Vannie - A Swann Series Prequel: A Contemporary Young Adult Science Fiction/Urban Fantasy Series

by Schow, Ryan

  Vannie

  A SWANN Series Prequel

  Ryan Schow

  The eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy so that you may read it with a clear conscience and not one day end up in hell over a shitty technicality. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  VANNIE

  Copyright © 2017, 2016 Ryan Schow. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, cloned, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form, or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this eBook via the Internet or via any other means without the express written permission of the author or publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents—and their usage for storytelling purposes—are crafted for the singular purpose of fictional entertainment and no absolute truths shall be derived from the information contained within. Locales, businesses, events, government institutions and private institutions are used for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes only. Furthermore, any resemblance or reference to an actual living person is used solely for atmospheric, entertainment and fictional purposes.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Design by Milo at Deranged Doctor Design

  Visit the Author’s Website:

  www.RyanSchow.com

  See Note To Reader at the end of this book for an important message from the author, as well as a quick look at what the next book in the series holds.

  Other Works of Fiction by This Author

  From the Swann Series Novels (In Order)

  VANNIE (PREQUEL)

  SWANN

  MONARCH

  CLONE

  MASOCHIST

  WEAPON

  RAVEN

  ABOMINATION

  ENIGMA

  Table of Contents

  Sexy Bitch

  There is No Better Me

  Twisted Pigeon

  The Spilling of the Guts

  Triple Caramel Chunk

  Angel With Forgotten Wings

  Your Voice Matters!

  Note from the Author

  FREE Preview of SWANN

  Join my New Releases Group

  About the Author – Ryan Schow

  Sexy Bitch

  1

  The green and white cab pulled to a stop in front of the Audi dealership on South Van Ness. It was mid-morning, cool outside but not crisp or foggy like San Francisco could sometimes be this time of year. The passenger handed the driver a fifty, smiled and told him to keep the change. She then strolled inside the dealership where she was met by a nice looking salesman in a pinstripe Armani suit.

  “Welcome to Audi,” the salesman said, looking the girl over in a quick breathless glance. Momentarily caught off guard by her looks, he swallowed hard and said, “Can I help you? With a car or something?”

  The girl who looked like she wasn’t a day over twenty carried herself more like a woman than a girl. She wore a body-snug black dress made of t-shirt material with a three quarter length arm, the hem just above the knee and the black Michael Kors ankle books with the four inch stilettos. She was a girl on the verge of looking like a sophisticated woman.

  “I’m here to see you,” the girl said, her voice whimsical—almost like a song—her head tilting ever so slightly in a look that had the salesman’s heart skipping gears.

  He’d spent his entire career around pretty women, powerful women, sexy women, but this girl…she was something different.

  Something unique.

  “Okay then,” he said, working to suppress the thrill charging through him at the mere sight of her, “how can I help you?”

  “I’m here on behalf of my employer, a dreadfully successful woman who can’t seem to dodge the limelight, until it comes to buying a car. That’s where I come in. I’m her checkbook, her decision maker, her overpaid errand girl.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “Is your boss an Audi owner now?”

  The girl appeased him, genially, smiling but unblinking. What the salesman mistook for eye-contact was something else entirely. Her gaze was a weight upon him he felt but wasn’t sure was real.

  Unbeknownst to him, the girl’s powerful mind was sifting through the spongy folds of his brain, fingering past the information stored inside, searching his memory banks for common ground, or at least that one perfect way to do what she was about to do, which was steal a car.

  “My client owns the R8,” she said, her voice velvet edged and refined, “but she’s having a hard time getting in and out of if lately.”

  “The R8 is a sports car.”

  “My employer used to be hot and fit and very single. Now she’s rich and married and she’s got a fat ass and lower back problems from her fake, oversized tits. Watching her collapse herself enough to wedge her way into her sports car, it’s like her boobs and her belly can’t stop fighting against each other.”

  She said this like there weren’t more important things to fret over in the world, like crooked politicians, weaponized mosquitos, wet leprosy or disenfranchised celebrities with eating disorders, drug problems and the sudden appearance of cellulite on their thighs or butts or wherever.

  “Rich people problems,” the salesman joked, a slight smirk on his face.

  “That’s for sure,” the girl answered with a polite laugh, not telling him she was wildly rich herself. “Listen, I need to choose a car and get on the road as soon as possible. She’s lunching with Danielle today, so she’s wanting to get this done before noon.”

  He swallowed hard, past some gigantic lump in his throat.

  “Danielle Steele?” he asked.

  “Is there another Danielle?” she said, as if…

  “I guess not,” he said.

  What she wasn’t telling him was there was no employer, no Danielle Steele, no car to buy. There never was. The brunette with big chocolate brown eyes and shiny hair pulled into a pony-tail, she was no one’s employee, no one’s errand girl.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  “So I think you should show me the silver S5 out front,” she told him.

  Even though her sparkling eyes were on him and she could engage in easy, effortless conversation, even though to him she looked perfectly present, her psychic feelers were burrowing deep inside his brain. They were sifting through old thoughts and memories. Touching upon current thoughts and impressions. Silently, diligently, she worked her way through the details of his past and present, finding that which felt most critical: his most recent list of clients.

  “Have you ever driven the S5?” he asked.

  “No,” she lied.

  “You’ll like it,” he told her. “Follow me.” She fell into step behind him. “In case you don’t know,” he said over his shoulder, “the S5 is a V8 and it sounds the way you’d expect a car to sound when it s
teps on the dicks of every other car around. Plus it’s fast.”

  The girl found his bold claim delightfully inappropriate. She graced him with a smile and a polite laugh in return. To him, she looked to be ten years his junior. What he didn’t know, though—what he couldn’t know—was she was older than him by nearly one hundred years.

  The salesman held the door as they walked out onto the lot. She breezed past him, the scent of her perfume light and delicate and lingering in the air around her.

  Out front, facing the street and parked among the other Audi’s on display, the salesman showed her the silver S5.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, “I forgot to introduce myself…”

  “Templeton Whatley,” she replied. “Although your friends call you ‘Fancy T’ on account of your impeccable taste in both clothing and wine.”

  “Yes,” he said, charmed by the idea that she already knew of him. “And you are?”

  “Anxious to take this beast out for a spin.”

  The sports coupe was buffed and polished to a high shine, the metallic silver paint shimmering hypnotic against the late morning sun’s reflection. To say the car was dripping with European elegance was an understatement. The Audi S5 was sexy AF and ballsy, the exact car you’d drive if you were an independent woman with all the money in the world and only yourself to impress.

  “I think she’ll like this one,” the girl said as she opened the door and slid gracefully inside.

  “Sounds like your employer has good taste.”

  Shading her eyes against the sun, the girl looked up at him and said, “Templeton, darling, you don’t know a thing about her. What you need to know is this is my choice for her, so you should be telling me that I have good taste.”

  Her candor caught him by surprise. He opened his mouth to stumble over his words, but she saved him from sounding meek.

  “At this point,” she interrupted, her voice purely seductive, a generous smile appearing on her face, “you should be getting me the key, shouldn’t you?”

  Looking sheepish, he relented. “I’ll need a copy of your license and insurance.”

  From her clutch, she withdrew the documents and handed them over. He took them and went inside. Her smile fell away. It dropped off her face like deadweight. She checked her watch, closed her eyes, telepathically reached further out—beyond the city—for the child and her overbearing mother.

  They were miles away, in Palo Alto. They were getting ready to leave the house for the child’s appointment. The mother was pressing her daughter to hurry up, but the daughter was making things difficult for her mother, which she did often and took great pleasure in.

  Templeton emerged from the building and said, “I think they made an error on your insurance. It says it’s good from June 2017 to June 2018. But that’s like three years away.”

  “You never asked how I knew you,” she said, taking her license and insurance back. “Why I came to see you specifically.”

  “Curiosity has been getting the best of me,” he admitted.

  “You sold a Phantom Black S8 to a man named Bill Ridley a few months ago. He’s my father.”

  The way the lies fell off her tongue so effortlessly, it was an art form she’d perfected decades ago. An art form she appreciated immensely. Even to this day. Of course it helped that she’d been in his head, in his thoughts, digging around.

  It helped that she had “inside information.”

  Nodding, he said, “Oh yeah, Bill…that makes sense.” She smiled, then he smiled, and then he said, “Do you feel comfortable maneuvering the car out of there? Our lot’s a bit crowded.”

  She put on her seatbelt, looked up and said, “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” She held out her hand and said, “Key?”

  Looking uncertain, suspecting something, he moved to hand her the key, then paused, like he shouldn’t.

  “Maybe I should move it for you, just in case.”

  “I’m not some damsel in distress,” she teased. “I know how to drive.” She gave a little snap to her finger and reluctantly he handed her the key.

  “Scoot back, give me room,” she said, shooing him backwards. “Then jump in, I have an unforgiving schedule and right now you’re making me late.”

  She shut the door then started the car which roared to life with a hearty, orgasmic hum. She dropped the tranny in reverse and eased out of the spot, not bumping the cars on either side of her, although it was indeed tight quarters. Templeton walked around the other side to get in, but when he reached for the handle, he found it locked.

  She cracked the passenger window a couple of inches and said, “I’ll bring it back in one piece. Like I said, my employer values her anonymity.”

  “I’ll have to go with you though,” he said, losing the confident, almost cocky demeanor guys like Fancy T needed when selling high end metal. He quickly added: “For insurance purposes, of course.”

  “My father took my mother to lunch in the S8 and you didn’t go with them. Like you won’t be going with me. Don’t worry though, I’m a responsible driver. And I’m insured.”

  At that point, the way she was thinking, it was Plan A or Plan B. Plan A was him letting her go; Plan B was her taking more forceful measures, and then going.

  Either plan, the car was hers now.

  Suspicion streaking across his face, Templeton stood back and reached for his cell phone.

  Okay, she thought, looks like it’s going to be Plan A and a half.

  With a single, focused thought, she fried the phone’s inner circuitry so he couldn’t call anyone. Not his boss, not the police, not his demandy girlfriend. Fancy T looked at his iPhone funny when it wouldn’t turn on, then he glanced up at her, perplexed.

  “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said. “If my employer approves, I’ll return with a cashier’s check, and if not I’ll be back with a case of Dow’s Vintage Port for your time and trouble.”

  His breath caught at the mention of the wine, and he forgot about his misbehaving phone and how he feared she might be trying to hustle him.

  “What year?” he asked, his right hand suddenly trembling, his heart losing rhythm for a few restless beats. Before anything, he considered himself a wine connoisseur. And the Dow’s Vintage Port? He’d just about kill for a bottle right now, much less an entire case.

  “I’d bring you a case of the twenty-eleven’s.”

  He gasped ever so slightly.

  “For real? This isn’t a joke?”

  “It’s the best red 2014 has to offer, is it not?”

  “At eighty dollars a bottle, it is.”

  “My employer is worth nearly a billion dollars, Templeton. Money is something she throws around to remind people of their place in her life.”

  “Which is?”

  “Under her nose,” she said. “Or under her foot if she thinks you’re shit.”

  Giving a little wave and a disarming grin, she slid the car in sport mode and drove off, leaving him standing by himself in her rear view mirror. In the passenger side window, the dealer’s MSRP was a long piece of paper obstructing her view. One hand on the wheel and one on the gear shift, she used her mind—her enhanced telekinetic powers—to separate the paper from the factory glue holding it to the window. The paper slowly peeled away, giving her perfect visibility as she navigated through San Francisco, a bustling city with which she had a rich history.

  Her head was a tangle of memories. There was betrayal, former friends, loved ones gone, and a trail of death she fought to keep out of her immediate thoughts. Then there was the one memory she didn’t want. The memory of an insatiable beast of a man who took something precious from her best friend. It happened just a few miles from there. He was hell incarnate. An immortal stain who slayed dozens of innocent people just to prove a point.

  To hell with him.

  She fought to push the horrors from her head since technically they hadn’t happened yet. Not now. Not in this timeline.

  She turned on the radi
o, found a hard rock station, spun the volume knob. Metallica was cranking out a loud, wicked set, which sounded righteous through the Bang and Olufsen sound system. Grinning, immersed in the relentless grind of the bass guitar, she buried the accelerator and the big V8 roared.

  This perfect looking girl with the killer body and the seductive looks of a goddess, she’d slipped into this timeline for one reason and one reason only: to see the girl.

  Savannah Van Duyn.

  Oh how she marveled at this child! She tempered her smile, but not on purpose. It just happened. A frown fought the smile and sort of held her in the uncomfortable in-between. She was a mix of delight and concern, and suddenly nervous.

  How would she feel when she laid eyes on the girl? Would she be able to look in her eyes and see it—the planet’s future, the fate of the world?

  Billions died.

  Billions more might die.

  When the girl in the Audi thought of the child, of Savannah, of who she was and who she would become, she shook with an involuntary shiver. The truth was impossible to ignore. One day the child would either change the world, or she would completely destroy it.

  At this point, the odds of a scorched earth scenario were pretty much fifty/fifty. Well, she thought, maybe not that good.

  It was more like seventy/thirty, but with the odds leaning the wrong way.

  There is No Better Me

  1

  The thing about a Bentley is, for a car, it costs a gosh damn fortune when you’re talking about something you use to get from point A to point B. I mean honestly. And my mother? She’s massively overpriced as well. To say she’s ostentatious is the understatement of the century. I swear, she’s always getting on me for every little thing having to do with my extra weight and my unfortunate looks. Sometimes I get down on my knees before God and pray my father will trade her in for a newer model. A better, more nurturing model. She’s the reason I’m now in my teens and on prescription drugs. The reason I’m going…well, where I’m going. To the head doctor. The shrink. Again.