Home > Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)(13)

Fashionably Dead (Hot Damned #1)(13)
Author: Robyn Peterman

Confused, I looked over at the tiny, skinny, overly made-up Goth girl sitting on my sofa and said, “I’m sorry, your name is . . . ?”

“Paris Hilton,” the tiny Goth girl whispered in a childlike voice.

“Holy fuck! This is awesome,” Pam screamed, throwing her big ol’ Oprah hands in the air and falling off the couch in hysterics. I so didn’t need her here right now. She’d clearly been the one to leave the note and my door open. We were going to have a little chat later. Even though they couldn’t see or hear her, I could, and she was this close to making me laugh ‘til I peed. She could barely control herself. If she wasn’t immortal, I’d be concerned she was having a heart attack.

“Oookay,” I gasped, trying to hold myself together. “Purely out of curiosity, is that the name you were born with?”

“Yes,” Paris said, “and there is no relation . . . unfortunately. I’m from the Lucern House,” she continued, completely ignoring the fact that Muffy was starting to hiss at her in bizarre little high-pitched squeaks that were making me grind my teeth. “We would love to have you join us, Astrid. Pledge The Dead!” Paris whispered as loud as she could and pumped both super skinny fists in the air.

I sat down and bit the inside of my cheek really hard, trying not to dissolve into hysterics. Pam, that traitor, was still rolling all over the floor, barely able to breathe after Paris’ last outburst.

Not to be outdone Muffy shrieked, “Join the Aurora House and have a bloody good time!” She rolled her hands like a cheerleader, threw them up in the air and screamed in decibels not meant for the human ear, “Pun intended!”

Muffy was jumping up and down like a Mexican jumping bean. Paris was pumping her skinny arms and shaking her head like she was having an epileptic fit. And Pam . . . well, Pam was useless.

Did I have to join a House? Why couldn’t I just be an independent? There was no way in hell I belonged with either of these people. Were these my only two choices? Shit, shit, shit.

Just as I was about to ask everyone to leave so I could “think about it”, hoping they’d leave those big juicy gift baskets, Paris accidentally punched Muffy in the head and all hell broke loose. Fangs descended and furniture got kicked out of the way. Muffy hissed like a wild animal in heat, picked up Paris Hilton and threw her out of my window. What the fu . . . ? Glass flew everywhere. I screamed and hid under the couch that had gotten shoved up against my TV.

I heard a grotesque grunt, and a very bloody, teeny tiny Gothy Paris Hilton came flying back through my shredded window . . . the same window from which she had just been ejected. How in the hell did she do that? Paris expertly took Muffy down in a chokehold. She slammed Muffy’s head into the floor so hard so many times that I knew for sure Muffy was for real dead. The sound of skull making contact with hard wood was just wrong on every level. Muffy was a goner.

But no, how wrong I was . . .

Bloody Muffy let loose a scream so high pitched that the glass on my TV shattered. She grabbed Paris Hilton’s teeny tiny titties and twisted for all she was worth. Paris Hilton screamed and head-butted Muffy.

These Vampyres were crazy and they were destroying my house. My house. My cute little postage stamp house that was almost paid off. It wasn’t much, but it was mine and this was not working for me. That preppy-assed screaming Muffy busted my window and my TV, and Paris Hilton had just dismantled my coffee table with a karate chop and was beating Muffy over the head with it. I wasn’t sure how much more Muffy’s head could take. This shit had to stop.

“Enough!” I shouted at the top of my lungs as my fangs descended.

“Get up,” I said through clenched teeth, “and get the hell out of my house.”

Both Paris Hilton and Muffy got to their feet slowly, looking around at my destroyed living room with shame.

“I am so sorry . . . ” Muffy squeaked.

“Shut up,” I growled, my eyes flashing. She did.

“Our Houses will pay for the damage,” Paris Hilton informed me as if this were a regular occurrence.

“Damn right they will,” I said. “Both of you need to leave and never ever come back.”

They went to retrieve their gift baskets.

“Oh no, you don’t,” I snapped. “After that little display, those baskets are mine.”

“Of course,” Paris Hilton said in her baby voice. “Well, if you change your mind, here’s my card.”

Muffy quickly pulled out her own card and tried to hand it to me. My glare stopped both of them in their tracks. If I’d learned anything from my mother, it was how to scare the hell out of someone with a glance. It worked.

“If you don’t put those cards back in your pockets,” I calmly informed them, “I will shove them so far up your asses you will have to pull them out of your mouth. Do you understand me?”

They put their cards back and exited quickly. Where in the hell had Pam gone? Why couldn’t they see her? This Vampyre thing was appealing less and less to me and I was fairly sure there was no way out. Furthermore, their gift baskets sucked. Muffy’s was loaded with day-glow colored madras clothing, Topsiders, Lacoste and a Minnie Ripperton CD.

Paris Hilton’s was loaded with black crap that was barely in style during the 1980s, although there was a pair of Converse black high tops. Paris Hilton - 1, Muffy - 0.

I walked out to make sure that Muffy and Paris were gone, and there on my porch swing sat one of the prettiest Vampyres I’d seen yet. Her skin was as black as night. She had high cheek bones, full lips and sparkling black eyes. Her hair was wild and curly. Her body was long and lean. She was stunning.

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