What's on the back of the book:Trouble brews when Quincie Morris and her uncle decide to remodel the family restaurant with a vampire theme. One month before the grand reopening the chef is mauled to death in the kitchen and the murder suspect is . . . a werewolf!
Quincie has to transform Henry, the new chef, into Sanguini's vampire extraordinaire - and fast. But strange things are happening to her boyfriend, Kieren, and a deadly love triangle forms.
A piece from the book:
Lousy idea, us sitting like that on the railroad tracks. If we had had to jump, it would have been a heart-stopping drop to the lake below. But Kieren had said he could hear a train coming from far away, in more than enough time for us to scramble from the middle of the bridge to safety. And I trusted him. Liked him watching out for me, too.
To the west, the fading horizontal clouds had turned a bloody tangerine color, fuzzy and tinged with violet, like the inside of a conch shell. So, I imagined picking one up, a curved shell, and shaking it to see if the animal within had died.
Then Kieren's fingernails began tracing the pattern on my upturned palm, and it was hard to think about anything. I knew it bothered him, though, my laugh line, my love line, my lifeline. Slight and severed, all of them.
This was four years ago, so we were in middle school, past due for handholding. I'd been staying with Kieren's family, helping with the baby, while my folks were in Guatemala doing whatever professors with archaeology Ph.D.s did there. Daddy anyway. Mama had just gone along for the ride. They'd be back the day after tomorrow, I realized. And tomorrow could be gone in a heartbeat or two.
"It's not just a sunset," I said, going for poetic. "It's a moonrise, too."
Kieren's nostrils flared at that, which I found exceedingly manly. Besides, I'd always loved this time of day, late evening when the world went smoky and soft. Dusk. Twilight. Such pretty names. We owed something to the night, didn't we?
I tried preesing my newly rounded right boob against his forearm. Even though it was well covered in a sweat-stained T-shirt, even though the temperature had to be over ninety degrees. I had it on good authority that most boys my age were due to go boob crazy at any time. But my hand was all he was interested in.
As the sun melted into the horizon, I stared into the rippling water and decided to take the lead. If Kieren backed off, I'd make like I was joking.
It seemed to take forever, turning my palm until our fingers aligned, rested against one another, ready to intertwine. His face was flushed, moist from the heat, and his expression didn't tell me anything.
Taking a shallow breath, I went for it. There. My fingertips touched the back of his hand. His fingertips touched the back of mine. And he was letting it happen. I was about to say something - I didn't know what - when distant but sure I heard the train.
"Kieren?" I whispered.
I'd distracted him.
A cause for celebration if it hadn't been for the penalty.
His head snapped in the direction of the oncoming threat, the one that would reach me first, and his eyes in the evening light looked flat and yellow. I didn't feel the pain when I first heard the wet crunching, didn't feel it for long even, wicked hot, turning my sweat cold. There was an instant, just one, when I looked down at my hand and felt the blood dripping and realized his nails . . . claws . . . had extended, piercing clear through, five crescent-shaped punctures, catching raw muscle and splintering bone.
"Oh," I said, like that explained everything, and suddenly, the train didn't matter so much anymore. Then the world swirled, faded, took me floating into the darkness.
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