A thick white business card jammed haphazardly beside the other contents of the case
“Wait!” Cleo leaned closer and snatched up the card. “What’s this?” she asked, even though she knew. Who wouldn’t? The ubiquitous silver logo embossed across the top of the card was a five-letter word for “major opportunity.”
“Golden,” she whispered in awe. Quaking, Cleo read the words on the card, and the stacked bangles on her arm shook in time with the jubilant Egyptian music. “Where did you get this?” she asked.
Eyes still forward, Ram grinned smugly. “Spectacular, isn’t it? How do you feel about your past now? Do you have any idea what these are worth? Not just in dollars, but in history? The ring alone—”
“Dad!” Cleo jumped to her feet. The throne was no longer wide enough to contain her excitement. She rubbed her thumb over the embossed letters one at a time—V… O… G… U… E… “How did you get her business card?”
As Ram quickly turned to face his daughter, his raw disappointment was suddenly exposed. “What’s so special about this Anna Winter?” he snapped, shutting the briefcase. Manu stepped forward to remove it, but Ram waved him away.
“Win-tour, Dad!” Cleo insisted. “She’s the editor in chief of Vogue. Did you really meet her? Did you talk to her? Were her sunglasses off or on? What did she say? Tell me everything.”
Ram finally wriggled out of his black trench coat. Manu hurried to retrieve it and then quickly offered him a cigar. As if delighting in his daughter’s squirmy anticipation, Ram took several measured puffs before indulging her.
“She sat beside me in first class on the flight from Cairo to JFK.” He released a stinky cloud of smoke from his tight lips. “She saw the article about my dig on the front page of Business Today Egypt and started going on and on about her newfound love of Cairo couture… whatever that is.” He rolled his eyes. “She wants to dedicate a whole issue to it.”
From his post behind the throne, Manu shook his head. He looked just as offended as Ram.
“She actually said ‘Cairo couture’?” Cleo beamed. Egypt was finally in vogue!
“That woman said a lot of things.” He clapped twice. Beb and Hasina hurried from the kitchen balancing platters of food on the flats of their hands. Bastet, Akins, Chisisi, Ebonee, Ufa, Usi, and Miu-Miu scampered hungrily behind them.
Cleo sat. “Like what?” she pressed. “What else did she say?”
“Something about a photo shoot for her younger magazine.”
Hasina lowered a bronze platter in front of him. Ram reached for a pita triangle and dipped it in a swirl of hummus.
“What?” Cleo gasped, waving away Beb’s tray of cheese and lamb sambouseks. The only app she wanted was called Teen Vogue, and it was available on iTunes for $1.99.
“Something about models riding camels in the Oregon sand dunes wearing my sister’s jewels and the latest in Cairo couture.”
Cleo shifted on her throne. First she crossed her right leg over her left, then her left over her right. She shook her ankle, sat on her hands, and tapped her fingers on the plush armrest. Despite her father’s intolerance for fidgeting, she couldn’t help herself. Every cell, nerve, muscle, ligament, and tendon in her body was prodding her to run outside, Spider-Man up the palace walls, and shout the golden news from the rooftops. If only it were safe to leave the house.
Thanks again, Frankie Stein!
“The whole thing is exploitative, if you ask me,” Manu mumbled.
Ram nodded in agreement.
Cleo shot the servant a shut-up-now-or-I’m-going-to-cover-your-bald-head-in-goose-liver-and-call-the-cats glare. He cleared his throat and lowered his round, liquid brown eyes.
“I want in!” Cleo insisted, batting her lashes.
“In on what?” Ram stubbed out his cigar in an ankh-shaped dish of baba ghanoush. Hasina swooped in and removed it immediately. “I didn’t agree to anything.”
“But that didn’t stop Anna Winter from organizing the entire shoot in the time it took to taxi from the runway to the gate. She even picked a date,” Manu offered.
“When?”
Ram shrugged, as if he cared too little to remember. “October fourteenth.”
“I’m totally free that day.” Cleo jumped to her feet and speed-clapped.
Her father glanced over his shoulder and flashed Manu the same cats-on-your-bald-head warning. “That Anna Winter acts more entitled than a queen, for Geb’s sake. I don’t want to work with—”
“You don’t have to do a thing. I’ll work with her.” Cleo was so excited that she didn’t even try to correct their mispronunciation again. This must happen. It was destiny.
Ram searched his daughter’s face for some sort of guidance. Despite her galloping heart, Cleo remained still and in control.
“I know!” she said with a snap of her fingers, as if she’d just thought of it. “I’ll be one of the models.” She looked him in the eye. “That way I can oversee the process from start to finish,” she offered, knowing all too well how her father’s mind worked. Ram might write in hieroglyphs and speak Egyptian, but he thought like Donald Trump. He valued initiative, confidence, and micromanagement more than anything he’d ever exhumed.
As he twirled his emerald thumb ring, his almond-shaped eyes looked distant and thoughtful.
“Please,” Cleo pleaded, dropping to her knees. She bowed until her forehead touched the carpet. It had the same musky sweetness as her Moroccan hair oil. Pleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyes.…
“I didn’t raise you to be a model,” he said.
Cleo lifted her eyes. “I know that,” she cooed. “You raised me to be a world-class jewelry designer.”
He acknowledged her lifelong dream with a nod but still failed to see the point.
Cleo sat up. “What better way to network”—impress my friends and make Deuce regret the day he ever asked Melody to the dance, she silently added—“than to work with the accessories editor of Teen Vogue?”
“Why do you need to network?” Ram asked, sounding hurt. “I can get you any job you want.”
Cleo wanted to stomp her platform sandals and scream. Instead, she clasped her father’s hand. “Daddy,” she managed to say calmly, “I descended from a queen. Not a princess!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his eyes warming to a more playful temperature.
“It means, I want what I want.” Cleo grinned. “But I can do it myself.”
“Excuse me, Miss Cleo,” Hasina interrupted. “Would you like me to draw your bath?”
“Lavender, please.”
The handmaiden nodded and then hurried off.
Ram chuckled. “So much for wanting to do things yourself.”
Cleo couldn’t help smiling. “I asked her to draw the bath, not take it for me.”
“Oh, I see.” He smiled back. “So you want me to confirm the shoot, insist that you get to model, and then stand back and let you do the rest?”
“Exactly.” Cleo kissed her father’s well-preserved forehead.
Tapping his pursed lips, Ram made one last show of considering his daughter’s request. Cleo forced herself not to fidget.
“Maybe this is exactly what your generation needs,” he mused.
“Huh?” This was hardly the response she had been hoping for.
“I bet if Viktor Stein had encouraged his daughter to get more involved in extracurricular activities, she wouldn’t have gotten herself into so much trouble.”
“I totally agree.” Cleo nodded so hard her bangs shook. “Who has time for trouble when they’re busy? I certainly don’t.”
Relief washed over her father’s face. He lifted the business card from Cleo’s fingertips and handed it to Manu. “Make the call.”
Yessss! No matter how stern Ram acted, Cleo had him wrapped.
“Thanks, Daddy!” Cleo covered her father’s cheek with glossy, berry-scented kisses. This was the first significant step on her path to fashion world domination.
And the possibilities made her well-preserved heart soar higher than the highest WELCOME HOME banner ever hung.
Spark off, Frankie Stein. There’s a new headline in town.
CHAPTER TWO
WAX ON, WAX OFF
Lightning snapped the night sky like a jock’s gym towel on a dork’s butt. The rain fell harder. Trees swayed and cracked. A pack of wolves howled in the distance. Reception on the flat-screen TV flickered and settled… flickered and settled… flickered and—
Ping!
Melody Carver curled away from her older sister, Candace, and burrowed into the corner of the eggplant-colored couch. She pressed PLAY on her phone and braced herself for another iThreat.
“Tick… tick… tick…”
It was just like the others. Recorded by her ex-friend Bekka Madden and sent to Melody’s iPhone every sixty minutes, it was a haunting reminder that the forty-eight-hour deadline was now more like twenty-three.
Bekka’s goal was simple: to capture the green monster who had made out with, and traumatized, her boyfriend, Brett, at the school dance. Rather, she wanted Melody to capture the monster for her. And Melody had until ten o’clock on Sunday night to do it. If she failed, Bekka would post a video of Jackson Jekyll turning into D.J. Hyde. Then he would be “wanted” too. Melody wanted to protect Jackson more than anything. But she had met this “monster.” In fact, she had accidentally shocked Melody in the lunch line on the first day of school. And except for the whole neck-bolts-green-skin-stitches-electricity thing, Frankie Stein was completely normal. Strip away the heavy makeup and the nun-friendly wardrobe and she was actually quite beautiful.
Another shock of lightning lit the ravine behind the Carvers’ house. Thunder boomed.
“Ahhhh!” Candace and Melody screamed.
The TV flickered and settled… flickered and settled.
“Ugh! This is so ten thousand years ago!” Candace smacked a velvety cushion. “I feel like a cave woman.”
Aftershocks of frustration rippled toward Melody’s corner of the couch. “I don’t think they had HDTV ten thousand years ago.”
“Pay attention!” Candace nudged Melody in the thigh with her pedicured foot. “I’m not talking about the TV.”
“Well, what are you talking about?” Melody asked, focusing on her older sister for the first time all night.
Candace—wearing a dusty-rose kimono—was surrounded by strips of cloth, Popsicle sticks, anthills of baby powder, and a bowl of what looked like congealed honey. “I’m talking about this stupid leg-waxing kit! It’s so primitive.”
“Since when do you wax your own legs?” Melody wondered, checking her phone for any texts or tweets she might have missed during this brief exchange.
“Since last night’s monster drama scared the only decent salon in town into closing on a Saturday.” Candace spread a thick dollop of wax on her shin and covered it with a white rectangular strip. “If it doesn’t open soon, Salem really will be full of scary beasts.” She rubbed the strip vigorously. “I mean, have you seen the girls at school? I told this one chick I thought her mohair pants were super rock-and-roll, and you know what she said?”
Searchlights from a passing patrol car streaked across the log walls of the Carvers’ living room as police hunted Frankie Stein with sharklike tenacity. Melody picked her jagged cuticles. How much longer would she be able to keep her cool? An hour? All night? Until Bekka’s next audio threat? The clock was ticking. Time was running out.
“Mel.” Candace toe-poked her again. “You know what she said?”
Melody shrugged, unable to take her mind off Jackson and the danger he’d be in if she didn’t think of a way to stop Bekka from leaking his video—some way other than turning in Frankie. Something cunning and clever and—
“She said, ‘I’m not wearing mohair pants!’ ” Candace reached for the wax strip on her leg. “You know why she said that? Because she was wearing a miniskirt, Melly! A miniskirt! The poor girl was that hairy!” She squeezed her eyes shut and ripped. “Arrrrrrgh! Hair out!”
Ping!
“What now?” Candace asked, drizzling baby powder over her raw skin.
Melody checked her phone. It was Jackson.
JACKSON: DID U SEE ARTIST SKETCH OF FRANKIE ON THE NEWS?
MELODY: NO. STORM IS MESSING UP TV.
JACKSON: LOOKS LIKE YODA IN A WEDDING DRESS.
Melody giggled.
“What is it? What’s so funny?” Candace asked, swinging her long blond waves over her shoulder with the allure of a hair model.
“Nothing,” Melody mumbled, avoiding her sister’s searching green eyes. Was she keeping Candace in the dark to protect her? Or was she doing it to test herself? To see if she could survive this complicated situation—and maybe even triumph—without the help of her fearless, flawless sibling. She couldn’t be sure.
MELODY: ANY IDEAS YET?
JACKSON: NO BUT WE NEED TO THINK OF SOMETHING. IF BEKKA SHOWS THE VIDEO, MY MOM IS GOING TO SEND ME TO LONDON TO LIVE WITH MY AUNT.
The news tore through Melody’s insides with the ripping force of a wax strip. Even though they had known each other only a month, she couldn’t fathom Salem without him. She couldn’t fathom anything without him. In the English language of love, Melody was the letter Q and Jackson was her U. He completed her.
MELODY: LET’S TALK TO BEKKA! MAYBE IF WE BEG…
JACKSON: SHE’S TOO BUSY DOING INTERVIEWS. SHE’S ALL OVER TV AND WEB. SHE’S NOT STOPPING TILL SHE GETS FRANKIE. BRETT IN SHOCK. STILL AT HOSPITAL. MAJOR VIGIL. CRAZY! VIDEOS ALL OVER YOUTUBE OF FAKE MONSTER SIGHTINGS.
Another wax strip ripped through Melody’s insides. These updates were only stressing her out more. She needed to get off the couch and take action. To find a way to delete that video of Jackson from Bekka’s phone and—
The front door swung open. A chilly gust of wind blasted through the cabin. It was followed by a clap of thunder.
“Ahhhh!” the girls screamed again. Candace panic-kicked her legs in the air. Her hamstrings were covered with crooked patches of white cloth.
“Who’s ready for game night?” their mother called, shaking off her brown-and-gold Louis Vuitton umbrella before entering the house. “We’ve got UNO, Balderdash, and Apples to Apples,” she announced, depositing two wet Target bags and four from Nordstrom in the kitchen sink. The only thing the ex–personal shopper detested more than blue socks with black pants was water damage on hardwood floors.
Game night? Candace mouthed silently.
Melody shrugged. It was the first she’d heard of it too.
“How about some low-fat thin-crust personal pizzas?” asked Beau, their perma-tanned, ultra-fit father. He followed Glory with a bag of takeout and a fun-for-the-whole-family grin.
“Dad’s going to eat cheese? What’s the occasion?” Candace called from the couch.
Glory appeared and handed each girl a brown shoe box marked UGG. “We’re just trying to make the best of this whole curfew thingy. We want to let loose in case this is our last night among the living.” She winked playfully at Melody, making obvious her belief that this whole monster-hunt hype was just a small-town strategy for boosting sales of canned goods, bottled water, flashlights, and batteries in a slow economy. But in the spirit of fitting in, her parents had decided to play along.
Candace lifted the shoe box lid and carefully peeked inside. “Huh? You always said UGGs were the mountain man’s flip-flops. And that they should never be worn by single women.”
“That was when we lived in Beverly Hills,” Glory explained, untying her gold silk head scarf and shaking out her auburn hair. “We’re in Oregon now. The rules have changed. It’s chilly here.”
“Not in this house,” Melody said, referring to the broken thermostat. Outside the wind was howling, yet she was sweating in boy shorts and a tank.
“Is everyone wearing their UGGs?” Beau asked, clomping toward them in a new gray pair. Despite his heavy use of Botox, the joy on his face could not be concea
led.
“Why are you guys so… happy?” Candace asked, and then—rrrrip!— she pulled another strip off her leg. “Owie,” she gasped, and then speed-rubbed the red blotch.
“We’re excited for some weekend family time.” Beau leaned over the back of the couch and stroked the top of his daughter’s blond head. “This is the first Saturday night in years Candi hasn’t had a date.”
“Um, correction.” Candace tightened the tie on her kimono and stood. A silver gum wrapper was stuck to the wax on her knee. “I had a date. It just got canceled ’cause of this stupid curfew. Now I’m stuck inside with board games, personal pizzas, and UGG boots.” She pulled off the gum wrapper, crumpled it into a silver ball, and whipped it at the stone fireplace. “Forget about Candace out. From now on it’s Candace in. Trust me, this is nothing to get excited about.”
“Sor-ry.” Glory pouted, quickly boxing up the boots. “I had no idea your father and I were so horrible to be around.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Candace rolled her eyes.
Ping!
Melody checked her phone, grateful for an excuse to tune out the family-night family fight.
JACKSON: U STILL THERE? WHAT HAPPENED? NEED TO THINK OF A PLAN. TIME IS RUNNING OUT.
Just as Melody lifted her index finger over the touch screen, her phone was lifted from her hand.
“What are you doing?” she squealed at Candace.
“Trying to have a little family fun,” her sister teased, taunt-waving the phone. “You’ve been a total text maniac all night, and I want to know what’s going on.”
“Melody!” Beau said sternly. “Have you been sexting?”
“What?” Melody snapped. “Ew, no!”
Under different circumstances, she might have laughed at his fatherly attempt to talk teen, but there was nothing funny about getting iJacked. “Candace, give it back!”
The Ghoul Next Door Page 2
