The Uninvited - Hardcover

Banks, Nancy

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593900294 ISBN 13: 9780593900291

Verlag: Delacorte Press, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

A YA paranormal fantasy about vampires in the Paris underground, where a young woman's bohemian dream turns into a chilling nightmare. Now her survival hinges on bringing to light the city's darkest and deepest secrets.

When 17-year-old Tosh Reeves moves from Portland, Oregon to Paris, it’s a dream come to life. The city embraces her with its street-life, iconic architecture, and infinite gustatory delights. There’s even a charming expat boy, Nick, who introduces her to sights tourists never see.

From medieval catacombs to the viciously competitive street art scene, Tosh’s immersion in Paris makes her feel wholly alive in a way she’s never before experienced. She belongs.

But when a series of brutal vampiric attacks creeps closer to her new circle of bohemian friends, Tosh will confront the darker side of her beloved Paris, and learn how deeply monsters can strike at a young woman’s power and heart.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Nancy Banks has washed buses, worked as a graphic designer and art director, and co-owned a bookstore. She lived in France for several years and still regrets that she never finished her Epic Pastry Quest. Currently, she lives in Denver with her husband and dog.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1

Twelve Weeks Ago

Three days before we were supposed to move to Paris, Dad’s company had a major supply-chain disaster, and he had to fly to London to meet with a new supplier to make sure its waterproof fabric was up to Great Outdoors’ specs. It was kind of ironic. He’d started working for GO part-time in college because one of the perks was a discount on hiking boots, and now he spent half his time flying to places where a hike meant walking to the subway station.

“I can’t believe this,” he said, scheduling his Uber. “You know I’d send someone else out to deal with it if I could, right?”

“It’s okay, Dad. I know how airports work.” I’d flown to meet him for long week-ends when he’d had business in fun cities—Barcelona, London, Prague, Ljubljana.

“I know, but I was looking forward to starting this adventure together.”

“Me too. But I’ll be fine.”

“Nina”—our Portland housekeeper—“will take you to the airport, and I’ve scheduled a car in Paris to pick you up. Our new housekeeper, Madame Dupuy, will be at the apartment when you arrive, so you’ll be fine.” He sighed. “But I didn’t want you to do this by yourself.”

I smiled at him. “I’m really okay.”

He gave me a quick hug. “I hate that my work means I have to leave you like this.”

I hugged him back. “On the other hand, your work means we get to live in Paris.”

On the flight to Chicago, I had a row all to myself, and I hoped I’d have the same kind of luck on the Paris leg. But not long after I settled into my new seat, texting Dad that I was on the right flight and that it was on time, a guy in a business suit put his laptop down onto the seat next to me. I sighed. Business Guy shucked off his jacket and looked around for a flight attendant to hang it up for him. I went cold. He was wearing the same blue-and-gold-striped tie my debate partner, Cole, wore to meets. That stupid lucky tie. Business Guy handed off his jacket, then did the tie-flapping thing that guys do—why? What is the purpose of it?—and all I could see was Cole, smoothing his tie before a round, almost petting it, attributing every win of the season to its magical lucky powers instead of my research skill. I tried to re-assure myself that hundreds, maybe thousands, of people wore that tie. It was probably the third-most-common tie in all of menswear, and of course I’d see it. It didn’t disappear from the world just because I was putting a whole country and an ocean between me and Cole. I was stupid to let it make me miserable. But I felt the way I felt.

I fumbled my earbuds into my ears, hoping Business Guy would ignore me. I’d been looking forward to getting some sleep on this flight. The past few weeks had been exhausting—finals, packing, saying goodbye to Lily and Mina. But I wasn’t fall-ing asleep next to someone wearing that tie. I concentrated on my phone’s screen, stress-watching Buffy kick vampire butt until Business Guy closed his laptop, put his seat back, and went to sleep. Then I turned around in my seat with my legs all tucked up so I could keep an eye on him.

By the time we landed in Paris, half an hour before our scheduled arrival, I’d been awake for twenty hours straight. My body said it should have been the middle of the night, but the morning sun glowed confusingly through every window. The floor bobbed under me as I walked through customs, and my eyes slipped in and out of focus. People zoomed their luggage-laden trolleys by, buffeting me as they passed. Signs morphed as I tried to decipher them, so that Contrôle de Passeports became Controversial Parrots and Arrivees turned into Archrivals. And it was so loud. The PA system kept up a nonstop “bargle bargle bargle” of important unin-telligible announcements, while people meeting passengers called out names, lit-tle kids collapsed onto the floor and screamed, and strained-looking travelers scouted for restrooms.

I finally made it to the “archrivals” area. Just like Dad had promised, a bunch of dark-suited car-service guys stood there, holding up signs with people’s last names on them. I found my driver and followed him to the car. He put my bag into the trunk and held the door open for me, then waited calmly while I fumbled with my phone so I could tell him the address. I really, really needed coffee, but I didn’t know if I could ask him to pull off the autoroute at the nearest Starbucks. I didn’t know if there was a nearest Starbucks, or what the French equivalent was.

After almost an hour on the autoroute, we exited into Paris; dodged through an enormous, chaotic roundabout; and finally turned into a narrow street lined with straight-edged, modern-looking apartment buildings and crammed with parked cars. Dad and I’d traded postcard-Paris architecture for a light-drenched apartment in a plain, six-story box in a redeveloped area three blocks from the Eiffel Tower. We chose it for the large park in the center of the block, an almost un-heard-of amenity in the city. The view on Google Maps showed a long rectangle of green--the park—which took up almost half the area. Surrounding it like walls surrounding a medieval city were four apartment buildings. Six openings between the buildings gave you street access on all sides from the interior while maintaining the peaceful feel of a sanctuary.

The driver got my bags out of his trunk, wished me good day, and drove off. I looked around, blinking hard, because the street kept going out of focus. I wanted to lie down right there on the sidewalk and go to sleep. Instead, I pulled my phone out and found the text Dad had sent with our address, the apartment number, the two security codes I’d need to get into the building, and Madame Dupuy’s cell number. I’d never lived in an apartment before, so I wasn’t sure how to work the codes. My head felt like eighty pounds of wet cardboard, and things were blurring at the edges. But I found the code box, so yay me. I punched in the first code. Noth-ing. I punched it in again. Nope. I squinted at the keypad until the numbers were in focus and then punched them in, slowly, consulting my phone for each one. Noth-ing happened again.

There was a button on the box marked Guardian, so I pressed that, thinking some-body would come. Somebody didn’t. I tried the second code. Dad could have gotten them reversed, right? But that didn’t work, either. I didn’t have a French SIM card for my phone yet, so I couldn’t call our new housekeeper or Dad, and he wouldn’t be back for three more days in any case. Madame Dupuy should have already been there, but when I pressed the buzzer for our apartment, nobody answered. I didn’t know anyone in Paris. I had an emergency credit card, but I didn’t know where to find a hotel. I told myself I didn’t need to cry yet; maybe Dad had just typed the numbers in backward. I punched in a different combination. It didn’t work. Tears filled my eyes and slid down my face.

“It’s fine,” I muttered to myself, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I’d just failed again with the codes when Nick walked up with his little sister, Sophie. I didn’t know he was Nick then, of course. He was just a random boy with a cute lit-tle sister.

She pointed at me and said something in French that I didn’t understand.

“Mademoiselle?” Nick said.

Oh, God, I thought. I’m going to have to talk to an actual French person, and I can barely remember how to speak English. I...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Delacorte Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593900294
• ISBN 13: 9780593900291
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 288
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: preigu GmbH & Co. KG; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; Niedersachsen; 49078; Deutschland