Roxanne Rhoads's Blog, page 261

A Bewitching Friday

Interview with Loren W. Cooper Author of Crosstown http://www.tenastetler.com/interview-...

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A Bewitching Thursday

INTERVIEW - Hot Shot by S.A. Stolinsky
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CrossTown Loren W Cooper #bewitchingbooktours http://ow.ly/sTNF30hzNuK

A Bewitching Wednesday

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A Bewitching Tuesday

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A Bewitching New Year's Day

CrossTown Soundtrack and Exclusive Excerpt
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Hot Shot by S.A. Stolinsky
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Soundtrack and Exclusive Excerpt: CrossTown by Loren W Cooper

CrossTown Soundtrack
Enter Sandman, Metallica
Old Folk's Boogie, Little Feat
Twilight, The Band
Journey of the Sorcerer, Eagles
March of the Celts, Enya
Tommy Bhetty's Waltz, Altan
When the Circus Comes to Town, Los Lobos
Will the Wolf Survive, Los Lobos
Race With The Devil, Wolfstone
Ride On, AC\DC
Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Pink Floyd
Wherever I May Roam, Metallica
Strange Fruit, Billie Holiday
Toccata and Fugue in D minor, Bach
Run On For A Long Time, Blind Boys of Alabama
Best of Both Worlds, Van Halen

Feeling Good, Nina Simone 


CrossTownLoren W Cooper
Genre: Fantasy/SF
Publisher: Red Hen Books
Date of Publication: Nov 14, 2017
ISBN: 978-1939096029
Number of pages: 340Word Count: 95000
Cover Artist: Red Hen Staff Artist
Tagline: CrossTown is the crossroads of possibility.
Book Description:
Zethus is a sorcerer―a self-described spiritual thug for hire. He makes his living in CrossTown, a place where the manyworld hypothesis of modern physics manifests itself, where possibilities and probabilities overlap.
Caught up in a web of intrigue as he investigates the death of his master, Corvinus, and pursued by agents that want to erase all knowledge of Corvinus’ work, Zethus discovers that the key to his master’s murder lies in the last project he had pursued before his death. The roots of this project lie deep in the past, at the origin of CrossTown’s fractured reality.
Once he understands the stakes, Zethus must make the dangerous journey to the cradle of history. The price he must pay to find the answers he seeks will threaten everything he holds dear―including his own humanity.
“Beware the road outside your front door, for it is all at once old friend and passing stranger.” –CrossTown
“A sorcerer explores the frontier of theoretical physics.” Publisher’s Weekly
BN     Amazon     Thrift Books     Wal-Mart     Target
Excerpt:
Dark, lush trees heavy with black fruit covered the grounds of Eliza Drake's holding.  The sun never shone there.  Only certain lichens grew under the trees, taking sustenance from the minerals of the rocks and moisture from the dew.  The trees nourished themselves on blood, or so I had been given to understand.  I walked cautiously through the trees, down a well-worn path lit dimly by a pale glow rising from the lichens.
That landscape hadn’t occurred naturally.  Eliza could shape the Ways.  Old in the powers of the vampire kind, she could also touch the life and growth in living things and twist that life into new forms.  She had the same touch for death, or so I had heard.  I believed what I had heard, considering the size and nature of her estates and her retinue.  On the other hand, in all the time we had spent together I had never seen any sign of her overt power, though I had a feel for her considerable ability to mold the Ways.
The path divided, one branch continuing on into the forest, the other leading to an enormous manor house, every window ablaze with light.  Music filtered out and into the night--the sounds of fiddles and pipes predominating.  Inside, I felt certain, someone would be attempting a jig.
I had decided to be circumspect with Eliza.  Cautious but truthful.  It seemed the safest course I could live with.
I walked up to the brick portico and gave the chain a good hard pull.  I didn’t know if Eliza would be at this particular manor or not (she had a few) but I figured someone here would let her know of my presence one way or another.  The door opened after a brief pause, letting a rush of light and music come roaring out into the night.
A woman stood in the doorway, dressed in crimson--even the ribbons in her hair were bright red.  The red went well with her pale skin, green eyes, and dark hair.  She looked me over disdainfully.
“Your fangs are showing, Teila,” I told her mildly, letting Shaper’s facade slip away.
She laughed.  “Zethus!  It’s been a while since you’ve graced us with your presence.  It looks like it’s been a rough day.”  She smiled and beckoned me into the house.
I wiped my feet and stepped across the threshold carefully.  “Is Eliza here?”
Teila nodded and closed the door behind me.  “She’s upstairs.  She’ll be happy to hear that you’ve accepted her invitation.”
I had expected that the unread missive from Eliza had contained a more recent invitation, in addition to the standing invitation she had extended to me.  She was a socialite, like most of the vampire kind, constantly sending numerous invitations of one sort or another.  Some were less dangerous to accept than others.
I let Teila take my filthy, ragged coat and my battered hat.  She disappeared into another room.  When she returned, she paused to lay fingers on the rents visible in my clothing.  “You need a new suit.”
“A seamstress would be cheaper.”
She laughed, and linked arms with me.  “Let’s go inside.”
I raised an eyebrow.  “Aren’t you planning to let Eliza know that I’m here?”
“Already done, my dear.”  She gave me a wink.
“Ah.”
Teila, predictably enough, led me to the bar.  On an enormous expanse of gleaming floor a number of people, mostly human in appearance, danced to music from a band whose shapes had a tendency to ebb and flow with the harmony.  The gray horse on drums kept up a complicated roll of precision percussion, but the six-foot rabbit on fiddle stole the show, his long ears twitching in time to the rhythm.
Teila leaned close.  “No one plays Irish like the Pooka.”
I nodded and rested my forearms on the twenty foot long, massive length of smooth polished dark wood that surfaced the bar.  It had been a long day.  Events were beginning to catch up with me.  I forced myself to remember that Eliza Drake’s was not the place to be relaxing my guard, not matter how warm and comfortable the surroundings seemed.
I looked down the length of the bar, past the bartender, who gave me a friendly nod.  Couples nestled together at tables set strategically around the parlor, absorbed in the pleasure of the moment and the delight of the chase.  I wondered idly how many of the guests who wore a human guise still retained their humanity.  A lone human at a party in NightTown can quickly find himself classified as an hors d’oeuvre.
A man wearing white ruffles under a black evening jacket sat down at my other side, and proceeded to study me in a rude manner.  I returned the favor.  Not one black hair strayed from its appointed place on his head; his features were dark, narrow, and vaguely Spanish; his clothing and jewelry were expensive and meant to look it.  When he spoke, his voice was cultured and what he thought sounded menacing.  “You’re a little out of your depth here, aren’t you?”
I had never been fond of smoothies, con men, or ladies’ men.  Call it the thug in me.  The son of a bitch seemed to be trying for all three.  I don’t like to be threatened, and I hadn’t had the best of days.  “Who are you?” I snarled in return.  “Other than a major stockholder in Bryll Cream?”
He flinched, then his lips curled back from his long, pointed teeth.  The Legion bristled as I sneered at him, but I relaxed as a delicate hand drifted down from behind me to pull back the sleeve of my ragged shirt.  “See those marks?  That’s a captive Swarm of Tindalans.  If you managed to get lucky and kill him before he ripped what little remains of your soul out and bound it into a pile of dog shit, where it belongs, the Tindalans would tear you apart, inside and out.”
His eyebrows shot up as he looked past me.  “Is this to be your treat, tonight?  I hadn’t meant to poach.  Though I thought you had more refined tastes.”
A dark woman in white eased into view, her full mouth smiling.  “I don’t recall inviting you, Emory.”
He smirked.  “I go where I please.  I don’t have to beg for scraps from your table anymore.”
“Then why are you here?” the dark woman asked, ice in her voice.  “There’s nothing here for you, Emory.  Find your own kind, if you can.  Hunt your own grounds.  Don’t leech off mine.”
“Leech, is it?”  Emory’s nose wrinkled in a snarl, his lips drew back to show his extended fangs.  With his eyes smoldering like red coals, he suddenly didn’t look such a ladies’ man.  The bartender leaned across the bar, a pale light rising in his eyes.  Emory’s glance shifted between the dark lady, the bartender, and me.  Finding no sympathy or fear in any of our faces, he turned and left in a swirl of coat tails.
A number of the people in the room stopped to applaud politely as the dark lady called after him, “That’s right, Emory--you go running back to momma.”
She turned to look at me, her eyes sparkling.  “I’m glad to see you, Zethus, even if you are looking a little scruffy.  It’s been a while.”
“Not so long, Eliza,” I responded gently.  “Last winter, subjective.”
The shade of her eyes darkened.  “Here, it felt like an eternity,” she said.
The bartender set a wicker basket on the counter.
“Ready for a picnic?” Eliza asked, cocking her head at me.
I laughed incredulously.  “You didn’t know I would show up.”
Her smile faded.  “I’ve had a basket waiting, ready to go, every time I’ve invited you.”
I picked the basket up with my left hand.  “Well then, we’d better not let this one go to waste.”
The moon had the rich color of glacial ice.  Fat and full, it washed the glade with pale light.  I pulled velvet blankets out of the basket and spread them out over a bed of thick, soft lichen.  Eliza had chosen the spot, of course.  We settled there under the trees, watching the moon.  She drank wine while I ate a steak sandwich and a couple of firm, juicy apples, washed down with sweet red wine.
As I finished, Eliza grinned at me.  “You were hungry.  You’re on the run again?”
“It’s not an everyday thing,” I sputtered.
“For some people it’s not.”  She ran a finger lightly down my cheek.  “For others...”
I looked at the wine, as dark and rich and red as blood, and set the cup down.  “Corvinus is dead, you know.  I have the Fae after me and a bounty on my head.”
“I heard about Corvinus,” Eliza said softly.  “The Whitesnakes involved there as well, do you think?”
I yawned.  “I’m not sure yet.  I don’t know enough.”
She put her arm around me, gently turned me, and pulled me back against her.  “Relax here for a while.  You’re safe with me.”
Curiously enough, I was and I knew it.  I could trust Eliza.  She was a creature of her word.  My concern with Eliza wasn’t due to a lack of trust: I feared more the price I might pay for enjoying her company too much.
I relaxed, easing down until I could pillow my head in her lap.  She rubbed the back of my neck with one hand and picked up my right arm with the other.  “And what is your answer tonight?” she asked me quietly.
I felt a thrill of fear and desire work its way up my spine as she softly kissed the veins of my wrist.  “My answer is the same, I’m afraid.  That immortality comes at too high a price.”
I wanted life, yes.  I clung to life, and youth.  But I loved all that the worlds could offer, as well.  I had no desire to accept any bargain that limited me so severely.  I wouldn’t give up the sun for anyone, not even Eliza.  So she always asked, and my answer never changed.  Every choice has a price.  It’s good to understand that before signing any contracts.  I wished I had kept that in mind when I had dealt with Titania.
Then there’s the diet.  I understand vampires don’t manage too well on blood that isn’t human.  Something about needing to nourish themselves on more than simply the blood, but the vitality, the experience, the heart, mind and soul.  I wasn’t particularly comfortable with the idea of anyone else paying the price for my extended life.  I didn’t bother myself with anyone else’s choices so long as their choices didn’t threaten me directly—Eliza had to live with herself, and made what compromises she felt necessary.  But I could control what choices I made, and the prices I paid.
Besides, I loved the hot juicy texture of steak in my mouth, the crisp tart snap of a firm apple, the warm golden crunch of fried chicken and the cold smooth glide of ice cream.  The idea of a liquid diet for eternity didn’t appeal to me.
In spite of all that, my breathing came with difficulty as she kissed my throat, the chill of her lips hovering over the pulse of the blood before she drew back and looked me in the eye.  “I would not be such a harsh mistress.”
“That’s not what I fear,” I told her firmly.
She smiled sadly.  “I know.”  Her mouth moved to mine, and time passed as we danced together, under the shade of the trees, in the light of the moon.  Later, I felt the day catching up with me, and I grinned up at her.  “No tricks, now.”
Her eyes smoldered in the shadows.  “I’ll never take advantage of you, you know.  When you fall to me, it will be of your own free will.”
Still grinning, thinking about temptation, I faded to sleep.


Chapter XII

Fear, rage and sudden isolation drove me from pleasant dreams to madness.  I reached into the darkness with all the strength I had in me, seeking to break bonds I could sense but not touch.
A slap shocked me awake, bringing the metallic taste of blood to my mouth.  I opened my eyes to see Eliza silhouetted above me, open hand drawn back to deliver another blow.  I rolled away from her and to my feet in one motion and looked out into the shadows and moonlight of Eliza’s glade.  I felt the ingathering power welling up from within me.  Trying to contact the Legion felt like fighting an eiderdown quilt, but I could feel the White Wolf reaching through from his side.  I stood in the tangle of blankets and gave some direction to the power surging up through me.
That power called to the storm clouds roiling in the darkness above.  Lightning flashed down, blowing one of Eliza’s trees to splinters and nearly deafening me with the hot crackling fury of the strike.  More power rose up from the fortress of my spirit, so I molded it, the White Wolf’s paws over my hands like spiritual gloves, and hurled it from me.
A mighty wind rose around the mossy bed where Eliza stood next to me, whirling, rose to the clouds, then dropped back in a funnel to touch delicately to earth less than two hundred paces away from us.  The funnel uprooted trees and smashed them down against their fellows in a fearsome display of strength.  Then, as abruptly as it had all begun, the winds subsided and peace slowly descended on the forest.  A swath of destruction had been cut through the middle of Eliza’s glade.  Thick, dark red droplets seeped from split trunks and broken branches.
I felt Eliza’s hand run along my shoulder.  “Trying to impress me?”  Her expression and tone were light.
I shuddered and turned away from the carnage.  I fought nausea.  “Digestion problems, I think.  It’s never been this bad.”
She started rubbing the tension out of my neck.  “Tell me about it.”
So we sat back under the trees, looking out over the wreckage of the lightning and the wind, and I told her about my recent encounters.  At the same time, I held a discussion with Blade and the White Wolf.
“It’s from within.”  The White Wolf didn’t look happy.
“But it’s not focused.”  Blade’s expression was, if anything, even less cheerful than the White Wolf’s.
“What does that mean?”
“I can’t isolate it,” Blade said grimly.  “There’s a single force behind it, something that would be as happy to see you dead as anything else, but the source of the attacks...it doesn’t feel like one entity.  It feels spread out.”
I thought about that.  “That would fit with the Gold’s technique: every member of the Legion absorbed a significant amount of unfocused energy when we took down the Gold’s legion.  What if it’s working through them?”
“It doesn’t feel like the Gold,” the White Wolf growled.  “And that’s not the only problem.”
“Explain.”
Blade answered first.  “I agree with the White Wolf.  It doesn’t feel like the Gold’s work.  There’s a consistent element of deception here, and considerable subtlety.  Do you remember the dream?”
I fought back a shudder.  “Not clearly.”
“The dream was twisted, and you were slowly cut off from your surroundings by mounting filth,” Blade said.  “Deception and decay were not tools the Gold commonly used.  The jigsaw man, Vincent’s ghost, was another story.  The attack was subtle.  The dream turned and bound you, and a barrier rose between you and your own Legion, and then something called up power from the Legion.”
That startled me.  “From the Legion.”
The White Wolf snarled assent.  “From myself among others.  It felt as if my own power had gained an independent will.”
“You’re communing with your ghosts,” Eliza said.
“We’ll finish this later,” I told the two of them, and gave her my full attention.  “My apologies.”
“No need for apologies,” she answered.  “I can understand your concern and need to investigate.  What happened?”
  I shifted uncomfortably.  “Good question.  I consumed some considerable power lately--more at one time than I ever have before.  I think that may be causing me some problems.  I may have an internal insurrection brewing.”
“Bad timing,” Eliza noted, her gaze sharp and attentive.  “You need to quell that insurrection before you’re too deep in the process of dealing with your hunters.  You have too many distractions now—this matter of the Whitesnakes, Fetch on your trail, and all the rest.  This time you were with me.  I felt your power rousing and woke you, which wasn’t as easy as it could have been.  Considering the damage to the trees, I’m glad that you had enough control to redirect what was called.  Next time you might not be so lucky.”
“You have a point.”  She seemed a little stiff, a bit more rigid where her body brushed against mine.  I knew how she felt.  Neither of us had any particular inclination to reveal too much to anyone else, and what she had seen left us both a little uncomfortable.
I spared a glance for the devastation.  Tiny, naked humanoids, their pale skin lambent in the moonlight, were emerging from the shadows to lap at the fluid seeping from the broken ends of branches with long, thin tongues.  I shuddered and looked away.
“You should stay here until you have laid this matter to rest,” Eliza said.  “I can protect you from Fetch.  His strength is death and age--I can resist him.  I could teach you to resist him as well, if you would let me bring you over into the Night.  Together, we could face him down.  I would help you, if you would let me.  Is the price really so high?  It’s not such a bad existence.  And I would make the passage easy for you.”
I smiled at her, thinking of what it must cost her to make that offer outright.  I traced a line down Eliza’s cheekbone from eye to mouth, and denied her gently.  “You never give up, do you?  This isn’t the way for me.  I want it all, you know.  Life, youth, enough power to be independent.  And I don’t want to pay too high a price.”
“You don’t know what you’re risking,” Eliza argued.  “You don’t know what you’re up against.  I fear that if you chase this thing too far, you’ll find only death.  Think about Corvinus.  He was older than you, stronger, more subtle.  He staked it all and lost.  Why don’t you settle here until this blows over?  Or take sanctuary with CrossTerPol and or the Union and Emerantha Pale if you’re not comfortable here?”
“The reason I live in CrossTown is because of all it has to offer,” I told her bluntly.  “If I can’t settle with Fetch and the Whitesnakes, I’ll have to give up everything I’ve worked for.  I’ll never be able to live freely in CrossTown, or walk the Ways without always looking behind me.  If I can’t live this life I’ve chosen, that’s just as good as dying.”
I thought about that.  Even if I did not have an obligation to my late master, I knew I had no choice any more.  I had to resolve this problem with Faerie, with the Whitesnakes, if I meant to go on living in CrossTown.  At the same time, I suspected that there must be some connection with Corvinus’ murder and my present troubles.
“NightTown isn’t enough for you.”  She caught and held my gaze.  “Staying here with me isn’t enough.”
I looked her in the eye for a long moment of silence.  “No,” I said at last.


About the Author:
Loren W Cooper is the author of four novels, one short story collection and one nonfiction work. He has won the NESFA in 1998 and the EPPIE for Best Anthology in 2001. He is married with two daughters. He currently lives in Cedar Rapids Iowa. Favorite authors include Zelazny, Hammet, Steakley, and Catton. Loren Currently works for Hewlett-Packard.
www.lorencooper.com
https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/651330.Loren_W_Cooper
https://twitter.com/CrossTownauth
https://www.facebook.com/WanderWays

Hot Shot by S.A. Stolinsky

Hot ShotS.A. Stolinsky
Suspense
November 1, 2016
Book Description:
Payback is a powerful thing...
Actor and bartender, Tyler West experiences a sudden streak of luck -- winning poker games. Determined to change his life, he enters the World Series of Poker. His life is suddenly turned upside down when the Russian mafia fronts him 1.5 million dollars to play at the tables. And then...he loses…
Now on the ride of his life, deceit and deception are his key to uncovering the truth. He must recoup the money, but will it come at a price? Can he stay alive long enough or will his time run out?
Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/cc3b8xb7sl8

Fiery Seas Publishing     Amazon
Excerpt:
Tyler pushed his long, blond hair back with one hand and slouched.  He knew she found him attractive.  “I’ll tell ya,” he began, hoping to make it last, keep her interested.  “I pretty much need the start up money right now.”Ah, too fast.“Start up money? Now? You think I got a stash under my bed upstairs?  We should go up and find out.  My, my we’re in a hurry aren’t we?” Elsie pushed Tyler into an oversized easy chair covered with brown mohair. A black cat with white paws jumped off it as Tyler slammed down.“Easy kid. That’s the trick. You don’t wanta look too desperate, know what I mean? Well, you are good lookin’ I’ll give you that,” she said. “What ya got there?” Tyler gave her a certificate. “Made this up on my computer. It kind of sells land.”“Bullwhippie,” Elsie said as she tore up the certificate and put it in a glass ashtray on the glass coffee table. “The only thing that makes a lot of money fast is ass, kid.”“One point five million?” Tyler asked.“You’re good looking, but honey your ego’s getting away with you.”Elsie sat in her chair, a plush, pink armchair with multicolor pink pillow and a foot stool in front. She leaned toward him.“Listen, baby. This is just between you and me, got it? I’ve been a madam longer than I can remember. I work on the sly sometimes, and my parole officer comes around, but he don’t bother me. You know why?”            A still crestfallen Tyler looked at her.             “Because I got the goods on all those assholes, that’s why. I got the video. Don’t ever do porn without a video somewheres in the bedroom. Ya got me?”            Tyler nodded.             Elsie continued without noticing. “I’ll never tell where I hid the original, but believe me I got plenty of copies. Got a friend on Grand that does the best photography in the city. I had a couple of tapes made and almost sold ‘em to TV—the porn sites. So I been thinkin’ real hard about how I can re-establish my rep. And here you come.”Tyler finally opened his mouth but it was only to use his tongue to wet his lips, they felt parched and he was sure they would crack it he kept his mouth closed any longer.“Yes, Ma’am,” was all he could think to say.“I’m gonna start up the biggest whore house in the state, sonny. This time? With men. You know how much a good male hooker can make? Two thousand a night. Now---depending on your stamina…”“Yeah, I get the picture,” Tyler said.He wasn’t in to older women, but he had to admit, Elsie was beginning to look visibly younger with the excitement she was projecting. Some people love their work. Her gray roots were beginning to look more like silver blonde streaks and her smile was widening. Her teeth, perfect in what were undoubtedly caps, glistened.“A male whore house. I don’t think it’s been done before,” Elsie repeated. Elsie was spry for a woman her age, but she had become overweight and as Tyler checked out the flat, it looked like she’d just moved into the place.  She no longer looked like a professional, but that was probably the point.  On a small table next to Tyler there was a silver framed picture, a studio shot of a glamorous woman, her head tilted back, full makeup and blond hair, her fingers just touching her chin and a large, pearl necklace around her neck and thick jeweled bracelets on her wrists. Tyler realized it was an old shot of Elsie maybe forty years ago. “Women in their eighties still masturbate, you know that?” Elsie asked noticing him admiring the photo. She looked like she might jot down his answer in an interview. “And what a shame that is when guys like you are just running around willy-nilly.”“No, ma’am, never really thought about it,” Tyler said.“You sure do look like your pa. He was a crafty one, but always good to my girls. You work out, huh? I got a boob job in my seventies. Hell, nothing stays up forever. They’re just starting to sag again now. Thinking about getting ‘em done again, so this is a good time we connected.” “Yes, Ma’am,” Tyler wasn’t sure where this was going, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want it to go much further. “Thirty percent on my end,” she said.“Huh?” Tyler realized his eyes had widened and tried to relax so he wouldn’t look so stupid.“Thirty percent.”“That’s a lot of money, Ma’am,” Tyler said, when the hole in his stomach shrunk slightly. “I mean I’m desperate, like you say, but that’s a big cut.”“Listen, kid. A man looks like you, your age, your height, your…face, could make more than two thousand dollars a night, okay? It’s not gonna last forever, so you better grab it while ya can.

About the Author:
Stefanie Stolinsky, Ph.D. is a licensed psychologist and forensic psychologist with a private practice in Beverly Hills, California. She  specializes  in trauma, adults sexually, physically and emotionally abused as children, and PTSD. She is an international speaker and has taught training seminars in overcoming the aftereffects of child abuse. She has also taught licensing examinations to candidates for both marriage, family and child counseling and for the psychology licenses. 
She began her career as an actress in motion pictures, television and stage and created a unique therapy combining acting exercises with psychodynamic psychotherapy to help survivors of all kinds of trauma overcome the aftereffects of abuse. The first edition of "ACT IT OUT" was a top seller for over nine years. A second edition of the popular book was launched in April of this year and is available on Praeclarus Press, Amazon, and Barnes and Noble. 
She is also the author of several award-winning short stories including her newest short story anthology, DATE NIGHT, and numerous comedy mystery. Dr. Stolinsky lives with her husband in Los Angeles.
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The Horror Is Not The Mess - Guest Blog -Red Sleeper by Brian Downes

Anybody can splash gore on the walls, the same way any four-year-old can finger-paint. That’s not horror writing. Not even its fans think that’s horror. No one who loves slasher flicks can’t sleep. They’re not screaming; they’re laughing. You can kill a naked teenager with a lawn edger, but you cannot intimidate the soul with gardening tools.
Real horror is about loneliness. Chase a person around with a shrieking weed whacker and you’ll raise their adrenaline levels. But lock a person in solitary confinement and you will drive them mad. The weed whacker isn’t what’s horrifying about the weed whacker. What’s horrifying is that you are likely to die in the woods at night, and the only other living thing out there regards you only as something to be cut.
What is awful about the lion is not his claws. It’s the fact that he will not help you. He can’t even think about helping you. What is awful about the lion is that he is not part of your human tribe, and you are alone when he kills you. What is awful about the lion is the same thing that is awful about the universe.
The past giants of horror understood this very plainly. Poverty-stricken Howard Phillips Lovecraft was quite comfortable with it, as he ignored his wife to look up at the distant, silent stars. Edgar Allen Poe understood it, writing “Every poem should remind the reader that they are going to die”, before they found him drunk, raving, his brain boiling itself to death on the streets of Baltimore. Mary Shelley understood it. Dr. Frankenstein’s crime was not to create the monster. His crime was to create the monster to be alone. And the monster forces that condition on his maker in murderous revenge.
So this is my chief rule for writing horror: the chance of help is always shrinking, and the protagonist must always fear that they will no longer be considered human. Either because they are dead, or because their human value is rejected by those around them. Especially their torturers and killers.   
Red SleeperThe Berlin Fraternity UniverseBook TwoBrian Downes
Genre: Historical horror
Date of Publication: December 1st, 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1978447349ISBN-10: 1978447345ASIN:
Number of pages: 450Word Count: 118,766
Cover Artist: Miriam Medina
Tagline: A cold war after dark.
Book Description:
In the horsepower town of 1950s Detroit, FBI agent Christopher Haigwood is raising his Catholic family and hunting Soviet spies. Then a communist fanatic who was arrested with a lot of guns, dynamite, and heroin breaks out of jail right before his eyes, and Haigwood is plunged into a terrifying labyrinth of plots, informants, liars, and the horrifying revelation that vampires are real, and that some of his KGB quarry are undead.
Red Sleeper is set in the world of The Berlin Fraternity.

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Excerpt:
          Haigwood had read Walter Swale’s file several times. He’d written sections of it. White. Brown eyes, brown hair, approximately 5’6”, 175 pounds estimated weight. Father born in Poland, 1893, changed the family name to Swale from Szwarc on arrival in the USA. Haigwood had studied photographs of Swale to memorize the high chin, the bulging lips, the distance between the eyes, the widow’s peak that pointed out of the receding hairline. He had once sat at Swale’s kitchen table with the curtains drawn and copied names out of his address book while Swale was out at the movies. Now Swale was sitting in jail, having been brought in the night before for resisting arrest, along with possession of: four ounces Mexican heroin, ten sticks dynamite, one M1 rifle with two hundred rounds of ammunition, one police revolver with ammunition, and twenty-three copies of a Communist Party pamphlet urging workers to revolt against their bosses and their elected leaders in Washington, D.C.          Haigwood had been at home with his wife, Annie, over the Thanksgiving weekend. He’d gotten the call last night at dinner. Now he was walking into the jail at eight on Monday morning to get his first eyeball-to-eyeball with this Red they had been watching for more than six months.          There was a jail guard stationed at the front desk. Haigwood smiled at the man as he unwrapped his scarf from around his neck. “Good morning! How’s everything with you fellas?”          “Good morning,” the guard answered, looking him up and down warily. “Is it snowing already?”          Haigwood took his fedora off, tapped the snow dust off its brim, and ran his hand through his hair. “Yes, it’s brisk out there!” He pulled out his credentials. “I’m Christopher Haigwood, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m here to see Swale, Walter, a prisoner brought in about 2100 hours last night.”          The guard, whom Haigwood saw was about ten years younger than he was, focused on Haigwood’s ID. He reached his hand out tentatively to touch the wallet. “I heard about that. So you really work for J. Edgar Hoover, huh?”          “And the American people,” Haigwood answered with a smile. “Now do you think you could get someone to show me to Swale?”          The guard picked up a telephone receiver from a handset at his station and dialed a number. Haigwood toyed with his hat, smothered his impatient sigh, and looked around at the signs in the jail’s foyer. The signs told him to be on the alert for any men dressed in black and gray stripes, because they might be escaping inmates. And that he was going to have to surrender his revolver if he wanted to go any further. He looked out the window and saw the snowflakes floating gently downward, their numbers growing. From further inside the jail he could smell the morning coffee, but he’d just finished off a Coca-Cola in the car.          He was really angry at Swale for getting himself arrested like this. But he was very much looking forward to speaking to him personally.          A second guard appeared and took Haigwood inside the jail. This one older than him, and not shy at all about staring at the G-man with frank curiosity. He had a nametag that read, “G. Cantor”. Nobody asked Haigwood for his service weapon, so he kept his overcoat on and didn’t mention it.          “So I read this guy’s sheet,” Haigwood’s guide said indifferently as they walked.          “Yeah, you did?”          “Yeah,” Cantor nodded, looking like he didn’t care, but watching Haigwood’s face carefully. “You know we don’t get a lot of dynamiters in here.”          “Oh, you don’t?” Haigwood put a chime of surprise in his voice.          “No,” the guard said, warming up to explaining his job to someone he had expected to be smarter than him. “We don’t get too many commies, either.”          “I guess you’ve got one today, though?”          “Yeah, yeah, we’ve sure got one today. It’s an unusual day. Here he is, on the end.”          They had been walking down a chilly, second-level row of cells as Haigwood parried Cantor’s efforts to pump him for information. It was cold enough that Haigwood was quite comfortable with his overcoat on. Morning light, turned a cottony gray by the snow coming down outside, slanted in through the high, narrow, barred windows.          Swale was up early, and had heard them coming. Haigwood could see him pressing his face up against the bars of his cell, craning his neck to see them approach. But Haigwood stopped first at the cell adjacent to Swale’s, and looked down at a little man wrapped in a blanket on one of the cell’s two bunks. “Who’s this?” He asked Cantor.          “Who, him? That’s Hobson. He stays with us sometimes, three or four times a year.”          “What brings him in?”          “Tuning up his wife.”          Haigwood gestured at Hobson’s sleeping cellmate. “And what about that one?”          “That’s, uh, Gomez. Got drunk and stabbed a fellow over a game of cards.”          “OK,” Haigwood said, reassured that the two men who might overhear his conversation didn’t much matter. He told the guard, “Thank you very much, Mr. Cantor, I’ll be fine here,” as he took the final few steps that brought him face to face with Walter Swale through the bars of his cell.


About the Author:
Brian Downes learned to read at a young age. He is now a novelist who lives in Orlando, Florida. His other novels are The Berlin Fraternity and The Carrefour Crisis. He also writes for the website Florida Geek Scene.
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