Chapter 1
"Not again."
Jane Fairfax gripped the steering wheel so tightly her hands
hurt. Two dozen women stood on the sidewalk. Three of them
were peering in Jane's living room windows. All of them were
dressed in imitation Regency period dresses. The thought
occurred to Jane that instead of adopting the clothing of
her time, they might have chosen to copy the tradition of
waiting for an invitation before dropping in unannounced.
A tall, thin woman in a ghastly pink pantsuit emerged from a
parked tour bus and called out loudly, "Miss Fairfax doesn't
appear to be at home today, but we can still get a lovely
photo!"
"It's Beverly!" said a deep male voice beside Jane with
lascivious glee. "We should say hello."
"We should not," said Jane, giving Byron a withering look.
Jane had seen the woman--and her pantsuit--before. Her name
was Beverly Shrop. A retired kindergarten teacher, Beverly
had devoted the past five years to becoming the
number-one-ranked reviewer of romance novels on a very
popular bookselling site. That her "reviews" consisted
largely of regurgitating a book's cover copy mattered little
to her readers. Nor did it apparently occur to them that in
order for Beverly to have amassed 12,729 reviews she would
have had to have read an average of 6.9 books a day.
Beverly had subsequently started a website of her
own--ShropTalk.com--on which she not only posted her reviews
but also featured interviews with romance writers and kept
her readers abreast of what was happening in the world of
romantic fiction. This, naturally, had increased her profile
even more, to the point where publishers started not just
paying attention to her but actively courting her.
When Constance was published, Jane had done the requisite
interview with Beverly. She'd found the woman dull and her
questions insipid (Do you wear any particular perfume when
you write? If you were a flower, what would you be?) and had
been relieved when it was over. She'd hoped never to
encounter Beverly Shrop again.
Beverly, however, was determined to make the most of her
talents. This took the form of offering romance-themed tours
to readers who wanted to visit the hometowns of their
favorite authors or to visit the locations that had inspired
their favorite books. She had several itineraries, among
them The World of Edith Wharton, Love and Lust in Santa Fe
(a surprising number of romance writers lived there), and
Jackie Oh!: The People and Places of Jackie Collins.
Most recently Beverly had designed a field trip around
writers of New York and New England. Brakeston was included
on the itinerary primarily because of Byron, who the
previous year had revealed himself to be the real author
behind the very popular novelist Penelope Wentz.
Complicating matters, he had chosen to use yet another
pseudonym in making his announcement, and so the world at
large knew him as Tavish Osborn, a name he now adopted for
everyday use.
"You just don't like her because she wasn't going to include
you on the tour until I suggested it," Byron said.
Jane snorted. "I hardly think so. I don't like her because
she turns literature into a spectacle."
Byron laughed, earning him another fierce look from Jane.
"Literature has always been spectacle," he said. "Do you
really think we held all of those literary salons so that we
could exchange ideas? Of course not. It was so we could
gossip about everyone who wasn't there. And don't you
remember how James Joyce used to wander through Paris
mumbling nonsense words until people recognized him?"
He cleared his throat and in a perfect imitation of Joyce's
impish Irish brogue said, "Spifflepond puppetdingle
griffintide! Woozlewoozle crumpetpeal dirf! Why yes, I am
James Joyce. You enjoyed Ulysses? Bless you, madam. Bless you."
Jane stifled a laugh. It was true. Joyce had often wandered
back and forth between La Closerie des Lilas and the Dingo
Bar, hoping to be noticed. He denied it, of course, but they
all knew.
"It's hardly the same thing," she told Byron, still not
giving in.
Byron made a vague noise. Much to Jane's irritation, he
reveled in the attention that Beverly Shrop's tours brought
him. He frequently welcomed Beverly and her clients into his
home, even offering them tea. Jane, on the other hand,
avoided them as much as possible, finding the whole business
unseemly. Although even her book publicist had encouraged
her to cooperate at least a little.
And now Beverly and her minions were preventing Jane from
getting into her own house. She seethed. Beverly never
stayed less than half an hour, and from the look of things
they'd only recently arrived.
"We'll just have to leave until they're gone," Jane said as
she began to turn the car around.
"Wait," Byron said. "I have a better idea."
Jane paused. "I doubt it," she said. "But go on."
"This is a perfect opportunity for you to practice making
yourself invisible," said Byron.
For the past few months--following an attack on Jane by an
undead and very angry Charlotte Bronte--Byron had been
teaching Jane more about her vampire powers. Despite living
for more than two centuries, Jane had studiously avoided
delving into the mysteries of being immortal. She had been
convinced, however, that it was in her best interests to
learn what she was capable of, particularly in the event of
another attack.
Unfortunately, in nine months she had succeeded only in
improving the quality of her glamoring. She had long been
proficient in the basics--at least enough to seduce those
she used to quench her occasional thirst--but now she was
able to implant thoughts into the heads of others, as long
as her subjects weren't overly bright to begin with.
Invisibility, however, was proving more troublesome. Despite
practicing every day, she had so far managed only brief
periods of dimness. Her meager results were irritating both
to her and to Byron, who just that afternoon had accused her
of not trying hard enough.
"I don't know," Jane said.
"Why not?" asked Byron. "Avoiding Beverly is the perfect
incentive for vanishing. In fact, I can't think of a better
opportunity for you to prove yourself."
"I'm really not in the mood," Jane said. "I have a headache,
and--"
"It's time to sink or swim," Byron interrupted as he opened
his door. He gave Jane a wink as he sauntered toward the
crowd of women. "Beverly!" he called cheerfully. "How lovely
to see you."
Jane ducked down. "Horrid man," she hissed. "How I loathe
you."
She could just turn the car around and leave. That would be
the easiest way out of the situation. But now Byron had made
it a matter of pride. If she fled, he would never let her
forget it. Which is just what he wants, she thought. He
doesn't think I can do it.
"We'll just see about that," she said firmly.
She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Imagine
you're made of glass, she told herself.
She tried to hold that picture in her mind. Other thoughts
intruded, but she brushed them aside. When she could
envision her body as completely transparent, she opened her
eyes and held up one hand. Behind it she could see the
steering wheel.
"I did it!" she cried, and immediately her hand became solid
again.
"Damn!" she muttered.
She closed her eyes and once more let the image of her
invisible self fill her mind. Again she opened her eyes, and
again she could see through her hand. But this time the
illusion held. She sat for several minutes to make sure she
wasn't going to pop back into view, then opened the door and
got out. She hoped no one would notice the door opening and
closing seemingly by itself.
Slowly she approached Beverly and her group, all the while
trying to keep her thoughts calm. Several of the women were
circled around Byron, but still Jane's path to the front
door was blocked. She would have to go around to the back
and get in through the kitchen.
You don't have the key to that door, she reminded herself.
You never go in that way. Still, she had no choice. Her lawn
and stoop were littered with gawkers.
"No," she heard Byron say. "I haven't seen Miss Fairfax.
Perhaps you should try knocking again."
Shut up, Jane thought, knowing full well that Byron could
tell she was nearby. Something in her vision changed for a
second. She looked down and saw that she was becoming
visible. She was very faint, but nonetheless there. Panic
gripped her, and she grew more solid. She had to get into
the house.
She ran, slipping past a woman who was examining her
rosebushes. The woman looked up, a puzzled expression on her
face. Jane ignored her, reaching the corner just as she
winked back into sight.
She tried the door and found it locked, as she'd known it
would be. The only way in was through the kitchen window.
She went to it and pushed up on the frame, praying that she
hadn't locked it. It slid up with only slight hesitation.
Gripping the sill, she jumped as hard as she could. Her head
passed through the window, and for a moment she felt the
relief of having succeeded. This, however, was a momentary
joy, as she now found herself stuck. Below her Tom stared up
at her with a mixture of bemusement and disgust.
"Don't look at me like that," Jane told him. "I will not be
ridiculed by a cat."
She was hanging over the windowsill, her front half in the
kitchen and her back half kicking uselessly at the air.
Finally, with enormous effort, she managed to propel herself
forward and onto the linoleum, almost landing on Tom. The
black-and-white cat stepped neatly to one side, avoiding
her. Moments later Jasper, the springer spaniel Jane had
adopted after he'd helped her escape from Charlotte Bronte's
house, trotted in. Looking at her, he gave a soft woof.
"What a wonderful guard dog you are," Jane told him as she
got up and dusted herself off. She turned and shut the window.
And now you're a prisoner in your own house, she told
herself. If you'd just step out and say hello, they'd go away.
But she knew they wouldn't. A simple greeting would turn
into requests for autographs and pictures. Then someone
would ask--ever so sweetly--if they could have just a peek
at the room in which she wrote her books. And of course she
couldn't say no without seeming churlish, and then it would
descend into madness. She imagined hysterical women rifling
through her drawers and peering into her bathroom cabinet,
and it made her head ache.
The phone rang, startling her. Noting the number on the
caller ID display, she picked up.
"Well, you're not going to believe this," a voice said.
Jane was slowly getting used to Satvari Thangavadivelu's
manner of launching into a conversation with no
preliminaries. At the insistence of her editor, Kelly
Littlejohn, Jane had signed with the Waters-Harding Agency
to represent her in her business dealings. Satvari was the
head of the firm's film department and had shepherded
Constance through the Hollywood minefield.
"What won't I believe?" Jane asked.
"They want to film there," Satvari said.
"There where?"
"There there," said Satvari. "Brakeston. They want to film
Constance in Brakeston. Well, the exterior shots, anyway.
Apparently they've decided it will be more authentic than
shooting on a soundstage."
"They're bringing everything here?" Jane said, not quite
understanding. "The cameras and . . . and lights and . . .
actors?"
"All of it. And they'll be there in a week."
"A week?" Jane exclaimed. "How am I supposed to get ready in
a week?"
"Relax," said Satvari. "You don't have to have anything to
do with it, remember?"
Jane breathed more easily. "That's right," she said. "I
forgot."
"Unless," Satvari said.
Jane heard an unsettling tone in the agent's voice. "Unless
what?"
"Unless you want to be involved," said Satvari. "It seems
they'd like you to maybe help out a little bit with the
script."
"You told me that was a bad idea," Jane reminded her. "You
told me not to even see the film."
"I told you not to try to write the script," said Satvari.
"But this isn't writing it. It's more like rewriting it.
Just a little. You know, some dialogue here and there."
Jane sighed. "Can I think about it?" she asked.
"Of course," Satvari answered. "But don't think too long. If
you say no, they're going to ask Penelope Wentz to do it."
"Penelope!" Jane exclaimed.
"Sorry, Tavish Osborn," said Satvari. "And yes, they're
going to ask her. I mean him. She's a him, right? I can't
keep it all straight."
"I'll do it," Jane said.
"Really?" asked Satvari. "You're sure?"
"Absolutely sure," Jane assured her.
"Great," said Satvari. "I'll work out the details and call
you tomorrow." She hung up without a goodbye.
"Penelope Wentz," Jane remarked to Tom, who was sitting in a
spot of sun, washing his face. "Honestly. As if Byron could
ever do justice to my novel."
"What about me?" Byron materialized in the room, startling
Jane.
"Nothing," said Jane. "It's not important."
The doorbell rang, and for a moment Jane almost picked up
the phone, thinking someone was calling. Realizing what it
was, she was overcome by a desire to go hide in the closet.
She had visions of Beverly Shrop standing on her front
steps, grinning like the Cheshire cat while her minions
crowded behind her.
"I heard you say my name," said Byron. "You might as well
tell me."
Again the air was filled with an electric trill. Jane, still
ignoring Byron, was beginning to retreat to the bedroom when
she saw that the little light on her phone was blinking. Now
someone is calling, she realized.
Grateful for the distraction, she picked up without looking
at the caller ID. "Hello?"
"It's me." Walter's voice had a strange tone to it.
"Are you all right?" Jane asked. "You sound peculiar."
"I'm hiding behind a hedge," said Walter. "There's a gaggle
of Shropheads outside your house."
"I was hoping they'd be gone by now," Jane said. "Best to
keep yourself hidden. Beverly knows who you are. If she sees
you, you're done for."
"Is that Walter?" Byron called out. "Tell him I say hello."
"Is that Brian?" asked Walter. "What's he doing there?"
Jane heard a slight edge in Walter's voice. Although he and
Byron were cordial to each other, Jane knew Walter was still
a little suspicious of the man he knew Jane had once been
involved with.
"He just stopped over to borrow a book," Jane said.
"Oh," said Walter. "Well, I wanted to do this in person, but
I guess this will have to do," he continued.
"Do what in person?"
"I have something to tell you," said Walter. He took a deep
breath. "My mother is coming."