The Uninvited

by Nancy Banks

Genres: Young Adult; YA Paranormal

Synopsis

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.

Release date: December 16, 2025

Publisher: Delacorte Press

Print pages: 288

Sample

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 would have pretended that I was leaving if he’d been alone, but the gap-toothed six-year-old smiling tentatively at me made me decide it was safe to ask him for help. I tried frantically to remember the words for “door” and “It doesn’t work.” I didn’t even know what you’d call the code box in English, let alone French. In the end I failed to say anything at all.

“Je peux vous aider?” he asked, and through the fog of exhaustion and frustration and anxiety, I realized he’d asked if he could help me.

I took a deep breath and gestured at the code box. “It’s broken,” I said. I’d meant to say it in French; I did remember the word for “broken.” But I opened my mouth and English came out, which was humiliating. I was still crying, too. I felt like such a loser.

“You speak English?” he said in a very friendly sounding American accent. I nodded.

“Hi!” the little girl said. “Don’t cry. We’ll help you.”

I gave her a weak smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re American?” Nick asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Us too,” Sophie said. “You look like Princess Merida.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling bigger. “I love her.”

“Me too!” Sophie said, bouncing in excitement.

Nick noticed my suitcase and backpack sitting on the sidewalk. “Did you just get in?”

“Nick!” Sophie pulled on his arm. “Help her open the door.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.” He smiled at me, and I noticed his eyes were chestnut brown with glints of amber in their depths. He punched in some numbers. The door buzzed, the latch released, and Nick took my suitcase in one hand, opened the door with the other, and said, “After you.”

“The code is three-six-one-nine,” Sophie informed me as she led us across the lobby to the second security door.

“Oh, that explains it,” I said. “My dad added a zero when he texted the codes. Big thumbs. Thanks for helping me.”

“You’re welcome. This one is two-two-two-three,” she said, reaching up to punch in the code. Nick held the door open again. We walked through, and she pressed the elevator call button. Then she took my hand, and I felt a burden lift. I already knew two people in Paris. I wasn’t alone.

“What floor?” Nick said when we were on the elevator.

“I’m on four,” I said. “Four-oh-one.”

He smiled at me. “Five-seventeen. I’m Nick, by the way. And this is my sister, Sophie.”

I smiled back. “I’m Tosh.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Sophie asked.

I shook my head. “It’s just me and my dad.”

“Don’t you have a mom?” she said.

“That’s kind of personal, Soph,” Nick said.

“It’s okay.” I smiled at her so she’d know I wasn’t mad. “She had cancer. She died when I was six.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Nick said. He looked uncomfortable.

Sophie’s eyes were wide. “Six is how old I am.”

“It was a long time ago. I still miss her, but she’s always in my heart.” I squeezed Sophie’s hand, and she squeezed back. The elevator doors opened. Nick took my suitcase for me because Sophie hadn’t let go of my hand.

“You should come meet our mom,” she said. “If you get lonely. She’s really nice.”

“I’d like to do that. Thanks for helping me get in.”

“You’re welcome.”

Nick smiled at me. “Remember,” he said, “we’re in five-seventeen if you have any more problems with locks.”

The strangest things can change your life. If Dad hadn’t been in a hurry when he sent me the codes, I might not have met Nick. If I hadn’t met Nick, I wouldn’t have seen the Paris that lives underground. I wouldn’t have climbed the Eiffel Tower and seen it sparkle in the twilight. I wouldn’t have fallen in love. I wouldn’t have killed somebody.

Chapter 2

Twelve Weeks Ago

Nick and Sophie rang our buzzer the next morning while I was scavenging a break-fast of jam and a leftover baguette. I’d thought I’d be by myself for the two days until Dad got back, but our new housekeeper had shown up half an hour after my adventure with the code box, just when Dad had asked her to. If I hadn’t been so jet-lagged, I’d have remembered that my flight had arrived early and not panicked about her not being there.

“Hi!” Sophie said when I opened the door. Nick grinned and waved. In the fog of yesterday, all I’d really noticed about him were his eyes, his skill with a code box, and his friendliness. Now I took in his height—almost a foot above my five feet and three inches—his adorably messy dark hair, and the warm smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. And then I remembered what I was wearing. Dad went to U of Oregon—go Ducks!—and I have a large and embarrassing collection of duck-themed clothing.

“Hi,” I said, hiding as much of my yellow-and-green T-shirt as I could behind the door and trying to keep my mouth closed because I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet.

“Mom said we could invite you and your dad over for dinner. Can you come to-night?” Like Nick, Sophie was dark-haired and brown-eyed, but her hair was straight, cut in a chin-length bob, and pushed back with a yellow-and-black polka-dot headband that matched her capris.

I smiled at her enthusiasm. “My dad doesn’t get here till tomorrow. Can I tell you what day would work for us when he gets home?”

She made a “tchu” sound. “Just text him, silly, and you can tell us now.”

“That’s rude,” Nick told her. She frowned at him.

“I don’t have a French SIM card for my phone yet or I would,” I said.

“We can help you get one. Right, Nick?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Wow, that’d be excellent,” I said. “I can’t do anything without my phone. I’m about to lose my mind.”

“Okay, but we have to go to school now.” Sophie took Nick’s hand and pulled him toward the elevator.

“Hang on,” Nick told her, turning back to me.

“You have school?” I stepped out from behind the door. Sophie giggled.

Nick gave me a smile and an eye roll. “The French believe in the maximum-torture method of education. We’ve got three more weeks.”

“Ouch.”

“We can help you after school,” Sophie said. She leaned close to me and stage-whispered, “Do you have a shirt that doesn’t have ducks on it that you can wear?”

“Sophie,” Nick said. “That’s rude.”

I laughed. “It’s okay. This is just for at home. I would never go out into Paris look-ing like this. There’s probably a law against it.”

One corner of Nick’s mouth quirked upward. “Decree number 177 of 22 April 1693. It is forbidden upon pain of death to go forth into the streets, avenues, boulevards, passages, alleys, byways, or other ways paved or unpaved wearing clothing upon which humorous waterfowl are emblazoned.”