Let's Talk
About Vamps
By Elizabeth
Morgan
Let's talk
Vampires and why I think we love them so much.
What is it
about these creatures of the night that excites us as readers?
Is it their
immortality and the idea that they are endless; that they can see how the world
changes? That they can experience everything the world will ever have to offer
them over time?
Is it the
fact that age does not touch them? That they will remain young and possibly
perfect forever?
Is it that
they are dangerous? That they are
killers and there is a part deep in all of us Vamp lovers that longs for their
redemption?
Is it their
kiss? Bloody, and deadly, yet said to
give a form of pleasure that no human could possibly imagine?
Is it their
allure? The fact that deep down we know they are dangerous, but we years for
such risks?
Is it that we find them romantic? They're mature and full of knowledge; the
fact they are from a different lifetime?
Vampires are
ageless, and I don't mean in the sense that they are the undead and frozen at a
particular age. There are myths
descending back further than the 14th Century which tell of creatures that prey
on the weak and thirst for blood. Every
culture in the world has its own brand of Vampires. Thousands-if not more- books have been
written on this particular species and a ton of films have been made.
No one,
despite the ever wavering interest in this particular being, will ever tire of
hearing about Vampires, but why?
What is it
that we love so much about them?
I have been
a fan of Vampires since I was a child.
That infatuation first began when i watched the movie Bram Stokers,
Dracula. Now, I can hold my hands up and
say that the big appeal was naturally the love story. I'm a sucker - forgive the pun - for
love. I'm a huge romantic, and the idea
of a man condemning god and turning himself into something so beastly, so evil,
simply because he wanted to be reunited with his soul mate...Well, be still my
heart. We have centuries of heartache
and turmoil and undying hope mixed in with that, and hot damn, it's magical.
When I was a
child, Vampires just seemed really cool; they were like the bad boys and girls,
rebels, dangerous, and otherworldly.
What kid didn't imagine possessing powers and getting away with all
sorts of kick ass things?
Naturally,
once I was older I began to see other sides of their appeal. They are flawless, sexual creatures.
Who doesn't love that? Who hasn't
at some point in their life liked the idea of being that appealing, or of
having someone that hot and mysterious pay them attention? I'm not afraid to say I have, and on many
occasions.
Then there
is power; they are strong, and fast, and they remain healthy. They are past death; something very appealing
for anyone who fears death, or for someone who feels they haven't had enough
time in this life. Vampires move with
the ages, they can watch the world climb and fall around them. They can be a part of history. Just think of all those experiences!
Lastly, and
probably the most appealing side to these beings, would be the fight for their
soul - whether or not you believe they
have one. As readers we all want to
believe that these dark and sometimes tortured creatures can be saved, and
naturally, we want the heroine/hero - heck sometimes we want to be in their place
- to do the saving. We want the vampire
to be redeemed, and to have hope, and love, and happiness. We want a happily ever after for these
bloodsuckers.
In my
opinion, Vampires - or rather the paranormal genre in general - is
limitless. Each person will have their
own idea of what a vampire is, how they should look, how they should act. In my Blood Series, my Vampires are the bad
guys and they look similar to the guy from Salem's lot. They have human features, but when they are
ready to feed or fight, their hair falls out, their jaws dislocate and their
fangs extend to a horrible length. You
really wouldn't want to bump into them.
Trust me.
No one's
view of Vampires is wrong. It is
interpretation and belief. It is what a
person's imagination creates. As I said
earlier, there is a variety of different type of Vampires, depending which
country they come from. Every writer
will create them differently, tell them differently; some have souls, and some
don't. Some look human, but with fangs
and others will shift forms. Some
Vampires sparkle and some are blue, bald and completely terrifying, but no
matter what form they come in or how handsome or scary they are, we love them.
I think the
reason for that is because they are an altered, magical, and limitless version
of ourselves. They are the
impossible. Humans "aren't"
supposed to survive after death; they "aren't" supposed to live
forever, and they "aren't" supposed to remain ageless. Vampires break the natural code; heck, they
break all the rules and they do it with such style.
Whatever the
reason may be for why we are fascinated by this particular species, I honestly
believe that they will continue to be one of the most - if not the most -
written about species in literature.
* *
* * * *
Scottish
Werewolves: freaky Vampires and a Slayer with a bad addiction and an insane
legacy. Add a big dose of sarcasm, sizzling chemistry; a lot of silver and a
ton of blood and . . . Welcome to the Blood Series.
They're
back! The Blood Series has been revamped and repackaged and is available to buy
now!
Note:
She-Wolf and Cranberry Blood are both previously published titles, but have
been polished, improved, and have even had scenes added for their re-release.
Both books as well as all that will follow will be self-published.
~ * ~
She-Wolf
Blood Series Prequel
Blurb:
Dealing with the Rogue Werewolves terrorizing his
Pack? Simple.
Trying to convince his mate he does want to be with her? Bloody impossible.
Owen MacLaren is the Alpha's son and the Pack's second, and he has never been
one to let anything get to him. So when a bunch of Rogues begin purposely
dumping mutilated bodies around the Pack Keep, he is more than ready to deal
with the Werewolves responsible.
But
one night off and a trip to a local strip joint for a colleague's stag night
changes things, and Owen soon discovers he isn't immune to everything . . . .
Being an independent
Loup and travelling the world? Easy.
Having to come home
and face the Werewolf who broke her young heart? Challenging.
After
five years away, Clare Walker finds herself back home in Scotland, working in a
strip club. The tips are decent, and she gets to dance, but it isn't a place
she thought she would ever be, let alone Owen, her Pack second
and the mate she has always desired.
Although Owen is determined to prove he wants to be with Clare, things can't go
smoothly between them, not when they have past issues to sort out and a bunch
of unusual 'Rogues' to deal with.
This title contains
explicit language, violence, and graphic sex.
Author:
Elizabeth Morgan
Length: Novel| Content: Paranormal Erotic Romance
Publisher: Self-Published
Will soon be available in print!
~ * ~
Excerpt:
The
music ended. The two women grabbed their clothes and headed backstage, hips
swinging, as one and five pound notes hung out over the edge of their thongs.
“Give it up for Jenny and Jean, our tantalizing duo,” said an invisible male,
his gruff voice echoing throughout the club.
“Christ, they’ve got a voice-over.”
“Oh aye, this is a real classy joint.” Luke knocked back his beer.
“Better than some places,” Karl said.
“And now, gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I introduce you to the
newest Lollypop.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” I stifled my amusement with another swig of beer.
“The feral goddess with the wildest moves.... The one, the only, She-Wolf.”
“This should be interesting.” Martin grinned, slinging his right arm over the
back of his chair and making himself comfortable.
A familiar guitar riff began leaking through the speakers as the stage lights
turned from hot white to dusky blue. The guitar riff kicked in.
“Follow You Home” a song by my favourite band, Nickleback.
“At least she’s got good taste in music,” I murmured to no one in particular
while rolling the neck of my beer bottle between my hands.
The red velvet curtains parted and the verse started. A black iron chair slid
along the stage and then stopped, perfectly in the middle. The female strolled
out of the shadows, one long leg in front of the other, smoking her cigarette.
She wore a large black hoodie, dark denim hot pants, and black leather
knee-high boots.
The prickling sensation sharpened along my spine, causing me to shiver.
“Weird fucking costume for a stripper,” Martin said.
Her long black hair hung back in a high ponytail. Black and silver eye shadow
framed her eyes, the blended shades bold against her smooth, pale skin.
Smoke rolled along the stage as she stopped before the chair. At the sound of
the singer’s voice, she flicked her cigarette to the side and stretched both
her arms above her head. She then bent forward until she pressed her hands flat
on the stage.
“What is this shit? Bloody keep fit?” Martin grunted.
“Take your fucking clothes off,” Karl shouted.
She pulled herself up slowly, and as the bass guitar kicked in, her body swayed
to the right and she fell straight into a spin, which seemed to last forever.
“Looks like the stripper knows ballet,” Robert said.
“Fuck the stripper.” Luke laughed. “How d’ya know that’s ballet she’s doing?”
“My little sister has studied it for years,” Robert said, his focus glued to
the stage.
The woman dropped into splits. After a moment, she brought around her right leg
from behind to join her left, and then fell backward. She pushed herself off
the floor, then jumped up and landed on her feet. A wicked grin curled the
corners of her mouth as she rolled down the zip of her hoodie, exposing inch by
inch of creamy, pale flesh.
The familiar sweet scent touched my nose once more, growing more potent with
each second, battling against the other smells to stand apart. With a deep breath, I dragged the stuffy air
of the club deep into my lungs, cancelling out each odour until all that
remained was the aroma of . . . flowers? Not the sickly fragrance of floral
perfume, but actual flowers.
Her hips began to sway as she shrugged off the hoodie and let it fall. The
curve of her waist, and the sight of her supple breasts in her black lace bra,
made my mouth dry. I knocked back the rest of my beer, hoping like hell it
would help my sudden thirst.
The pale blue light caught the shimmer of her glitter-dusted skin as she
brought up her right arm and then placed her hand behind her head.
Sizzling heat spread through my entire body as the distinct taste of wild
flowers and sea salt exploded on my tongue. The bittersweet mixture filled me,
conjuring images of the meadows bordering my father’s manor; of a young girl
laughing as I chased her across the grounds, the scent of the sea wafting from
her blonde hair.
My Wolf groaned. My blood heated.
“Great breasts,” Luke said.
“That’s what I’m fucking talking about.” Karl leaned forward and banged his
fists on the table. He threw back his head and howled. Any other moment, I
would have found such a reaction hilarious, but I couldn’t pull my focus from
the woman on the stage; couldn’t move due to the heavy beat of my heart banging
against my ribcage. I knew that scent, would know it anywhere.
She made a slow turn as she loosened her ponytail and shook her head. Her hair
streamed down her back like a glossy black waterfall. She finished her spin,
then her focus landed on me, and the air caught in my throat.
Clare.
Her body went rigid. Her sultry gaze hardened as she stared at me.
Clare Walker. I’d know those moonlit
eyes anywhere.
What in God’s name is she doing working
in a fucking strip club?
Straightening, I tensed as my wolf skimmed the surface. My energy pulsed as his
focus zoned in on her. A moment was all it took. My Wolf settled. Satisfaction
hummed through me. Acceptance.
What the fuck?
Her jaw tensed, chin tilted up as she stared us both down for a single moment,
before she ran and grabbed hold of the stage pole on the right. Her feet left
the floor as she wrapped her legs around the brass and spun.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, but the tension didn’t
drain from my body.
Her feet hit the floor, the pole between her perfect thighs. She pulled herself
upwards, rubbing herself against the warm metal.
Every drop of blood in my body headed south.
She swung round and pressed her back against the pole. Her hands traveled down
her breasts, then her stomach, to stop at the waist of her hot pants.
My jeans suddenly felt too tight, and the sound of my heartbeat drowned out the
loud music.
She slid her hot pants down her thighs and....
The neck of the beer bottle broke in my hands.
“You okay?” Robert looked at the bottle.
I let my gaze slip down to the broken glass and grunted. “Oops.”
Throwing the shards on the table, my attention turned back to Clare. She
crouched before a group of men pushed up against the stage. Fire licked through
me at the sight of them slipping notes into her cleavage and the band of her
knickers, their fingers skimming her milky flesh. The sight caused a strangled
snarl to break from my throat.
Easy boy, this is Clare. It’s just Clare.
My Wolf began to pace, hackles rising, the urge to beat the shit out of them
and protect her overwhelming me. No man had any right to touch her. I didn’t
want any other man to touch her, let alone look at her, and the sudden
realization scared the hell out of
me.
She stood and danced away from them. Every move she made was graceful; each
step seemed to have a meaning. Touched by the fake moonlight, her body
shimmered with sweat and sparkling body dust. She looked exotic, feral. She was
Loup-garou. She was mine.
No. Not mine. She’s not mine. It’s fucking Clare, for Christ’s sake!
That simple fact didn’t stop the images filling my mind—images of her writhing
across the damp earth of the forest floor, the light of the moon bathing her
pale flesh. I’d explore every curve and crevice with my fingers and tongue
until she begged me to mark her. Claim her.
Those wants alone had me hard as a rock, and on the border of having a panic
attack.
Fuck, this is bad. Margaret Thatcher
dancing naked in the rain. Margaret Thatcher dancing naked in the rain . . . .
Hiding my hands under the table, I
pulled the small shard of glass from my right palm, ignoring the tingle of my
flesh pulling together and closing the small wound.
Five years since I had last seen her. She’d been nineteen and preparing to go
to London to live with her mother while she studied dance at university. By the
look of her body, she had studied damn hard.
My fingers sank into my thighs as she curled around the left brass pole.
Last time I had seen her, she wore dungarees she could hardly fill. Now, her
body looked athletic, but she had more curves than a damn racetrack.
She turned her back to the audience. My focus slipped to the four, tattooed paw
prints climbing up her right hip. I couldn’t stop the smile forming on my lips,
nor stop the thought of tracing those delicate designs with my tongue.
She stepped up on the chair and spun again.
“I think I’ve found my lap dancer.” Karl’s words came out slurred.
The urge to punch his head through the wall rushed through me.
Clare dropped onto the chair. Her knees spread wide, showing the audience the
soft junction of her milky thighs.
I swallowed the groan lodged in my throat. The zip of my jeans was two seconds
away from splitting.
Applause roared throughout the room as she struck her final pose and the music
ended. Tension wound through my entire body, and I had to fight to stay in my
chair as a string of crude comments left the mouths of the majority of men
around me.
She grabbed her clothes and made her way off stage. The hypnotic sway of her
hips, and the sight of her perky arse sitting in those lace panties, struck as
painfully uncomfortable. The blood in my veins burned; the tension in my
muscles pulsed.
She disappeared from view.
What was this insane, ecstatic joy that she hadn’t removed her underwear in
front of these perverted bastards about? All I knew was that if she had, I
would have had to kill everyone.
Not good, Owen.
The sweet smell of her sweat had mixed with her natural aroma which now seemed
to cling to my nostrils, teasing me. I wanted to find her, rip those knickers
off her with my teeth, and bury my head between her thighs until she came apart
on my tongue.
Not fucking good at all.
Deep breath. What I needed to do was calm the fuck down and then talk to her.
And I really needed to talk to her.
This was Clare, for fuck’s sake. I had watched her grow up. This was wrong. So
fucking wrong.
The metal frame of the chair dented under the pressure of my fingertips as the
others continued to talk about her.
What the fuck was she doing here, anyway? Taking her clothes off and dancing in
a shitty strip joint?
She was supposed to be performing on cruise ships. In clothing.
Her life is not my business. It’s not my
business. At least it wasn’t, until now.
“So, Owen, you having a lap dance or-or not?” Karl burped, then knocked down
the rest of his beer “Going to be a bit fuck-king boring sitting ’ere on your
own. Maybe we can find you a nice blonde.”
Fuck it! I needed to speak to her.
~ * ~
Cranberry
Blood
Blood
Series: Book One
Blurb:
Killing
Vampires? Easy.
Tracking
someone? Simple.
Helping,
and protecting a Vampire slayer . . . . Bloody hard work!
Thirteen years ago, Brendan
Daniels made a deal with a psychic. In exchange for information on the
whereabouts of a Rogue Werewolf, he promised to help and protect Sofia's
granddaughter. Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was letting himself, or
his Pack, in for.
Nothing about Heather is simple,
from her weird dietary needs to her life’s mission. The girl can handle
herself, but the promise to protect her soon becomes a need, and one he can't
fully understand.
Vampire Slayer.
Born Infected.
Addicted to blood . . . but not by choice.
Heather Ryan is the current
Slayer in a long family line. Like all before her, she has spent her life
searching for her ancestor, Marko Pavel, the Vampire her family has sworn to
kill. If that isn't complicated enough, she is also a born
"Infected", and to keep her from becoming insane or giving in to her
darker side, she is on a very strict diet.
Now that her Grandmother Sofia
has passed, it is up to Heather to take the family legacy into her own hands.
Or at least, it would have been...if her Grandmother hadn't sent a Werewolf to
help her.
What is the irritating Brendan
supposed to help her with? Sofia never told either of them. Luckily, it doesn't
take long for Heather and Brendan to find out that the Vampires have big plans, and that the Leeches have
waited a long time for them both.
This title contains explicit language,
violence, and some scenes of a sexual nature.
Author: Elizabeth Morgan
Length: Novel| Content: Urban Fantasy with Paranormal Elements
Publisher: Self-Published
Will
soon be available in print!
~ * ~
Excerpt:
Lights spluttered above me, fighting
with some relentless attempt to come back on, even though the battle appeared
hopeless.
It is hopeless. I’m trapped.
Fresh waves of pain rippled around my skull and down my spine as I fought to
see everything around me, but thick grey smoke flooded the corridors. It
crawled down my throat; the taste and feel of ash coated my tongue, making me
gag. The need to cough kept grabbing me while ash blocked my nose and stung my
watering eyes. My head throbbed, pressure in my skull tightened, as I fought
hard to keep my eyes open.
There has to be a way out.
My eyesight had clouded from the smoke; my nostrils burned with it.
The awareness under my skin blazed as hot as the fire that currently threatened
to bring the entire structure down on my head, but I had to walk down here;
every impulse in my body forced me forward. I had no idea what I hoped to find,
but I knew in my gut that I could get out.
My right hand hit the uneven wall before me; my heart sank as I stood before
the dead end.
My lungs burned as the smoke continued to consume my body.
I wasn’t supposed to die down here.
Chapter One
~ Heather ~
Air
scorched my throat as my body jerked into consciousness. Eyes wide and
unfocused, I shot into a sitting position, fisting my hands against my chest as
I fought to breathe. My heart hammered, each beat loud and clear as it thumped
in my ears. My gaze darted around the room. Relief settled over me like a
gentle summer’s breeze as each small familiarity of my bedroom filtered into my
jumbled mind: the tall, old mahogany wardrobe to the right side; the window,
where light desperately tried to seep through the blinds; and lastly, across
from the foot of my bed, the vanity table in the same dark shade of wood.
Everything exactly where it should be, including me, in my bed, exactly where I should be.
I inhaled, the simple motion causing a stitch to run up my sides, but I ignored
it. Sinking against my pillows, I rested my head against the wooden bed frame
and closed my eyes. One breath, two, three; my heart steadied back into its
usual rhythm. I rubbed my hands across my face, wiping away the sheen of sweat
that had broken over my skin. On my exhale, the quietness of the room embraced
me. The usual knots in my stomach started to tighten as the confusion of the recurring
dream faded. I forced my mind to reach out and grab the escaping images, but,
as always, reality quickly settled in and made my vision nothing more than a
blank canvas.
Dull throbbing picked up at my temples. Shit.
A sigh escaped me. Not again.
I threw back the covers and stumbled out of bed, suddenly aware of something
gripping the skin of my stomach and back.
“What the—?” The raised hem of my black vest allowed a glimpse at the white
bandage strapped around my torso. “How the hell did that get there?”
Shuffling steps took me over to the mirror on the vanity table where I studied
the clean dressing that clung to my washed-out skin.
Brow furrowed, I stared at the white patch. “Okay. I really don’t remember
hurting myself, let alone bandaging myself up.” My focus snapped to a smaller
bandage, taped on the left side of my forehead. I studied my half-naked
reflection with confusion. My already pale, peach skin looked pasty white, my
golden curls nothing more than flat frizz. The throb in my temples increased as
I forced my mind to conjure some memory of what had happened last night.
Blurred snippets of my most recent trip to London skipped through my brain.
Standing on the roof across the way from some club . . . . Then nothing but
blank.
I grabbed my comb and sat down on the edge of the bed, a hiss escaping my lips
as pain shot up my left side. I took a deep breath and began to pull the comb
through my matted hair, clenching my teeth as agony bit at my skull with each
sharp tug. My mind continued to sift through snips of the night: going out to
look for Carlson, finding him with Antonio. They had followed three drunken
women from a club and dragged them into a loading bay behind one of the larger
shops. Me following them and helping the three women get away . . . . At least, I think I did.
But what happened after that? More blankness. Damn.
Hair pulled over one shoulder; I plaited the limp mass and then placed the comb
on the vanity table. My forehead began to tighten, and the painful awareness of
the familiar thirst that started to crawl up my dry throat assailed my system.
My stomach gurgled.
God, I feel rough. I needed food and
my mixture, followed by a long, hot shower.
Rolling my head in a circle, I listened to the small pops of tense muscles as I
walked to the head of the bed and reached behind the pillows for my sword. My
hand met the mattress. My heart stopped. I threw the pillow aside.
Where the hell is my sword?
A strange reckoning tickled below the surface of my skin as my gaze tripped
over the room. Something isn’t right.
I walked around my bed to my wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black jogging
pants. My focus landed on my sheathed sword, which leant against the white wall
behind the bedside table. I slipped into the garment and grabbed my sword,
unsheathing the blade as I tiptoed to my bedroom door.
The leather sheath got tossed on my messy bed and the door eased open. Daylight
flooded through the slim stairwell window, lighting up the narrow,
cream-coloured hallway.
I walked over to the next door and opened it gently; the familiar smell of my
Grandmother’s musky perfume hit me as I stepped into the room. I lowered my
sword since no one stood there, but my feet refused to move. Her furniture sat
where the pieces always had been. The purple bedding laid neatly, not a crease
in sight. A layer of dust covered her bedside table. The faintest trace of her
scent still lingered. A ball of grief swelled in my chest, lodging tightly
between my throat and heart.
I hadn’t taken a single step in here for over a month. She would have wanted me
to clean, to open the window and air out the room, but I honestly couldn’t bear
the thought of dusting her away just yet.
I backed out of the room and shut the door, letting out a breath I didn’t even
realize I’d been holding.
I’m finally going crazy. Somehow, I got
myself home; it doesn’t really matter how. Maybe I came in, sorted myself out,
and then passed out in bed? I must have. What other explanation could there be?
With a sigh, I walked across the landing to the bathroom door. The throb in my
temples increased. My muscles felt tighter than a bowstring. A shower and
something to eat and drink; these should do the trick. Then maybe my brain
would decide to start working, and I could fill in the blanks.
The scent of wet dog flew into my face once across the bathroom threshold. My
clothes from last night sat in a shredded pile on the black marble floor, along
with my set of daggers. The first aid kit lay open in the sink.
A deep inhale revealed more; combined with the smell of dog, the bathroom held
traces of blood. My blood.
I stepped into the room and peered into the waste-bin to see a large amount of
dried, red cotton wool.
“I don’t remember doing this.” My eyes bugged at the mess.
Surely, I would remember doing this? Why
the hell do I smell dog? Another inhale. And pine?
Something really didn’t feel right. I had never been so bad that I couldn’t
remember what had happened on a hunt, and by the looks of things, I’d been in
real bad shape.
Back into the hall and to creep quietly down the stairs. The odour of dog grew
with each step, the smell of coffee and bacon gradually joining in. My stomach
clenched at the familiarity of walking down these stairs every morning to find
my grandmother happily cooking breakfast in our kitchen. Minus the smell of
animal, though.
I couldn’t believe she’d died almost six weeks ago. God, I miss her.
As I stepped into the lower hall, a glance out of the side window showed my
black Range Rover sitting in front of the house, between the front door/porch
and the closed, wrought iron security gate. A long, silver scratch marred the
paintwork on the bonnet. Antonio’s face flashed through my mind.
I remembered stumbling back to the car to find him there, waiting for me. The
bastard had dragged his filthy claw along my Rover. That son-of-a-bitch!
I killed him, though. I think. He lunged and . . . . I looked down at my left
arm. Two pale lines slashed across my skin. He’d stumbled and caught me on the
arm, but I got him in the neck . . . .
The sudden sound of rustling paper snapped me from my thoughts. Tension grabbed
me, the awareness crackling beneath the surface of my skin.
Someone is in my house.
Stepping through the open living room door, a new scent invaded my nostrils.
Tangy, manufactured, like expensive cologne. An unfamiliar, black travel bag
sat tucked away between the red leather sofa and the TV stand. The papers
rustled again. I moved lightly toward the archway that lead into the dining
room, my sword still gripped comfortably in my right hand.
“Your breakfast is getting cold, Heather. I suggest you stop trying to sneak in
here and just come in so that we can get this over and done with,” said the
deep male voice of whoever was in my kitchen.
What the hell is going on? Who is he? Why
is he in my house? How does he know my name? And why the hell has he cooked me
breakfast?
I took a deep breath, and then exhaled before slowly walking through the
archway into the empty dining room. When I turned my head to the left, I saw a
strange man seated at my kitchen breakfast bar. He sat casually, in jeans and a
forest green T-shirt that clung to his broad, sculpted back and defined biceps.
The sun flooded into the kitchen through the side window and glinted off his
copper-blond hair, which brushed his shoulders.
“Are you going to come into the room or stand there drooling all day?” He
turned a page of his newspaper. I couldn't place his accent, nor the sleepy
twang that couldn't quite form at the edge of his words.
I inhaled again; nothing new amongst the scent of dog, pine, bacon, and coffee,
which meant he wasn’t a Vampire. Leeches smelled like mouldy, wet earth; not an
overpowering smell, but hidden underneath the products they wore. Not that a
Vampire could get in here, anyway. They could only come in with a personal
invite, and since they all wanted me dead . . . . No matter what state I’d been
in last night, I wouldn’t have invited one in. So, who the hell is this guy?
I walked toward him, my sword glinting in the sunlight, the hilt gripped firmly
in both hands. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?” I
stopped three feet behind him.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Wrong answer.” The tip of my sword found the firm space between his shoulder
blades. “I said, who the hell are you and what—”
“Killing me isn’t going to help.” He turned another page of his paper.
“I disagree. I think killing the stranger who broke into my house is a very
good idea.”
“I did not break in,” he replied calmly. “My name is Brendan Daniels and I’m
actually here to help you.”
I snorted. “Like I believe that.”
“It’s the truth. Besides, if I really wanted to hurt you, I would have. I also
wouldn’t have left your weapons with you.”
“Well, you’re obviously an eejit.”
He laughed. “You have serious trust issues.”
“Trust issues? Says the complete stranger who broke into my house and—”
“I used your house keys. They were in your jacket pocket,” he said. “And yes,
trust issues, says the stranger. The stranger who promises he isn’t here to
hurt you.”
“Just because you say you’re not here to hurt me doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”
“True. But why go to the trouble of killing you when I could have left you
lying in the car park the other night and let the seven greedy Leeches looking
for you find you and bleed you dry?”
My stomach turned as memories of my outing slammed clearly into my brain. I had
walked into a trap, so set on finding Carlson that the need to kill the bastard
once and for all had blocked all sense and reason. Twelve lower generation
Vampires had been waiting on the rooftops surrounding the loading bay. Carlson
and Antonio wouldn’t stop talking, so I backed out of the area, and that’s when
I saw them all. Their blood-red eyes watched my every move as their mouths hung
wide, displaying their fangs.
“I have waited so long for this moment,” Carlson had said.
So had I.
My grandmother never told me where to find him. She wouldn’t let me kill him
even though he deserved my sword through his neck more than any other Vampire.
They obviously found out Gran had died and simply waited for me to come out and
play. I went, and they had been
waiting for me, and like some amateur, I walked right into their trap. I killed
two Vampires in order to get out of the loading bay, and then I had the other
ten, along with Carlson and Antonio, chasing me through the dark and empty back
streets of London. I tried to lead them somewhere humans wouldn’t find us; much
good it did me.
But none of that explained who this guy was or why the hell he’d made himself
at home in my kitchen.
“So you were there?”
“That much is obvious. Who do you think brought you home?”
“How did you even know where I live?”
“You have sat-nav in your Rover. And, like I said, I’m here to help.” He slid
off the stool; the tip of my sword grazed his green T-shirt.
I clenched my teeth. “Why help me? You don’t even know me.”
He finally turned to face me. He’d pulled back his copper-blond hair, allowing
me to see his face fully. A broad nose accompanied by high cheekbones and a
tall forehead set off the deepest green eyes I’d ever seen. A fine layer of
copper stubble outlined his square jaw and surrounded thick, peach lips.
His emerald eyes sparkled as I met his gaze.
“True, but I helped you because I thought it would be in your best interest to
get you back to the safety of your own house.”
He thought it would be in my best
interest? Who the hell does this guy
think he is, a knight in shining armour? He looks like a friggin’ Ken doll, for
Christ’s sake, and . . . . Wait a damn minute. “Seven Vampires?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Before, you said seven Vampires? There were twelve left.”
“Well, you eventually killed the Italian one before collapsing in front of your
car, leaving eleven. The blond one who couldn’t decide whether he wanted to eat
you or screw you—”
“Carlson.” I shuddered at the memory of him pinning my body to the rough
concrete road. His thighs clamped my legs shut as he lapped at the blood
trickling down my forehead . . . .
“Well, turns out he, as well as three of the others, actually needed their
heads to fight back, but the rest of them ran off, and since my priority is
you—”
“You’re the one who knocked Carlson off me?”
Memories exploded and rolled around my mind like storm clouds. Carlson had slid
his talons into my waist, knocking me to the pavement and causing me to cut my
forehead. He had pinned me between the ground and his growing erection while he
demanded I beg him to change me. A few cheap insults and shoving some silver in
his ribcage was enough to piss him off—as if I would want to be blood-bonded to
the bastard who’d helped destroy my mother and father. On my refusal, he’d
bared his fangs; about to feed from me...then the next thing I knew, he was
gone. Once I got to my feet, I saw four decomposing bodies on the ground, only
yards away from where I, myself, had almost bled to death.
“Yes.” He picked up a glass of orange juice and took a mouthful.
“Carlson is dead?”
He gulped. “Well, last time I checked, decapitation usually does the trick. So,
yeah.”
A strange relief flooded me. My hands began to tremble. I tightened my grip,
trying to keep a firm hold on my sword. “Are you a hundred and ten percent sure
he’s dead?”
“A hundred and forty-six percent sure.”
I couldn’t believe it. Carlson, dead. Well, in the sense that he wouldn’t be
prowling the streets or feeding ever again. He was actually gone. I suddenly
didn’t know whether to hug this strange man, or kill him for taking away my
opportunity to kill the monster that’d infected my mother. “Why did you kill
him?”
He laughed. “Well, I was considering letting him and the rest of his friends
eat you, but then that wouldn’t have made me a very good guardian, now, would
it?”
~ * ~
Author Bio:
Elizabeth
Morgan is a multi-published author of urban fantasy, paranormal, erotic horror,
f/f, and contemporary; all with a degree of romance, a dose of action and a hit
of sarcasm, sizzle or blood, but you can be sure that no matter what the genre,
Elizabeth always manages to give a unique and often humorous spin to her
stories.
Like
her tagline says; A pick ‘n’ mix genre
author. “I’m not greedy. I just like variety.”
And
that she does, author of erotic ménage horror, Creak, paranormal erotic horror and UK, US & Australian Amazon
best seller (Gay/Lesbian, Fiction, Lesbian), On the Rocks, erotic romance, US, UK & Spanish Amazon bestseller
(Erotica Short Story) Truth or Dare? And
sweet contemporary romance, UK & US Amazon bestseller (British/Drama &
Plays) Stepping Stones.
She
also has her hand in self-publishing. Look out for more information on her
upcoming releases at her website: www.e-morgan.com
Away
from the computer, Elizabeth can be found in the garden trying hard not to kill
her plants, dancing around her little cottage with the radio on while she
cleans, watching movies or good television programmes – Dr Who? Atlantis? The
Musketeers? Heck, yes! – Or curled up with her two cats reading a book.
For more information on Elizabeth's
work, published and upcoming, head on over to her site:
~ * ~
International
Tour wide Giveaway!
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~ * ~
Blood Series
Blog Tour
August
18th - Bex 'n' Books:- http://bexnbooks.blogspot.com
19th - All Things Romance: http://lynnareynolds.wordpress.com
20th - Dianna Hardy:
http://www.diannahardy.com
21st - Mina Carter: http://mina-carter.com/blog/
22nd - Jens Reading Obsession: http://jensreadingobsession.wordpress.com/
23rd - Kiru Taye: http://kirutayewrites.blogspot.co.uk/
24th - Book Reviews by Lynn: http://bookreviewsbylynn.blogspot.co.uk/
25th - Release Day:
My World:
http://www.xxxxmyworldxxxx.blogspot.co.uk/
NJASUL:
http://www.notjustastiffupperlip.blogspot.co.uk/
Love Bites & Silk: http://www.lovebitesandsilk.co.uk/
26th - Krista Ames: http://www.apassionforromance.blogspot.com
27th - Zee Monodee: http://zeemonodee.blogspot.co.uk/p/welcome.html
28th - Doris O'Connor: http://thetardisscribbles.blogspot.co.uk/
29th - Evocative Book Reviews: http://evocativebookreviews.com
30th - Lucy Felthouse: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/
31st - Ms. ME28 Reviews: http://msme28reviews.blogspot.com
Blurb:
