Don't Talk Back To Your Vampire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  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

  A LETTER FROM TAMARA

  EVA’S REVISED GLOSSARY

  About the Author

  Praise for Don’t Talk Back to Your Vampire

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

  —Jackie Kessler, author of Hell’s Belles

  “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!” —Kathy Boswell, The Best Reviews

  “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

  Praise for I’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 marvelous introduction to the world of vampires and werewolves . . . funny and filled with explosive sexual tension.” —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  “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

  “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

  Praise for Cupid, Inc.

  “WOW . . . This is an erotic romance that truly hits the mark. There are great, detailed scenes that leave you panting for more.”

  —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  “A top-notch quartet of tales that are guaranteed to singe your fingers. . . . What an enjoyable way to get revved up for Valentine’s Day by spending it reading Cupid, Inc.” —Romance Reviews Today

  “I love Michele Bardsley’s Cupid, Inc.! It’s sexy and erotic, and the humor will make you grin at the same time you’re squirming in your seat.”

  —Cheyenne McCray, author of Forbidden Magic

  Other books by Michele Bardsley

  I’M THE VAMPIRE, THAT’S WHY

  CUPID, INC.

  Upcoming releases

  FANTASYLAND

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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

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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, July 2007

  Copyright © Michele Bardsley, 2007

  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 over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  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

  eISBN : 978-1-4406-1943-4

  For my daughter Katherine Anne

  And for her Gigi

  For my friend Evangeline Anderson

  And for her mom

  For my keeper Terri Lugo

  And for her grandmother

  And so our mothers and grandmothers have,

  more often than not anonymously, handed on

  the creative spark, the seed of the flower

  they themselves never hoped to see.

  —Alice Walker

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Kara Cesare totally freaking rocks! There isn’t enough chocolate in the world to reward her for her patience, her sense of humor, and her enthusiasm. She is the editorial equivalent of
an everlasting gobstopper.

  Stephanie Kip Rostan is the best literary agent on the planet—and she’s mine! Woo-hoo! When we first met, I had a Sally Field moment: You like me, you really like me! And she’s never stopped—to my unceasing amazement. If I can’t drive her insane, honey, no one can.

  I adore Terri Lugo, who e-mailed me one day and said, “Can I help?” I hope she doesn’t regret that I took her up on the offer. (Boy, did I!) Visit her at www.terrises.com.

  I know that if I started naming members on my fan list who make me laugh and who boost me up, I would run out of room or, worse, leave someone out. Just know, O loyal ones, that I adore you and will always be grateful for your wit, your charm, and your excellent taste in vampire fiction.

  Gena Showalter is a very discerning reader. She e-mailed me about how much she liked I’m the Vampire, That’s Why—and I didn’t have to beg or bribe her, either! Take that, O cranky reviewers at Amazon! Hah! So go buy her books and visit her Web site and pay homage to her, all right? www.GenaShowalter.com.

  All hail Google and Wikipedia! These online resources are the writer’s best friends. I owe a debt of gratitude to irishgaelictranslation.com— an extremely helpful Web site with a terrific translation forum. And I couldn’t live without (or at least I wouldn’t enjoy life quite as much without) Dictionary.com.

  As always, I express my eternal gratitude and love to Dean and to our children, whom I love to the marrow of my bones even when they annoy the crap out of me.

  Foreword

  Hi, there. It’s me, Jessica Matthews O’Hallo-ran. I was the star (can you hear “Fame” blaring in the background?) of I’m the Vampire, That’s Why. If you’ve picked up Don’t Talk Back to Your Vampire without reading my story—shame on you! Oh, all right. Truth is, you don’t have to read the first book to read the second book. Hell, I don’t even get to tell this story—my friend Eva penned it (with help from our historian, of course).

  About three months ago, eleven of us single parents were killed by a slobbering beast. The Consortium (or as I like to call ’em, Bossy Bloodsuckers) rolled into Broken Heart, Oklahoma, and turned us all into vampires. As if getting undead wasn’t bad enough, we had to deal with a group of fanged assholes called Wraiths. Oh, yeah, the Consortium bought up everything in Broken Heart and is intent on creating a town for paranormal people. On the upside, I got hitched to a sexy vampire named Patrick. He has a sexy twin named Lorcan. Lorcan and Eva sittin’ in a tree . . . snicker.

  Don’t worry, I’m still around. If you miss me too much, just go to our Web site: www.BrokenHeartOK.com.

  Read on, people. Enjoy this book, damn you, or I’ll sic the lycanthrope triplets on you. Do you really want to be a werewolf chew toy?

  Didn’t think so.

  Yours in O Positive,

  Jessica

  P.S. I get questions all the time about a couple of things our historian didn’t put in the book. Here are the answers.

  1. What happened to Stan and Linda?

  Stan survived his injuries. Linda nursed him back to health, but though she dotes on him nonstop, she refuses to admit she has feelings for him. Stan not only admits his feelings, he talks about them nonstop to anyone who’ll listen. But he’s a human and Linda’s a vamp. Linda refuses to Turn anybody ever, so they have a doomed relationship. There, aren’t you happy you asked?

  2. Why wasn’t the binding sex scene between you and Patrick in the book?

  Aren’t you a pervert! Heh. Kiddin’. That was a very private (and hot, hot, hot) twelve hours. Patrick and I decided to keep that bit o’ naughty to ourselves.

  Chapter 1

  When Lorcan O’Halloran, four-thousand-year-old vampire and professed Druid, fell at my feet, it wasn’t to beg forgiveness for killing me three months ago.

  Sunrise was imminent, but there I was on my front porch, teeth brushed, hair shining, wearing Happy Bunny jammies and matching socks, waiting not for a lovers’ rendezvous or for the return of my teenage daughter, Tamara (she was listening to Marilyn Manson in her room . . . shudder).

  I was waiting for a dog.

  Well, he was more like a wolf. I’d befriended the poor creature almost a month ago—and I had fallen in love with the brute, whom I’d named Lucky. He hadn’t come by tonight and I was worried. Ever since I got undead, animals loved me. They showed up at my house, hung out in my yard, and followed me everywhere. No one could account for this sudden odd attraction; I was starting to feel like a heroine in a Disney cartoon.

  I was Broken Heart’s librarian, a job my paternal grandmother had held until her death a year ago. We shared the same name— Evangeline Louise LeRoy—but that was our only link. My father died when I was two years old, and my mother had lost touch with the LeRoys long ago. Inheriting the job and the mansion/library had been a lucky break for me and Tamara. We needed a fresh start. I was ready for a different kind of life.

  Admittedly, becoming a vampire wasn’t what I’d had in mind. And neither was becoming an undead Dr. Doolittle.

  Lucky usually loped in from the pocket of woods near my monster house, which was part residence and part Broken Heart library (think of it as a smaller, weirder version of the Winchester Mystery House). He always sat at the edge of my yard, watching me feed the other animals. I can’t explain why I felt so connected to him, especially since so many other creatures vied for my attention. He always looked sad and lonely, and he never got close enough for me to pet him. It was almost like he wanted to be comforted, but didn’t feel worthy enough.

  What female can resist the lure of the tortured bad boy—two-legged or four-legged? He seemed scarred somehow. I wondered what had happened to him. Had he lost his mate? Most wolf species were loyal to their mates—serial monogamy, it was called—but not every sort of wolf mated for life. When I looked at Lucky, he just struck me as the type who was soul mate material.

  I don’t know why I looked up. Lucky had never arrived by air. Worry turned to confusion and then to horror when Lorcan fell out of the sky and rolled across my yard. I watched him struggle to stand and then weave toward the porch. While I stood rooted to the spot, he climbed the steps and reached for me.

  I reared back and yelped.

  Here was the man who’d killed me. He was the reason I was a vampire.

  “Don’t be afraid. Please.” He swayed like a willow tree in a thunderstorm and collapsed at my feet.

  Zarking fardwarks!

  I crouched beside him and pushed away the silky black hair that covered his angelic face. He was beautiful—in the way that Satan was beautiful. You’d give him your soul and he’d eat it for breakfast. No, thanks. I’d already known that kind of devil.

  “Lorcan?” I whispered. I felt monumentally tired. Sunrise was near. Either I took him inside or I left him on the porch. Since he was the brother-in-law of my friend Jessica, who had married Lorcan’s twin brother a couple months ago, I probably shouldn’t leave him to fry in the sun.

  His eyes fluttered open, and that solemn gray gaze made me think of a lonely, scarred landscape. “‘On that bleak hill-top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb,’ ” I murmured.

  “Wuthering Heights,” he said hoarsely.

  Then he smiled.

  That smile went through me like a bolt of pure electricity. I was stunned by my response. Maybe it was because I had never seen Lorcan genuinely smile—his lips often curved in sad imitations, as if he were afraid to show real joy. Not that I’d ever had cause to get closer than ten feet to him, but still . . . my undead heart did a ferocious tap dance. I had never seen a man so heartbreakingly handsome. Other than his twin, of course. Patrick had a more ebullient spirit, especially since marrying Jessica. Lorcan, on the other hand, wore sorrow like a favorite coat. I had never seen him without it. Maybe he liked being penitent and grief-stricken.

  Lorcan’s hand warbled up like a bird with a broken wing. He cupped my cheek. “Evangeline LeRoy. Beautiful, you are.”

 
; The Irish brogue was thick, and hearing my full name uttered in that lyrical tone created another shock of electric lust.

  “We need to get inside.” I pulled him to his feet and he wrapped his arm around my neck.

  The front door slammed shut behind us. To the left was a formal living room that I never used, except to get to the stairs that led to the second and third floors. The furniture was still draped with dustcovers. To the right was the double-door entrance to the library. In the middle was a long, narrow hallway. First door on the left led to my tiny office; second door was a private bathroom. Last door on the right— painted black, white skull and crossbones in its middle—was the entrance to my fifteen-year-old daughter’s room: the lair of Tamara. Da. Da. Da. Dum.

  As Lorcan and I walked past, the door swung open and my daughter popped out. Music blasted—a cacophony of screams and metallic bashing that made me flinch. “G’night, Mom.” She gaped at us. “Holy shit!”

  “Don’t cuss,” I said automatically. We both loved language, and swearing seemed such a waste of good wordage. However, Tamara had been cussing more and more often lately, probably to see how far she could take it before I did something disciplinelike. She was fifteen going on fifty. Despite her deep immersion in all things dark (and as the child of a vampire, could you blame her?), she was a sweet kid.

  “Holy Zarquon’s singing fish,” intoned Tamara. She knew I loved the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series. “Not quite as satisfying as yelling, ‘Shit!’ ”

  “Speak for yourself. I find ‘zarking fardwarks’ rather felicific.”

  “Wowser,” she accused.

  “I am not puritanical.”

  “You’re not taking him into the basement, are you?”

  “If you used your eyes, you could see that he’s hurt and needs help.”