I’d been feeding from Pam, but that was going to change. Too much Angel blood was going to make me a Super Vamp, and according to Pam, that was fucked up.

Along with being my main food source, Pam was trying to help me get the Green Eye thing down, also known as ‘trancing’. I preferred just Green Eye. If I looked at a human, focused my power and willed my eyes to go green, I could get inside their head and make suggestions. For example; “Hi, I’m going to bite your neck, drink about a pint of your blood . . . you’ll really enjoy it. You won’t remember a thing and you should never wear orange again. It makes your skin look like hell, bless your heart.”

“Look at me,” I said to the little undulating things on my ceiling. They halted their gyrating and stared at me. I willed my eyes to go green and tried to communicate with them. Nothing. Clearly I’d lost my mind when I died. “So much for you guys being human,” I muttered, rolling out of bed.

There are certain things that make your eyes go green automatically. Being extremely hungry, angry, excited or horny turns you green real quick. I tried to Green Eye Gemma a couple of times, but we both laughed so hard I gave up. Gemma graciously offered to let me feed from her, but I wanted to be sure I definitively knew all the human artery information before I bit into my best friend’s wrist.

That was how most Vampyres fed. At the wrist. The neck was too sexual. However with Pam, it wasn’t sexual at all. Embarrassingly enough, it felt kind of like nursing with her. She held me like a baby. I bit her neck and felt love and comfort. I supposed you should just get it where you could find it.

Vamps could drink from each other, but that was a commitment most were not willing to make. If two Vampyres drank from one another, they were mated for life. Physically, mentally, emotionally, and sexually committed to each other for eternity. They must continue to drink from each other regularly.

To me that sounded like hell. I had commitment issues. It wasn’t that I was a slut, but I couldn’t imagine having *** with the same person for a thousand years or more. Not that I’d had a ton of *** with a ton of people, nor did I plan to. However, the flip side suggests that the blood exchange between Vampyres creates the most mind blowing, intensely orgasmic *** imaginable. That gave me pause, but not enough to be stuck with the same person forever.

“You guys are gross,” I told the dirty dancing tiny monsters on my ceiling. I was amazed they were still there. I thought they were an optical illusion. They were so ugly they were cute, but the dirty dancing . . . that was not something I needed to see first thing in the morn . . . no, evening . . . wait . . . well, ever.

***


What in the hell was Pam doing? On my couch sat two of the most bizarre-looking Vampyres. I was pretty sure they were Vampyres. Wait . . . fangs. They were definitely Vamps. Pam was running around the room making gagging noises and huge raspberries. Which, by the way, sounded so much like the real thing, I had to check to make sure she was using her mouth.

Vampyre number one, who I dubbed Muffy, was dressed from head to toe in hot pink and lime green madras, a la bad country club circa 1980. Vamp number two looked like her name should be . . . Elvira. She had black hair, black fingernails, black lipstick, black eyes, black clothes . . . blah blah blah. She looked as Goth as they come, and seriously depressed. They both had their eyes trained on me and only me. That was when I realized they couldn’t see Pam. This was confirmed when my three hundred pound Guardian Angel sat on top of Muffy, and Muffy didn’t move or utter a sound.

Not only could I see Pam, but I could touch her and hold her and drink blood from her. God, this was strange.

Muffy, the prepster, plastered a huge pageant smile on her face and squeaked, “Hi! I’m Muffy from the Aurora House.” Oh my God, I got her name right? “You must be Astrid!”

It was all I could do not to slap my hands over my ears. Pam had no such qualms. As Muffy spoke, her voice got higher and higher. I was sure she was sending signals to all the stray dogs in the surrounding counties. I kind of wanted her out of my house, but she had a really big gift basket. “Did you two just break into my house?” In all the movies Vampyres had to be invited in.

“Oh no,” she squeaked, “the door was wide open and there was a note that said ‘Welcome’. I suppose I should have called first,” she shrieked. “I didn’t realize you were having Paris Hilton over.”

Confused, I looked over at the tiny, skinny, overly made-up Goth girl sitting on my sofa and said, “I’m sorry, your name is . . . ?”

“Paris Hilton,” the tiny Goth girl whispered in a childlike voice.

“Holy fuck! This is awesome,” Pam screamed, throwing her big ol’ Oprah hands in the air and falling off the couch in hysterics. I so didn’t need her here right now. She’d clearly been the one to leave the note and my door open. We were going to have a little chat later. Even though they couldn’t see or hear her, I could, and she was this close to making me laugh ‘til I peed. She could barely control herself. If she wasn’t immortal, I’d be concerned she was having a heart attack.

“Oookay,” I gasped, trying to hold myself together. “Purely out of curiosity, is that the name you were born with?”

“Yes,” Paris said, “and there is no relation . . . unfortunately. I’m from the Lucern House,” she continued, completely ignoring the fact that Muffy was starting to hiss at her in bizarre little high-pitched squeaks that were making me grind my teeth. “We would love to have you join us, Astrid. Pledge The Dead!” Paris whispered as loud as she could and pumped both super skinny fists in the air.

I sat down and bit the inside of my cheek really hard, trying not to dissolve into hysterics. Pam, that traitor, was still rolling all over the floor, barely able to breathe after Paris’ last outburst.

Not to be outdone Muffy shrieked, “Join the Aurora House and have a bloody good time!” She rolled her hands like a cheerleader, threw them up in the air and screamed in decibels not meant for the human ear, “Pun intended!”

Muffy was jumping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. Paris was pumping her skinny arms and shaking her head like she was having an epileptic fit. And Pam . . . well, Pam was useless.

Did I have to join a House? Why couldn’t I just be an independent? There was no way in hell I belonged with either of these people. Were these my only two choices? Shit, shit, shit.

Just as I was about to ask everyone to leave so I could “think about it”, hoping they’d leave those big juicy gift baskets, Paris accidentally punched Muffy in the head and all hell broke loose. Fangs descended and furniture got kicked out of the way. Muffy hissed like a wild animal in heat, picked up Paris Hilton and threw her out of my window. What the fu . . . ? Glass flew everywhere. I screamed and hid under the couch that had gotten shoved up against my TV.

I heard a grotesque grunt, and a very bloody, teeny tiny Gothy Paris Hilton came flying back through my shredded window . . . the same window from which she had just been ejected. How in the hell did she do that? Paris expertly took Muffy down in a chokehold. She slammed Muffy’s head into the floor so hard so many times that I knew for sure Muffy was for real dead. The sound of skull making contact with hard wood was just wrong on every level. Muffy was a goner.

But no, how wrong I was . . .

Bloody Muffy let loose a scream so high pitched that the glass on my TV shattered. She grabbed Paris Hilton’s teeny tiny titties and twisted for all she was worth. Paris Hilton screamed and head-butted Muffy.

These Vampyres were crazy and they were destroying my house. My house. My cute little postage stamp house that was almost paid off. It wasn’t much, but it was mine and this was not working for me. That preppy-assed screaming Muffy busted my window and my TV, and Paris Hilton had just dismantled my coffee table with a karate chop and was beating Muffy over the head with it. I wasn’t sure how much more Muffy’s head could take. This shit had to stop.

“Enough!” I shouted at the top of my lungs as my fangs descended.

“Get up,” I said through clenched teeth, “and get the hell out of my house.”

Both Paris Hilton and Muffy got to their feet slowly, looking around at my destroyed living room with shame.

“I am so sorry . . . ” Muffy squeaked.

“Shut up,” I growled, my eyes flashing. She did.

“Our Houses will pay for the damage,” Paris Hilton informed me as if this were a regular occurrence.

“Damn right they will,” I said. “Both of you need to leave and never ever come back.”

They went to retrieve their gift baskets.

“Oh no, you don’t,” I snapped. “After that little display, those baskets are mine.”

“Of course,” Paris Hilton said in her baby voice. “Well, if you change your mind, here’s my card.”

Muffy quickly pulled out her own card and tried to hand it to me. My glare stopped both of them in their tracks. If I’d learned anything from my mother, it was how to scare the hell out of someone with a glance. It worked.

“If you don’t put those cards back in your pockets,” I calmly informed them, “I will shove them so far up your asses you will have to pull them out of your mouth. Do you understand me?”

They put their cards back and exited quickly. Where in the hell had Pam gone? Why couldn’t they see her? This Vampyre thing was appealing less and less to me and I was fairly sure there was no way out. Furthermore, their gift baskets sucked. Muffy’s was loaded with day-glow colored madras clothing, Topsiders, Lacoste and a Minnie Ripperton CD.

Paris Hilton’s was loaded with black crap that was barely in style during the 1980s, although there was a pair of Converse black high tops. Paris Hilton - 1, Muffy - 0.

I walked out to make sure that Muffy and Paris were gone, and there on my porch swing sat one of the prettiest Vampyres I’d seen yet. Her skin was as black as night. She had high cheek bones, full lips and sparkling black eyes. Her hair was wild and curly. Her body was long and lean. She was stunning.

“Who are you?” I asked suspiciously. I didn’t have time for anymore crazy.

“Your new best friend,” she laughed. Her laugh sounded like bells. She stood up with the predatory grace of a panther, and walked over to me. Now that was what I was talking about. This girl was what I expected a Vampyre to look like.

“I’m Venus . . . I’m from the Cressida House. We are Vampyre defense specialists. We’re also Prada whores,” she smiled and winked. “We would love for you to join us, Astrid.”

Venus handed me the new Prada hobo bag filled with really good sunscreen, a totally rockin’ pair of Prada platforms in my size, Chanel sunglasses, a couple of bags of O negative for emergencies and a brand new iPhone. If I could still breathe I would have been hyperventilating. I hesitated for a moment, realizing how materialistic I must seem, but quickly dismissed it. I mean, Oh. My. God. The new hobo! It wasn’t even on sale to the general public yet.

“Hell yes,” I said, grabbing my new Vampyre buddy and planting a big wet one on her cheek. Things were looking up. Gemma would freak when she saw the bag.

“Why don’t you come back to the Cressida House with me for the rest of the night and tomorrow? We’ve got a lot to cover. Don’t worry about your living room. The Lucern and Aurora Houses will repair the damage Muffy and Paris caused.” She chuckled and held out her hand. I grabbed it and looked around for Pam. She stood in the doorway watching me.

I turned to Venus. “I just need to tell my . . . um . . . roommate where I’m going.”

“Do you need to go in and find her?” she asked.

“No, I . . . ” I whipped back around. Had Pam left? No, she was still there.

My Guardian Angel smiled her approval and nodded her head. None of them could see her. Why couldn’t other Vampyres see her? I turned back to Venus who was waiting for my answer.

“No, she’ll be cool,” I said, following Venus down my driveway to her car.

I glanced back one last time at Pam, who had turned around, bent over, whipped her pants down and mooned me. I laughed and shook my head in wonder and disgust.

“What?” Venus asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, “life’s just changing really fast.”

My new pretty Vampyre buddy considered me for a moment, smiled, and squeezed my hand. “It’s all good my friend. It’s all good.”

 

[Khổng Lồ Một Mắt]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Chapter 6

Holy hell, this was not what I expected. The Cressida House, which happened to be the most beautiful mansion I’d ever seen, was huge and overwhelming. I pressed my arms to my sides, afraid to touch anything. Everything in the place looked priceless.

“So this is it,” Venus grinned. “What do you think?”

“Um . . . wow,” I mumbled.

Venus laughed and led me through the foyer that was at least ten times the size of my house.

The home was grand yet tasteful. Dark, heavy woods gave it a masculine feel, but the huge crystal chandeliers and exquisite floral arrangements in stunning etched glass bowls kept it from being too manly. The grand staircase in the foyer would have been breathtaking, if I’d had any breath to take. All the rugs were Persian and I’m sure cost more than my college education. The curtains were thick and brocade and fell like water from windows that had to be at least fifteen feet high.

Of course, this was nothing compared to all the real Picassos, Rembrandts, Degas, Monets and all the other original paintings that covered the walls. I felt like someone had made a mistake inviting me to belong to such a beautiful place. I stayed close to Venus. My new Vampyre senses made me very aware we were not alone.

“The estate also houses a gym, a fight training center, movie theaters, a bowling alley and all sorts of other cool things,” Venus explained as we made our way toward some very large and intricately carved doors. I considered turning around and making a run for it, but Venus took my arm and guided me on. “The property is approximately one hundred acres and we have stables where some very famous race horses are maintained.”

These Vamps were loaded. Apparently, living for centuries paid off.

“The third and fourth floors of the main house have bedroom suites for those of us who live on the compound like me,” she continued. “The entire fifth floor is exclusively for the use of our Warrior Prince of the North American Dominion. He loves Kentucky and spends a good deal of time here,” Venus said proudly. “Come on, you ready to meet everyone?”

“No,” I whispered.

“Don’t be silly,” she said as she opened the huge doors. “They’ll love you.”

I gasped as she revealed a massive ballroom filled with the most gorgeous dead people I’d ever seen in my life.

“Hello, my brothers and sisters,” Venus announced grandly. “This is Astrid. She will be joining our House.

All conversation stopped and every eye in the ballroom turned to me expectantly. I wanted to die. Whoops, already dead. “Um . . . hi. Nice to meet everyone. I . . . you know . . . died a couple of days ago and I . . . um, think you have a really nice house and . . . ”

“Why don’t I introduce you around?” Venus thankfully cut off my mortifying intro and proceeded to walk me around the room.

I spent the entire evening in the grand ballroom meeting more Vampyres than I ever knew existed. Both male and female Vampyres belonged to the House. Some of them lived there, some of them didn’t. They were all very attractive and very nice in an uncomfortably dangerous sort of way. I was an immediate hit, due to Venus sharing the “shove it up your ass and pull it out of your mouth” story. Vamps seemed to enjoy things with a hint of violence attached. My horrifying opening speech seemed to be forgotten. Thank God.

“Venus,” I whispered, “everyone is so beautiful. What happened with Muffy and Paris Hilton?”

“Oh,” Venus shook her head, “that’s a bad story.”

“How bad?”

“Quite bad,” a stunning Asian female Vampyre informed me. “Back in the 1920s a band of Vampyres thought it would be amusing to change a circus freak show.”

“Suffice it to say it wasn’t funny at all. It was horrific and cruel. Most of them didn’t make it,” Venus explained. “They were given no choice and were treated brutally.”

“Oh my God, did they catch the Vampyres who did it?”

“Oh yes,” the stunning and increasingly scary Asian Vamp said. “They were tried and eventually put to a death as brutal as the ones they caused.”

Her excited smile creeped me out. I moved closer to Venus.

“Our Warrior Prince will not tolerate atrocities,” a pale, but beautiful male Vampyre said.

I noticed many bowed heads. It was like the Warrior Prince was some kind of god-King. Weird. This whole monarchy thing seemed a little outdated to me, but I stayed quiet. He was due to visit the Cressida House soon, and as a new Vampyre, I would be granted an audience with him. Whatever.

Some of the freak-Vamps, which was their term, not mine, stillworked in fringe carnivals, but most like Muffy and Paris Hilton had tried to blend in with society . . . some with more success than others. They had their own Houses—Lucern and Aurora. They had been invited to join the Cressida House, but decided to form their own instead. Neither Lucern nor Aurora had recruited a new member in over fifty years. No surprise there.

“Really they’re harmless, except for the massive property damage they cause everywhere they go,” a lovely dark-haired Vamp explained.

“How many are there?” I asked. Why did I find this so morbidly fascinating?

“At last count there were thirty-eight or forty freak-Vamps, depending with whom you are speaking,” a sexy Vamp with a Spanish accent informed me.

“Oookay,” I laughed, “Can’t Vampyres count?”

“No, no, dear child,” a blonde Vampyre named Crispin that looked half my age chimed in, “it’s rumored that the Siamese twins separated themselves, and being immortal, they each just grew back another twin.”

What the fu . . . ? I tried not to let my jaw drop on that one, but trust me, it was difficult. Even a couple of the seasoned Vamps looked like they had a tough time with it.

“I do find it interesting that you were changed without consent,” Crispin added, sipping on his blood-laced cocktail and making me uncomfortable with his scrutiny.

“Give her time,” Venus cut in quickly, moving me away from Crispin.

“We’re a secret. You can only share this with people you would trust your life with,” Venus said, leading me out of the ballroom.

“What happens if I slip up?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Revealing the existence of Vampyres is punishable by permanent death.”

Alrighty then.

“There is one other thing you need to know,” Venus said. “There are Rogue Vampyres in the area draining and killing mortals. We do not tolerate this kind of behavior.”

Well, that was certainly good to know. Apparently there was no reason to kill a mortal to eat. Ever. This Rogue issue seemed to happen every fifty years or so and was of course punishable by death. Not my idea of wholesome Vampyre fun. I was to report anything unusual.

What in the hell did that even mean? Everything in my life was beyond unusual now. I realized when I’d left I hadn’t told them about Pam. Something had held me back from sharing every corner of my life with them. Maybe next time.

***


My house was too clean. Something was wrong. What in the hell was that smell? Pine Sol, bleach, and stanky vanilla room deodorizer? Good God, what did she do? I was only gone one night.

“Pam, where are you?” I called.

“In here, sweetness,” she called back. Sweetness? I am so screwed . . . she either killed someone and buried them in the backyard, or she blew my entire savings online betting.

“Pam, I’m getting a little queasy here,” I said, rounding the corner to my destroyed den. “You usually swear at me within twelve seconds of my arrival.”

“Fine, Assbag, get in here. We’ve got company.”

Please help me God, could it get any worse? Yes . . . yes it could. Was Paris Hilton back?

Pam was alone. Thank you, Jesus. She was sprawled out on my semi-broken couch. Clearly the Vampyre fix-it crew hadn’t shown up yet. She was reading my email. I supposed she’d finished my diary.

“Did you have a lovely field trip, jackass?” she asked, closing my laptop and patting the couch beside her. I plopped down and curled up next to her.

“Yeah, nice butt by the way,” I said, referring to her moon and Pam cackled. “I joined the Cressida House. They seemed fairly normal for Vampyres, and I made a new friend named Venus. Where did you go last night?” I asked her accusingly, “I thought you were my Guardian Angel.”

“I am and I was here,” she replied in a serious tone that I had never heard. I looked at her for a moment and decided to let it drop. I also decided that this was not the time to explore why none of the Vamps could see her.

“Where’s the company?” I asked.

“It’s in your bedroom,” Pam smirked.

“What do you mean by it and why in God’s name is it in my bedroom?” I shouted. Shit, Pam’s love of volume seemed to be rubbing off on me.

“It has been sent here to teach you how to fight. Apparently the higher ups,” she gestured to the heavens, “saw you hiding behind the couch last night. We have come to the conclusion that you are a wimpy, pansy-ass Vampyre and you need to learn how to defend yourself. Not run behind furniture like a damn coward.”

“Are you sure you’re an Angel?” I asked, still totally amazed that this disgusting, profane, Oprah look-alike named Pam was even remotely celestial.

“Damn straight, Assbuckle.”

“That’s lovely,” I continued, “so my fighting coach is in my bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a male Angel or a female Angel?” I asked.

“It ain’t no Angel, baby. It’s a male Fairy!” Pam announced.

“He’s gay?”

“No! He’s not gay,” Pam yelled. “He’s a Fairy . . . you know, as in ‘I’ve got wings, and I’m really sexy, and I’m magic, and I’m hung like a horse’ . . . you know.” She looked at me expectantly.

“No, no, actually I don’t know.” I was getting seriously confused and quite honestly a little alarmed by the ‘hung like a horse’ part.

Pam continued again as if English was my second language. “Well anyway, I don’t think he’s gay. I suppose he could be. He doesn’t seem gay. I’m sure he was scoping my boobs and I’m pretty sure he would love to get down on my . . . ”

“Nooo. No, no, no, no!” I screamed. “Stop! Don’t want to hear it.” I flapped my hands against my ears to block her out just in case she was still talking. Her mouth wasn’t moving. I slowly took my hands away, ready to start beating my head again if necessary. “Is he sleeping?” I asked, my hands still poised mid-air.

“For shit’s sake, I don’t know. Go look and see.” She picked up my cell phone, began scrolling through my texts and dismissed me with her middle finger.

I marched down the hall ready to face whatever was in there, threw open my bedroom door and gasped. Not quite as ready as I thought . . . There on my celery green down comforter surrounded by my hunter green and cream pillows lay a one hundred percent buck ass naked Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“Hello, my liebchen,” he joyfully bellowed with the full on Austrian-German accent.

“Hi,” I said and tried to avert my gaze from Arnold’s abundant privates. “I’m Astrid, and you are . . . ?”

“The Kevin, your Fairy Fighting Friend,” he shouted with gusto. What was it with all these loud immortals that looked like celebrities?

“Of course you are,” I muttered as he leapt off my bed and came at me with both arms extended with all regions south a-swinging in the breeze with a vengeance. I quickly sidestepped the lovin’ headed my way, which caused The Kevin to bash into my doorframe.

“Ahhhhhhh!” The Kevin moaned, grabbing his nose. “You are quick, my little strudel princess,” he yelled with pride. “You will be a good fighter! I think you broke my nose.”

“God, I’m so sorry,” I yelped. “Why don’t you sit down?” I grabbed a wad of tissue and pressed them to the fountain of blood gushing from The Kevin’s nose.

“And smart, too!” The Kevin mumbled as I seated him back on my comforter that I now really needed to wash. It was a good thing I wasn’t hungry. The Kevin’s blood smelled delicious, like hot buttery caramel corn and baked cinnamon apples. That would have been seriously awkward, not to mention uncouth, had I gotten busy and licked his face clean.

“The Kevin . . . ” I started.

“You can call me The Kev—all my friends do.”

“Oookay, The Kev, it’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry I broke your nose . . . and you’re going to have to cover yourself,” I added quickly.

“What do you mean, O Beautiful One?” The Kev asked.

I took a deep breath. Did he really not know? “Your privates, The Kev. You have to keep your privates covered.”

“Because they make you want me?” The Kev smiled seductively with a huge wad of tissue hanging out of his nose.

“Nooo . . . ” He was definitely not gay. Why wasn’t I attracted to him? He was gorgeous and naked and in my bedroom. Was there something wrong with me? I needed to be diplomatic without crushing The Kev. “You have very . . . um, nice privates, but you’re more like a brother to me.” I smiled and tilted my head to the side giving The Kev my most sincere and sweet sisterly look. Was he going to buy that shit?

The Kev considered this for a moment and seemed satisfied. He grinned and said, “By my privates, do you mean my buttocks and my rod?”

God help me. “Yes,” I tried to smile, despite the fact he’d called his penis a rod. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“No problem, my little Krumecaca.” he said.

“Krumecaca?”

“It’s a cookie,” The Kev enlightened me.

“Of course it is.”

***


Life with The Kev and Pam was dysfunctional at its best, and insane at its worst.

The Kev loved me and Pam. Pam tolerated him with the same sweet profanity-laden disrespect that she tolerated me with. He just laughed, flexed his huge muscles at her, and swatted her on the butt. Pam would squeal like a little girl, and then cuss him out like a sailor. We were one little happy albeit odd family—except for one thing. Even though The Kev loved Pam and me, he was head over heels, cuckoo crazy in love with Gemma. As for how Gemma felt? I’d have to say overwhelmed and alarmed.

“He’s hot, but he’s weird,” Gemma said, hiding from The Kev in my bedroom. “He told me I wasn’t all human,” she hissed.

“What did you say to that?” I asked, staring at my ceiling and looking for the little ugly monsters. Where in the hell were they?

“I didn’t say anything. I punched him.”

“Holy shit,” I laughed, impressed that she got a shot in. I’d been fight training with The Kev for a while, and barely ever made a dent in him. “What did he do?”

“He laughed and congratulated me on my fabulous left jab.”

“Awesome,” I grinned.

“I suppose,” she giggled.

We still hadn’t seen The Kev’s wings, but everything else about him was utterly magical. His main shortcoming was his choice in apparel. If he wasn’t running around buck ass naked, which I had expressly forbidden, he put together the most hideous ensembles. Bless his heart.

Case in point—yesterday he wore a bright purple muscle T-shirt with gold spandex leggings, flip flops and an orange skull cap. I wasn’t sure where he was locating these items and was afraid to ask. I had a very bad feeling that he and Pam had been shopping online with my credit cards while I slept.

Along with my daily tutoring at the Cressida House from Venus, who was quickly becoming a close friend, my fight training with The Kev had gotten serious. I’ve never worked so hard or been as sore in my entire life. I’d only taken The Kev down once and it had not been easy. He was so delighted when I bested him that he slapped me on the back and sent me flying into a tree, which I knocked down. It was a hundred year old oak.

As lovely as The Kev was, that bastard punched hard. Not only did I get a major concussion from the tree, I’d had two black eyes, two split lips, four broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder to prove it, and that was after only four days of training. Thank God I was a Vampyre or I’d be for real dead. Well, that and The Kev’s blood. Fairy blood heals. Without The Kev’s blood I’d be a mess. I was too new a Vampyre to heal very quickly.

The Kev let me drink from him whenever I wanted. Again, strangely enough, it wasn’t sexual with the Kev even though I drank from his neck. Pam was not happy about me drinking so much Fairy blood, but she knew it was necessary for me to heal. Apparently the combination of Fairy blood and Angel blood was very powerful, and pretty much untested. When they thought I was asleep I heard her tell him he’d better train me “fuckin’ good.” According to Pam there were a lot of beings that would want me dead with the unimaginable strength and Magic I would soon have from all the celestial blood I’d been partaking in.

Between Venus’ tutoring and The Kev’s fight classes I knew more about bloodsuckers and ass kicking than I could ever want to in twenty lifetimes. I still hadn’t revealed anything about Pam or The Kev to any of my new Vampyre friends—not even Venus.

They hadn’t forbidden me to talk about them, but it just didn’t feel right.

Since my disastrous decision about getting hypnotized left me dead, I had been following my gut ever since.

 

[kenny0112]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Chapter 7

Visiting a graveyard at 2:30 in the morning could indicate one of two things. I was drunk and really stupid. Or I was a Vampyre out to pay respects to my beloved recently dead grandmother and didn’t want to fry my ass in the sun. I fell into the latter category.

“Why the hell is it getting colder?” I asked the crumbling sidewalk. Surprisingly, it didn’t answer. With all the unbelievable occurrences in my life, I half expected the damn sidewalk to strike up a conversation. It was June for Christ’s sake. It wasn’t supposed to be cold. I hurried my pace, wondering if it was going to storm, and ended up right in front of Nana’s huge gravestone. I shivered and got a creepy feeling that I wasn’t alone. I looked around to make sure no one was about to witness how bonkers I’d become.

“Nana?” I whispered. Nothing. If at first you don’t succeed . . . blah blah blah.

“Nana?” Still nothing. Shitfire, I was getting spooked. Why in the hell should I be nervous? I was a Vampyre for God’s sake. I was a bloodsucking fiend! Right?

Right. I was at the top of the stinkin’ food chain!

Right?

Right. I was not afraid of anybody!

Right?

Wrong! What the fu . . . ?

With the grace of a cow, I dove behind Nana’s grave into a shallow hole. I heard people walking and talking. Nobody sane should be out here at this time of night except me, and my sanity was debatable. Pam was right. I was a wimpy, pansy-ass Vampyre. Why in the hell did I think it was a good freakin’ idea to visit a graveyard in the middle of the night? Did I learn nothing from the hypnotism Vampyre fiasco? I peeked out and observed three of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen nearing my hidey-hole. Shit.

There were two women and one man. He had the finest, most asstastically perfect backside I’d ever seen in my life. I started to stand up to get a better look, but common sense prevailed and I stayed put. Thank you, Jesus. What the hell was wrong with me? An ass is an ass is an ass.

The trio stopped about six feet from where I hid. They stared at each other with a razor sharp deadly focus. It was as if invisible walls held them back from one another. They completely ignored me. Again, thank you, Jesus. Because I clearly had a death wish, I shifted ever so slightly to get a better look.

Mr. Beautiful Butt had gold eyes with shoulder length golden blonde hair to match, high sculpted cheekbones and pale flawless skin. Right out of a freakin’ romance novel. His lashes were full and long. He was tall, had a rockin’ bod, and a drool worthy ass that I couldn’t seem to rip my eyes away from. He had full kissable lips, and did I mention that his butt was insane? It was packed into some well-worn jeans with some scuffed up Doc Marten boots, topped off with a just-a-little-bit-tight black T-shirt that clung to his oh-so-muscular top half. He was simply the best looking man I’d ever seen in my entire life and I had this crazy feeling I knew him. There was no way. I would have never forgotten him if we’d met before.

Red—scary female on the left—was gorgeous. Wild dark red curls flowed down her back and her eyes were a bluish silver. Holy cow, this Vamp-vision was like having binoculars for eyeballs. Her skin was pale and luminous and her mouth was full and pink. She was long and lean with a great rack. Normally, all that would make me jealous, but noooo. What was killin’ me was that Red was Prada’ed out. Prada from head to toe. She was even wearing this season’s thigh high stiletto boots. I would die for those. Oh wait, I can’t do that. I’m dead already.

Brownie—scary female on the right—had the PMS look. I was very familiar with that one, although I guess that PMS was now a thing of my past. Anyhoo, Brownie had chin length, curly, shiny dark brown hair. Her skin was pale mocha and her amethyst eyes had that same glittery glow as the others. Her cheekbones looked as if they had been cut in stone. Brownie was stunning. She was smaller in stature than Red but held her own. She wore a low cut Betsy Johnson dress with insane platforms. Where did these girls shoe shop?

Their silence was scarier than if they were screaming. What in the hell was going on here? I sunk lower into my hidey-hole.

“Haven’t seen you in several years,” Red snapped at my boyfriend.

“That has certainly been a pleasure,” he grinned. Be still my heart, could he get any hotter? “Last time I saw you, several of your limbs were missing,” he said.

Now that was random. Maybe my bionic Vampyre hearing had a glitch.

“That would be thanks to your no-good, son of a bitch, Jane-Austen-Wuthering Heights-loving boyfriend,” Red hissed at my gay?? lover. Damn it to hell, there was no justice.

My gay prince laughed at Miss Prada. “Ah my lovely sister, I’ll admit to many things over my many centuries, but experimentation is your hobby, not mine. I can guarantee you he is not my boyfriend.”

Thank you, Jesus.

“You’re both an embarrassment.” Brownie finally spoke, sounding as bored as I would at a knitting seminar.

“She speaks,” he said.

“Screw you,” she countered.

“Been there, done that, Honey Bunch,” my man parried back.

Brownie laughed derisively. “You wish,” she quipped, still managing to sound bored.

God, who does she remind me of?

“Speaking figuratively, not literally, my dear sister.”

What the hell? All of these people—and I used that term loosely—were related? If they were, they either have different mothers or different fathers . . . or maybe they’re step-siblings. Because clearly I’m just that stupid, I stood up. Bad, bad, bad idea. The beautiful redhead stared at me, almost confused.

“There’s someone here,” she said, stating the obvious.

All of a sudden there were three sets of glittering eyes on me. I finally knew what thick silence felt like—it felt wrong on every level. I struggled to find my voice. Unfortunately, I found it. “This is a lovely cemetery, don’t you think?”

“She can see us?” Brownie hissed. She didn’t sound so bored now.

“Impossible,” my future boy toy muttered, “we’re cloaked.”

Before I could blink he was in front of me, so close I could barely function. He smelled really good. His eyes blazed gold and slowly turned to a brilliant emerald green. He stared steadily at me. A shudder ran through my body.

My first compulsion was to touch him. I lifted my hand and lightly ran my fingertips along his jaw line. He jerked back as if burnt and began to laugh. “My God, it didn’t work.”

I knew something was really not right here. This was not normal conversation. These were not normal people. I was fairly sure these were my people and I didn’t want anything to do with them.

These Vampyres were not like the vapid idiots who visited me the other day, nor were they interesting and nice like the Vampyres at the Cressida House. These were dangerous psychos, dressed to kill, probably literally. Oh. My. God. These were the Rogue Vampyres I was warned about! Shit, shit, shit.

I was not drunk or asleep. But I was clearly in tons of trouble. Wouldn’t it just figure, the first time I find anyone attractive in like a year, he turns out to be a cuckoo-cuckoo killer Rogue Vampyre. A crazy, mortal-killing bloodsucker that had friends who had ripped his sister’s limbs off.

Fuck. I couldn’t catch a break if it bit me in the ass.

And what in the hell was that all about anyway? Ripping limbs off? Did they grow back? Did she get them surgically sewn back on? They looked too normal to have been sewn back on. Crap, why were they staring at me? Did I say any of that out loud? I needed to get the hell out of here.

“Who do you belong to?” Brownie demanded.

I had no idea what she was talking about. Did I have an owner? Like a dog? These Vampyres must be from some other kind of Vampyre club, because unless I was mistaken that was not how it worked in Kentucky, or anywhere else in the good old U S of A for that matter. That bullshit ended with the Civil War.

Wait, did she think I was a hooker? I didn’t look like a hooker. She looked more like a hooker than I did in her big ass platforms and her boobies hanging out of that seriously cute Betsy Johnson. God, I’d love to have that dress. I would look great in that dress. I it cost a fortune. Shut up. Shut up. I didn’t have an answer to the question, which was rare, so I said nothing.

Red stepped closer to me and the air got cooler. “She’s very pretty,” she cooed. “I smell Vampyre, but there’s something else.”

“She’s gorgeous.” Mr. Hottie’s gaze lingered on my mouth as he spoke then snapped up to my eyes. “But that’s neither here nor there. Who made you and what are you?” he demanded.

I was starting to get pissed . . . and careless. “I’m a female,” I told Mr. Hot Pants, “and as far as I know my mommy and daddy made me.”

“Obviously,” he laughed. His eyes raked over my body with appreciation. “But I’m in no mood for games. I’ll ask you again—nicely—one more time. Who made you and what are you?”

I had no idea what they wanted me to say. My pissed-off reaction was shifting to scared-silly. I was so terrified I felt rooted to the ground. How weird was that? I’d heard people say it but I never believed it until now. My feet would not move. I wanted to run, but there was no chance of that. Brownie was by my right shoulder, Red was by my left, and Prince Starting-to-Be-UnCharming was in my face. I knew I was going to die. How unfair was that? I’d already died once this month. Shit.

He wrapped his large hand around my throat and very calmly stated, “Why don’t I give you a few choices to make this a little easier for you, pretty girl? Are you a Vampyre-Witch, Vampyre-Ghoul, Vampyre-Demon, or Vampyre-Shifter?”

“Ghoul and Shifter are out,” Red threw in. “I would be able to sense that.”

Brownie, not to be out done by the rest of her psycho kin added, “Who sent you and why are you here?” She punctuated it by squeezing my arm so hard I was surprised the bone didn’t snap.

“Oh my God,” I blurted, “you people are nuts.” I started to laugh. Knowing absolutely I was going to die, I still couldn’t help myself. Prince UnCharming dropped his hand from my throat. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was shocked.

“Clearly . . . ” I went on, very noticeably raking Mr. Smarty Pants up and down with my eyes. Turnabout is always fair play and he was hot. If I was going to die I may as well enjoy looking at the eye-candy before he ripped me apart.

“Clearly you are all very good-looking, well dressed Vampyre people who must have escaped from an extremely expensive insane asylum. I don’t know if I like being a Vampyre yet, but if I’m going to end up like you, go ahead and kill me. I want out.” I was definitely heading toward hysteria and entering the land of bizarre cheerleader voice. “You people are batshit crazy. Witches? Ghouls? Demons? Shifters? You forgot Mermaids and Trolls and the Tooth Fairy. I’m just going to leave you to what you were doing. Limb-ripping or whatever. So please step away from me and I’ll go.”

Nobody moved. Much to my chagrin I started laughing again.

“Is she laughing at me?” my ex-boyfriend asked.

“No,” Red interjected, “Us. Did she just say Tooth Fairy?”

“Yes, I believe she did.” He tried to suppress his amusement.

“Does she have any idea who we are?” Red asked.

“I’m going to go with a no on that one,” her brother replied.

Brownie was not happy. “This is not good, not good at all,” she barked. “I think we should kill her.”

“We can’t kill her,” Red snapped. “We don’t know what she is, who she belongs to, or why she’s here. So, if we kill her we could end up banished for centuries. She has not threatened our lives. Trance her, Ethan,” she ordered.

Ethan? His name is Ethan?

“I tried,” Ethan said. “It didn’t work.”

“What do you mean?” Brownie was shocked.

“What I mean, Lelia,” Ethan condescended, “is that she doesn’t trance. She can also clearly see through our cloaking.”

That juicy tidbit set them all off as they yelled at each other about what to do with me. This was absolutely ridiculous. If I was going to die, I may as well go out fighting. What the hell were my choices? I wracked my brain to think of what I could say that would satisfy them enough to let me leave or kill me quickly.

“I’m an Angel-Vamp,” I shouted over their argument. That shut them up, and if I’m not mistaken, scared them.

“Prove it,” Red growled.

“Um . . . ” Well, now I was screwed.

“She can’t prove it, Raquel,” Lelia said. Ethan just stared at me, a slight smile playing on his all too perfect face.

“It’s not that I can’t,” I bluffed, “it’s that I won’t. Since you all seem so interested in what I am, I’d like to know what exactly you are. Besides certifiable,” I added quietly.

Not quietly enough. Red . . . oops, I mean Raquel knocked me to the ground with a force that startled me and hurt like hell. I cried out as she straddled me and slapped me hard across the face. I felt my lip split and my cheek start to swell. I struggled but was no match for her. Lelia, formerly Brownie, held my arms down and I could swear both of their eyes were glowing like emerald green flashlights.

“Enough,” shouted Ethan, grabbing the girls like they were rag dolls and flinging them into nearby graves. I struggled to my feet and tried to run, but Ethan held me tight to his chest. God, his chest was amazing. I wondered how it would look and feel without the T-shirt in the way. What in the hell was wrong with me? He was not that hot, plus he wanted to kill me. Well, he was that hot, but he was still going to kill me.

I watched in shock as Red and Brownie, or rather Raquel and Lelia stood up and brushed themselves off as if nothing had happened. They should have been decapitated after the way their heads hit those crypts. I was sure I was hallucinating. Raquel grabbed her arm which was grotesquely twisted behind her back and popped it back into place. The huge gash on Lelia’s cheek healed as I watched. They must be old to heal that fast.

“That’s it, Ethan,” Raquel screamed. “You could have knocked my arm off and I don’t have the time or the patience to grow a new one, Asshole.”

Well, there was one question answered.

“So let her go,” she continued, “because now I’m going to kick your ass. It’s about time you knew what it felt like to be legless.”

Lelia laughed and clapped her hands. “I’ll hold the little Angel,” she said, grabbing me from Ethan.

He turned on her quickly and snarled, “If you hurt her, you will be permanently dead. Do you understand me?”

Lelia blanched. I suppose he wanted to kill me himself after he was done ripping his other sister’s legs off. Lelia quickly nodded to Ethan and loosened her vise-like grip on me.

“Bring it,” snapped Raquel.

“As you wish,” he growled.

They began to circle one another like predatory animals. They were both so very beautiful and so very deadly. At least they were off the subject of killing me, but now they were more intent on killing each other. I glanced around the graveyard and wondered if there was any way to escape. This absolutely sucked. I was about to witness some limb-ripping, and then I was going to die . . . for real. Just as they were about to attack each other, something changed in me.

I could feel it in my body. Heat surged through me. I could see everything around me glowing in sparkling golds and peaches. It was wonderful. I smiled and flicked my fingers and a breeze laced with glitter lifted my hair off my neck and hugged my body. Lelia was blown away from me and I was free. I felt strong and beautiful. Plus, I was no longer scared. Part of me knew I’d jumped off the Bridge of Sanity and part of me didn’t care.

My three new friends—I use the term very loosely—stared in awe. Lelia and Raquel huddled together and backed away while Ethan advanced on me, wonder and desire in his eyes. My fangs descended, as did his. Oookay, a little freaky, but strangely hot. Was this the Vampyre sign for “I’d like to get you naked”?

As much as I wanted to see where this would lead, Ethan scared the hell out of me, and still possibly wanted to kill me. I backed away from him and he stopped. His gaze never left mine, and a new kind of heat started searing its way through my body. I knew he could sense what I was feeling because I knew exactly what he was feeling.

God, this Vampyre crap was complicated. Just when I thought I had a handle on my power some new freaky wrinkle got thrown in.

Suddenly I was barraged with images from his head—very naked, very explicit images of what he wanted to do to me. Oh. My. God. He was bad. Really good, but really bad. I’d never done half of that stuff he wanted to do. If his visions were accurate, he was quite something naked. Had I still been capable of blushing, I would have been a deep crimson. He grinned at me and ran his tongue across his lips. The tongue I wanted on my lips, in my mouth, not to mention other places like on my . . . wait . . . what is wrong with me and when did my inner slut take over? I swear to God, I wasn’t usually this much of a ho-bag, but all I wanted to do was jump the crazy killer Vampyre and have my way with him. How in the hell was this man making me feel this way without touching me? Why did I feel such a connection to him?

A soft breeze blew up around my body, whipping my hair and lifting my skirt. Ethan’s gaze slipped from my face to my legs. Thank Jesus I had good panties on. Wait . . . Why the hell did I care what kind of panties I had on? Five minutes ago the son of a bitch tried to kill me. Lord have mercy, I’d almost gone commando. That would have been bad.

I lifted my hand and flicked my fingers again and a glittery breeze engulfed me. Ethan began to come towards me again with a very determined look in his eyes. This both excited and scared the bejesus out of me. His intention was clearly carnal as evidenced by the lust in his eyes and the enormous bulge in his jeans. I caught myself moving towards him. While a huge part of me wanted to tackle the gorgeous killer and make him see God, the saner part of me somehow prevailed.

I flicked my fingers three more times, flinging glitter wildly around me. I knew with every fiber of my being that I needed to leave this place now or I would not be responsible for what I did. Having *** with a strange killer Vampyre in a graveyard while his sisters watched was just not my usual M.O. no matter how mouthwatering the Vampyre might be. Ethan stopped and tried to reach for me. I stepped back and heard him ask, “What is your name?”

I looked into his beautiful eyes and said nothing. He took a step closer. My body began to tingle with anticipation . . . and then I vanished.

 

[kenny0112]

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)
by Robyn Peterman
Genre: Funny
​

Spoiler: Chapter 8

I woke up in a pile of bodies on my bed. Mine, Gemma’s, Pam’s and The Kev’s. What the fu . . . ?

“Um . . . guys? As much as I love all of you this just seems wrong. Like against the law wrong.”

“Oh my God,” Gemma jerked awake, grabbed my face and started crying. “Astrid, you’re alive!”

“Of course I’m alive . . . at least as alive as a dead person can be,” I said, pushing The Kev off of me. “Why wouldn’t I be alive?”

Pam rolled herself off of my bed. How in the hell did we all fit on my bed? “Well, Assmunch, when you showed up last night you were convulsing in a funnel of Fairy Glitter. You had just transported yourself, which only Angels or Fairies should be able to do, and your eyeballs were rolling back into your head like a rabid dog. Call me nutty, but we were a little concerned.”

“Krumecaca!” The Kev woke up and shouted with great joy. He tackled me in a hug, possibly breaking a rib. “My goodness of the sakes,” he yelled, “we were so worried with the crazy sparkles and the crazy hairdo and your eyeballs rolling around in your head like a wild animal with the rabies and . . . ”

“Thank you,” I cut him off, “enough with the scary Astrid imagery. I get it.”

Pam walked over to my vanity and sat, or rather copped a squat on my little stool. The Kev was pacing. To my horror he was wearing a red, white, and blue Speedo . . . .and nothing else. Bless his heart.

Pam rested her head in her hands. And The Kev, despite his wrong-on-every-level clothing choice, looked gravely serious.

“What?” I was getting uncomfortable. “Why are you acting like somebody died? Oh shit, did I kill someone?”

“Hell no,” Pam bellowed. “Sit your skinny ass down and shut up.”

I obediently walked over to my bed and curled up next to Gemma. She put her arms around me and stroked my hair.

“Did anyone see you disappear?” Pam questioned, wringing her hands.

“Yes.” I hesitated, remembering the effect that the gorgeous Rogue Vampyre had on me. “Three Vampyres.”

“Fuck,” Pam shouted as The Kev’s pace picked up. He ran his hands through his hair and mumbled to himself.

A lead ball sat in the pit of my stomach. My vision blurred as my eyes filled with tears. “What? What did I do?”

“Did you know these Vampyres? Were they from the Cressida House?” she asked.

“No,” I sniffled. “I didn’t know them. I don’t think they were the good kind.” Although . . . one of them did have a crazy good ass. What the hell? Talk about inappropriate thoughts. I needed to erase him from my brain. “If I had to guess, I’d say they were the Rogue Vamps I was warned about.” I got up and reached for the phone. “I need to call Venus and tell her.”

“No!” The Kev tackled me to the floor.

“Get. Off. Me.” I ground out, positive he’d cracked a rib. The Kev gently picked me up, sat me on the bed with Gemma and patted my head like a dog. My eyes, now a bright emerald green, bored into Pam’s. “Tell me what in the hell is going on.”

Pam looked up to the heavens for a long moment, then at The Kev, and then finally back at me. “You have powers that Vampyres are not supposed to have. Ever. I am assuming you will need these powers for your path in life, but it would have been a fuckload better if nobody knew about them.”

“Call me crazy,” I snapped, “but wouldn’t that have been a good thing to tell me?”

“Little Wienersnitchzel, we did not know you were that powerful yet. It should have taken decades for you to be at such a high level.” The Kev shook his head in confusion.

“Why?” Gemma asked. “There has to be a reason why she can do what she did.”

Pam’s brow furrowed, “I’m not sure. The Angel and Fairy blood have something to do with it, but I have never seen anything like this.”

“What about her sire?” Gemma stood up and started pacing with The Kev.

“My what?” I asked.

“The Vampyre who made you,” Gemma said. Of course Gemma, the supernatural junkie, would know more Vampyre lore and lingo than me.

“That’s it!” The Kev shouted, slapping Gemma’s tush lovingly. She blushed furiously, looking quite pleased with her discovery and The Kev’s love pat.

“You’re right . . . it has to be her maker. She must have been one old and powerful motherfucker. That’s the only way to explain it,” Pam said, relieved to have an explanation. “That, coupled with our blood, has made you the Bionic Vamp.”

“Is it reversible?” I asked hopefully.

“Nope,” The Kev and Pam answered together.

“It will only get stronger,” Pam added.

“Why is her power such a problem?” Gemma asked.

Wait a minute. Was she scooting closer to The Kev?

“I’m not a hundred percent sure it is,” Pam said, rummaging through my drawers. “For whatever reason power always ends up being a problem. It will make our Assnoodle a target for Vampyres who will want to use her gift for their own gain, possibly even kill her out of fear. You,” she pointed at me, “are not ready to defend yourself against a Vamp with two hundred or three hundred or even five years of experience.”

“What in the hell is my gift?” I asked.

“Assbutt, I don’t even know. Right now you can transport and throw Fairy Dust, which can freeze or confuse people. Hell, tomorrow you might be able to fly and turn people into toads. It’s anybody’s guess at this point.” Pam shook her head.

Oh my God, this was bad. I did not want to be some crazy powerful Vampyre that would cause other Vamps to want to kick my ass or kill me.

Pam found some lip-gloss and tried it on, checking herself out in the mirror. Clearly unhappy with her choice, she went back to rummaging. “Anyway,” she said, spritzing herself with my expensive French perfume, “you need to lay low. Don’t go to the Cressida House except for your lessons with Venus and don’t offer up any information about last night.”

“What if they ask?” I said.

“Why the fuck would they ask? They don’t know anything about it.” Pam found my nose hair clipper and turned it on.

“True, but what if they do?” I watched in utter disbelief as she stuck my nose hair clipper up her nose. Not only was that disgusting, it was totally unsanitary.

“I’m an Angel, Assface. What do you think? That I’ll tell you to lie? If—and only if—they ask, then tell them.”

“Okay,” I snapped, “that’s all I wanted to know.”

Pam rolled her eyes, went back to her nose, and got busy.