Jane’s shop, Specialty Books, searching for the perfect “I’m sorry I agreed to work for a shadowy vampire organization without talking to you first” present.
Jane’s shop was whimsical and cozy, with its midnight-blue walls and comfy purple chairs, banking the rows upon rows of neatly organized bookshelves. Andrea had draped fairy lights in loopy bunting shapes behind the shiny maple coffee bar in recognition of the season, along with a display of “Gargoyle on the Shelf” books for younger supernatural creatures. I’d spent the better part of an hour looking through rare first editions and advanced nocturnal gardening books. But nothing struck me as special enough to qualify.
“How about a pewter fairy figurine?” Andrea suggested, nudging an “autumn” fairy across the maple and lead-glass bar that served as the checkout counter.
“Stop trying to unload the fairy figurines on innocent people,” Jane told her. “Nobody buys those things. We’ve had the same set since we opened.”
I snickered but tried to keep a straight face as I told Andrea, “I’ll pass.”
Andrea held the little figurine to her eye level and pointed her finger at it. “I will get rid of you one day. I’m tired of dusting you.”
“I hate to point out the obvious, but this could have been avoided if you’d just told Iris you were going on a job interview,” Jane said.
“Yes, that was the obvious, thank you,” I retorted.
“I’m just saying, if Jamie had agreed to a lifetime commitment to Ophelia without telling me, I would be really upset, too.”
“You know that eventually, the two of them are going to be mated and married, right?” I asked her. “Or at least, they’re going to want to move in together.”
“That’s one of those things Jane doesn’t like to think about,” Andrea said, ticking the items off on her long, coral-tipped fingers. “Health-care reform, the Kardashians, Jamie’s inevitable marriage to her nemesis.”
“Sorry,” I told Jane, who shrugged.
“I’m just delaying the inevitable, I’m aware. Denial is a pseudo-mother’s strongest coping skill,” she said, clapping her hands. “OK, this isn’t solving your problem. Now, you’re sure you don’t see anything in the shop that will do?”
“No, I’m sorry, nothing jumps out at me.”
Jane held up one finger and disappeared into the stockroom at the back of the shop. She came out holding an enormous cardboard carton marked “For Iris” in one hand. She handed me the box, and I nearly sank to the floor under its weight. Stupid vampire superstrength.
The box was filled to the brim with romance paperbacks, each one marked with a Post-it noting the year of publication. I sifted through the box and found that there was one book for each year since Iris’s birth. Almost every genre was covered—pirates, Vikings, westerns, contemporary, thrillers, cozy mysteries, urban fantasy, and Regencies. My mouth fell open. Iris would love it. She’d been a closet romance-novel fan since her early teens. She hid her titles in dust jackets for self-help books, because she was afraid I would make fun of the covers. (Rightly so.) But the books had always been a source of comfort and amusement for her.
“I picked these up from the secondhand paperback store across town. I was saving this as a special ‘congratulations on making it through your first year as a vampire without nonconsensual biting’ present, but clearly, you’re in dire need,” Jane said.
“You didn’t get me a first-year no-bite anniversary present.” Andrea pouted prettily.
Jane shrugged. “You weren’t terrified of injuring innocent humans.”
“I’ll take it,” I told her. “As long as the price is in the fifty-to-one-hundred-dollar range and not, say, my very soul.”
“I will give you the desperate-sister discount and sell it to you at cost, thirty-two dollars.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’m pretty sure I signed my soul over to Ophelia in
Jane’s shop was whimsical and cozy, with its midnight-blue walls and comfy purple chairs, banking the rows upon rows of neatly organized bookshelves. Andrea had draped fairy lights in loopy bunting shapes behind the shiny maple coffee bar in recognition of the season, along with a display of “Gargoyle on the Shelf” books for younger supernatural creatures. I’d spent the better part of an hour looking through rare first editions and advanced nocturnal gardening books. But nothing struck me as special enough to qualify.
“How about a pewter fairy figurine?” Andrea suggested, nudging an “autumn” fairy across the maple and lead-glass bar that served as the checkout counter.
“Stop trying to unload the fairy figurines on innocent people,” Jane told her. “Nobody buys those things. We’ve had the same set since we opened.”
I snickered but tried to keep a straight face as I told Andrea, “I’ll pass.”
Andrea held the little figurine to her eye level and pointed her finger at it. “I will get rid of you one day. I’m tired of dusting you.”
“I hate to point out the obvious, but this could have been avoided if you’d just told Iris you were going on a job interview,” Jane said.
“Yes, that was the obvious, thank you,” I retorted.
“I’m just saying, if Jamie had agreed to a lifetime commitment to Ophelia without telling me, I would be really upset, too.”
“You know that eventually, the two of them are going to be mated and married, right?” I asked her. “Or at least, they’re going to want to move in together.”
“That’s one of those things Jane doesn’t like to think about,” Andrea said, ticking the items off on her long, coral-tipped fingers. “Health-care reform, the Kardashians, Jamie’s inevitable marriage to her nemesis.”
“Sorry,” I told Jane, who shrugged.
“I’m just delaying the inevitable, I’m aware. Denial is a pseudo-mother’s strongest coping skill,” she said, clapping her hands. “OK, this isn’t solving your problem. Now, you’re sure you don’t see anything in the shop that will do?”
“No, I’m sorry, nothing jumps out at me.”
Jane held up one finger and disappeared into the stockroom at the back of the shop. She came out holding an enormous cardboard carton marked “For Iris” in one hand. She handed me the box, and I nearly sank to the floor under its weight. Stupid vampire superstrength.
The box was filled to the brim with romance paperbacks, each one marked with a Post-it noting the year of publication. I sifted through the box and found that there was one book for each year since Iris’s birth. Almost every genre was covered—pirates, Vikings, westerns, contemporary, thrillers, cozy mysteries, urban fantasy, and Regencies. My mouth fell open. Iris would love it. She’d been a closet romance-novel fan since her early teens. She hid her titles in dust jackets for self-help books, because she was afraid I would make fun of the covers. (Rightly so.) But the books had always been a source of comfort and amusement for her.
“I picked these up from the secondhand paperback store across town. I was saving this as a special ‘congratulations on making it through your first year as a vampire without nonconsensual biting’ present, but clearly, you’re in dire need,” Jane said.
“You didn’t get me a first-year no-bite anniversary present.” Andrea pouted prettily.
Jane shrugged. “You weren’t terrified of injuring innocent humans.”
“I’ll take it,” I told her. “As long as the price is in the fifty-to-one-hundred-dollar range and not, say, my very soul.”
“I will give you the desperate-sister discount and sell it to you at cost, thirty-two dollars.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’m pretty sure I signed my soul over to Ophelia in
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