I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller

  Copyright Rachelle Lauro 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  I Am The Lion / Rachelle Lauro - 1st ed.

  I AM THE LION

  Reclusive Eugenia writes a bestselling vampire book under the pen name Amy Mathews. Her outgoing older sister, Virginia, serves as the face of the fictitious writer. It’s a lucrative partnership that landed Amy Mathews literary fame and fortune.

  Until now.

  Virginia wants more books, but vampires are pretty much dead to Eugenia. She wants to write about life. Worse, if she doesn’t drive a stake into the hollow heart of her social anxieties, she’ll rot in a coffin just like her undead characters.

  She wants to ditch the author persona.

  She wants to get out of the house.

  But Eugenia soon discovers that it’s not that easy to put down the pen. In fact, it could very well turn deadly . . .

  A smart and twisty thriller that is equal parts terrifying and profound.

  for you, Mom

  my inspiration and my hero

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mylifemylifemylife.

  Okay, now that I've warmed up my fingers, I'd like to get going on the day's word count, one thousand words on a bad day, two if I'm feeling fine. That gives me a leisurely pace of writing two novels a year, in theory, including edits. But I don't need to edit much because I'm like Earnest Hemingway. The only words I put down on a page are publishable.

  Virginia likes to hear that anyway, even though it's not true. She's my older sister by three years. Far more outgoing than I could ever hope to be, she handles all of the extroverted activities that a bestselling author must do these days.

  There's regular postings on social media (twice a day, once on the weekends), all tailored to the time of day and overall mood of our young, robust community of followers. Or rather, I should say, followers of Amy Mathews.

  My name is Eugenia Ward. I'm the wizard behind the Amy Mathews phenomenon. The first novel I ever wrote sold half a million copies in eight months.

  Like so many others, I always knew I wanted to be a writer. But did I have fairy dust in my fingertips that could carry dear reader hither and yon? I wasn't sure.

  "Leave it to the professionals to decide," Mom had told me after I'd finished the manuscript, crippled with doubt. It was a vampiric portrayal of young love mixed with a healthy dose of coming of age bewilderment.

  Before Mom had become too sick, she and I tidied it up the best we could, without much hope that it would find a champion in the hard-bitten world of publishing. Virginia put her analytical skills to best use and assembled a spreadsheet of agent particulars.

  She sent out the query package and kept track of the replies. And so it was truly a cause for group celebration when an agent from New York City called with an offer to represent . . . us.

  That was Virginia's idea. I couldn't even do the phone interview. And when it became clear that writing would be a job filled with events and book signings, Virginia's suggestion to use a pen name seemed like a good idea, leaving me free to write and her free to socialize on behalf of our fictional fiction author.

  She had, after all, handled the negotiations, whereas I had merely "pounded out ninety-thousand words." Virginia, toughened by our childhood, became our natural spokesperson, negotiating like the some mobster (minus all the killing).

  She'd adopted a modulated, reasonable tone of voice that registered neither excitement nor displeasure during critical moments of high stress.

  Somehow, she'd learned the terminology like an industry insider, and when the David Smith, agent to the heavy hitters, presented a contract for fifteen percent commission, not ten, Virginia turned her mouth down and suggested he rethink the offer, preferably before "we sign with another agent."

  I could have strangled her when she hung up the phone, but a few hours later his assistant called back and she had her terms.

  By the time After The End became a bestseller, making Amy Mathews was the hottest young author this side of the International Date Line, I realized that had written myself into oblivion.

  But none of that really matters, the oblivion part, I mean. The world has really become a comfortable place for people like me, people who can't leave the house. We can maintain some sort of contact with the outside world, without even having to talk. With instant messaging and online forums, even if I did feel lonely on the rare occasion, I could reach out and, again with the magic of the written word, connect with any person I so choose.

  Well, mostly anyone. I wouldn't want to reconnect with Monica Schaffer, for example. She’s the reason why I have terrible social phobias in the first place, thanks to her and her cruel little prank.

  By the by, Virginia and my books were all that I needed. Speaking of, she'd spent the last two weeks on a book signing tour across New England, culminating in a knot of screaming fans at the flagship Barnes and Noble store on Fifth Avenue.

  I would have expired with fright, but Virginia did the brand good. From a hastily erected podium, she'd read aloud some of my more memorable lines from After The End, including a cringe-worthy kissing scene that I'd had a hard time writing.

  I'd blundered around for about a week, trying to get that scene just right. I’d written it like blind person handling a scorpion: nervous, unsure, and deathly afraid to get it all wrong.

  In the end, I think my bumbling effort resonated with dear reader, and I concluded that absolutely none of us knew what we're doing in the first blush of love, Amy Mathews included.

  I was eating my cereal in the kitchen, reading, when the front door opened.

  Virginia. "Hey Sis."

  "Hey Virg!"

  Her curly red locks had been chemically straightened. She'd gotten some blonde highlights that looked like someone with peroxide on their fingers had clawed at her head. She looked sleeker, wearing a fashionable dun-colored trench coat that I'd seen in all the magazines, paired with some black ankle booties. She wore heavy kohl eyeliner that accentuated her blue slanting eyes. A bit of blusher on the apples of her cheeks softened her habitual hard looks and made her look almost pretty.

  But despite the new upgrades, she was still the same Virginia to me. She wheeled her suitcase over the threshold, none too gently, and set it aside.

  "Seriously?" she asked, striding into the kitchen. "I hate it when you call me Verge. It sounds like you're talking to an old man."

  "Would you prefer Gina?" I smiled and fluttered my eyelids.

  "As in va-gina?"

  "Yeah. So?"

  She walked over to the fridge. “So, what are you—twelve?"

  I chuckled and took another bite. "You’re so predictable."

  She rolled her eyes and pulled open one long vertical door. "We need to talk about a few things."

  "Oh?"

  "Amy Mathews has some new opportunities."

  I finished my cereal, trying to postpone the inevitable. I suspected the new opportunities had to do with writing more vampires books, a topic I wanted to retire.

  Virginia searched around in the yawning crevasse of the open fridge. Wisps of frost curled around her body. “Are we out of milk?"

  "We ran out a few days ago. But I made s
ome almond milk. It’s super easy. I put it in a jar, top shelf."

  Virginia withdrew the bottle and looked at it dubiously. "It's green."

  "Yeah, it goes bad really quickly. The surprising side effect of food without preservatives."

  She looked at me, disgusted. "You're not actually eating that, are you?"

  "No!" Yes. We eat moldy cheese. Why not moldy milk made of healthful almonds? Couldn't possibly be deadly. Besides . . . besides. We both knew a trip to the grocery store was impossible for me.

  "Have you even left the house since I left?" she asked.

  No comment.

  She put back the offending item. "Genie," she said, folding her arms. "You're getting worse."

  I couldn't help it. Even my pills weren't working all that well anymore.

  "You need to at least try and go out in public every once in a while," I heard Virginia saying.

  That was easy for her to say. We’d lost mom. Then we’d gained the stalker. And she'd managed to somehow tuck both terrible ordeals away in some dusty corner of her mind.

  I stood up quickly, both offended and defensive, depositing my bowl in the sink with a loud clatter. "Thanks for the advice, pigeonhole person. "

  "Okay, sorry. Sorry I said anything." She sighed. "Just make a list. I’ll go to the store this afternoon."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Virginia plumped down next to me on the sofa, eating a pint of Chocoholic ice cream. "God I missed you," she said to the frosty lump settled on her spoon.

  I looked her permanently overflowing midsection, her "muffin top," which she took great pains to complain about but never actually did anything about, and said nothing.

  "So what are these new developments?" I asked instead. "Amy's inquiring mind wants to know."

  "So, overall the trip was really amazing. Miz Mathews is really taking the world by storm. Well, the 'young adult' world by storm, I should say. All the teeny-boppers and tweenies just love Rhenn Larson. Swoon! Even though he's a vampire that eats blood for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Ew. Why people think that's sexy, I'll never understand. Anyway, check this out: the signing was incredible. The bookstore people weren't prepared for the numbers and they had to take out the self-help section to make room for me . . . well, Amy. But, anyway, you should have seen the banners. So amazing. And there was a mountain of books that I had to sign."

  She ate another bite of ice cream.

  "I had to take a break because my hand started to cramp up." She waved the empty spoon in the air. "Then we actually did run out of books and I had to sign boilerplates. Who would have thought a story about a stupid vampire boy would have caused this much excitement?"

  "Maybe because he's not a stupid vampire boy," I said.

  "Whatever," Virginia said, scraping up another spoonful of chunky chocolate ice cream. "Anyway, so then I met with the marketing team. They think we should turn this into a series or maybe even ongoing bookisodes."

  "Bookisodes? As in . . . many books?"

  Virginia nodded excitedly. "They think the momentum can only grow from here and everyone is really excited to keep going."

  "Oh."

  Ever since After The End had climbed higher and higher on the charts, I knew Virginia and David would be after to me to replicate its success. But the trouble was, I really didn't want to spend more time writing about drinking blood and tearing flesh.

  It was a euphemism for my own dark soul, buried under my paralytic social phobias, buried under the heavy grief of losing Mom. I wanted to get out of the house. I wanted to cast off my own fears and live life. I wanted to buy my own groceries.

  Virginia stuck her spoon in the carton and set it down. "Oh?" she asked, scowling.

  "It's just that I hadn't really planned on writing a sequel. To me, the story is done. As in told. Roger that. Over and out."

  Virginia scoffed and leaned back, playing with her adulterated locks of hair. "Well, tell some more. You know, write about how Rhenn Larson finds out that Madeline is secretly in love with some . . . thing . . . else. Like a werewolf or something."

  "My vampires don't fall in love with werewolves, Jinny."

  "Why not? It's just a story. Anything is possible."

  "It’s my story. And I'm telling you—it's done."

  "Then undo it." She got up and bussed her ice cream carton to the kitchen.

  The east facing windows of the combined living-dining room let in the morning light. Today, it was absolutely blinding. I got up, pulled the diaphanous curtain closed, and followed her into the kitchen.

  "It's not like that, Jinny. I'm not a machine, whereby you need just insert in a new idea and after a few months of finger work, I spit out a bestseller."

  She looked at me with a blank, impatient, and totally uncomprehending stare.

  "Writing is about exploring," I continued. "It's about discovering things. It's about working through the minutiae of life and trying to make sense of it all. I think that's why After The End was so popular. It resonates with so many people because we’re all just trying to figure it out."

  Virginia stared at me.

  I sighed. "Writing is magic, Jinny. It's not a formula."

  This—she understood. "Yes, it is. It's exactly a formula!"

  And thus began yet another exasperated conversation about plot layers, beats, character arcs, and subplots. "Why do you think so many movies are remakes of the same old thing?" she continued. "Because they sell, Genie. People buy tickets. And it's the same thing with books. People want to read stuff that they've already read before, but in a slightly different way. They want to read stuff that's familiar."

  "That may be, but I want to write about something different. And why not? If you're so worried about money, consider outliers that have gone on to garner big bucks. Ken Follet came out with Pillars of the Earth, much to the dismay of his publisher, but it’s a huge success. A Thousand Years of Solitude?"

  "But those are the exceptions," she said. "Not the rule."

  "Real writing should never be about following the rules. Novelists have a rich history of bucking the norm, questioning, and exploring. That is the purpose of writing."

  "Then why don't you buck the norm in your spare time? In the meantime, we have bills to pay." She held up the grocery list and rattled it for added effect. "Groceries to buy?"

  I shrugged. "We have more money than we ever dreamed of. If we just spend wisely—"

  Virginia came at me with renewed vigor. Her freckles seemed overly bright, contrasting with the rising color in her face. "What if I came to you and said you can go out and do all the book signings? What if I told you to hop on a plane, meet with the publisher, and negotiate better terms for us? Why don't you attend cocktail dinners and press the flesh? Put on your most dazzling smile and say something witty?"

  The very thought made my stomach queasy.

  Her expression softened. ”If you turn your back on Amy, you turn your back on me. Is that what you really want? To shut me out?"

  "No," I mumbled.

  "Genie, we’re a team. Remember?"

  I looked down at my hands, nails bitten back into stubs. A ring encircled the third finger on my right hand. It was a thin gold band with a little cloudy ruby in the center that Mom had given to me a week before she passed away.

  Cancer. The big "C." Mom’s diagnosis came right after I finished the first draft of After The End. We were all in collective denial. People recover from cancer. People beat it. Mom would, too.

  I’d started working on the second draft, wondering how I’d shape that mess into a good story. I kept working, but couldn’t really find my footing. The story seemed smaller in scope than I had originally planned and lacked any real depth. I was starting to worry that I’d never find the story, when my mom’s doctor called with her latest test results. The "C" word had turned into "M" word: metastasized.

  Virginia took my hand, covering Mom’s ring with her freckled hand. Tears pooled in my eyes, doubling our two hands turn into four. "That
's what Mom would want," she said quietly. "To keep the team together."

  Fear and grief had pushed me through to After The End. Mom helped me the entire way. She said all it needed was a little teamwork. I could hear Mom’s dying words now. Promise me . . . promise, you’ll keep the team together . . .

  "All right," I capitulated. "All right.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It wasn't any great wonder that I'd turned to books, reading them and writing them. Between the pages of a book lived any number of adventures that carried me far away from my grinding reality.

  Mom, Virginia, and I had become The Three Musketeers after the divorce, while dad went off and started a new family. He left us with Mom, a stay-at-home mother, who quickly found work as a waitress and enrolled in evening classes at the local vocational school. She wanted to train to be nurse so she could earn a good salary, so she could provide stable housing for her girls.

  In the meantime, she’d tried to keep things fun for us. On chilly nights with the little wall heater blowing full blast in our latest rental, she'd read Daniel Dafoe's masterpiece, transporting us into a glittering, dangerous world filled with dashing heroes and breathtaking swordplay.

  Powered by our own imaginations, she showed us that magic lives in books, and that words have the power to transport us to far away worlds. Froggy, our green Pinto, and a cache of books checked out from the local library carried us anywhere we wanted to go, anytime we wanted to go there.

  Together with Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, we struggled up the bleak, blasting face of Mount Everest. We flew to the moon with Buzz Aldrin and explored the deep craters of its lunar face. In the summer months, we lay on Froggy’s hood and looked up into the dark night sky, imagining distant galaxies that gazed down at us from some unfathomable distance.

  We hopped aboard the Enterprise and zoomed to outer space—Beam me up, Scotty!—where we’d meet aliens and humanoids, all of whom shared our same hopes and dreams. We fell in love with Heathcliff, felt the wrath of Scarlett O'Hara, had our backs flayed and won our freedom with Frederick Douglass, and we read about people long since dead, brought magically back to the life by the undying spell of words.