Seventeen-year-old Frances is obsessed with paranormal romance novels. Wherever she goes, the latest copy of any one of her many favourite series is being kept within arm's reach, whether it's Charlaine Harris, Stephenie Meyer, or Frances' most beloved Dante Chronicles by the ever elusive Peta Bridget Margot. She wants a whirlwind romance of her own, her own vegetarian vampire to sweep her off her feet with his peircing gaze and washboard abs, to save her from the creatures of the night that lurk in her window and dream of tearing her throat out with their teeth. So when a secret admirer starts leaving notes in her locker at school, Frances is certain that the last days of her highschool career are bound to be filled with that four-letter "L" word.
There's one thing Frances has forgotten, though - and that is that a boy who's been stuck at seventeen for the last twenty years can't at all be totally right in the head. Not when he's been spending his days off at death scenes all over the city. In real life the things that go bump in the night don't really make the best romantic interests, it seems. Not, at least, unless one were to define romance as "getting dead".