by AJ Myers
Copyright © AJ Myers, 2012, All Rights Reserved
No part of this work may be photocopied or otherwise reproduced without the express written permission of the author.
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Meet Stuey!
Disclaimer:
Just in case you misunderstood the description of this interesting tale, you are about to read a book about vampires, demons, and ghosts. As most of you know, none of the creatures listed above are real. While there are witches out there, the witches found herein are a different breed of witches that live only in my head. This is a work of fiction, people! There is no Moonlight, Missouri—but there should be because it just sounds cool. There is also no Red Rock Bay, Washington—though you will find the town in a few of my other books. Also, if one of my imaginary friends reminds you of your boyfriend, or your Great Aunt Gertrude, or your Chemistry teacher, just say “Awesome!” and keep reading, because I can assure you it wasn’t intentional.
The Poem that Started it All:
If I were a witch of magical sorts
I’d brew up a mixture of frog eyes and warts.
A masterful mix of love potion I’d brew
And cast the spell to fall over you.
I’d add a little patience, need, want, worry and lust
With a pinch of passion, warmth, kindness and trust.
I’d throw in regret, hate and sadness, too
To balance the scales of the magical brew.
I’d leave out the sugar for fear you’d be sweet
And replace it with snails so you’d love only me.
A dash of laughter with a splash of desire
To keep the flames burning with no cause to tire.
I’d stir it forwards and three times backward for luck.
I’d add mischief and madness in case of a rut.
I’d whisper in a prayer and beg Father Time
To make it last forever, forgetting reason and rhyme.
To finish this potion, I’d add a single tear drop
And promise to love you until the day my heart stops.
If I were a witch of magical sorts
A masterful mix of love potion I’d stew
And cast the spell to fall over you.
Kathy Holmes
Dedication:
For Terrica, for being my “Twinkie” and the other half of my very warped brain. And for reading every single rewrite and begging for more.
For Trey, who’s more like me than he wants to admit. Stubborn determination takes us far, doesn’t it sweetheart? I can never tell you how proud I am of you, or how much I love you.
For Ben, for the ongoing saga of the “Mysterious Girl in the Box” and for fluffy killer pancakes and homicidal bacon. Love you, buddy.
For Sierra, who epitomizes the word ‘drama’. You’ve been a never-ending source of inspiration and laughter, baby girl, and I love you more than I can tell you.
For Tate, who has more personality in his little finger than most people have in their entire body. Love you, pumpkinhead.
For my sister, Audrey, without whom I would be totally insane. This is for making sure I remembered there was another world besides the one I created in my head. And for not letting me bring my laptop when I came to visit.
For Tammy, Sam, and John, the greatest first-readers an author could ask for. You guys are the best!
For Sara (AKA: Obi-wan), the world’s greatest editor, mentor, and friend. This is for making me rewrite over and over and over again until it was right—and for ignoring me when I whined about it. And for making me the writer you knew I could be. Thanks, hon! You’re awesome!
And last, but never least, this, like everything else I do in my life, is for my amazing, romantic, funny, semi-crazy (or maybe all the way crazy) soul mate, Ronnie. This is for all the nights you kissed the top of my head and went to bed alone so I could finish that next chapter. This is for all the meals I didn’t cook and the laundry I didn’t fold because I was editing. This is for all the drives through the country when I was stuck and frustrated. But, mostly, this is for loving me and cheering me on and telling me to “Put on my big girl panties, suck it up, and get it done”. I love you sooo much, baby.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Parental Patrol
Chapter 2: Every Girl Needs a Stalker
Chapter 3: Crash Course in Creepy
Chapter 4: The Truth Does Not Set You Free; It Gets You Blackmailed
Chapter 5: Demons, Vampires, and Witches! Yeah, Right!
Chapter 6: Abducted by the Undead
Chapter 7: Vampire Vanquish
Chapter 8: Caveman Mentality
Chapter 9: Motel Madness
Chapter 10: The Price of Flight
Chapter 11: Dream a Little Dream of Me
Chapter 12: Falling for the Fanged
Chapter 13: Confessions
Chapter 14: Vampire Mind Meld
Chapter 15: Witch Bane
Chapter 16: Demon Bashing 101
Chapter 17: Tantrums and Teleportation
Chapter 18: Making a Deal with the Devil
Chapter 19: Just When I Think it Can't Get Worse... It Does
Chapter 20: Feel the Burn
Chapter 21: Mr. Right
Chapter 22: Demon Damage
Chapter 23: Heart and Soul
Epilogue: The Next Chapter Begins
Author's Note
About the Author
Sneak Peek of AJ's next book, Something Wicked
Parental Patrol
My problems all started with a dead guy.
Okay, maybe that’s not fair. I mean, I can’t really blame all my problems on one guy. I only wish. No, my problems actually started before the dead guy showed up and finished off the destruction of a life that wasn’t all that normal to begin with. In fact, I would go as far as to say I had the kinds of problems that land most people in the psych ward…drooling and talking to the walls. But I was good with it. I knew how to handle it. And then, all that changed.
Which is why I blame the dead guy.
As bad days go, it was epic.
First, my alarm decided to malfunction and I woke up over an hour later than I should have. Then the hot water heater went out—Dad’s fault for getting a really lame plumber—and I ended up taking the coldest shower in history. Seriously, why is it that the hot water always seems to go out right after you lather up your hair?
Teeth chattering and feeling like a walking icicle, I finally made it downstairs with the intention of finding a Pop Tart on my way out the door. I immediately wished I had just stopped at the coffee shop for a bagel or something on my way to sc
hool when I walked into the kitchen to find my parents lying in wait for me. It was crash test dummy time again.
The suckiest part about having parents who are shrinks and published authors is that they always feel like they have to try out all their new techniques for communicating with a teenager on me. They had forgotten, once again, that I’m legally an adult. That really wasn’t much of a surprise considering the ‘Big Day’ had slipped their collective mind until two weeks after my birthday, at which point I found a cheesy birthday card taped to my bedroom door along with the keys to a brand new Miata MX-5 convertible. It hurt that they had forgotten my birthday, but I got a brand new car out of the deal, so I wasn’t holding a grudge or anything.
I knew what was up the second I saw my mother smiling at me. My mom never smiled at me unless she wanted to use me for practice—or if we were in public. Add to that the enormous stack of pancakes and the overwhelming scent of bacon, my dad’s specialties, and I knew I was in for a long morning.
“Good morning, kiddo,” my father said cheerfully as I walked into their trap. “Take a seat. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, so we thought we’d have breakfast together and catch up.”
Translation: It’s been a while since we strapped you into the passenger seat and sent it flying into the wall at a hundred miles an hour to see how much pressure your seat belt can take. Doesn’t that sound fun?
I had been a science experiment for as long as I could remember, so I knew the drill. I dropped my backpack, plopped my behind into the first available chair, and waited for the psychobabble to commence. Instead of starting in with questions like they usually did, though, my parents just looked at me expectantly. Ah, so it wasn’t a talking exercise we were doing, but a listening exercise.
How to Listen to Your Uncommunicative Teen:
Step 1: Stare at them like they’ve been taken over by aliens until they start to fidget.
Wow, my parents were good! They had this crap down pat!
“So what’s up?” My mother’s bright smile wasn’t quite enough to hide the irritation flashing in her eyes when I didn’t immediately start gushing about my life.
“The usual.” I shrugged, reaching for the pancakes. If I was going to have to submit to this mockery of family togetherness, I figured I might as well eat. “You know, senior year stuff, like college apps, stuff like that.”
“And how is that going?” my mother asked, her Dr. Sensitive face firmly in place.
I shrugged again. I hadn’t really been putting a lot of effort into it, still unsure what my next move should be. With my SAT scores—I had scored a 2200 overall—I could have gone anywhere. I already had acceptance letters from Harvard and Stanford, who were both offering very generous scholarships. There was also one from Yale, where both of my parents had gone to college, hidden in my drawer upstairs where no one was likely to ever find it. It was my life, my decision, and I wasn’t going to let my parents or anyone else make it for me.
My two best friends had already decided on NYU and I was seriously considering joining them. Just knowing how horrified my parents would be if I gave up an Ivy League education to major in Journalism at NYU would have been a good enough reason for me to go that route. But, honestly? I just couldn’t see spending my college career without my friends. Sure, I could make new friends, but it wouldn’t be the same
Apparently, though, shrugging was an unacceptable form of communication.
“Ember, you could at least try to learn to communicate,” my mother said with a scowl on her pretty face. “You’re about to be an adult—”
“No, Mother, by law I am an adult,” I told her, starting to get annoyed. “An adult who is about to be late for school.”
“Then it’s time you learned to communicate like one,” she snapped back, completely ignoring what I had just said about being late. Yeah, her listening skills were superb. “This,” she lifted her shoulders up and down in an exaggerated shrug, “is not how adults communicate.”
I shrugged again just to watch her blood pressure go up and went back to my pancakes. The glare she leveled at me was hot enough to blister paint, ruining what was left of my appetite. After just two more bites, I decided pancakes and bacon weren’t worth dealing with my mother and gave them up in favor of escaping.
“Ember, adults—” My mother began testily, but I cut her off.
“I’m late, Mother.” I shrugged yet again as I got up to put my plate in the dishwasher, curious to see if the throbbing vein in her temple would explode. “I really don’t have time for a lesson in ‘adult communication’. Maybe you can fit me in between your patients sometime. Right now, I’m late for school.”
“Ember, we only want to try to understand you,” my father said, trying to play peacemaker, as usual. “You can’t run from everyone who tries to get close to you. We’re your parents. Does it really seem so strange that we want to know you?”
He really didn’t want me to answer that.
“I’m not running from anything,” I hissed, finally starting to lose my temper. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get going.”
I didn’t wait for them to tell me to go—I just left, grabbing my purse and coat on my way out. I was closing the door behind me when I heard my father speak again.
“Well, that went well,” he muttered sarcastically.
I couldn’t have agreed with him more. Then, how had they really expected it to go? You couldn’t just ignore someone until they were convenient and then expect them to pour out their heart to you because you decided it was time to pretend they were important long enough to write a new chapter in your latest manual on how to deal with a juvenile delinquent.
My parents were as clueless about communicating with a teenager as the poor idiots who kept buying their books.
∞§∞§∞§∞
Due to the Freudian breakfast, I knew there was no way I was going to make it to school on time. Not that I didn’t try. I ran three stop signs and a red light—it was for a good cause and there was nobody there!—and was picking up major speed when I saw blue lights flare to life in my rear-view mirror.
Sure. Why not? I thought grumpily, pulling over like the good little citizen that I am instead of making a run for it—which is exactly what I wanted to do when I looked down and saw how fast I was going. Sixty in an area clearly marked with a speed limit of forty-five. Even if I cried and begged—hell, even if I stripped and gave the cop a lap dance—I wasn’t getting out of that ticket.
I suddenly had a vivid mental picture of a little missile that said Insurance Premium on the side skyrocketing past the moon and into another solar system altogether. My parents were going to murder me.
With my stomach in knots, I started digging in my purse for my driver’s license, flinging lipstick tubes and half-eaten rolls of mints across the passenger seat and onto the floorboard. I had just unearthed my wallet when someone tapped their knuckles on my window. I looked up with my very best impression of an innocent smile plastered on my face and immediately felt it slide off again when I saw the officer who was waiting for me.
No! I groaned inwardly, wondering how I’d landed in the seventh circle of Hell as I stared in horror at the officer motioning for me to roll my window down. Oh, no, no, no, no! Please tell me this isn’t happening!
Sheriff Martin—better known as Deputy Donut to those under the age of twenty-five—had been the bane of my existence since I was old enough to get my learner’s permit. His beady brown eyes were lit up with eagerness to torment me, and his flabby face was practically quivering with excitement as he reached up to push his flat-brimmed hat back to reveal his receding hairline.
Every kid in Moonlight, Missouri, knew his name and dreaded the sight of his car. It was common knowledge that he wrote bogus tickets for stuff that no one in their right mind would ever do. No matter how many times those tickets were appealed, though, they were never thrown out. He would look at the judge, appearing very solemn and dutiful, and lie his ass off w
ithout blinking an eye. And he was good at it. By the time you left the courtroom even you were wondering if you might have actually committed the crime you were accused of.
“Well, well, well,” he crooned gleefully when I rolled my window down, “If it isn’t the little redheaded hellion of Moonlight. All right, Ember, you know how this goes.”
He held his hand out, already writing out my tickets for missing documentation in his head, but I was so ready for him. I slapped my license, registration, and proof of insurance into it with a smirk. He looked disappointed for a second, then started carefully examining each document, taking his sweet time like I had all day.
I knew what he was doing. He was trying to get me to give him a reason to give me more than the speeding ticket I’d admittedly earned. Unfortunately, the whole town knew I had a temper and that I would blow like a powder keg if antagonized long enough. And no one—and I do mean no one—was better at making me lose my cool than Deputy Donut. We had been at war since sixth grade, when I accidentally broke his daughter’s jaw for calling me a cow. Honestly, though, I hadn’t meant to hit her that hard. Besides, I’d been aiming for her oh-so-perfect nose. It’s wasn’t my fault she moved!
I was suspended for two weeks for that little love tap, and Stacy’s jaw was wired shut for five. Though the blessed silence had almost been worth it, that was about the point her father had decided making my life a living Hell should be his life’s work. He’d been harassing me for one reason or another ever since. I’m not exaggerating either. I was probably the only twelve year old in history to have been charged with jaywalking, littering, disorderly conduct, and disturbing the peace.
