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  Nice Werewolves Don’t Bite Vampires

  A Half-Moon Hollow Novel

  Molly Harper

  This book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Nice Werewolves Don’t Bite Vampires

  Copyright © 2020 by Molly Harper

  Ebook ISBN: 9781641971560

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This ebook is based on an Audible Original audiobook.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  NYLA Publishing

  121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, New York, NY 10001

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Excerpt from HOW TO DATE YOUR DRAGON

  Also by Molly Harper

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  My sincerest appreciation to the readers who continue to offer their support to this series. Thank you to my children, who were so patient and cooperative while we were all stuck at home together – homeschooling, Mom working, Dad working. It could have been a mess. But you worked hard and I am very proud of you. Thank you to all of the writer friends who have supported me and kept me sane over text while we all tried to navigate this weird new reality – Jeanette, Lish, Jenn, Anna, Kathleen, Jaye, Nicole, Melissa, Kristen, Robyn. I appreciate you all so much. And thanks, as always, to Natanya Wheeler, who is an amazing agent and human being.

  1

  “Find a way to honor the trappings of your youth without clinging to them. This is especially true if you grew up in an era of the ruff collar or parachute pants.”

  —A Gentleman in Any Era: An Ancient Vampire’s Guide to Modern Relationships

  * * *

  People who said libraries were a useless and outdated relic of the pre-Internet age had never spent time around the McClaine pack.

  The Half-Moon Hollow Public Library might have been a dinosaur. But it was a silent dinosaur. A “keep-me-from-losing-from-my-freaking-mind-due-to-my-loud-ass-family-osaurus.”

  Maybe calling it a “dinosaur” was unfair. The place certainly hadn’t seen new public funding in a few years. The most recent addition was the Jane Jameson-Nightengale Youth Reading Room, which was marked with a rather showy brass plaque very close to the head librarian’s office. But the computers in the lab were less than five years old. The gray industrial carpet was worn, but not shabby, the dust pilling ever so slightly around the edges of the floor-to-ceiling walnut shelving. And I did recognize some of the titles from the last few years’ bestseller lists, probably also donated by Jane Jameson-Nightengale. Her name seemed to be on a lot of plaques around the building, most of them within the direct eyeline of the head librarian’s office.

  Something about that seemed to be a little vindictive. But having met Mrs. Stubblefield, the head librarian with the inexplicably aggressive eyebrows, that made sense.

  Mrs. Stubblefield seemed to think the library was her kingdom to rule. She’d reminded me multiple times that the library didn’t allow “loitering” at the private study carrels—despite the fact that I had a laptop with me and was very clearly working. As a werewolf, I respected her need to protect her territory. As someone who depended on the library for a quiet workspace to earn their living, it was deeply annoying.

  Living on the pack compound, surrounded by the constant noise and interruptions of my large extended family, going to the library was the only peace I got all day. I tried working from a café, using a secure wi-fi hotspot to protect my clients’ privacy while I designed their social media, email campaigns, and other digital promotional materials. But the constant motion from other customers, plus needing to pack up my stuff every time I left for the restroom, was a non-starter. It was just easier to work in the library, where there was less “traffic.” The locking study carrels—another contribution from Jane Jameson-Nightengale—were quiet and clean and comfortable. My productivity had skyrocketed when I started sneaking to the library in the afternoons several times a week.

  My phone grumbled inside my precious backpack, a sturdy blue camouflage model I’d carried since high school. I’d set it up to sound like a growl when the text was from my family. I was sure it was a message from my mama, asking where I was. I glanced at the clock on my computer screen. It was after eight. Where had my time gone? It felt like I’d just gotten here! I rolled my shoulders. Nope, apparently, I’d been in this position for far too long.

  The project I was working on—social media headers for a small bed-and-breakfast in upstate New York that themed itself around a Medieval Celtic romantic imagery—needed help. The owners kept insisting on using a specific stock photo of a sword, but it simply didn’t look right to me. The carvings on the hilt just didn’t have the sort of patterns I’d seen in Celtic weapons. It looked more like Viking swords I’d seen on TV shows, all pointy runes and triangles. But knowing these difficult-but-always-prompt-with-payments clients as I did, I was going to have to have evidence on my side if I was going to convince them that they were wrong.

  I stood from the comfortable desk chair, cracking my spine back into place. I rarely ventured into the stacks unless it was for reference material. Sometimes clients wanted to center their promotional messages around some strange detail that was not accurate. I liked being able to check actual physical books written by experts—as opposed to online image searches—to prevent that embarrassment for them…and for me.

  While they may not have liked being told when they were wrong (and sometimes “super-wrong”), it was my attention to that sort of thing that kept my clients coming back for repeat business. I’d developed a solid reputation for engaging, affordable, and correct work. Sure, there were plenty of platforms out there that helped not quite computer-literate people design their own graphics and such. But for small business owners who already had enough on their plate, it was easier to just pay my very reasonable rates to bring clients to their doors.

  I slipped my phone into my back pocket, just as it growled a second time. I wouldn’t respond to my mother’s text, because that would only mean pointless arguing until I left earlier than planned. My time would be better spent wrapping up for the day and then texting her on my run home. I closed the small study carrel door behind me and punched in my temporary code to protect my stuff, silently blessing the name of Jane Jameson-Nightengale—even though she wasn’t exactly a favorite around my household.

  Jane, who I’d only met in passing when I was a kid, was a close friend of my cousin. Jolene had been the pack’s pride and joy until she’d married a human, had his adorable children, and moved a whole ten miles away from the packlands. Well, Jolene was still pretty much the pack’s pride and joy, but my relatives grumbled under their breath about her a lot more often—usually involving the phrase “such a shame.” Jane was (unfairly) blamed for this.

  Turning out o
f the study carrels, I narrowly missed bumping into a guy around my age, wearing a hoodie and jeans.

  “Sorry,” I murmured, brushing past him without looking up. I had to move with purpose if I was going to finish this assignment and get home on time.

  As I passed the European History section, I saw two teenage boys wrestling around, bumping against the bookshelf while they fought to look at woodcuttings of nude women from the Dark Ages.

  This was one of many reasons why I’d rarely dated in high school.

  What were so many teenage boys even doing at the library on a Friday night? That was suspicious in itself. Shouldn’t they be in a nearby field somewhere with an illegally-obtained keg, shouting “wooooo?” I knew why I was at a library on a Friday night. I was avoiding my house and pursuing cash. I liked cash. It was silent, dependable, and never judged you for not having a social life.

  Rolling my eyes, I turned my back on the disruptive goofballs and walked into the weapons section. I crouched, scanning the bottom shelf for an illustrated guidebook to swords throughout history. I’d used it for a report on warfare in the Renaissance period when I attended Half-Moon Hollow High. There was a comforting sort of consistency to that book still being there seven years later. Being able to count on the little things was one of the perks of living in the Hollow. It almost outweighed the many, many drawbacks.

  The teenage tussle behind me continued and I blocked it out to focus on the book in front of me. It was a skill I’d developed as a teenager, very useful when trying to ignore about a dozen people all trying to tell you how you should be running your life over Sunday dinner.

  Opening the thick reference guide, I studied the illustration diagramming the various parts of Celtic swords versus Viking swords. The photo my clients wanted to use was definitely Viking. And even if it was a beautiful image, they couldn’t use it. People delighted in calling companies out on inaccuracies like this—especially history enthusiasts, who were very quick to pick up on social media gaffes, no matter what era. Sometimes, those gaffes made you famous for the wrong reasons.

  I took my phone out of my pocket and took a picture of the pages showing examples of both swords. I sent an email to the client, explaining that we couldn’t use their preferred stock photo, but I would find a historically accurate image they would love just as much by tomorrow. Still concentrating on careful email phrasing, I heard a grunt behind me and what sounded like an appendage—an elbow?—thumping against book spines. My head whipped toward the noise.

  Several things happened all at once. The bookshelf behind me wobbled, despite being almost floor-to-ceiling. A literal ton of wood and paper was clearly no match against the adolescent desire to see block-printed boobs. Several extremely heavy books on the last legal duels in Kentucky—I could see the titles on the spines as if they were frozen in time—tumbled towards me. All I could think to do was drop the sword guide, cover my head and hope I didn’t get knocked out. My ears detected lightning quick steps against the worn carpet just to my right. The soft, woodsy scent of cedar with the crisp edge of some sort of resin filled my nose and I felt my heart squeeze—though honestly, I wasn’t sure if it was the lovely smell or if I was having some sort of book-related cardiac event.

  From under my arm, I saw a tall, dark-haired man dashing toward me, hands outstretched. I waited for the impact of the books against my skull, but despite the rain of reference material hitting the carpet all around me, the weight never landed on me. Dropping my arms hesitantly, I looked up and saw the man crouched over me. In his large hands, he held the books that should have been scattered on top of my unconscious body.

  While sheets of music were littered around our feet like fallen snow, he held the books in a neat stack on his palms. He looked so calm, as if it was no big deal that he’d plucked falling hardbacks from mid-air. His eyes, a light shade of hazel surrounded by a darker ring, met mine and his generous mouth parted to say something. Because my brain seemed to be fixating on weird little details, I got completely absorbed in the thin, dark moustache on his upper lip. Normally, I automatically assigned men with moustaches in the creeper category, but on him…it worked. He was older than me, again, not to creeper levels, but enough for me to appreciate it.

  I reached up to touch his face, to trace the sharp curve of his cheek and the soft flesh of his lip with my thumb. I wanted to wallow in the sweet woodsy scent of him, to roll around with him, until I could smell nothing else for the rest of my life. This was the way a person was supposed to smell, all complex warmth sending rippling energy along my nerves. And the pulse of that energy spelled out the word “WANT” like Morse Code in my belly. For the first time, I wanted to take advantage of the seclusion of the library stacks, drag him to the farthest corner and see what was hidden under those maddeningly practical clothes.

  He spoke, but I had no idea what he was saying. I was too distracted by the roar of blood in my ears and the flash of his supernaturally white fangs. Well, everything made a lot more sense now. It was easy to defy the laws of physics when you were a vampire.

  The idiot teens were now fighting over who was responsible for knocking into the books, meaning more bumping against the shelf. Over the vampire’s shoulder—wow, those were some broad shoulders—the bookshelf continued to sway back and forth, picking up momentum as it pitched forward. I shot to my feet and planted my shoulder against the shelf with an “oof,” easing it back up as yet more books fell to the floor. Miraculously, those books didn’t hit us, either.

  It took all of my considerable upper body strength to push the shelves back into position. He grinned at me as I gripped the shelving, preventing it from overcorrecting and knocking into the shelf behind it. The last thing I needed was for Mrs. Stubblefield to find me in a mess of Three Stooges-style domino-ed bookshelves. That would not help my whole workplace situation.

  This time I was able to hear the vampire say, “You’re rather fast on your feet, aren’t you?”

  “Well, you saved me from a concussion first. It’s only neighborly that I return the favor.” I smiled, surprising even myself. I was not the kind of girl that came up with clever lines on the fly.

  Usually, in an awkward situation like this, I froze up and let one of my louder family members take over the conversation. But I was able to pronounce all of my words clearly and smoothly, like I talked to attractive strangers every day. In a tone that was downright cheeky, I added, “Us supernaturals should stick together.”

  His smile widened, his eyes becoming warmer. “I’ve noticed that sort of hospitality since I relocated here. It’s very refreshing. I’ve lived in many places that…weren’t as friendly, particularly to vampires.”

  “Well, just be careful around other weres. We’re not all hot dishes and welcome wagons. I’m sort of the exception to the rule,” I said with a weird-sounding giggle. With growing dread, I realized I’d just exhausted my supplies of smoothness. It would all be downhill from here. I cleared my throat. “Not that you’re probably into hot dishes that much, what with vampire digestion…or lack of it. Also, I’ve heard not-great things about the vampire welcome wagon situation here in town. Be wary of vampires bearing gift baskets.”

  I pressed my lips together because that was an awful lot of words. But in another unexpected turn, rather than looking disturbed by my verbal disgorgement, he threw his head back and laughed. Not in a “laughing at me” way, but “laughing with me.” I’d made him laugh! Simple pleasure, bright and warm, bloomed in my chest.

  Damn, he was pretty. And he hung out at libraries. Who did that?

  Besides me, that is.

  Meanwhile, the boys were still fighting. The shelf I’d just corrected trembled as the taller one threw his friend against the Asian History section.

  The vampire rolled his eyes. “Oh, for pity’s sake.”

  I snorted. He sounded like a hero in one of those historical BBC movies I had to hide in my room like porn, to keep my parents from mocking my “fancy” choices. He held up hi
s hand, not quite touching my shoulder. “Excuse me for a moment, miss. Please don’t go anywhere, I’d like to continue—”

  The shelf rattled hard. I held up a hand to steady it.

  He huffed out an unnecessary breath and ducked around the bookshelf. I took out my phone and checked the time. I needed to go. As if my mama could hear my thoughts, my cell phone vibrated to life in my hand. At the sight of my mother’s photo on my screen, I shook my head and hit the “deny” button. “Nope.”

  I tiptoed through the minefield of fallen books and sheet music, careful not to step on any of the fragile covers. As much as I would have liked to score points with Mrs. Stubblefield and help clean them up, I should have been home already. My parents started asking intrusive questions if I put off going home too much. They had no idea what I did with my time outside of the house. If I didn’t go to a brick-and-mortar building—preferably one owned by family members, where I could be closely supervised—I didn’t have a real job, as far they were concerned. And any time I tried to explain I had an Internet-based job, they immediately jumped to thinking I was doing something inappropriate or that I was just goofing off. My daddy made a lot of comments about “those dumb dragon games” I played online. I didn’t actually play online games. No judgements - they just weren’t my thing. But if that’s what he wanted to believe, fine. I made a pretty good living and with no rent to pay, I had a considerable nest egg and could afford little extras like my laptop. And it was a lot more fun than working at my Uncle Hank’s butcher shop. It was certainly less bloody.