Page 6 of Bookworm and the Beast
It was Halloween every day, but instead of kids dressed as superheroes and ghouls, the people gathered at the tall, iron gates to my Eastport Bay estate were all adults, and the fantastical costumes they wore represented characters from my seven-book Onyx Throne series.
Well, it wassupposedto be seven books, and would be… eventually.
When they noticed my approach, the assembled fans began moving about excitedly. I lowered my car window, planning to give them a wave and say a few words of thanks.
But then several of them picked up handmade signs from the ground, holding them high so the words were clearly visible.
I love you Jack R. R. Bestia!one read.That was nice.
The next was a bit less adoring and more demanding.
Where’s Book 7? Come on Bestia—the Best is still to come. Your fans are waiting.
Another was downright desperate.
Pleeeease Give Us An Ending!
My heart sank. The car window went back up, and my thumb jammed against the button to open the security gates. As they swung inward, the guard stepped out of the gatehouse to keep the “Thronies” from flooding inside.
I tugged my ball cap lower over my face and drove ahead, not making eye contact with any of them.
Franklin nodded to me before moving to disperse the crowd in a bored tone.
“Okay folks, show’s over. I know Mr. Bestia appreciates your enthusiasm for his books. Thanks for coming out, but you gotta keep the driveway clear. This is private property.”
I gunned the engine, driving toward the house, my belly roiling with an unpleasant mixture of irritation and shame.
I shouldn’t let it get to me.
How many times had I saidthatto myself? I’d be nowhere without my readers, and I knew it. Back when I was a new writer, I had dreamed of a reception like that.
The first time I’d seen people dressed like my characters, I’d been thrilled—of course I had.
It had been surreal, the thought that someone—anyone—would appreciate what I’d written so much. It had only been five or six years since that day, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Everything had changed and not necessarily for the better.
Unless you counted this estate. The Onyx series and its rabid fans—and the TV series based on the books—had funded every penny of the seventeen million dollars it had cost me to acquire the mansion and the four acres of oceanfront property it sat on.
It was my sanctuary—or my Fortress of Solitude as I jokingly referred to it these days.
When I stepped into the entry hall, Mrs. Potts was struggling with an armload of boxes. The one on the bottom looked quite heavy, no doubt a gift from one of my readers— maybe an armored glove or hand-forged sword.
I rushed forward and took them from her. “Let me get that.”
“Thank you dear.”
Carrying the load of shipping boxes and letters to the library, I set them on a desk in the center of the room and turned to face my housekeeper-slash-assistant-slash-Jill of all trades.
Her plump cheeks were pink from exertion, but her green eyes were as sharp and merry as ever.
“You shouldn’t have lifted all those yourself,” I scolded her gently. “Let Harrison help you. Or Calvin. Or just save that stuff until I’m around. I don’t want you doing this kind of work.”
“I am the housekeeper,” she reminded me. “It’s my job. I may not be as young as I once was, but I’m not so decrepit I can’t check the mail—not quite yet anyway. Did you have a nice outing?”
I barked a laugh. “Outing? I went to the DMV, otherwise known as the Eighth layer of Hell. Every good Rhode Islander knows you only go there when you literally have no other choice. I would have hired a body double to go for me if I’d thought I could get away with it.”
My surly words did nothing to dampen her cheery demeanor. “Nevertheless, I’m glad to see you getting out of the house.”
“I get out of the house every day to walk on the beach.”
