by Mari Mancusi
Once Upon a Vampire
Tales from the Blood Coven Book 1
Mari Mancusi
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
The Tales from the Blood Coven Continue with…
Read the Book that started it all! Boys that Bite, the first book in the Blood Coven Vampire series…
1
Jonathan turned, his azure eyes softening as they fell upon Maisie. Taking a bold step forward, he lowered his head to hers, kissing her softly on one cheek, then the other. His lips were light, tender—the wisp of a butterfly’s wing brushing against soft skin.
She lifted her arms, clasping her hands around his neck, pulling him to her. No longer caring if she came off as needy. Desperate. At this point, she would beg if she had to. She would do anything to be with Jonathan one more time. Even if was to be the last.
She could feel his blood tears splashing onto her cheeks as he pulled her into his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all. Carrying her to the bed covered in black rose petals.
Their last night. Could this truly be their last night?
He gazed at her for a moment with those eyes—those damn eyes that could see into her very soul! Then shook his head. “How can I leave you, Maisie?” he demanded, his voice cracking on the words. “I can’t. I won’t!’
“You have no choice,” she said sadly.
And they both knew it was true.
* * *
I looked up from the book, my gaze raking over my rapt audience. As always, not a dry eye in the house. I set the book down.
“If you want to know the rest, you’ll have to buy your own copy,” I teased.
The audience laughed, effectively breaking the spell. As they broke out into applause I tried not to squirm in my seat.
“Thank you all for coming,” Darla, my assistant, broke in, stepping up behind my table. “Hannah will now sign any copies you have purchased tonight from the store. Then, if there’s time left over, she can sign up to three of your older titles. But that’s all,” She added with a scolding grin. “Our girl needs to get back to writing, after all!”
More applause. People began to line up. I opened my Sharpie, preparing myself for the rest of the evening. We had two hours before the bookstore closed, which wasn’t nearly enough time to get through the line, judging from past experiences.
Darla was always telling me to go faster. To churn through readers and not talk to each one of them so long. Maybe skip the whole selfie thing. But how could I possibly do that? They had come all this way. At times driven hours or sat through traffic. They had stood in line. They each deserved at least a moment dedicated to them alone.
Some bookstores—especially the indie ones--would keep their doors open longer, to allow me to at least get through the initial line. But now, with thirteen titles in the Jonathan and Maisie Vampire Chronicles, there was no way I could sign them all.
It was a good problem to have, of course. An author’s dream come true to have readers so dedicated they’d cart your books into the store in a rolly bag, hoping to get every last one of them signed. I just wished it didn’t exacerbate my carpal tunnel so much. Or fray on my already pathetic nerves.
And so I forced Darla to play bad cop. A job which she took on with relish. I, on the other hand, would probably sign until my fingers fell off rather than turn anyone away. Especially those who showed up in costumes. Tonight I had spotted a few amazing Maisies in the crowd, dressed in her signature neck-plunging crimson gown from the first book in the series, Blood and Roses.
All the better to bite you, my dear! (One of Jonathan’s first iconic lines.)
Speaking of Jonathan… My eyes rose to the back of the room. To the man who had stepped in while I’d been reading, causing me to nearly stop mid-sentence. I squinted at him now, trying to get a better look. He was dressed all in black, rocking an old-fashioned regency era suit paired with a dashing white cravat. The kind of outfit Maisie was always trying to get Jonathan to throw away. (Okay, fine, she secretly thought he looked pretty hot in it, it just didn’t work for your typical taco Tuesday. My vampire hero may have loved his iPhone, but he’d never warm up to hipster chic.)
Even from here I could tell the guy’s outfit looked authentic. Definitely not a costume in a bag via Party City. I needed to examine him closer when he reached the front of the line. I was always looking for good Jonathan costumes as we often brought an actor to events to roleplay my hero with fans. (Something they adored!)
I shook my head. There would be time for costume appreciation later. Right now it was time for me to get to work. And so I started to sign, writing an inspirational message in each and every book, closing with a vampire smiley face and the phrase, “Fangs and Kisses!” before the actual autograph. It was admittedly a lot to write in each book and I knew Darla was giving me the evil eye, but I ignored her, instead inviting the fan to take a selfie with me before I moved on to the next reader.
The bookstore manager had informed us earlier they’d presold 300 books for the event and that was just the new release. Which was crazy! It never ceased to amaze me how many people had devoted their lives—and wallets—to this world created by little 23-year-old me.
When I first started writing Blood and Roses, I hadn’t even been able to find a publisher for it. Everyone claimed vampire books were “dead” after the whole Twilight boom and bust. And no editor would touch my little paranormal romance with a ten-foot stake. So I’d decided to self-publish it, putting it up online, figuring at least this way family and friends would be able to buy it and read it.
I honestly expected to sell ten copies. Instead, I sold half a million in the first year. Suddenly agents were knocking at my door. Publishers drooling on my pages. Everyone wanted a piece of Maisie and Jonathan.
And more books. Always more books.
It had started out exhilarating. Not to mention flattering. But lately it had become a bit exhausting, too, not that I’d ever admit it to my readers. I’d had to drop out of college to keep up with my deadlines and I’d hired Darla, my best friend, to become my official assistant. Darla kept track of my appearances, updated my Facebook and Twitter, and made sure I always had groceries in my fridge when I was on deadline. (And I was always on deadline.)
It did make me feel a bit guilty from time to time—especially the day I caught her cleaning my very neglected toilet. But I made up for it by offering her a healthy six figure salary, which allowed her to quit her hated day job as an executive assistant at a grumpy tax assessor’s office.
“Oh my God! I am SO in LOVE with Jonathan!” swooned a college aged girl with black hair and a nose-ring as she stepped up to my table to get her book signed. “My Mom gave me the first book last year and I totally thought it was going to be lame, you know? Most of the stuff she reads is such trash. But your book! Oh. My. God. It
spoke to me!” She paused, then added, her eyes shining, “It was like I WAS Maisie.”
I smiled and thanked her and signed her book. It was crazy that even after all this time I still got so flummoxed when fans gushed about my work. I mean, I may have been an international bestselling author but at the end of the day I was still only me—the most introverted girl in the known universe. If I had a choice, I would never leave my house. Hell, I’d hire a body double to do these events.
But my new publisher was having none of that. Publicity and public appearances were all part of the game, they said. And it was important to get face time with one’s fans. (Real face time, as opposed to FaceTime, which could have been done from home.) And so every time a new book came out, I got my hair blown out, my eyebrows waxed, my makeup refreshed. Then I’d head out on tour for three to four exhausting, mind-numbing weeks.
From time to time I would try to argue my case with my publisher—that they would get far more books from me if I could just skip the touring part of the job. But they only laughed and sent me more plane tickets.
“Thank you so much!” the girl squealed, hugging the newly signed book to her chest. She turned to leave, then stopped in her tracks. “Oh!” she cried. “I almost forgot!”
I watched, curious, as she reached into her bag, pulling out a string of dark purple rosary beads. Just like the ones Maisie kept in her sock drawer. She set it down on the table.
“My mom wanted you to have this,” she said. “Just in case you ever run into a real vampire.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Real vampire?” I repeated.
The girl laughed. “I know, I know,” she said. “But just take it, okay? It’ll make my mom’s day.”
I smiled. “Tell her thank you,” I said, reaching for the necklace. Then I handed it to Darla. “Put it in my purse, okay?” I said. “So I don’t leave it here by mistake.”
Darla did as I asked and the girl danced away happily. I sighed, suddenly feeling very weary. When Darla returned, she gave me a concerned once over.
“Are you okay, Hannah?” she asked. “Do you need another Red Bull?”
“I’m okay, thanks,” I assured her. The last thing I needed was more caffeine to jangle my already fraught nerves. “But another Sharpie wouldn’t go amiss.” I shook the marker I was using. “This one’s on its last leg.”
“Seriously, I should have taken out stock in Sharpie before you hit the bestseller list,” Darla snorted. But she scurried away to find the store manager and get me a new pen.
And so I signed. And I signed. Then I took a photo and signed some more. It seemed like forever before the line started to dwindle and the store began to go through the motions of shutting down. Your total normal book signing, really, except for one thing. The guy in the Jonathan costume, hovering in the back of the store, but never getting into line for an autograph like everyone else.
Was he not here to see me after all? But no, that costume was a dead giveaway. Maybe his wife made him wear it—I did see couples’ costumes from time to time. But there was no one in line left who was dressed like Maisie.
Maybe he was just shy. I definitely could relate to that. Still, he was creeping me out a little, hovering at the back, watching me as I worked the line.
Finally, I made it to the end. A young girl, probably about my age danced up to the table. She was wearing a Vampires R People Too t-shirt and had blue streaks in her blond hair. She thrust her well-worn book in my direction.
“Hi!” she said, giggling with nervous excitement. “Can you, like, sign my book?”
“Of course!” I said, smiling back at her. “Especially since you waited so long. And I love that you have one of the original self-published covers of Blood and Roses. There aren’t too many of those around anymore.”
“I know, right?” she practically squealed. “And I have to say, it’s way better than the publisher one, no offense. I mean, the cuts they made you do when they republished it?” She shook her head. “So not cool.”
I shrugged. “Editors,” I said, as if that explained everything.
“Yeah. Well, the problem is I keep re-reading this one. And it’s getting way worn out.” She sighed. “I’d buy a new one but these are going for like five hundred bucks on eBay.”
“You know, I think I have a stack of the old covers at home,” I told her. “Here’s my assistant’s card. Email her your address and tell her you talked to me and she’ll send you one.”
The girls’ blue eyes widened into saucers. “Oh my God! Thank you! Are you sure? I mean, I could pay you! Er, not what they charge on eBay but, you know.”
I waved her off. “They’re just sitting in the closet, collecting dust. I’d much rather have Jonathan and Maisie go to a good home and be well-loved.”
“Oh I will love Jonathan, all right!” the girl joked, practically swooning as she put her hand to her heart. “He is SUCH the perfect man. So gentle and sweet and passionate.” She gave me a knowing look. ‘Some vampire authors? They don’t get it right. You obvious know how to write real vampires.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I looked up, surprised to hear the deep baritone voice interrupt her rambling. My eyes widened as they fell upon none other than the guy who had been hovering in the back of the store since the beginning of the signing. I hadn’t even seen him move, but suddenly he was there, standing right in front of my table. Looking down at my books, his upper lip curled into what appeared to be an actual sneer.
The girl also leapt at the voice, whirling around. She clearly hadn’t heard him either. She stared at him for a moment, then practically jumped up and down in delight.
“Oh my God! You got someone to play Jonathan!” she cried, her excitement making her voice squeaky. “That is so cool. God, he looks great, too. I mean, I’ve seen some of the Jonathans you’ve gotten for other events—the DragonCon parade, Comic Con, the RT Convention. But this guy. He is per-fec-tion.”
I had to agree. In fact, I couldn’t stop looking at him. He was so tall. So broad shouldered. His cheekbones looked as if they’d been cut of glass, complimenting his angular jaw. His mouth was thin and almost cruel looking. And his eyes—sweet baby Jesus!—those eyes! Piercing diamonds with just a hint of cerulean circling deep black pupils.
(Yes, that’s quite the description, I know. But hey, I’m a romance writer. It’s what I do.)
I realized the girl was waiting for me to say something. “Actually,” I said. “I didn’t hire him. I think he’s a…reader?”
Even as I made this suggestion I couldn’t believe it to be true. My readers were awesome. But this guy somehow didn’t seem the type.
Sure enough, his sneer dipped to a critical frown. ‘Um, no,” he said curtly. “I am not a reader.”
“Oh! But you should be!” the girl cried, totally undeterred. I blushed, wanting to beg her to stop. I needed this guy to go away—just having him standing there was making my nerves taut as piano wire.
But the girl pushed on. As my fans always did. They were worse than drug dealers when it came to trying to hook people on my series. “These books are amazing!” she cried, waving one of them in his face. “The way Miss Miller describes Jonathan…-”
“Yes. I heard her…description.”
“Then you know!” she squealed, clearly not catching the sarcasm in his tone. “I mean, I’ve read a lot of vampire books. But none of them compare to Miss Miller’s. She’s…amazing. It’s like she knows vampires.”
A shadow seemed to cross over the man’s face. For a moment he said nothing. Then, “Have you ever met an actual vampire?” he asked quietly.
The girl blushed bright red. “Well, no. Of course not. But—“
“Then how do you know her characters are realistic?”
The fan glanced helplessly at me. “Well, you know. I mean…”
“In fact, I’d be willing to bet Miss Miller doesn’t know anything about real vampires. Or,” he added, leveling that intense gaze on me. His
eyes so piercing they made me shiver. “Real men for that matter.” He paused, then added, “And evidently neither do her readers.”
Oh my God. I stared at the guy, so shocked and taken aback that for a moment I couldn’t find words. I mean, I’d known he wasn’t a fan. But I never would have pinned him as an outright troll.
“You’re out of line,” I said, rising to my feet. “You don’t know anything about me or my readers.”
His lip curled. “Don’t I?” he asked. “You cash in on titillating, female-driven fantasies about vampires who don’t act like vampires. Not to mention men who do not act like men.” He paused, then added, “How am I doing so far?”
“I don’t think that’s--”
“Let me give you a word of advice,” he interrupted. “Real men don’t make love with the gentleness of a butterfly’s wing. Real men--”
“And I think we’re done here.” Darla broke in, grabbing the book out of my hand and handing it back to the blue-haired girl, who had finally been rendered speechless. I watched as she backed away from my table, then practically ran to the door.
“You forgot my card!” I called out after her. But she was already gone. Leaving Darla and me alone in the darkened bookstore with Mr. So Not Jonathan.
His blazing eyes locked on me. Fierce, challenging. It was all I could do not to turn away. Instead, I squared my shoulders, meeting those dark eyes with my own. As if daring him to continue. Though truth be told I wasn’t exactly sure if my insides could take him elaborating on his earlier point.
And, of course, Darla was having none of it. She stepped in between us, hands on her hips. “The bookstore is closed and Miss Miller is leaving,” she informed him in no uncertain terms. “So unless you’d like a book signed, I suggest you take that attitude and get the hell out of here.” Her implied look screamed: unless you want to deal with me.
