Sneak Peek of "Her Yearning for Blood," a new take on vampires in our world...
Thanks again for all your support. July has turned out to be another spectacular month in book sales (the best month of the year so far, and it's only the 14th!). None of that would be possible without so many of you enjoying my work and spreading the word. Please know that I am and will remain forever grateful.
Below is a sneak peek at my new "Her Yearning for Blood" series. Please forgive what I'm sure are a good bunch of errors. Unfortunately, the Focus House editors haven't yet gotten a chance to straighten it -- and me :-) -- out yet.
I hope you'll drop me a note and let me know what you think :-)
"Her Yearning for Blood, Episode One"
Three loud explosions sent dust spewing up like a sooty volcanic plume above the abandoned military base. I gritted my teeth and rushed as fast as my leg brace and crutches would allow across the endless, cracked expanse of concrete, all that remained of the military buildings that had been demolished when the town council had driven the US Army out of town fourteen years earlier. Far ahead, the distant tree line towered over sparkles of afternoon sunlight that reflected off the windshields of several cars parked at the overgrown entrance. Glancing back, I saw dark haze filling the sky. Another explosion vibrated the concrete beneath my feet and sent something whizzing past my head. Ducking and twisting sideways, I caught one of my crutches on the rough concrete. For one terrifying second, I thought I might tumble and re-shatter my right knee. Fortunately, fate and instinctively shifting my weight to the opposite crutch kept me upright, even as my left armpit screamed out in pain. The air smelled like a mixture of burnt rubber and diesel exhaust. I coughed, pulled myself upright and rubbed sore left ribs as I tried to get my bearings again. The filthy cloud had already filled the sky making it impossible to see either the cars or the treetops ahead. A dozen teenage girls screamed somewhere behind me. Boys yelled. “Rachel, Amanda!” I called out. When neither of my friends responded, I hobbled toward what I hoped was Amanda’s car. The screaming faded as I swung through the flat, murky landscape. I heard the boys planned to find a way into the Army base’s cement-sealed manhole covers, but explosives! Any fool should have known better. Assuming the rumors about secret laboratory catacombs and stockpiles of weapons were true, exposing them to explosives should have been the last thing anyone wanted to do. I never should have come. “Rachel, Amanda!” I stopped to massage my aching side and felt pretty certain I had cracked a rib. At this rate, I would be in a wheelchair before senior year even started. It was getting hard to breathe and the smog burned the inside of my nose and throat. Covering my mouth with my blouse collar, I inhaled several semi-clean breaths. The cloud of grit-filled smog made it impossible to see. How had I let Amanda talk me into coming? But even as I asked the question, I knew the answer: I had hoped Evan would be here. Stupid! I’d already crippled myself for him, and still he didn’t— I would not allow myself to complete the thought. Idiot! “Rachel, Amanda!” I yelled, waited thirty seconds and yelled again. The last I knew, Amanda had been flirting with a football player near one of the concrete-filled manholes and Rachel had been with the new boy who moved in next door to her and her grandmother in the low-income apartment complex on Route 112. That left me alone to wander in hopes of finding Evan who, of course, would never have come here. He hadn’t hung out with any of us since third grade, the year his father died. I remembered the event clearly because my grandfather had also been found dead in the woods that same day. The police claimed it was a passing serial killer, but no one in Groacherville had ever believed that. The explosions seemed to have stopped, but rather than thinning the dark smog grew worse, brown and clotting like an airborne cancer. I could barely see my outstretched hand. Anxious to get free of the smoke before I suffocated, I took several more inhalations through my collar then held my breath and hobbled as quickly as possible until I had to stop and suck air through my blouse again. A healthy person might have been able to crawl across the ground where the air was probably better, but I couldn’t even bend my knee forget crawl on it. Several panicked voices surged toward me from the right. “This is the wrong way, Sherrie!” one girl squealed. “We should have seen the cars by now!” “It’s not my fault,” the head of the football cheerleading squad snapped. “It’s not like I’m a ranger or anything.” She coughed. “Let’s go right.” Cough. “The cars must be that way!” I probably should have called out, but Sherrie Tepper would have been more likely to steal my crutches than wait for me. Besides, she and her gaggle sounded as lost as I was. I drew more tainted air through my shirt. Suddenly, fear of dying on a concrete pad at the end of a dead end road seemed entirely too possible. Shaking the thought from my mind, I pressed forward. I had only moved a dozen steps when the faint sobs from Sherrie’s group faded completely into the cloying smog behind me. Feeling as though a death shroud had been thrown over the abandoned military site, I fought a rising panic and forced myself to keep going. Patches of sand, cracks and loose chunks of concrete made using crutches treacherous in the murky air. I had only to reach the concrete edge, I told myself; then I would be able to follow the border until I could see the cars. Unfortunately, the growing pain in my side and the feeling that I might not be going in a straight line gave me reason to doubt I could make it. To make matters worse, every few steps I had to stop to breathe through my collar. Thinking the smoke from the explosions would have to settle at some point, I kept my eyes on the skyline, but the swirling smoke made it impossible to see beyond a few feet. After my fifteenth or twentieth stop, my side and armpits were sore and my lungs ached from holding dirty air so long. My world had become a nightmare of pain and fear. But each time I wanted to give up, I convinced myself that it wouldn’t be much further, that the cars and my friends were just ahead. Suddenly, one of my crutches sank and twisted out of my hand, spilling me onto rock-strewn sand. A thousand spikes of pain slammed from my kneecap straight to my brain. Though my doctor had removed the cast and replaced it with a plastic and foam brace a week earlier, he had warned the knee would be fragile for at least another few months. Just one more price I had paid for trying to impress Evan Groacher. That’s what I got for thinking he might actually see me as something other than the grease-covered dork who made out his bills whenever he stopped for an oil change or tire rotations at my father’s garage. The worst part about my accident was that he had not even been coaching the girls’ soccer team that day. Knowing I was either the unluckiest or dumbest person in Groacherville, possibly both, I struggled to get up but agony shot like lightning bolts from my knee. I had definitely fractured it again. Fighting back the nausea, I remembered that I had at least reached the edge of the concrete. Coughing, I peered out into the gloom but could see no sign of Amanda’s gold convertible nor any of the other cars. I also couldn’t hear anything but my own ragged breathing. “Help!” I screamed, not bothering to disguise my terror. “I’m over here!” My bad luck held. No one answered. Chattering and screeching sounds came from the murk beyond my feet. Though Maine wasn’t known for dangerous animals, fear clawed up my spine. I grabbed the nearest aluminum crutch and made ready to defend myself. “Amanda, Rachel. Anyone!” Sucking breath through my collar like a fire-victim, I tried to understand why the air had not cleared yet. Instead, the brownish haze hung like polluted swamp fog. My eyes started to sting. Wincing, I tried once again to pull myself up by my crutches but swooned from the pain. My knee couldn’t be moved. Deep growling sounds came from off to my left. You’re imagining it, I told myself. The deep noise came again. “Amanda, Rachel!” Did they leave me? Not Rachel–not unless she thought I had caught a ride with someone else, but Amanda would definitely have hurried away before the police arrived to investigate the explosions. The ex-cheerleader had lost her license two months earlier and wasn’t scheduled to get it back for another month. If her father had not been on one of his long business trips, she never would have dared to drive here at all. The screeching came again, so close that I instinctively jerked my feet away from the sound and nearly passed out from the pain. I held onto consciousness and tried to make out the threat. Unfortunately, the only thing visible beyond my black shoes was the bizarre roiling smog. Could the explosions have released a military toxin? For years, it had been rumored that the Army had sealed off a honeycomb of secret underground laboratories and weapons caches beneath these acres of concrete. I had my doubts. My parents seldom discussed Fort Groacherville, but the few times they did mention it was only to express relief that the local disappearances had finally stopped when the base had been dismantled. That was fourteen years ago. Regardless of whether the rumors were true or not, had I known the boys planned to dynamite their way belowground I never would have come. Something stung my finger. “Ow!” I yanked my arm away from the sand as dozens of other painful stings exploded across my fingers and hand. More pain shot like a gasoline fire across my other hand and up my ankles. Insects! I screamed and tried to drag myself back to the concrete. The movement was like stabbing a sword into my kneecap. A surge of white hot agony shot straight up my spine. The pain spreading across my skin seemed like a mild nuisance in comparison. Dizzy, unable to move my legs, I held both hands up and saw…ants! Large, red fire ants! I tried to brush them from my fingers and palms, but the vile creatures seemed to have attached themselves to my body. I could feel hundreds of tiny pincers embedding in both my legs. I must have fallen on an anthill. Knowing that I had to get away, I ignored the agonizing jolts to my nervous system and pulled myself backwards toward the concrete. My hands sank into the sand as I struggled to drag my lower body. My teeth ground together. It felt as though an engine was backfiring inside my knee, but I had to get free of the anthill. It took a half dozen heaves before I finally I felt concrete under my hands. My arms and shoulders trembled from the effort as I dragged my rear end over the hard foundation edge but then slumped, exhausted. Even if I managed to survive one last agonizing jolt to my ruptured knee, my limbs were stiffening up, the muscles growing numb and tight. Insect venom made my body feel like a swelled water balloon. I could feel my consciousness slipping away. Like a blanket of pain, I felt thousands of stinging signals coming from all over my body, including my scalp, neck and cheeks. In a final effort, using every last ounce of strength in my cramped arms, I lifted myself and shifted backwards once, twice, three times. My knee exploded with pain as my foot struck the edge of the concrete. Why hadn’t they stayed on the sand? Tears streamed down my cheeks. I could still feel tiny pincers digging into my flesh, stinging me everywhere imaginable. It was as though hundreds, thousands of tiny electric probes were being pressed into my body. I didn’t have the energy to wipe them from my lips, nose. I heard moaning and angry screeches. It took me several seconds to realize I was the one moaning. The brown air clotted around me, close as coffin walls. My lungs longed for oxygen. Still the ants crawled inside my clothes, my ears. Pain had become my companion at death. The screeching came again, closer this time. I felt something on my chest. Realizing my eyes had drifted closed, I forced them open to see gray fur, red eyes, and a tiny mouth filled with oversized fangs. A squirrel, but not like any squirrel I had ever seen. The little creature screeched again, saliva dripping from its open maw. It leaned forward, and I knew it was going to bite my nose, my lips. I fought to stay conscious but the pain and lack of oxygen were a potent mix. I had to get away, but how? All I could do was to lie on the hard concrete surface that was, apparently, to be my bloody altar. The squirrel’s claws dug into my chest as it lunged for my neck. I opened my mouth to scream– Suddenly, a huge shadow surged out of the roiling fog. I felt myself slipping away, but not before a silver blade swooped out of the sky and sliced neatly through the squirrel’s neck. Warm blood splattered my face. “Hold still,” a deep, familiar voice said as cloth wiped across my chin, cheeks and forehead. “They’re attracted to blood.” My field of vision started to close as a hand squeezed blood from the squirrel’s headless corpse…onto the floor of a deep, dark cavern. I knew I had slipped into the land of dreams, but the thick clots of red liquid beside me seemed important somehow. I was hungry.
Thomas scratched his razor sharp fingernails along the concrete wall to let Belinda know he was coming. Being in the final stage of transition, she would be susceptible to any sudden changes, especially surprise visits. Someone just “popping in” could easily overwhelm her nervous system and send her body into a mindless rage, which would force her consciousness to cling precariously to the few last vestiges of her thinking-self that remained. Belinda had one maybe two days remaining at most. Thomas didn’t look forward to putting her down but he would. Such was the responsibility of a clan leader. A new guard stood watch outside her locked steel door. Originally, an accountant or bookkeeper of some form, he was calm and matter-of-fact, exactly the sort of personality that the council liked to see turned. It had been decades since an aggressive or excitable vampire had been allowed into the Boston clan. Volatile types inevitably attracted the attention of human authorities and were harder to control, especially as the time for burning drew near. No. Accountants, mild-mannered house wives, even classical musicians were, surprisingly, a much better fit for the brutal and short life led by members of the clan. You needed only look at their last leader for proof. Belinda had been a nurse. The guard bowed and moved to open the door. Thomas slashed his nails across the blond man’s cheek, just deep enough to teach. “You always knock first,” he hissed to the novice. “She must be aware that someone is entering!” The guard wiped blood from his already-healed wounds. Bowing, he licked the red liquid from his fingers. Thomas pounded on the door. “Belinda, it’s Thomas!” “I’m still me,” came her voice, still strong, still in control. “Come in.” Thomas nodded and the guard unlocked the heavy, reinforced door. Belinda’s burn chamber was as comfortable as could be devised. Her bed and most of her furnishings had been moved into the concrete room, as had her collection of 80’s rock and pop albums. What was left of the obsolete turntable sat in shattered pieces of clear and fake wood plastic on the corner of her dresser. A dozen albums and covers had been slashed into ribbons and now decorated the floor like ungainly confetti. The two-shelf album stand beside the bureau, however, remained largely untouched with hundreds of musical choices intact. “I can have someone bring you another record player,” he said, turning to his predecessor. “That would not be wise,” Belinda said, from her standing perch at the edge of her bed. Steeled into a semi-crouch, she looked like a wild cat waiting to pounce on its prey. Her trembling hand ran through snarled brunette hair. Her black tongue licked across chapped lips. Flakes of dried blood covered what used to be a complexion as perfect as pale porcelain. Crystal blue eyes were bloodshot with red stains in the corners. “Music causes my mind to wander.” “You are looking well,” he said, which was true given that she had spent at least twelve of the last twenty-four hours screaming and digging at the flesh around the iron manacles that bound her wrists and ankles. Only a constant supply of fresh blood had allowed her body to rejuvenate quickly enough to stay ahead of the injuries. He glanced to the four adult bodies stacked like discarded luggage beside her bed. Normally, clan members were burned long before they reached this stage. Belinda, however, would choose her own time…or be unable to. “Have you verified the rumors?” she asked. “Jared and Short William found nothing.” “What about the trio I sent to Maine?” “We think they were intercepted by the Burlington Clan,” Thomas said. “I presume all three are dead.” Belinda slumped to the bed. “So I should stop fighting. There’s nothing but fire.” “Do not give up!” Faster than any human eye could have followed, Belinda flew from the bed toward Thomas’ throat. She stopped with a clash of chains less than two feet from him. Her breath smelled of rot and decay. “You do not tell me what to do!” she snarled. She still had fight left in her. Thomas would have expected no less of a clan leader, even one so close to the burning. He bowed his head in deference. Regardless of the circumstances she would always be his leader. “Your Highness, I meant only that there is reason to hope. The trio tracked rumors through a dozen Maine villages and towns. They were on their way to a place called Groacherville when we last heard from them.” Belinda’s chains clanked as she tested the extent of her shackles. Thomas remained still. A clan leader never backed away from danger. Besides, he knew the chains’ limits. She snarled, backed away and asked, “Do you now believe this rogue vampire exists?” Thomas nodded. “I believe the rumors have some basis in fact. I’ve already sent another team to the Maine town. I’m hopeful.” “You may go then,” Belinda spat. Then her head sagged. “And I will find some way to survive.” Thomas nodded and left. He wished she could.
End Sneak Peek.
Be sure to pick up your copy of "Her Yearning for Blood, Episode One," coming July 2012.
Below is a sneak peek at my new "Her Yearning for Blood" series. Please forgive what I'm sure are a good bunch of errors. Unfortunately, the Focus House editors haven't yet gotten a chance to straighten it -- and me :-) -- out yet.
I hope you'll drop me a note and let me know what you think :-)
"Her Yearning for Blood, Episode One"
Three loud explosions sent dust spewing up like a sooty volcanic plume above the abandoned military base. I gritted my teeth and rushed as fast as my leg brace and crutches would allow across the endless, cracked expanse of concrete, all that remained of the military buildings that had been demolished when the town council had driven the US Army out of town fourteen years earlier. Far ahead, the distant tree line towered over sparkles of afternoon sunlight that reflected off the windshields of several cars parked at the overgrown entrance. Glancing back, I saw dark haze filling the sky. Another explosion vibrated the concrete beneath my feet and sent something whizzing past my head. Ducking and twisting sideways, I caught one of my crutches on the rough concrete. For one terrifying second, I thought I might tumble and re-shatter my right knee. Fortunately, fate and instinctively shifting my weight to the opposite crutch kept me upright, even as my left armpit screamed out in pain. The air smelled like a mixture of burnt rubber and diesel exhaust. I coughed, pulled myself upright and rubbed sore left ribs as I tried to get my bearings again. The filthy cloud had already filled the sky making it impossible to see either the cars or the treetops ahead. A dozen teenage girls screamed somewhere behind me. Boys yelled. “Rachel, Amanda!” I called out. When neither of my friends responded, I hobbled toward what I hoped was Amanda’s car. The screaming faded as I swung through the flat, murky landscape. I heard the boys planned to find a way into the Army base’s cement-sealed manhole covers, but explosives! Any fool should have known better. Assuming the rumors about secret laboratory catacombs and stockpiles of weapons were true, exposing them to explosives should have been the last thing anyone wanted to do. I never should have come. “Rachel, Amanda!” I stopped to massage my aching side and felt pretty certain I had cracked a rib. At this rate, I would be in a wheelchair before senior year even started. It was getting hard to breathe and the smog burned the inside of my nose and throat. Covering my mouth with my blouse collar, I inhaled several semi-clean breaths. The cloud of grit-filled smog made it impossible to see. How had I let Amanda talk me into coming? But even as I asked the question, I knew the answer: I had hoped Evan would be here. Stupid! I’d already crippled myself for him, and still he didn’t— I would not allow myself to complete the thought. Idiot! “Rachel, Amanda!” I yelled, waited thirty seconds and yelled again. The last I knew, Amanda had been flirting with a football player near one of the concrete-filled manholes and Rachel had been with the new boy who moved in next door to her and her grandmother in the low-income apartment complex on Route 112. That left me alone to wander in hopes of finding Evan who, of course, would never have come here. He hadn’t hung out with any of us since third grade, the year his father died. I remembered the event clearly because my grandfather had also been found dead in the woods that same day. The police claimed it was a passing serial killer, but no one in Groacherville had ever believed that. The explosions seemed to have stopped, but rather than thinning the dark smog grew worse, brown and clotting like an airborne cancer. I could barely see my outstretched hand. Anxious to get free of the smoke before I suffocated, I took several more inhalations through my collar then held my breath and hobbled as quickly as possible until I had to stop and suck air through my blouse again. A healthy person might have been able to crawl across the ground where the air was probably better, but I couldn’t even bend my knee forget crawl on it. Several panicked voices surged toward me from the right. “This is the wrong way, Sherrie!” one girl squealed. “We should have seen the cars by now!” “It’s not my fault,” the head of the football cheerleading squad snapped. “It’s not like I’m a ranger or anything.” She coughed. “Let’s go right.” Cough. “The cars must be that way!” I probably should have called out, but Sherrie Tepper would have been more likely to steal my crutches than wait for me. Besides, she and her gaggle sounded as lost as I was. I drew more tainted air through my shirt. Suddenly, fear of dying on a concrete pad at the end of a dead end road seemed entirely too possible. Shaking the thought from my mind, I pressed forward. I had only moved a dozen steps when the faint sobs from Sherrie’s group faded completely into the cloying smog behind me. Feeling as though a death shroud had been thrown over the abandoned military site, I fought a rising panic and forced myself to keep going. Patches of sand, cracks and loose chunks of concrete made using crutches treacherous in the murky air. I had only to reach the concrete edge, I told myself; then I would be able to follow the border until I could see the cars. Unfortunately, the growing pain in my side and the feeling that I might not be going in a straight line gave me reason to doubt I could make it. To make matters worse, every few steps I had to stop to breathe through my collar. Thinking the smoke from the explosions would have to settle at some point, I kept my eyes on the skyline, but the swirling smoke made it impossible to see beyond a few feet. After my fifteenth or twentieth stop, my side and armpits were sore and my lungs ached from holding dirty air so long. My world had become a nightmare of pain and fear. But each time I wanted to give up, I convinced myself that it wouldn’t be much further, that the cars and my friends were just ahead. Suddenly, one of my crutches sank and twisted out of my hand, spilling me onto rock-strewn sand. A thousand spikes of pain slammed from my kneecap straight to my brain. Though my doctor had removed the cast and replaced it with a plastic and foam brace a week earlier, he had warned the knee would be fragile for at least another few months. Just one more price I had paid for trying to impress Evan Groacher. That’s what I got for thinking he might actually see me as something other than the grease-covered dork who made out his bills whenever he stopped for an oil change or tire rotations at my father’s garage. The worst part about my accident was that he had not even been coaching the girls’ soccer team that day. Knowing I was either the unluckiest or dumbest person in Groacherville, possibly both, I struggled to get up but agony shot like lightning bolts from my knee. I had definitely fractured it again. Fighting back the nausea, I remembered that I had at least reached the edge of the concrete. Coughing, I peered out into the gloom but could see no sign of Amanda’s gold convertible nor any of the other cars. I also couldn’t hear anything but my own ragged breathing. “Help!” I screamed, not bothering to disguise my terror. “I’m over here!” My bad luck held. No one answered. Chattering and screeching sounds came from the murk beyond my feet. Though Maine wasn’t known for dangerous animals, fear clawed up my spine. I grabbed the nearest aluminum crutch and made ready to defend myself. “Amanda, Rachel. Anyone!” Sucking breath through my collar like a fire-victim, I tried to understand why the air had not cleared yet. Instead, the brownish haze hung like polluted swamp fog. My eyes started to sting. Wincing, I tried once again to pull myself up by my crutches but swooned from the pain. My knee couldn’t be moved. Deep growling sounds came from off to my left. You’re imagining it, I told myself. The deep noise came again. “Amanda, Rachel!” Did they leave me? Not Rachel–not unless she thought I had caught a ride with someone else, but Amanda would definitely have hurried away before the police arrived to investigate the explosions. The ex-cheerleader had lost her license two months earlier and wasn’t scheduled to get it back for another month. If her father had not been on one of his long business trips, she never would have dared to drive here at all. The screeching came again, so close that I instinctively jerked my feet away from the sound and nearly passed out from the pain. I held onto consciousness and tried to make out the threat. Unfortunately, the only thing visible beyond my black shoes was the bizarre roiling smog. Could the explosions have released a military toxin? For years, it had been rumored that the Army had sealed off a honeycomb of secret underground laboratories and weapons caches beneath these acres of concrete. I had my doubts. My parents seldom discussed Fort Groacherville, but the few times they did mention it was only to express relief that the local disappearances had finally stopped when the base had been dismantled. That was fourteen years ago. Regardless of whether the rumors were true or not, had I known the boys planned to dynamite their way belowground I never would have come. Something stung my finger. “Ow!” I yanked my arm away from the sand as dozens of other painful stings exploded across my fingers and hand. More pain shot like a gasoline fire across my other hand and up my ankles. Insects! I screamed and tried to drag myself back to the concrete. The movement was like stabbing a sword into my kneecap. A surge of white hot agony shot straight up my spine. The pain spreading across my skin seemed like a mild nuisance in comparison. Dizzy, unable to move my legs, I held both hands up and saw…ants! Large, red fire ants! I tried to brush them from my fingers and palms, but the vile creatures seemed to have attached themselves to my body. I could feel hundreds of tiny pincers embedding in both my legs. I must have fallen on an anthill. Knowing that I had to get away, I ignored the agonizing jolts to my nervous system and pulled myself backwards toward the concrete. My hands sank into the sand as I struggled to drag my lower body. My teeth ground together. It felt as though an engine was backfiring inside my knee, but I had to get free of the anthill. It took a half dozen heaves before I finally I felt concrete under my hands. My arms and shoulders trembled from the effort as I dragged my rear end over the hard foundation edge but then slumped, exhausted. Even if I managed to survive one last agonizing jolt to my ruptured knee, my limbs were stiffening up, the muscles growing numb and tight. Insect venom made my body feel like a swelled water balloon. I could feel my consciousness slipping away. Like a blanket of pain, I felt thousands of stinging signals coming from all over my body, including my scalp, neck and cheeks. In a final effort, using every last ounce of strength in my cramped arms, I lifted myself and shifted backwards once, twice, three times. My knee exploded with pain as my foot struck the edge of the concrete. Why hadn’t they stayed on the sand? Tears streamed down my cheeks. I could still feel tiny pincers digging into my flesh, stinging me everywhere imaginable. It was as though hundreds, thousands of tiny electric probes were being pressed into my body. I didn’t have the energy to wipe them from my lips, nose. I heard moaning and angry screeches. It took me several seconds to realize I was the one moaning. The brown air clotted around me, close as coffin walls. My lungs longed for oxygen. Still the ants crawled inside my clothes, my ears. Pain had become my companion at death. The screeching came again, closer this time. I felt something on my chest. Realizing my eyes had drifted closed, I forced them open to see gray fur, red eyes, and a tiny mouth filled with oversized fangs. A squirrel, but not like any squirrel I had ever seen. The little creature screeched again, saliva dripping from its open maw. It leaned forward, and I knew it was going to bite my nose, my lips. I fought to stay conscious but the pain and lack of oxygen were a potent mix. I had to get away, but how? All I could do was to lie on the hard concrete surface that was, apparently, to be my bloody altar. The squirrel’s claws dug into my chest as it lunged for my neck. I opened my mouth to scream– Suddenly, a huge shadow surged out of the roiling fog. I felt myself slipping away, but not before a silver blade swooped out of the sky and sliced neatly through the squirrel’s neck. Warm blood splattered my face. “Hold still,” a deep, familiar voice said as cloth wiped across my chin, cheeks and forehead. “They’re attracted to blood.” My field of vision started to close as a hand squeezed blood from the squirrel’s headless corpse…onto the floor of a deep, dark cavern. I knew I had slipped into the land of dreams, but the thick clots of red liquid beside me seemed important somehow. I was hungry.
Thomas scratched his razor sharp fingernails along the concrete wall to let Belinda know he was coming. Being in the final stage of transition, she would be susceptible to any sudden changes, especially surprise visits. Someone just “popping in” could easily overwhelm her nervous system and send her body into a mindless rage, which would force her consciousness to cling precariously to the few last vestiges of her thinking-self that remained. Belinda had one maybe two days remaining at most. Thomas didn’t look forward to putting her down but he would. Such was the responsibility of a clan leader. A new guard stood watch outside her locked steel door. Originally, an accountant or bookkeeper of some form, he was calm and matter-of-fact, exactly the sort of personality that the council liked to see turned. It had been decades since an aggressive or excitable vampire had been allowed into the Boston clan. Volatile types inevitably attracted the attention of human authorities and were harder to control, especially as the time for burning drew near. No. Accountants, mild-mannered house wives, even classical musicians were, surprisingly, a much better fit for the brutal and short life led by members of the clan. You needed only look at their last leader for proof. Belinda had been a nurse. The guard bowed and moved to open the door. Thomas slashed his nails across the blond man’s cheek, just deep enough to teach. “You always knock first,” he hissed to the novice. “She must be aware that someone is entering!” The guard wiped blood from his already-healed wounds. Bowing, he licked the red liquid from his fingers. Thomas pounded on the door. “Belinda, it’s Thomas!” “I’m still me,” came her voice, still strong, still in control. “Come in.” Thomas nodded and the guard unlocked the heavy, reinforced door. Belinda’s burn chamber was as comfortable as could be devised. Her bed and most of her furnishings had been moved into the concrete room, as had her collection of 80’s rock and pop albums. What was left of the obsolete turntable sat in shattered pieces of clear and fake wood plastic on the corner of her dresser. A dozen albums and covers had been slashed into ribbons and now decorated the floor like ungainly confetti. The two-shelf album stand beside the bureau, however, remained largely untouched with hundreds of musical choices intact. “I can have someone bring you another record player,” he said, turning to his predecessor. “That would not be wise,” Belinda said, from her standing perch at the edge of her bed. Steeled into a semi-crouch, she looked like a wild cat waiting to pounce on its prey. Her trembling hand ran through snarled brunette hair. Her black tongue licked across chapped lips. Flakes of dried blood covered what used to be a complexion as perfect as pale porcelain. Crystal blue eyes were bloodshot with red stains in the corners. “Music causes my mind to wander.” “You are looking well,” he said, which was true given that she had spent at least twelve of the last twenty-four hours screaming and digging at the flesh around the iron manacles that bound her wrists and ankles. Only a constant supply of fresh blood had allowed her body to rejuvenate quickly enough to stay ahead of the injuries. He glanced to the four adult bodies stacked like discarded luggage beside her bed. Normally, clan members were burned long before they reached this stage. Belinda, however, would choose her own time…or be unable to. “Have you verified the rumors?” she asked. “Jared and Short William found nothing.” “What about the trio I sent to Maine?” “We think they were intercepted by the Burlington Clan,” Thomas said. “I presume all three are dead.” Belinda slumped to the bed. “So I should stop fighting. There’s nothing but fire.” “Do not give up!” Faster than any human eye could have followed, Belinda flew from the bed toward Thomas’ throat. She stopped with a clash of chains less than two feet from him. Her breath smelled of rot and decay. “You do not tell me what to do!” she snarled. She still had fight left in her. Thomas would have expected no less of a clan leader, even one so close to the burning. He bowed his head in deference. Regardless of the circumstances she would always be his leader. “Your Highness, I meant only that there is reason to hope. The trio tracked rumors through a dozen Maine villages and towns. They were on their way to a place called Groacherville when we last heard from them.” Belinda’s chains clanked as she tested the extent of her shackles. Thomas remained still. A clan leader never backed away from danger. Besides, he knew the chains’ limits. She snarled, backed away and asked, “Do you now believe this rogue vampire exists?” Thomas nodded. “I believe the rumors have some basis in fact. I’ve already sent another team to the Maine town. I’m hopeful.” “You may go then,” Belinda spat. Then her head sagged. “And I will find some way to survive.” Thomas nodded and left. He wished she could.
End Sneak Peek.
Be sure to pick up your copy of "Her Yearning for Blood, Episode One," coming July 2012.
No comments have been added yet.
