The Vampire Next Door 2- A Visit From the Truth Faerie.pdf

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Suburban Fantasy II

A Visit From the Truth Faerie

Cover art by Coyote Shadow Studio

Edited by Helen Ravell

Book layout and Design by Coyote

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Suburban Fantasy II

A Visit From

the Truth

Faerie

By Katica Locke

Suburban Fantasy: A Visit From the Truth Faerie

Simon Walker opened his eyes and glanced

over at the bedside table, yawning as he tried to

focus on the alarm clock. Nine thirty-seven—

obscenely late, but hell, it was a Saturday. He

rolled over, staring at the sliver of sunlight blazing

between the curtains. It was going to be another

hot one, and with his AC on the fritz and the

repairman unable to get out until the middle

of the week, that meant another tense evening

in the backyard, huddled around a citronella

candle, as if it could repel vampires along with

the mosquitoes.

It had been several months since the vampire,

Julian, and his wereraven great-great-grandniece

had moved in, and Simon had to admit, obvious

faults aside, they were the perfect neighbors.

hey kept to themselves, they didn’t ask to

borrow anything, they didn’t play loud music...

and Simon had yet to wake up with a perforated

jugular, even though there was nothing keeping

the vampire out of Simon’s house except Julian’s

word.

he sound of a car door slamming outside on

the street roused Simon from his thoughts and he

sat up, running one hand back through his hair

Page 1

Suburban Fantasy: A Visit From the Truth Faerie

as he stretched, his spine popping. hrowing the

covers back, he climbed out of bed and headed

for the bathroom.

he musical chime of the doorbell stopped him

in the doorway and he hesitated before stepping

on into the bathroom. he doorbell rang again

while he was taking a piss, and again while he was

washing his hands, followed by a loud, insistent

banging on the front door. Grabbing his robe

of the hook beside the shower, he slipped it on

over his boxers—all he could bear to wear to bed

in this heat—muttering obscenities under his

breath as he descended the stairs.

“All right, all right,” he said, unlocking the

deadbolt and jerking the door open. “What the

hell do you want?” Standing on his porch was

a nondescript man in his thirties, brown hair,

brown eyes, wearing a gray suit and carrying a

slim, black briefcase. Behind him, standing to

either side like the Secret Service on casual Friday,

were two tall men in jeans and polo shirts, their

eyes hidden behind cheap plastic sunglasses.

“Simon Walker?” the man in the suit asked.

“Ah...yeah,” Simon said, regretting his

rudeness. “Sorry, about the—Hey!” He jumped

Page 2

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