Wait Till Your Vampire Gets Home Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  THE SEVEN ANCIENTS (In order of creation)

  GLOSSARY 1

  GLOSSARY 2

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Praise forBecause Your Vampire Said So

  “Lively, sexy, out-of-this-world—as well as in it—fun! Michele Bardsley’s vampire stories rock!”

  —New York Times Bestselling Author Carly Phillips

  “I laughed nonstop from beginning to end. . . . Michele Bardsley always creates these characters that leave readers feeling like they are our next-door neighbors. . . . I’ve been addicted to these books since the very first one was written, but I have to say I think Because Your Vampire Said So is my favorite so far. . . . If I could, I’d give this story a higher rating. Five ribbons just don’t seem to be enough for this wonderful story!”—Romance Junkies

  “An excellent addition to the Broken Heart series.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Another Broken Heart denizen is here in this newest, hysterically funny first-person romp. The combination of sexy humor, sarcastic wit, and parental trauma is unmistakably Bardsley. Grab the popcorn and settle in for a seriously good time!”

  —Romantic Times

  “Funny, sassy, and sexy.”—Rendezvous

  “Michele Bardsley has a wicked sense of humor. . . . After reading this book, all I can say is that I hope Michele Bardsley keeps them coming. I can’t wait to read about more adventures in Broken Heart.”

  —Eye on Romance

  “Hysterically funny and surprisingly moving. . . . If you need a good laugh and want some feel-good fun ... grab this series up and enjoy the hell out of it!”—Errant Dreams

  Praise forDon’t Talk Back to Your Vampire

  “Cutting-edge humor and a raw, seductive hero make Don’t Talk Back to Your Vampire a yummylicious treat!”

  —Dakota Cassidy, author of The Accidental Werewolf

  “A fabulous combination of vampire lore, parental angst, romance, and mystery. I loved this book!”

  —Jackie Kessler, author of The Road to Hell

  “All I can say is wow! I was totally immersed in this story to the point that I tuned everything and everybody out the whole entire evening. Now that’s what I call a good book. Michele can’t write the next one fast enough for me!”—The Best Reviews

  “A winning follow-up to I’m the Vampire, That’s Why, filled with humor, supernatural romance, and truly evil villains.”—Booklist

  Praise forI’m the Vampire, That’s Why

  “From the first sentence, Michele grabbed me and didn’t let me go! A vampire mom? PTA meetings? A sulky teenager? Throw in a gorgeous, ridiculously hot hero and you’ve got the paranormal romance of the year. Get this one now.”—MaryJanice Davidson

  “Hot, hilarious, one helluva ride. . . . Michele Bardsley weaves a sexily delicious tale spun from the heart.”

  —L. A. Banks

  “A fun, fun read!”—Rosemary Laurey

  “Michele Bardsley has penned the funniest, quirkiest, coolest vampire tale you’ll ever read. It’s hot and funny and sad and wonderful, the kind of story you can’t put down and won’t forget. Definitely one for the keeper shelf.”—Kate Douglas

  “An amusing vampire romance . . . a terrific contemporary tale.”—The Best Reviews

  “Written with a dash of humor reminiscent of Katie MacAlister ... amusing.”—Monsters and Critics

  “A savvy new take on the vampire romance . . . that will keep you laughing until the final pages. . . . Readers are sure to enjoy this fantastic, action-packed paranormal romance, which will show readers that moms really do know their stuff. . . . A must read for paranormal fans and moms who fancy themselves to be a superhero.”

  —Paranormal Romance Writers

  “A great read.”—Once Upon a Romance Reviews

  “A marvelous introduction to the world of vampires and werewolves . . . funny and filled with explosive sexual tension.”

  —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  “Add the name Michele Bardsley to the ranks of talented paranormal authors who wield humor as a deft weapon. . . . Both the characters and the world scenario offer loads of possibilities for further adventures, which means there are many more hours of reading pleasure ahead!”—Romantic Times

  Other books by Michele Bardsley

  Paranormal Romances

  Because Your Vampire Said So

  Don’t Talk Back to Your Vampire

  I’m the Vampire, That’s Why

  Erotica

  Cupid, Inc.

  Fantasyland

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2008

  Copyright © Michele Bardsley, 2008

  All rights reserved

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control ov
er and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  ISBN : 978-1-1012-1205-9

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Renee Nagel, without whom this book would’ve never been written. Seriously. The next time you see her, thank her profusely for spending hours on the phone with me going over scenes, offering suggestions, and listening to me whine.

  And to Terri Smythe and Dakota Cassidy, who also did their fair share of write-the-damn-book motivational speeches and hand-holding (when Renee was on break).

  You three are the best hug-giving, sweet-talking, ass-kicking friends evah.

  And to Sue Seeley, who has the best taste in paranormal fiction. Thanks for the love, darling.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to all my readers. To those who send me emails and post comments, please know that I adore you even if you don’t hear from me. Big, sloppy smooches to my Yahoo! Group: groups.yahoo.com/ group/MicheleBardsley. You guys are the best!

  I’m so lucky to have Stephanie Kip Rostan as my literary agent. How do I repay you for believing in me? Truly, there’s not enough chocolate in the world. I also adore Monika “Terminator” Verma, who terrifies accountants on my behalf.

  I appreciate my awesome editor, Kara Cesare, who always helps me write better books, and my fellow Track Changes nerd Lindsay Nouis.

  I’m tremendously grateful to Kara Welsh, Claire Zion, and New American Library. The editorial staff, production crew, and cover artists rule. Thank you for all your hard work!

  Chapter 1

  I hugged the large oak tree as I tried to catch my breath. Sneaking around this creepy little town in the dark—and during winter, no less—was such a bad idea. Especially considering I’d been scared out of my wits by those . . . those howls.

  Shivers raced up and down my spine. What in the world had made those terrifying sounds? Surely not dogs. Coyotes? Wolves? Eek! My shivering turned into full-body shudders.

  “Crystal One, Crystal One,” spat my cell phone. It was on two-way radio mode. “Please state your location.”

  My gloves were thick, but I managed to press the button on the phone’s side. “Seriously, Mom,” I whispered. “Do we have to use ridiculous code names?”

  “I almost named you Crystal.” Her tone suggested she’d always regretted that decision. Oh, please. Burdening an infant with “Seraphina Liberty Windsong Monroe” was bad enough. I started calling myself Libby at the age of ten, much to Mom’s disappointment. However, my parents were all about free expression and independent thinking. If their only child desired to be called Libby, that desire would be honored.

  “Crystal One?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m here, Ruby Two. I’m still in the woods, but I can see the cemetery, so I’ll head toward it. Where are you?”

  “We’re just off the main road, walking toward a place called the Thrifty Sip. It looks abandoned. Sapphire Three is lamenting his hoped-for ICEE.”

  I laughed. My dad’s single dietary weakness was a frothy, sugary, colorful ICEE, which my mother equated to the devil’s brew. Dad told me once that everyone needed to indulge in one bad-for-you thing. “Makes life worth living, Peanut,” he’d said with a wink.

  I clicked the button again. “Any signs of Bigfoot?”

  “None,” responded Mom. “But those howls sounded promising. Werewolves, maybe.”

  For the last few months, stories about Broken Heart, Oklahoma, had circulated among paranormal investigators. Everything from sightings of Bigfoot to tales of flying men had been bandied about until my parents could no longer resist the challenge. They’d spent the last twenty-five years trying to prove the existence of vampires, werewolves, Bigfoot, angels, aliens, other dimensions, and all kinds of supernatural phenomenon. In 1983 they started Paranormal Research and Investigation Services, aka PRIS. I was born two years later, and they’d raised me to believe in the paranormal.

  We’d lived on the road, so I’d been home-schooled. My curriculum included Math, English, Astral Projection, and Psychic Phenomena. I got my GED, then I took the certificate course at the Institute of Transpersonal Psychology. After I finished the twelve-month program, I went to California and enrolled in the HCH Institute. Another year, another certificate—this one in Parapsychological Studies.

  Getting those certificates wasn’t nearly as much fun as slogging through the Louisiana swamps looking for Bayou Boo, half man and half alligator.

  At the age of twenty-three, I was itching to strike out on my own. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in my parents’ dreams of discovering the unknown, or, in most cases, the unbelievable. I yearned for something all my own. I supposed it was time to create the life I wanted . . . only I didn’t yet know what I wanted.

  I tucked the phone into my coat pocket. We were supposed to meet back at the car in thirty minutes. We’d been in Tulsa to check out a haunted hotel (nope, no ghosties), and decided to hit Broken Heart on the way to meet our team in Texas.

  Ack! So. Freaking. Cold. And I was still unnerved by the animal cries. I listened for the howls, relieved when I heard nothing but the wind rattling the branches above me. Some investigator I was! I wasn’t supposed to let little things like werewolves (ack!) and freezing weather stop me.

  I pressed my cheek against the tree. No warmth there. Why hadn’t I thought of a ski mask? The black parka had done a fair job of keeping most of me warm, but the hood offered no protection to my face. My skin felt scraped raw by the chilled air. The rough bark wasn’t exactly helping, either.

  I let go of the tree, but stayed close. I readjusted the strap of my oversized purse, which clunked in protest. My parents were big believers in being prepared and they’d taught me many skills. MacGyver had nothing on us.

  I inhaled the loamy smell of earth and the crisp scent of pine. It felt like tiny icicles were forming in my nose and lungs. I heard some nearby rustling and clenched the oak, peering around the wide trunk.

  I stifled a gasp when I saw a man kneeling next to a heart-shaped marble tombstone, which looked the worse for wear. The top right corner had broken off. He placed an armful of brightly colored silk flowers on the ground and appeared to be talking to the headstone.

  Oh, crap. Spying on someone in a graveyard was so wrong. But I couldn’t quite convince myself to walk away.

  I was fairly close, but because my glasses were flotsam in the junk sea of my purse, I had to squint to read the inscription:

  THERESE ROSEMARIE GENESSA BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER 1975-2006

  He wasn’t exactly dressed for cold weather. He wore white Nikes, jeans, and a thick, blue sweater. No coat, gloves, or hat. He looked like a normal guy. Nice bod, but not one made by Bowflex. Who knew? Maybe that sweater hid some rock-hard abs.

  He took out a spade and started to work around the edge of the marble base.

  The silence was ungodly. No chirping crickets, stir of little mammals, or twitter of birds. In this odd quiet, the spade rasped unpleasantly as the man thrust it into the hard-packed earth, alternating between scraping and digging.

  Feeling more and more uncomfortable, I studied the rest of the cemetery. Tombstones were tilted, broken, or fallen. The place looked as if it had been ravaged by an earthquake. It looked old, but not uncared-for. I idly wondered what had happened to the place.

  My gaze returned to the man. I really shouldn’t get any closer, but I wasn’t interested in retracing my steps. I might accidentally find the source of those hair-raising howls. He might not know it, but the guy tending the grave was the closest thing to safety I had right now.

  About five feet away was a lone pine tree with thickly c
overed branches. I held my breath and initially tiptoed from my cover, eventually racing to the pine and ducking under its flagging limbs. The needles poked at me, so I scrunched down. I was near enough to see his determined expression. He had brown hair, cut short. A nice, friendly face. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but pleasant.

  I crouched next to the tree and watched him make a narrow trench. Then he stuck the flowers in and arranged them. I don’t know why I stayed. Watching a man do this heart-wrenching work wasn’t exactly polite. I guess I just didn’t want to leave. I felt like someone needed to stand watch with him, even if he was unaware of my presence. Stupid, right?

  The wind kicked up, slicing at my face like Ginsu knives. I clamped my lips together to keep my teeth from chattering.

  The man finished putting the flowers together, scooped the dirt around ’em, and patted down the soil with the flat end of the spade.

  He stared at the grave and I stared at him. Something about him niggled at me. His face was a shade too pale. I couldn’t fault a guy who wasn’t into baking his skin. No, it was his utter stillness that freaked me out.

  “You can come out now.” He stood up, dusted off his jeans, and turned his gaze directly to the pine tree. To me.

  How had I given myself away? Even though moments earlier I’d thought of him as my safety net, I knew better than to just stroll out and introduce myself. I’d learned over the years that not everything was as it seemed. He looked nice and sounded nice, but hey, so did serial killers—right until they put a knife to your throat.

  “You are not afraid. You will come to me,” he said. His tone dropped an octave and went all seductive.

  Yeah, right, Mr. Sexy Voice. I clutched the tree while my mind raced. Oh, to hell with it. I ducked out from underneath the unwieldy branches and raced toward the forest.

  I heard the growls two seconds before I saw the animals issuing the threats. Two huge, pissed-off wolves raced toward me.

  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!