Jessicas guide to dating on the dark side beth fantaskey

But when a devious cheerleader sets her sights on Lucius, Jess finds herself fighting to win back her wayward prince, stop a global vampire war—and save Lucius’s soul from eternal destruction Chapter 1THE FIRST TIME I saw him, a heavy, gray fog clung to the cornfields, tails of mist slithering between the dying stalks. He was still there, but in the road now, booted feet planted on either side of the double yellow line, arms still crossed, watching the bus drive away. More to the point, what did he want with me in the present? Twisting around, I peered out the rear window, and my heart sank. And if he knew that obscure fact, what else did the dark stranger, receding in the mist, know about my past? ." Had I really heard him call me by that long-forgotten name?It was a dreary early morning right after Labor Day, and I was waiting for the school bus, just minding my own business, standing at the end of the dirt lane that connected my family’s farmhouse to the main road into town. Dilly put the bus in gear, and I stumbled down the aisle, searching for an empty seat or a friendly face among the half-groggy riders. The town kids were probably still sleeping, safe and sound in their beds. Chapter 1THE FIRST TIME I saw him, a heavy, gray fog clung to the cornfields, tails of mist slithering between the dying stalks. He was still there, but in the road now, booted feet planted on either side of the double yellow line, arms still crossed, watching the bus drive away. More to the point, what did he want with me in the present? Twisting around, I peered out the rear window, and my heart sank. And if he knew that obscure fact, what else did the dark stranger, receding in the mist, know about my past? ." Had I really heard him call me by that long-forgotten name?But no, I had to "share the ride" to save the environment. He must have realized I’d spotted him, because he shifted a little, like he was deciding whether to leave. It had never struck me how vulnerable I’d been all those mornings I’d waited out there alone, but the realization hit me hard then. Why couldn’t I own a car, like practically every other senior? In the precious split second I wasted being angry at my father, the stranger really did move in my direction, stepping out from under the tree, and I could have sworn—just as the bus, thank god, crested the rise about fifty yards down the road—I could have sworn I heard him say, "Antanasia." My old name . But it was obvious that he was tall and wearing a long, dark coat, almost like a cloak. Who stands under a tree at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere, wearing a black cloak? And why did my dad have to be so big on mass transit, anyhow? The name I’d been given at birth, in Eastern Europe, before I’d been adopted and brought to America, rechristened Jessica Packwood. The tree’s low, gnarled branches twisted down around him, nearly concealing him in limbs and leaves and shadows. He was standing under a massive beech tree across the road from me, his arms crossed over his chest. Or maybe I was hearing things, because the word was drowned out by the sound of tires hissing on wet pavement, grinding gears, and the whoosh of the doors as the driver, old Mr. And suddenly that familiar stretch of blacktop seemed awfully desolate. When I’m abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons. But no, I had to "share the ride" to save the environment. He must have realized I’d spotted him, because he shifted a little, like he was deciding whether to leave. It had never struck me how vulnerable I’d been all those mornings I’d waited out there alone, but the realization hit me hard then. Why couldn’t I own a car, like practically every other senior? In the precious split second I wasted being angry at my father, the stranger really did move in my direction, stepping out from under the tree, and I could have sworn—just as the bus, thank god, crested the rise about fifty yards down the road—I could have sworn I heard him say, "Antanasia." My old name . But it was obvious that he was tall and wearing a long, dark coat, almost like a cloak. Who stands under a tree at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere, wearing a black cloak? And why did my dad have to be so big on mass transit, anyhow? The name I’d been given at birth, in Eastern Europe, before I’d been adopted and brought to America, rechristened Jessica Packwood. The tree’s low, gnarled branches twisted down around him, nearly concealing him in limbs and leaves and shadows. He was standing under a massive beech tree across the road from me, his arms crossed over his chest. Or maybe I was hearing things, because the word was drowned out by the sound of tires hissing on wet pavement, grinding gears, and the whoosh of the doors as the driver, old Mr. Marrying a vampire definitely doesn’t fit into Jessica Packwood’s senior year “get-a-life” plan.But when a devious cheerleader sets her sights on Lucius, Jess finds herself fighting to win back her wayward prince, stop a global vampire war—and save Lucius’s soul from eternal destruction About the Author: BETH FANTASKEY lives in Pennslyvania with her husband and two daughters. All rights reserved.: Chapter 1 THE FIRST TIME I saw him, a heavy, gray fog clung to the cornfields, tails of mist slithering between the dying stalks. He was still there, but in the road now, booted feet planted on either side of the double yellow line, arms still crossed, watching the bus drive away. More to the point, what did he want with me in the present? For a first novel it's not bad - a fun, light read that quite often pokes fun at the whole deal - but not gripping or emotionally intense either. I did not expect that this certain accomplice would be charged.

But it was obvious that he was tall and wearing a long, dark coat, almost like a cloak. Who stands under a tree at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere, wearing a black cloak? And why did my dad have to be so big on mass transit, anyhow? The name I’d been given at birth, in Eastern Europe, before I’d been adopted and brought to America, rechristened Jessica Packwood. When I’m abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons. But no, I had to "share the ride" to save the environment. He must have realized I’d spotted him, because he shifted a little, like he was deciding whether to leave. It had never struck me how vulnerable I’d been all those mornings I’d waited out there alone, but the realization hit me hard then. Why couldn’t I own a car, like practically every other senior? In the precious split second I wasted being angry at my father, the stranger really did move in my direction, stepping out from under the tree, and I could have sworn—just as the bus, thank god, crested the rise about fifty yards down the road—I could have sworn I heard him say, "Antanasia." My old name . When I’m abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons. But no, I had to "share the ride" to save the environment. When I’m abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons. But no, I had to "share the ride" to save the environment. He must have realized I’d spotted him, because he shifted a little, like he was deciding whether to leave. It had never struck me how vulnerable I’d been all those mornings I’d waited out there alone, but the realization hit me hard then. Why couldn’t I own a car, like practically every other senior? In the precious split second I wasted being angry at my father, the stranger really did move in my direction, stepping out from under the tree, and I could have sworn—just as the bus, thank god, crested the rise about fifty yards down the road—I could have sworn I heard him say, "Antanasia." My old name . But it was obvious that he was tall and wearing a long, dark coat, almost like a cloak. Who stands under a tree at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere, wearing a black cloak? And why did my dad have to be so big on mass transit, anyhow? The name I’d been given at birth, in Eastern Europe, before I’d been adopted and brought to America, rechristened Jessica Packwood. The tree’s low, gnarled branches twisted down around him, nearly concealing him in limbs and leaves and shadows. When I’m abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons. But no, I had to "share the ride" to save the environment. He must have realized I’d spotted him, because he shifted a little, like he was deciding whether to leave. It had never struck me how vulnerable I’d been all those mornings I’d waited out there alone, but the realization hit me hard then. Why couldn’t I own a car, like practically every other senior? In the precious split second I wasted being angry at my father, the stranger really did move in my direction, stepping out from under the tree, and I could have sworn—just as the bus, thank god, crested the rise about fifty yards down the road—I could have sworn I heard him say, "Antanasia." My old name . But it was obvious that he was tall and wearing a long, dark coat, almost like a cloak. Who stands under a tree at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere, wearing a black cloak? And why did my dad have to be so big on mass transit, anyhow? The name I’d been given at birth, in Eastern Europe, before I’d been adopted and brought to America, rechristened Jessica Packwood.

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When I’m abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons.

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