Title: Fifty Percent Vampire
Author: D.K. Janotta
Release Date: September 5th, 2015
About the book:
TEENAGE GIRL FLEES THE UNDEAD !!!
Living at home is driving
seventeen-year-old Astrid Sonnschein nuts. She's desperate to leave her parents
behind, and why not, with stepfather George a foul-tempered old vampire, and
Mom - well, the less we say about Mom the better.
And our heroine has another compelling reason for getting out of Dodge. If she stays home much longer she's in grave danger of being transformed forever, and the last thing she wants is to become the newest Nosferatu.
So it's off to Rosenberg High and relative safety. Except it's far from safe when her relatives are holier than holy Aunt Jean, beer-swilling couch potato Uncle James and devious, cat-loving cousin Emma. And that's just evenings and weekends. Astrid Sonnschein's schooldays teem with teeth-sinkable challenges, the man of her dreams refuses to play by the rules, and the plethora of pitchfork-bearing peasants are beginning to mutter.
Peasants-schmeasants! It's when the full moon rises that Astrid's real troubles begin ...
And our heroine has another compelling reason for getting out of Dodge. If she stays home much longer she's in grave danger of being transformed forever, and the last thing she wants is to become the newest Nosferatu.
So it's off to Rosenberg High and relative safety. Except it's far from safe when her relatives are holier than holy Aunt Jean, beer-swilling couch potato Uncle James and devious, cat-loving cousin Emma. And that's just evenings and weekends. Astrid Sonnschein's schooldays teem with teeth-sinkable challenges, the man of her dreams refuses to play by the rules, and the plethora of pitchfork-bearing peasants are beginning to mutter.
Peasants-schmeasants! It's when the full moon rises that Astrid's real troubles begin ...
Excerpt:
Astrid meets
Mike.
We were halfway through a shrill
rendition of Give Peace A Chance when
a group of young men swaggered up, sporting haircuts like Angus’s, their hands
in the pockets of paramilitary jackets similar to the one I’d last seen him
wearing. Before any of them uttered a word I sensed trouble. “Hey little girls,
you think our Marines are sitting pretty over there?”
I rolled my eyes in disgust.
Even an idiot like me knew there were no American soldiers serving in Syria.
Maybe these morons were confusing it with Iraq. As they came closer and closer
I heard Jenny and Rocio whimper but Rachel kept on singing and I followed her
lead.
A man reached forward and
grabbed my pole. I lost hold and it flew out of my grasp. Rachel stumbled and
fell to the ground as the guy wrenched our banner away from her. That made me
see red so I lunged at the attacker, snatched the pole back from him, and with
my free left hand shoved him hard in the gut. He staggered back from the force
of my blow, doubled up in agony. My show of bravado seemed to signal to the
girls that I was now their protector and every last one of them crowded in a
huddle behind me. At the back, Jenny had had the good sense to dial 911 and I
heard her urgent calls for help.
The gang howled obscenities
that made me blush but kept their distance as I stood my ground. A teen girl
able to knock one of them down had made them wary, but I had no idea how long
that wariness might last. After a while Rachel and Rocio found the courage to
start shouting back at them, but all that did was make matters worse. I
breathed faster and faster. The men were moving nearer again and any second the
situation was going to boil over.
And then we all heard it. The
slow clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on concrete. Coming steadily closer. Both
sides stopped yelling and turned to look. A sturdy bay horse with gentle brown
eyes was approaching us, chewing nonchalantly on its bit, bobbing its head as
it came. In the saddle sat a broad-shouldered young man in uniform, helmet and
shades. He steered his horse between our rival groups, pulled slowly back on
the reins, and brought his mount to a standstill. Sitting high above us with
his hands crossed on the pommel he surveyed the scene like a cowboy counting
cattle on the range.
“Howdy, Officer Hanson,” said
Rachel shyly.
The pole fell from my hand
with a clatter and the horse skittered back a step. Officer Hanson? As in Mike
Hanson? Poster boy of Rosenberg High? My heart fluttered and my legs began to
quake. If this was really him he was more gorgeous than his photo. At that
moment I was ready to lie down right there in the roadway, roll over and let
this godlike creature dismount his horse and scratch my tummy—well, not really,
but I would have done it if he’d ordered me to. Given the expressions I saw on
their faces, most of my friends would have been down there alongside me.
“Okay, you guys, break it up.
I need you to disperse immediately,” said Officer Michael Hanson calmly, his
deep voice full of authority. “Go on home. The slightest resistance from
anybody and I’m calling for backup.”
“Hey,” exclaimed Rachel. “We weren’t
doing anything wrong! Tell those jerks to leave, not us.”
Officer Hanson’s face turned
slowly Rachel’s way. “You heard me, sweetheart. Go home. If I don’t see dust
settling in the next thirty seconds I’ll take you in first.”
I couldn’t believe it. I don’t
think any of us could. My hero was threatening to arrest us. No fair. The
idiots who attacked us should be the ones getting arrested. Our opponents made
catcalls and retreated, whistling and laughing at their injured buddy who was
still moaning and clutching his stomach. Officer Hanson sat patiently watching
us from on high.
“Okay, okay, we’ll leave,”
grumbled Rachel. “But this was a legitimate protest. Freedom of assembly still
exists in this country.” She stooped to snatch up the fallen banner, thrust it
back into my hand, and stormed off. The demo she’d spent so much effort on was
ruined.
Officer Hanson called after
her. “Missy, go back to school and reread the First Amendment. I think you’ll
find it’s freedom of peaceable assembly.”
It was at that moment I made
my mistake. As a friendly gesture to our rescuer (and, I have to admit, an
attempt to get myself noticed), I stepped forward and reached out to pat the
horse’s muzzle. No sooner had I done so than the stupid beast laid back its
ears, flared its nostrils and reared up squealing. Officer Hanson slid
alarmingly sideways.
People all around us were
yelling “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” and the girls screamed and retreated as I backed
into them. Iron horseshoes flashed high above me in the sunlight and I feared
the horse’s hooves were about to shatter my skull. In panic, I waved the banner
in its white-eyed face. Officer Hanson yanked back the reins and gripped hard
with his legs and the terrified animal wheeled round in a tight circle, ready
to smash blindly through anything that got in its way.
The men scattered. Poor
Officer Hanson had lost a stirrup and looked about to lose his balance again
and come crashing down on the cement road. Somehow he managed to cling on and
after a few seconds regained control. The horse continued to dance a while and
then stood quivering while its rider leaned forward to pat its neck and rub its
ears, calming and soothing it as it whickered and snorted nervously, tossing
its head. “Take it easy, big fella, take it easy.”
Officer Hanson removed his
sunglasses and stared down at me. “Please don’t do that again, Miss,” he said
quietly.
“Um, Sonnschein,” I muttered,
and looked at my feet. “Astrid Sonnschein.” I’d gotten myself noticed alright.
I should have known the horse
would react that way. It had sensed my non-humanness. Several years ago, both
Angus and I had desperately wanted to learn to ride, but we failed miserably.
Angus attempted to mount up once, and to his credit managed to stay in the
saddle for several seconds while the enraged horse jerked him around like a
mustang at a rodeo. But in the end he lost his grip and was thrown to the
ground, and broke several bones. The experience shook him up so much he never
tried to ride again.
Instead he procured for
himself a big Honda Fireblade motorcycle, something without a mind of its own.
I never dared ask him where he got it.
Embarrassed, I apologized to
Officer Hanson and hurried after my friends. We reconvened at the coffee shop.
“Where’d you learn to punch so
hard?” asked Rocio, examining my hand for damage. “I thought those guys were
going to eat us for breakfast.”
“Where I come from you learn
self-defense early,” I replied.
“I guess,” said Jenny. “And
we’re all truly grateful.”
To my embarrassment they all
lined up to hug me, after which Rachel ordered sodas for everyone and acted
bemused when I didn’t want a sugar boost too. Especially after Officer Hanson’s
horse had almost knocked my head off. We decided we’d had far too much excitement
for one day, said goodbye and went our separate ways.
I stumbled home to Wicket Lane
in a total daze. So that was Mike
Hanson. Good job, Astrid, you meet your first hot guy, and not only is he way
too old for you but you darn near kill the poor fella by spooking his noble
steed. Excellent first impression, mush-brain.
D.K.
Janotta was born and raised in England and Wales but now calls a chalet on a
mountainside overlooking beautiful Lake Geneva in Switzerland home. He has
worked in Belgium, The Netherlands, Norway, France, South Korea, and several
states of the USA. He subverts the vampire genre to ask questions about and
reflect on the meaning of human life.
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