THE PRINCESS by Laura Tolomei

THE PRINCESS by Laura Tolomei

Virtus Saga 7

The book that reconnects it all—love, sex, lust, but also the princess to her power. Don’t miss the seventh chapter of the Virtus Saga.

Alone. The future of his world on his shoulders, Prince Duncan Caldwell has to connect the dots. To pick up the pieces of broken love. Before the new edition of the Game. Before the terrible loss awaiting him at Black Rose. But not alone. Not without his angel. Certainly not without his princess. For only her power will save him.

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~Excerpt~

“So how is this going to help us?” Suddenly attentive, Chris shifted. “They already know we fuck like crazy.” His new position had drawn the prince closer than before, if at all possible. “And that stunt you pulled in the attic leaves no one any doubts we belong to one another—”

“This isn’t going to be about us.”

“Then…” As the dots connected in the angel’s head, Duncan saw his eyes brightening all of a sudden. “It’s going to be about her.”

“Exactly.” Too late he realized his crotch was digging in Chris’s belly. “We’ve been so bent on showing everybody what we feel about one another. We totally neglected to put her in the picture.” And it was driving him crazy, especially since his angel’s cock was as stiff as his. “So it’s time to set the record straight. Yours most of all, since you always play like you care nothing for her.”

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IN HIS WILDEST DREAMS by Marie Treanor

IN HIS WILDEST DREAMS by Marie Treanor

Every dream can come true…in unexpected ways.

The only time Glenn Brody acted on the waking dreams his mother called second sight, he landed in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Now he keeps himself grounded in the real world, turning a neglected Scottish mansion into a co-op that gives ex-cons a second chance.

He’s almost managed to ignore the persistent, erotically charged dreams featuring a beautiful, passionate woman—until that woman accosts him in the street to ask for a job.

In hiding from her violent ex, Izzy Ross has made a peaceful life for herself and her young son in the isolated Highland village of Ardknocken. Handsome men with a criminal record aren’t high on her list, but when work dries up, she’s forced to ask Glenn for a menial cleaning job at the big, dusty house.

Their mutual attraction turns all their preconceived notions upside down, and stirs the mansion’s legendary ghost. Attracting the kind of media attention that could force Glenn to make a perilous choice to save the woman he’s grown to love.

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Excerpt:Copyright © 2014 Marie Treanor
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication
He didn’t look like a laird. He was big and rough, wore tatty, mud-stained jeans and a baggy grey sweater, and he crouched on the roof of the largest outhouse, hammering nails into slates. His thick, too-long brown hair was tied back in a careless ponytail.

As Fiona and Jeremy emerged around the side of the big house into the yard, he lifted his head to face them. For the tiniest instant, he remained perfectly still, then he slid down the roof and dropped lightly to the ground. He still gripped the hammer in one large hand as he walked toward them. Something in his stride reminded Fiona of a caged animal, its violence temporarily controlled but far from tamed. It did things to her libido—until she looked into his watchful, scarred face and remembered, finally, why his name had seemed familiar.

Oh shit! He was holding a hammer, and Jeremy had no idea who he was.

Frozen, Fiona watched Jeremy walk forward to meet him, hand outstretched. “I’m told you’re the laird,” he said jovially.

“I’m Glenn Brody.”

She was right. It was him—Glasgow gangster and reputed hit man, recently released after serving ten years of a murder sentence. And yet G. Brody was listed as the owner of Ardknocken House and estate.

Clearly, the name meant nothing to Jeremy, who’d never had the benefit of working in Scotland. He beamed at the ex-con. “Excellent! My name’s Jeremy Danehurst. I work for a television company called Genuine. This is my colleague, Fiona Marr—whom you may recognize!”

Brody took his time to shift the hammer to his left hand before grasping Jeremy’s in his right for the briefest shake. Then he glanced at Fiona, who felt like a rabbit trapped in headlights. Or staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle. His lips twisted slightly, but no one could have called it a smile. To her relief, he didn’t offer to shake hands with her.

Jeremy said, “Fiona’s going to be fronting a new series we’re doing on haunted houses.”

“Another one?” Brody said sardonically.

“This one’s going to be a bit different,” Jeremy assured him. “We’re looking at historically significant places, bringing genuine background into the story of the haunting. So we’d love to feature Ardknocken House in one of our programmes. You should have had a letter, but we didn’t receive your answer, so I don’t know—”

“I didn’t send any answer,” Brody interrupted. “I understood that would be taken as ‘no’.”

Jeremy laughed easily. He was good at this stuff. But even his southern English ears must have picked up Brody’s accent, by now—hardly public school, or even regionless Scottish like her own. Brody’s was pure Glasgow. Although, admittedly, you could make out the words.

“Mr. Brody,” Jeremy said with an expansive wave toward the weathered grey turrets and stone walls of Ardknocken House. To Fiona, they no longer looked romantic and atmospheric; they seemed as threatening as the man who owned them. “You can’t expect us to give up on such a fabulous opportunity without a second try.”

“Is that why you’re here? Sorry you’ve wasted your time. My answer’s no. Unequivocally. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Somewhere, in prison or out, he’d developed enough social presence to make it impossible for them to stay. Almost like obedient children, she and Jeremy allowed themselves to be shepherded around the side of the house. From inside, a muffled cacophony of rock music and machinery drifted through the stone or from open windows. Fiona could hear a television too.

“Can I ask why?” Jeremy hazarded, still not giving up.

Brody shrugged. “Too busy. And besides, the house isn’t haunted.”

“We wouldn’t get in your way,” Jeremy promised.

Brody looked at him. “Yes,” he said, “you would.”

Even Jeremy blinked rapidly at that, a rare sign of fluster.

They rounded the corner to the front of the house, where they’d parked the car. Outside the impressive—and now open—front door, a young woman and a wiry, middle-aged man were arguing, although they shut up when they caught sight of “the laird” and his visitors.

“Good-bye,” Brody said with finality. He stood still as they walked on to the car. Fiona felt only relief.

But Jeremy, bloody Jeremy, paused with his fingers already on the door handle. He turned back and said over his shoulder, “You do understand that we’d pay you?”

It was, she supposed, inspiration. A place like this must cost a fortune to keep up. And even Brody, who didn’t look exactly tempted, gazed at him consideringly before he asked, “How much?”

Fiona gaped when the number rolled off Jeremy’s lips. Twice what they’d agreed to pay even the most mercenary of participants so far.

“F*ck,” said the wiry man on the doorstep with undisguised admiration.

Brody’s expression didn’t change. Then: “I’ll think about it,” he said abruptly, and turning on his heel, he walked up the steps past the two people at the door and disappeared inside.



“What’s to think about?” Chrissy demanded, following him into the house. “Money like that would solve more than a few immediate problems!”

Glenn could hear the car’s engine starting up outside. He shrugged but kept walking toward the dark oak staircase. “Whether or not we want them here. They’re making TV programmes about haunted houses, so they’d be under our feet day and night.”

“Meeting tonight, then?” Chrissy pursued.

Without turning, he could see the pound signs in her eyes. With the TV money, they could buy the new equipment now and still deal with the most necessary of the house repairs. Though she’d have to sell the idea of visitors to more grumpy ex-cons that him.

When he’d first got out of prison, Glenn couldn’t bear being indoors, even in the pouring rain or howling gales. But here at Ardknocken, it never felt like being enclosed. The house was too big, too gracious. Light poured in its big, Victorian windows, flooded all the way down the main stairwell from the huge skylight in the roof. It was why he’d first let others stay here, because even if you heard their voices, you never needed to see their owners, let alone walk into them. Unless you chose.

He chose now to leave the rest of the outhouse roof until tomorrow. Instead, he felt the urge to play, solely for his own amusement. And making these choices for himself was still a pleasing novelty. He leapt up the stairs two at a time, stretching his legs out, and strode along the landing to the next flight, which he took at equal speed.

At the end of the next hall, he pushed open his bedroom door and went in, swiping up his favourite acoustic guitar as he went. Then he sat cross-legged on his unmade bed, by the window, the guitar resting on his thighs as he gazed out over the rugged landscape to the scattered village and the sea beyond. Farther to the right, the hills loomed tall and ancient, reminding him of his own and everyone else’s tiny place in the hugeness of the world.

He strummed the guitar once, and then he saw her, the woman who’d been haunting his waking visions for months, a fraction of a second before the world altered.

That was different. The tilt into the dream usually happened first. Perhaps it had just been hard to perceive, because in the dream, he was still in bed, just not with the guitar. And it wasn’t this bed or this room.

But the really important thing was, he lay naked, cradled between the bare hips of a woman, pushing slowly and exquisitely inside her. Her long, black hair spilled over the white pillow. Her huge, liquid-brown eyes stared up into his with aching passion as she clung to him, undulating beneath him.

He was so struck with her expression, with his effect on her, that it was several moments before he recognized his own state of physical bliss—something he seemed to have no control over. He didn’t choose how or when to move, he just did, sliding in and out of her, arching to bend his head and kiss her beautiful dusk-peaked breasts. She had such beautiful breasts, full and pert, a perfect fill, surely, even for his big hands. He wanted to try, to see if the hand that caressed her was his, but he was stroking lower down, holding her hips steady.

He plunged faster now, licking the tiny beads of perspiration from her brow as she moaned and gasped with increasing intensity. Her fingers ran up and down his spine, digging, clutching. He could stay here all day and into the night. Oh yes.

When the storm broke over her, a smile split her face like sunshine, and yet tears spilled from the corners of her eyes as she writhed and convulsed beneath him. He took her mouth, swallowing her cries, driving into her again and again until, finally—

He sat on his own unmade bed, the guitar barely held in his slack hands.

Glenn squeezed his eyes shut in desperation, but the vision had gone.

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HUNTED by Laura Tolomei

HUNTED by Laura Tolomei

 A vicious predator brings bloody death to a peaceful village. On his hunt to stop the brutal killings, Kendryck will uncover truths best left hidden.

Why is this vicious predator terrorizing the village? Who is Therry, and why does he live deep inside the forest, away from mankind? But mostly, why can’t Kendryck get him out of his mind?

As the hunt progresses, so does his fascination with the most intriguing young man the hunter has ever met, until things don’t add up, and Therry’s dark secrets will have to be revealed…eventually.

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~Excerpt~

The body lay in a pool of blood. The smell pierced his nostrils and he inhaled it deeply. The predator had left visible marks all over the mangled flesh, ripped skin and thorn muscles strewn around like scattered toys left behind by a naughty child. Kendryck narrowed his gaze on the deathly scene, annoyed with the scarce light that did not allow a thorough examination. As usual, the forest keeps its secrets in darkness, he mused, although he had no trouble determining the cause of death. The same predator had struck again, the third killing in just over a month.

Having finished his analysis, he gathered some rocks to protect the body. He could not carry it alone the entire way. Instead, he would leave it there and run back to the village to seek help. When he was just about done, he heard a cry.

 “Help!”

Kendryck ran in the voice’s direction. The forest was oddly quiet as he sped through the tall trees, their thickness not allowing a clear view. Luckily, he now knew the territory by heart, so placing the sound was no particular effort. The voice called from an opening just a short distance away from the body.

“Help,” the cry rang out again.

The rest of nature was deathly silent―no bird song, no tiny feet scurrying away disturbing the stillness. Coming behind the trees, Kendryck saw the back of a slim figure, all dressed in black. The youth’s shoulders moved back just as the hunter saw the flick of a black tail disappearing inside the vegetation. So, the feline really exists, Kendryck thought, looking at the last of the long tail. “Hey,” he called out to the young man. “Are you all right?”

The man turned and flashed a pair of luminous green eyes on the hunter. He looked young, though something of his expression did not quite match the apparent age. Dark haired, he was tall and very slim. His face was interesting, though triangular in shape. In fact, he almost resembled a feline more than a human and Kendryck wondered briefly whether he was the predator’s relative.

“Thank you,” the youth said, moving towards him. “Without your intervention, the beast would have eaten me.”

He moved elegantly, Kendryck noticed, swaying slightly from side to side in a seductive way that he found intriguing.

When he reached the hunter, the boy flashed a bright smile. “How can I thank you?”

Kendryck was taken aback. Usually, victims from near death experiences at close range with predators did not react like casual tourist on a relaxing visit at the forest grounds. “Weren’t you afraid?” he asked, rather than answer the question.

The young man shrugged. “I live in the forest, so it wasn’t the first encounter of the kind. I’ve learned to dominate my fear. It usually never helps in times of crisis.”

Again, the boy struck him as much older than he looked. “I guess you’re right,” Kendryck agreed. “Anyway, you have nothing to thank me for. The beast had already left by the time I got here.”

“She left because she heard you coming,” the youth objected. Then, before Kendryck could deny any further responsibilities, he extended his hand. “By the way, I’m Therry.”

“Nice to meet you,” the older man said, surprised he really meant it. “I’m Kendryck and I’m one of the hunters who should find the beast.”

“Oh, she won’t let you find her that easily,” Therry assured.

“Did you get a good look at it? Our problem is that we don’t even know what it looks like.”

“She’s like a big black cat. That’s all I saw. As I said, when she heard you come, she left in a hurry.”

“How do you know it’s a female?” Kendryck asked interested.

Therry shrugged. “She looks female,” was the cryptic answer as he moved away from the hunter, heading inside the trees.

Disappointed to see him leave so soon, Kendryck followed the youth. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“So, you really do live in the forest,” Kendryck observed, knowing the village lay behind them.

“Of course, I do,” Therry confirmed, without stopping.

Kendryck reached him. “Maybe I should accompany you…just in case the beast returns.”

“As you like.”

They walked in silence for a while. Therry picked his way carefully, seemingly unafraid. Kendryck followed closely, checking each bush for a sign of the predator. But the way was clear and thankfully the forest was back to normal again. With a lighter pace, he felt the odd stillness slipping away just as birds chirped their melodious songs a little louder.

Soon, they came to a deserted little hut in a clearing. Therry opened the door and Kendryck followed inside.

“Do you live alone?” he enquired.

“No, I live with my woman.”

“But why have you settled so far away from the village?” Kendryck wondered aloud.

Ignoring his question, Therry went to a makeshift fireplace, built with stones. Over the bright flames, a metallic structure held a pail of water. The youth took down the pail and checked the water. “Would you like some herb infusion?” he asked, replacing the pot over the burning fire.

Kendryck was tempted to refuse. Usually, he disliked encouraging any form of social acquaintance, particularly with strangers. Yet, the youth intrigued him, his unconventional ways attracting more than a fair share of the hunter's attention. “All right,” the hunter agreed at last.

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SHATTERED by Patrick Royal

SHATTERED by Patrick Royal

Mind Shadows: Book 1

The only thing that multi-published, award winning horror author, Tom Elliot, wanted was to move to the country for a change of scenery and relaxation, to a quiet part of southern Illinois. It seemed he'd picked out a wonderful spot, miles away from the closest neighbor and even further away from civilization.

Tom couldn't write to save his soul. Weird thoughts trampled through his head and left him wondering if he'd made a mistake moving from Chicago. Could it have been that he ripped himself from his element, like his best friend, Michael Gully, had predicted? That he couldn't answer yet.

Words came and flowed like wildfire, but at what price? Tom's imagination was getting the best of him and running rampant. The very characters that he created tormented him, driving him mad where he couldn't distinguish fiction from reality.

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Excerpt:

Copyright © 2013 Patrick Royal

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

A moan drifted from the next room and teased Tom’s ear. Stopping to listen, he struggled to figure out what he’d heard. He stepped slowly into the living room. A woman stood with her back toward him. His heart thudded fast.

The woman moaned. Her long-fitted skirt hugged her hips, and a pleated white shirt. On the floor by her feet lay droplets of blood.

Tom peeped around the woman’s body and caught a glance of her face. “Lady, who are you? Why are you in my house?” he asked and widened his eyes.

Tom still faced the woman’s back, and she wept a bit harder. “You should know why I’m here,” she said in a soft but shaky voice. She turned around, faced him, and quickly threw her arms out in front of her. Blood trickled and dripped onto the floor from deep slits across both wrists. In her hand she held a yellow hair ribbon.

Tom’s jaw dropped open and he stumbled back, widening his view. “Oh my God. Wha…?”

The woman stepped closer to him and held her arms out with her wounds still dripping blood. Her body projected forward, as if traveling in flash.

“You did this! You killed my daughter, and you made me what you see.” She shoved her bloody wrists toward Tom.

“No, no. You’ve made a mistake,” Tom screamed and backed away from her. He clung to the wall with his legs weakening and his hands trembling.

The woman stood and laughed hysterically.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re not real. You’re not real,” he screamed. Opening his eyes, the woman had disappeared, the room once again silent. Tom sank to his knees, sat on the floor, and leaned against the wall with a blank stare.

Not long after the sun rose high in the sky, Tom’s nerves finally calmed. He called Michael, and it ended similar to the other times he called him for some well needed answers. His friend proved unable to offer any help. Hanging up, Tom sat at his desk more confused than ever. Am I losing my mind like Michael fears? He chuckled over his friend’s reaction when he told him that he planned to take a small break from writing. He had to admit that it even sounded strange to hear himself say it. Maybe, he was losing it. He had never really been scared of anything. Michael was the one that had always been scared and had nightmares over things that bothered him. What bothered him now was that he loved where he lived, but he hated the idea of being so far away from Michael. He had grown used to driving over to his house and discussing life’s little problems, and vice versa.

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A SATAN CAROL by Alan Steven Kessler

A SATAN CAROL by Alan S. Kessler

Nostalgic for the Inquisition and plague, Satan feels neglected by the modern world that no longer cares about heresy or blames him for disease and death. He plans to create a new genesis, a place where people will love him. For that, his son needs just the right soul.

Moving through time from Ireland during the famine year 1848 to Massachusetts, 2028, and a parallel dimension, Satan tries to create a place where people will love him. This requires Katie, age 14, to give her baby's soul to the devil's son.

A Satan Carol is a horror story with a message for those who want to understand God's apparent absence as the intersection of freewill and choice. It is a story with religious themes written for a secular reader. It is, in the end, a tale about family values even if they originate in hell.

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An Excerpt from: A Satan Carol
Copyright © 2011 Alan S. Kessler

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

“First, though, you need a little perspective. We have to go back to the beginning when, as I’ve already told you, I was God’s favorite. Know what happened to me? Forget what you’ve heard or read about my fall from grace. That’s all propaganda. Jesus won and winners perpetuate their own myths. If the Moabites had a bible, would Moses be the hero? Here’s the real story. I got screwed! My younger brother is a brown-noser. He told Dad he liked the idea of free will for men. I said it was a lot of crap. How can you expect a dog to obey if you let it run wild to shit all over the house? For being honest, I was cast out. Jesus got a really neat holiday with colored lights, songs, and puppies in bows; I get blamed for everything that goes wrong and the only ones who celebrate my birth are a few old hags dancing naked in the woods around a stump. Take my word for it, Orem, that’s not a pretty sight. These women might be smart, they all have PhDs in English literature from Michigan, but I’m like most guys, I prefer dumb blondes with big tits.

“I’ll bet you’re thirsty.”

Legs crossed, reclining in the air, Mr. Green sipped a tall, frosted glass of lemonade. “Ah, that hits the spot.”

“So this is where I am,” Orem said, his dry lips cracked and bleeding, “in the world you created. Hell.”

Mr. Green jumped down, his face on fire. By crushing his drink he made Orem feel he’d just swallowed glass.

“You think this is Hell? Death is oblivion! Hell doesn’t have people! It’s a pit holding a few souls, the universe’s worst, and I’m their fucking keeper! ShinyLand 7 is infinitely better. But it’s not my design, you insulting son-of-a-bitch! The people here did this to themselves! They made the choices! Talking to you is like talking to a two-year old. Want to take a nap? Should I get you some cookies and milk? OK, I’ll explain it to you, step by step. I would love a world all bright and blue, the kind Dad gave to Christ. But God didn’t help me find one. He doesn’t even speak to me. I had to do everything myself. ShinyLand 7 is a shit hole, the location’s terrible, but it’s a place I can fix up and call home.

“Who really knows why some people get the blessing and others the curse?” Wanting him to understand, Mr. Green increased Orem’s pain. “Dad loves the story about Jacob tricking Isaac into blessing him instead of Esau. God can be old fashioned, very Old Testament, if you know what I mean. OK, maybe I was a little rebellious, all children are, except Jesus, but it’s not easy when your father doesn’t love you. You try and try; nothing is ever good enough. I disappointed my Dad. Pal isn’t exactly the kind of child I wanted either but here’s the difference between God and me: I didn’t abandon my son just because he’s different. You work with what you have. Take this place. Like I said, it’s not exactly the Garden of Eden, but it could be worse. The other ShinyLands burned to a crisp. I’m grateful to have Pal. I’m explaining the world to him and my wife is doing her part to make sure he understands. We hire good help. Pal’s education is a team effort. Occasionally, one of our staff dies or gets eaten. That’s not my fault. I’m just a parent trying to do the best I can for my son. He’s walking now and more alert. I told you I have a plan for him. As a Christ-like man, you’ll appreciate it. It’s all about the soul.”

Orem’s forehead and palms bled.

“It’s open kimono time.” Mr. Green stood sexless and naked, his small head with its jolly face resting on an enormous belly covered in front with a thousand, green, spider-like legs growing from sores of bubbling pus. In back, hands burrowing through scaly flesh dangled long strands of eyeballs twitching and spinning in torment. “I don’t often reveal myself. People find it disturbing. But I know you value the truth.”

The presence of the devil’s inner self overwhelmed Orem in a spiritual and physical, dark poison. He saw himself inside out. Blood dripped hot and sulfuric on his gray heart perforated by worms. Little men without eyes or mouths, their faces twisted flesh, hung upside down from his melting bones.


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DEVIL'S EYES by G.R. Richards

DEVIL'S EYES by G.R. Richards

Synesthesia isn't always a useful gift for a recording engineer, as Graham reveals during a film interview for Noah's documentary on the topic. Synesthetics are people who see music. Some see colors or shapes in the notes they hear. Graham's a little out of the ordinary -- he sees images. Often, entire scenes play out before his eyes.

Graham's come up against a stumbling block because of his synesthesia. In the bizarre death metal tracks he's working on, the devil's eyes appear at every turn. He's scared stiff, and if he's afraid to listen to them, how will he ever get the tracks edited?

As Noah and Graham discover, confronting the devil's eyes is a job for two.

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.


Watching Noah through the mirror, Graham set the system to broadcast into the studio. He put on his headphones as Noah worked away at his laptop. He should probably give the guy some warning. Pressing the speaker button, he said, "Noah, I'm putting one of the Valley of Darkness tracks on now. This is their take on 'In the Hall of the Mountain King' from Peer Gynt."

Noah turned away from his computer to squint at the wall of dark windows. He obviously couldn't make out Graham's shape through the glare of the glass, but he gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up nonetheless. Graham's insides seized at his broad smile. In a short space of time, Noah had tapped his inner thoughts and asked about mental patterns most people expressed little interest in hearing about. It seemed only natural to fall for a documentary filmmaker. They were like therapists, inviting transference.

With a deep breath, Graham started the track. Fuzz. The guys' chatter. Voices didn't bother him. Even a capella singing didn't cause him much synesthetic reaction. His stomach clenched as they went quiet. To distract himself from the revival of old images, he marked on his sheet where to clip the track at the start. When the upright bass struck its first deep, reverberating note, he nearly jumped out of his chair. Noah turned owl-like and latched onto his gaze, even through the dark glass. There was a silence between them, despite the cello seeping into the groundwater of the bass' heavy-handed performance.

They were a blood-thirsty group, Valley of Darkness. The results were impressive and chilling, but they tore the classics to shreds like a pack of wolves. Graham was shoulder-deep in a vision before he even realized the synesthesia had kicked up. It came on fast, and once he was this far-gone he knew there was no escape. When he looked around, it wasn't a room with a soundboard he saw. The expanse in front of him was no longer a recording studio behind dark glass. The deep, haunting music transported him to a world that wasn't his. A dark planet with nothing on the horizon but starlit space. A bone yard. There was no atmosphere, only bones everywhere he looked -- underfoot, too. They snapped like pencils. Dust rose knee-high before dissipating into the planet's nothingness.

Graham had never seen this place before. As a well-worn drum kit kept the rumbling cellos and basses in time, he gazed around the planet. In the distance, silver wolves snarled and snapped as they tore at a bloody carcass. His heart beat faster. Should they come after him, how would he defend himself? The bones turned to dust as he trod on them. Why approach wolves with no manner of defence? He couldn't say why his feet were moving. He certainly wasn't willing them to.

The wolves looked up from their meal and their eyes were devils' eyes -- red pupils in golden gleaming pools, lined in black. They shocked Graham into submission. He stood very still as the mangiest of the dogs crept away from the pack. The rest were more interested in fighting over table scraps. He watched the silver dog with matted fur. He watched its devil's eyes as it approached. A wolf would go for the jugular, wouldn't it?

Like a virgin sacrifice, Graham fell to his knees among the bones.

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DEADLIER BY THE DOZEN by Marcia Colette

DEADLIER BY THE DOZEN by Marcia Colette

Dark Encounters, Book #2

The more the scarier.

Put up for adoption at seven-years old, history teacher Mackenzie Lawson has spent the last twenty years dreaming of meeting her family again. However, her hopes to rekindle old memories and find closure have hit one hell of a snag. A hundred-year-old curse placed upon her relatives has begun, unleashing a dozen of her doppelgangers who want her dead. Their purpose is to infiltrate her family and kill everyone in sight. To exact revenge for a wrong that happened more than a century ago.

Mackenzie must find a way to get rid of her psychotic doubles or risk having them go after her loved ones. However, each doppelganger kill causes her blood pressure to skyrocket to dangerous levels. This and more attract the attention of a mysterious mutant with patchwork skin who volunteers his services, but leaves out the part about it being his job to destroy the source of the doppelgangers starting with her. Mackenzie needs to figure out where his loyalties lie before DEADLIER BY THE DOZEN becomes deadlier by thirteen.

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Excerpt:

Thanks to hours of last minute shopping with bride-to-be and best friend Noor, my bunions decided to exact revenge as I limped out of the elevator on the third floor. I couldn’t reach my condo fast enough to tear off my shoes and soak my feet in a warm bath.

I stuck my key in the lock and opened the door.

A hand shoved me from behind. My bags dropped to the floor, tripping me as I fell forward into my condo. My front smacked the floor of the entryway next to my kitchen. My keys landed somewhere in the dark while my purse and mace went in the opposite direction. Damn.

Before I could stand and gather bearings, my assailant nearly yanked off my arm from the socket to help me to my feet. I expected him to throw me against the counter and kicked my legs wide enough for backdoor entry. He didn’t. Instead, he dragged me down the short hall into my living room and flung me toward the recliner.

Scrambling out of the chair, I screamed. He was there, slapping his hand across my mouth. He shoved both of us backward until we collapsed into the cushions, his heavy, muscled body on top of mine.

This is it. I’m going to get raped in my own condo. Ohmygod. What do I do? What do I do?

My muffled shrieks continued until my throat turned raw and my lungs burned. Between breaths, I tried to bite his palm, but my teeth didn’t have the reach. No way was I going down like this. I’d bring it on in such a way that would make the coroner think we had revisited the games of Ancient Rome.

Keeping one hand on me and his body pressed hard into mine so I couldn’t move, he reached for the nearby light and pulled the metal cord.

The beam against his face cut off my wailing. It was the guy from the department store. Though I had only noticed him twice, I couldn’t help staring at his scars. Different shades of Caucasian skin patches had been sewn onto his face with Frankenstein-like stitching. His plastic surgeon probably had to do a stitch-by-numbers to close those massive wounds. Despite the pieced together job, his eyes were the same color. Dark and filled with enough hatred to make a wild bull stand down.

He reached inside his jacket. I tried to bury myself in the cushions, since I had nowhere else to go. Holy shit! He was going to shoot me. I’d die before I ever made it to my long-lost family’s reunion. This wasn’t fair dammit! I had just found my older brother and younger sister after being separated from them for the last twenty-five years. So. Not. Fair. God, please. Please, say it’s not true.

The stranger slowed his movements before continuing. Just when I expected a gun or a knife, he produced a cell phone. He fingered across the touchpad screen before shoving it in my face.

“Your name wouldn’t be Whitney by any chance, would it?” He pushed the picture closer. “Look like anyone you know?”

I peeled my terrified stare away long enough to do what he said.

Ohymygod. Now, my struggles really stopped. In fact, I couldn’t take my eyes off the picture.

Except for my black, shoulder-length curly hair, she looked exactly like me. A perfect carbon copy. The scenery behind her wasn’t familiar, though it could’ve been anywhere. Still, I would’ve remembered posing for something like this, since it was taken in a desert region with her standing next to a sign that read Whiskey Pete.

I glared at my assailant. “My name is MacKenzie Lawson. I don’t know anyone named Whitney or otherwise.”

He studied my eyes for a few seconds more before snatching back the picture, grumbling, “She was a friend.” Again, his fingers slid across the smooth surface before he pushed the phone in my face again. This time, he played a video for me. “That woman standing on the subway platform. Watch what happens.”

I didn’t expect much and didn’t want to see, but I couldn’t help it. Passengers packed in together on the shoulder, waiting for the next train to arrive. Just as it had pulled into the station, a woman tumbled off the platform and slammed into the front of the train. People screamed in shock. Though there wasn’t any sound, I didn’t need it. The horror on their faces said it all. The weird part was that another woman assumed her place on the platform who looked almost exactly like her, only she wore a hat over her head to hide her eyes and parts of her face. They were the same height and weight, only wearing different clothes. She stood emotionless there while everyone crowded around and pointed, probably screaming. She had to have pushed her look-alike.

“Let me rewind and show you a close up.” The stranger slid his fingers on the cell phone to reset the video.

“No, I don’t need to see that again.”

He yanked me forward, though not quite out of the chair and shoved the phone in my face. “Look at it!”

I didn’t want to, but I did.

And wished I hadn’t. The woman who was pushed into the oncoming subway looked a lot like me and his precious Whitney.

I pushed the video away. “What the hell are you showing me this for?”

“Would you like to see another?”

“I don’t need—” I paused soaking in what he just said. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a dozen more at last count.”

“Somebody must have busted your crack pipe across the back of your head.”

His eyes narrowed like he wanted to choke me until my eyeballs popped out of my skull. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

I started to rise when he held a single finger out, motioning me to stay put. I thought about slapping it out of my way, but since he had strength while all I had were nails and a blood-curdling scream, I decided to park my behind in the chair again. “What do you want? Money? Because I’m a school teacher, which means you’re lucky I’m not robbing you instead.”

“I want to know about your childhood.”

“And I want to know why they let mental patients roam free!”

I had nothing to lose. My adoptive parents took pleasure in tormenting and treating me like a piece of shit. So when I had finally gotten out on my own, I vowed never to take shit from anyone again who didn’t respect me and mine. This guy had gone there.

His scowl loosened up, but not enough to say that I was out of danger. “Your upbringing. Your parents. Your real ones.”

“What fucking business is it—?”

The home-invader jammed a gun into my cheek. A frown bent his lips while seriousness marred his hardened face. He meant to pull that trigger if I didn’t give him what he wanted.

“W-w-wait!” A gulp slipped down my tightened throat. My heart pounded so hard against my ribcage that I thought it might go into arrest from sheer exhaustion. It was no wonder I had borderline hypertension.

“If that smart mouth doesn’t tell me what I want to know, then it won’t be talking to the police either.” He cocked the trigger.

Oh shit. My hands began to shake and I squinted, pulling my head into my shoulders with only a hope and a prayer that this maniac wouldn’t splatter my brain across the carpet. “My parents gave me, my brother, and my sister up for adoption. I had just turned seven at the time. They were good parents until that point. Just dropped us off at some gothic looking orphanage in the middle of the woods. They’re dead, okay? Died soon after that. The only family I have left is the family I haven’t seen in more than twenty years and who I plan to finally meet in a few weeks.”

I stopped. My horrible childhood was my own. Hell, I didn’t even talk about it with my best friends. They didn’t need to know my adoptive caretakers took pleasure in smacking me with dog leashes and shoving me into walls whenever I tried to prove to them that we could be a loving family if we tried. There wasn’t any love in that house. Only terror.

Click.

I was still here. Either he didn’t have any bullets or�

I let go of the tension creeping up the back of my neck and shoulders and slowly opened my eyes. The man slid the gun in a used leather holster underneath his jacket.

“Someone who looked a lot like you killed my partner Whitney while she was jogging in the park. I wasn’t sure if it was you or another woman who looks like you.”

“Another of the so-called twelve?”

He blinked, wonder marring his face as though he wanted to ask a question, but reneged. “You’re not like the others. Your hazel eye is on the right. Theirs is on the left, just like Whitney’s. A mirror image, so to speak. Are you right-handed or left?”

“Left.”

“They’re right. Like I said, a perfect mirror image, but opposites. Only, you must be the original.”

A plan came to mind. If he was so indulged in this psychotic crap he was shoveling, then perhaps I could use it to get away from him.

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REMOTE CONTROL by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

REMOTE CONTROL by Cheryl Kaye Tardiff

In this dark, suspenseful and somewhat comical look at one man's desires, Remote Control by bestselling author Cheryl Kaye Tardif delivers a strong message: Be careful what you wish for!

Meet Harold Fielding, plumber by part of the day, slacker/tv addict the rest of the day and night. Harry believes that fame and fortune will come to him if he wishes hard enough. God forbid if he should actually work for it.

Beatrice Fielding is Harry's hardworking wife. She holds down multiple jobs so her husband can laze about on his recliner, eating popcorn and drinking cola while watching his favorite shows. She has many wishes--some aren't so nice.

***2008 Textnovel contest finalist***

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Excerpt:

“Be careful what you wish for,” they say, but for forty-four-year-old Harold Fielding, who unfortunately isn’t one to listen to such good advice, those words will come back to haunt him.

Harold―Harry―always rebels against the norm. In fact, he says, “Wishes are like saying grace―something to be said before every meal.” So he wishes at least five times a day, while growing exceedingly fat.

However, good ole Harry has an excuse.

“If I wish hard enough,” he tells his wife Beatrice, “my wishes will eventually come true.”

Harry’s a TV fanatic and, surprisingly, fairly intelligent. He spends about ten hours a day parked in front of his ten-year-old Sanyo television with the remote control in hand, while watching shows on just about everything. The next day, he can tell you all about it; his recall is nearly perfect.

He never once contemplates actually working a forty-hour week and earning money. He’s already maxed out the VISA and MasterCard, plus a small bank loan that Beatrice knows nothing about. And now he’s waiting for his fortune to fall in his lap. Sadly, there’s no room there, so whatever good luck finds him usually ends up in a puddle on the floor.

Harry’s good with puddles. He’s a plumber by trade, when he bothers to do a job. The truth is, he’s been having trouble maneuvering under kitchen sinks; his stomach keeps getting in the way. Six months ago, he was depressed, which made him eat more. He’d almost lost faith that there is something better for him…somewhere…out there, and then fate stepped in.

After a chance run-in with an old classmate (Harry nearly knocked him down a flight of stairs when they passed on a landing), who happens to be very wealthy and who recommends one book, Harry’s life changes forever.

The Secret sits on the shelf behind the toilet. Harry reads it while relieving himself of the pounds of food he’s eaten each day. Since he’s always there a while, he can usually get through five or six pages a visit.

“I’ve read it now from beginning to end at least five times,” he boasts to his friends.

Of course, he hasn’t quite figured out that one must work towards receiving the good things in life, whether by deed or thought. He just figures that if he wishes for something, he’ll attract it. Eventually.

Be careful what you wish for, Harry.

* * *

On this fateful Friday night, Harry is sitting in his favorite recliner, the one with the sagging springs and torn leather footrest. He scowls at the television and balances a bowl of popcorn on his gargantuan stomach. Not an easy task.

“I wish to be rich and famous,” he says, just as he does at least twice a day. A handful of greasy popcorn follows and his stomach rumbles in rebellion.

Harry wants everything out of life―recognition, an inexhaustible supply of money and the perfect family to share it with.

He glances over his shoulder at his wife. Beatrice is ironing his work shirt for tomorrow, a pinched expression on her face. He studies her for a moment. She’s wearing her regular work outfit―a skirt and jacket in dove gray. It would look great, he thinks, if she was twenty years younger. Beatrice is thirty-nine. And why won’t that woman do something with her hair? Beatrice has grown out all the blond hair color he likes. It’s now a rusty gray, which she twists into a lump at the back of her head and fastens with one of those clamp thingies.

“You finished work early,” she says without looking at him.

“It was an easy job.”

Harry lets out a resounding belch in b-minor. The ominous sound is followed by a crescendo of sour pepperoni breath. It reminds him that there’s still a half bag of mini pepperoni in the fridge.

Beatrice looks up. “Why not take on a few jobs a week, Harry? We could use the money.”

She’s holding her breath. He knows this because when she says money, it sounds like buddy.

“You’re making enough for us to get by on, Bea,” he says. “’Sides, I’m waiting for my lucky streak to kick in.” He doesn’t want her to ask why he’s been taking a hundred dollars out every week. “You have faith in me, dontcha?”

Beatrice returns to her ironing with a loud sniff. She’s annoyed. He can tell.

“It’s gonna happen soon,” he says, more to himself. “I can feel it. My luck’s gonna change, and when it does, you’ll be sorry for doubting me.” He laughs. “And I’ll say, ‘I told you so.’”

He pushes the nearly empty popcorn bowl onto the end table beside his recliner and leans forward, grunting and shifting, trying to right the recliner. Finally, the footrest kicks into place. Then, with a deep breath, he grasps the arms of the recliner and throws his body forward and upward, and―ta-da!―we have lift off. Harold Fielding is standing.

With huffing breaths, he lumbers toward Beatrice.

* * *

“He’s one step from the grave,” her mother had told her just last week. And Beatrice has to agree.

She hears his heavy breathing moving closer but doesn’t want to look at him. She doesn’t want to see her reflection in his eyes, to know that her dull brown eyes rested in emaciated pits of shadowed skin, caverns that bespoke of countless sleepless nights.

It’s Harry’s fault. He snores loud enough to wake the dead. Sometimes he stops breathing for so long that she holds her own breath so she can listen. Is he dead? And every time, she jerks when a gasping, strangled choke rises from the depths of Harry.

She lifts her chin and finally looks at him. Her husband. The man she married over twenty years ago. ‘Til death do us part.’ She scowls. Well, how long is that going to take? And as quickly, she takes it back.

Harry wasn’t always like this. When she had married him, he had a bright future ahead of him and plenty of plans. They were going to build their own home, have three children and live in style. None of these dreams have come to fruition. The house they started building collapsed into a sinkhole when it was nearly completed. They had one daughter who moved out the day she turned eighteen and is now backpacking across Europe with a known drug dealer named Felipe. And as for living in style…?

She glances around the sad looking room. The sunflower wallpaper―circa 1970s―is peeling in long banana peel strips from the walls in the kitchen area. The dinette set is something they found on Kajiji.com, purchased from a couple who were moving to Toronto. Harry has already broken two of the four chairs.

In the living room, the matching couch and armchair in pastel periwinkle sink so low to the ground that it looks as if they will get sucked into the floor and earth below. Another sinkhole perhaps? A wayward spring sometimes jabs Beatrice in the thigh when she sits in the armchair, and the cushion is as flat as a pancake. Harry’s girth has taken care of that.

As her husband approaches, his massive belly flops over his pants and appears below the hem of his t-shirt. The waistband of his dirty track pants disappears beneath the drooping mass of dough-like flesh that hangs below his crotch. Oh, and there’s his bellybutton. You could hide a bar of soap in that.

Harry’s limbs are short and thick, tapering at the wrists and ankles, then flaring out into misshapen hands and feet that are always swollen and red. He scuffles and shuffles rather than walks, stopping to catch his breath every so often. Think of a gigantic Galapagos tortoise moving across the sand and you’ll get the picture.

“Our savings is nearly gone,” she says softly.

* * *

The only sound in the room is a ripping fart that Harry forces out as he passes her. He’s been into the mini pepperoni sticks again, with a platter of eggs, it seems―by the noxious potpourri that simmers in the air.

“Maybe you can teach some extra classes at the college,” he replies.

Beatrice bites her tongue. She already works full time teaching at an elementary school, plus she teaches the occasional adult class at Grant MacEwan. The college is already booked for courses for the next six months.

“I really think it’s time you find more work,” she persists.

“I wish you’d stop saying that.”

He moves to the fridge, grabs another beer and waddles back to his recliner. He wipes his perspiring brow with the back of a chubby hand. His fingers look like sausages ready to explode from their casings. Then he reaches into the bowl of popcorn, flops back into his chair and picks up the remote control, thereby completing his exercise regime.

Beatrice clamps her mouth shut.

When is the last time I saw him without that godforsaken remote control in hand?

She remembers. Last spring, they’d taken a plane trip to New Brunswick to visit Harry’s ailing mother. It wasn’t a cheap trip either; they had to pay for three seats―two for Harry.

And how long has it been since we’ve gone to a movie?

The last time, poor Harry wedged himself into the theatre chair so tightly that it took Beatrice, three attendants and some of that fake butter topping to dislodge him. On the drive home, she saw him wipe his fingers over his greasy jeans and lick each plump digit. It was obscene.

She misses the old Harry. The slimmer one.

When’s the last time he kissed me or told me he loves me? How long’s it been since we made love?

She shakes her head. Sex is completely out of the question. The last time they tried, she ended up with a dislocated hip and two fractured ribs, not to mention acid reflux symptoms that lingered for days afterward. They even tried to be adventurous, with her on top, but that only made things difficult to locate, and the last thing Beatrice wanted to do was go digging around under the sweaty layers of stomach and between Harry’s cellulite-dimpled, thunderous thighs. Plus Harry can’t lie on his back for long anyway. He might pass out.

So why does she stay with him? After all, their daughter is grown and has flown the coop, leaving behind a tired old hen and an obese rooster who has no more “cock-a” in his “doodle-do”.

She watches him now, a longing in her heart, wishing so desperately that he would return to the Harry she once admired and loved. Can it be that that man is gone permanently?

* * *

Beatrice recalls the day they were married.

The wedding was simple and sweet, and it took place a few months after college. Harry, decked out in a three-piece Armani suit that he’d borrowed from his brother, looked like the popular football jock that he was; Beatrice, wearing an elegant white dress cut low in the back, was the class valedictorian. She’d been so happy back then…and so in love. And Harry? Why, he’d literally swept her off her feet in a short five months.

Now he can barely lift his own feet.

They’d had such innocent dreams for their future together. She was going to teach wonderful, sweet children to read and write, maybe even homeschool their three equally wonderful and sweet offspring. Harry would own a plumbing company, hiring at least ten contractors, and they’d specialize in new homes. They’d target all the local builders and coax them with special deals. They’d all make a fortune.

But instead, reality had given her a classroom of unruly, spoiled children, a hectic schedule and one child of her own whom she’d had no time to homeschool. Harry’s company lost customers daily because of his poor work ethic and the three contractors he’d hired last fall had all quit. Better pay elsewhere, they’d all said.

Beatrice catches sight of her reflection in the mirror above the dinette table. What happened to me?

Her thin lips are pursed in discontent as she flicks a look over her shoulder and stares at the protuberance in the recliner. Things have got to change around here, she thinks.

She hangs Harry’s shirt over a wooden chair. “Goodnight, Harry.” She pauses in the doorway.

In answer, her husband of twenty years points the remote at the television and switches channels.

Beatrice can’t take much more of this.

She turns away. I wish that things would change.

Be careful what you wish for, Beatrice.

* * *

On this night―the night that ‘IT’ happens―the weather takes on the frightening quality of an orchestra gone awry. A merciless, miasmic symphony of heat and humidity is brewing, churning the heavens into a hazy, hellish hue of burnt amber. Bitter black clouds as dense as tar pits clash overhead. Hot rain is spat out, a trumpeting torrent that splatters and spreads into running rivers, flooding the grass and streets. Jagged lightning spears are thrown down to earth, landing with precision in a field of sleeping cattle, then on a power line, causing the lights in Harry’s rented abode to flicker. Thunder booms through the tiny two-bedroom house and an enraged wind drums on the doors, windows and the stove vent.

A pile of long overdue bills that Beatrice has left on the coffee table flutters to the ground, caught in a fluted draft that seeps under the front door and across the living room, and Harry shivers. The electricity in the air makes the hairs on his arms stand at attention.

“Goddamn storm,” he mutters.

He knows that Beatrice is probably tossing and turning in the bedroom down the hall, but he isn’t finished keeping his ever-vigilant watch of the small screen before him. There’s fifteen minutes left of the hockey game and he’s got a vested interest in the score. He’s wagered a thousand dollars he took in increments of one hundred from their savings. One thousand dollars for the home team to win.

And he has a feeling…

The doorbell rings. His pizza is here.

He pays the delivery guy, who yawns sleepily and hands him the two-for-one box.

“Keep the change,” Harry says, handing the guy a twenty.

The man gives him a scowl. “Thanks, buddy. I may be able to pay for the gas with that…uh,” he looks at the receipt, “forty-eight cents.”

Harry closes the door and waddles back to his chair, clutching the pizza box like an excited child holding a Christmas present. He opens the box, inhales about a thousand calories in one breath and downs a pizza in record time. He’s starting on the second one when something crackles.

Harry jumps. “What the―?”

The lights wink again. Off, on.

“There’d better not be a power failure,” he yells at the television.

The game is in the final minute.

“Come on! Get the goddamn puck, you assholes. Now, shoot it!”

He holds his breath, watching as the tiny puck on the screen glides across the ice toward the net.

Closer…closer…

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VAMPIRE LAWMAN by Jason Daniel Kowalczyk

VAMPIRE LAWMAN by Jason Daniel Kowalczyk

The "Blood Companion Series" ended with the Great Disappearance, leaving behind only a few of those who were brought to life over the ten years that the series ran.

Here you learn more of Cacious, who was brought to life in the "Blood Companion" as the poor Vampire that was rotting through his existence. Cacious was born in the early 1800's and has seen plenty through his existence, including the Great Disappearance.

Follow Cacious as he deals with the affects of that event and struggles to keep the city of Alucard Heights under control.

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Excerpt:

He wants to believe it is a dream. How could he be stuck in this line with common souls? After all, he was not just a regular soul, he was born of demon blood, and he was waiting to go to where he was made. He is standing in a line, hundreds in front of him, and thousands behind. He stood almost six feet; he had a slender muscular build, and hauntingly blue eyes. He had long brown hair with very pale skin, his face and features were very symmetrical which made him pleasing to the eye. He was wearing a black t-shirt, torn blue jeans, and black cowboy boots.

He had appeared here, in this spot in line, closer to the destination than some, further than others. He surveys his surroundings to see the land is dry and cracked, the sky is filled with murky gray clouds, and he can see the unbearable heat radiating off of the scorched ground. The heat is the most unbearable thing he has ever experienced.

He looked into the faces of those who shared the line with him; all he saw was their loneliness and hopeless despair. Not all who surrounded him were old like he thought they should be, many were young, and some even seemed to be teenagers. Could every one of these people deserve this fate? “Have we all been forsaken?” He was screaming at the murky sky when he was silenced.

“Lekua errua nahi den izan behar du,” a man in black shouted. He did not speak the man’s language, but he knew that it meant to place the blame upon himself. There were men in black that bordered the line from beginning towards where the end may be, if there was an end. When someone tried to run from the line, they would be caught by these men in black, and placed back in their place in the line. The grasp of those in black would burn the skin of those who tried to escape.

He looked into the black eyes of the man in black and chose to say no more to him. “How could God allow this place to be?” He asked this aloud and received only questioning gazes. It was then that he knew that God was not in this place. No one here knew God, he had only appeared in his place in line moments ago, and he realized he was soon to forget. He wondered if he would forget, considering he was the product of a demon and a human.

“I’ve never call upon you until now,” he began to weep to himself. He knew that the only time he had ever spoken to God was in his times of anger, or when he expected more that what he had. He was never grateful for what he had achieved, he was always wanting more, envious of others, and covetous of all those who had what and who he desired. He was a killer, he had done so in malicious ways that none could top. Though there were times of regret, he continued to go on with his ways because that was what his demon father expected.

As the line pushed him forward, he thought of his chances to do good things in his life, the times where he chose to turn his back on others rather than care about his fellow man. He cared only of himself and what he could make on his own; he did not care who he stepped on during his climb to the top, or who would suffer due to his heartlessness. A man that loved the company of women, he saw not point in settling for the soft embrace of only one woman, he wanted to partake in as many young women as he could whether they were willing or not. Let’s face it, there were plenty willing to sleep with rich men like him, which may be why he could see some of those women in the line with him. Lust was surely one of his favorite sins.

He closed his eyes to weep; he saw the suffering he caused in his life. He saw the weeping girl in the alley that he tried to force oral sex upon when a vampire stranger came to her rescue. He suddenly knew her tears; he saw her sobbing as his eyes could not open, as if he was forced to see this. So many were saved by those who chose to fight him, what could he do now to redeem himself?

As the vision ended, his eyes opened and he noticed the long line in front of him was getting shorter and shorter. He looked around the side of the line to see the giant pit that they were all moving towards. He could hear what sounded like millions of wailing souls in pain. “God,” he was screaming as he tried to stop his progress forward. He dug his heals into the ground but the line was pushing him forward, “Please forgive us!”

He felt the burning grasp of one of the men in black, “Nola ausartzen berarekin hitz egiten duzu emen. Zure sufrimendubeste edozein baino tzarragoa izango da.” The guardian of the line was angry he spoke out to God, and ensured he suffering would be great. He forced his head forward and cracked it against the forehead of the man in black.

As that man fell he stepped out of line. Many more of those demons in black started to close the distance on him, but he knew that if anyone here could fight them off, it was him. One got close enough to reach out for him, but he grabbed the demon by his wrist and slung him into other that were coming from behind him. He knew he could hold off a few, but he would never be able to fight off them all. He did not know what to do as he paused to see those who were still tumbling into the pit. He saw them try and stop as they got to the edge, but the line would not stop, those from behind them pushed them into the pit.
He took off running across the dried land before him, he did not know if there was an escape, but if there was, he knew that he might be the only one to find it. Even as he was part demon, the heat was unbearable; he could feel the fluids in his body evaporating as he ran.

He could hear them coming for him, but he never took the time to look over his shoulder to see what was coming. It sounded like a thousand hooves stampeding toward him, there were deafening screeching that echoed across the land, and though it frightened him, he knew that it would only slow him down if he chose to look.

This baron plain before hell followed the lighting schedule of earth, as he ran it was beginning to get darker, which worried him more than the stampeding army behind him. If there was an escape, he had to find it before the darkness fell and the more dangerous creatures came out to play.

He dug the heels of his boots into the dried earth, and as he came to a stop, he turned to face the lower demons that were coming to take him back to the line. Those that were coming for him looked like rotting bodies without heads. There was steam billowing out of the stumps of the neck, bat-like wings protruded from their backs, and long tails that resembled the human spine with bits of flesh dangling from them. The ends of the lower demons’ tails were equipped with what seemed like railroad spikes that had been driven through the bone.

He tore the black t-shirt from his back, then tangled his fingers through his long locks and tore his hair from his head. His skin turned red as his body began to grow. He was going to show these lower demons a fight, he was taking his demonic form, which he had never gone for in all his years on earth. A few of the lower demons flinched with the sound of snapping bones as his knees snapped to bend the opposite way, as his legs took on the form of an animal’s.

His eyes began to glow white as what appeared to be steam began to flow upward from his eyes. His teeth began to lengthen and become sharper. The bones in his face broke as his snout elongated as his head took on the form similar to a goat’s with glass-like teeth which were several inches long. Raven-link wings of black feathers appeared from his back as a fiery halo appeared above his head.

The lower demons came to a halt, hovering in the poisonously hot air as they came to the realization that their prey had to be of the upper level of demons. “Zer da hau gizakien arimak ekin ari zen,” He heard one ask of another why he had been in the line with the human souls.

“Zigortua izan nahi jugu kalte dugu zion bada, profezia idatzita,” another shouted in fear that they would be punished for harming an upper demon.

He did not care what they had paused for, he began to gallop toward them on all fours, and a screeching roar coming up from within him as the white steam still billowed from his eyes. They screeched in horror as his massive body tore through their ranks as he made his way back to the line. He thought that maybe he could find his way out if he could get himself thrown out.

As the line came into sight again, he targeted those demons in black and began slashing through them with the massive, glass-like claws of his hands. Parts of the men in black flew in many directions as the souls in line began to scatter across the baron land. Thousands of lower demons, like those that had chased him, came flying up out of the pit as thick black smoke began to pour out of that hole in the earth.
As the souls of the humans scattered from the pit, his demon eyes caught sight of a figure standing at the edge of the pit. The man-like figure was wearing a shirt with a round-cornered collar and a pleated front, a waistcoat with a relatively high waist which was squared off at the bottom with a wide lapel and stand collar. It was his father, wearing the styles he loved of the male fashions of the 1800’s. “Son, you have no idea what you are getting yourself into. Come with me before you anger all the minions of our home.” His father’s voice was calm, almost symphonic, but the lips never moved, and the voice seemed to echo within itself.

Somewhere deep within his demonic soul, he knew that the only home for him was in the city of Alucard Heights. Even after so many spirits came together to destroy him, to send him to hell, he wanted to be there among the other supernatural creatures. He was not sure what he was now, was he still a vampire? What did that really matter now? Here he was, everything was of his free will now.

He was destroyed, he knows death in all ways, and it had become his expertise. He had ended many lives in so many ways; most of the deaths that he caused as a vampire were pretty conservative compared to others that he had been involved in.

He was gone from the world for the duration of five mortal years, which felt far longer as he spent it in hell. Hell was not a fun place, even for a demon like him, and he went through just as much as any other soul who went there as punishment.

He had allowed the blood of the demon to take control; he ignored his conscience and went for all the temptation and darkness that the blood brought. He wreaked Havoc upon the city he now wanted to call home, but since the Christian rapture had already occurred, this might be his opportunity to redeem himself. He wanted Redemption in the eyes of all, especially his victims, and in the eyes of his brother.
He did not want to be evil in this time around.

Alucard Heights was a grand city, more skyscrapers per capita than in any other city in our free country. The crime rate was at an all-time low, but with creatures like the vampire running around, only feeding on evil, who could wonder why? He was sure that the rate dropped significantly after he was sent to hell. This was where he wanted to be, where he needed to be, and his heart was pulling him here. He clawed his way up from the sea floor, miles off the coast of the city. His eyes were glowing white, steam filled bubbles floated upwards from his eyes.

He stood almost six foot tall; he had a slender muscular build, with piercing, sapphire blue eyes when they were not burning with white heat. He was not too ugly; he was quite attractive, which helped with his conquest of women in his first run of existence. His skin always had a living pigment, even when he was more a vampire than a demon, but no one would ever mistake him for a dead thing, even if he was still a vampire. His face was a closed book with emotions, except for anger. He tended to hide his emotions so that they could not be used against him. He was once a master at doing such things.

He wanted his new beginning to be alone, a time to decide what he wanted to do with his new time on God’s earth. He had to learn to live with himself. He did nothing to stop the downfall of his brother. His brother had fought off all the evil that their demon father tried to force upon them; he only wanted to be good. He allowed his brother be driven insane with love by a woman that thought his brother was him. He had been driven him insane when they stole his blood to make her a vampire to go after the hunter that had killed that man, or should it be said…Vampire that she loved? This creature, whose given name was actually Adam, had gone on a reckless rampage that eventually brought the true anti-Christ to power when he was destroyed. The blood of both brothers brought the power of this Anti-Christ the power he needed. Adam did not know until he was dead that it was Marcus, a demon, who carried out the plan that this, Meris, could not bring herself to carry out. He suddenly thought of his brother, it filled him with anguish, and it motivated him to push harder to get up to the surface.

He had also tried to kill his mortal friend only because she did not want to love him as anything more than a friend. Yet, in the pages of “Angel Eyes, Vampire Tears,” you learned that she met her end trying to save stop Damion, the destroyer of Adam, from killing him. That was the first time he had let his conscience win, he played dead. Even after He tried to get her killed, she could not just let him die. She burnt to death in that fire, ending her life in an attempt to save him. Now her daughter was grown and living somewhere in the city. He was afraid that she would someday seek out her “Uncle.” If she had read the books that others wrote of him, then she knows that he basically killed her mother. There was no way she could be as forgiving as her mother.

When he came back from hell, he came up from the sea, right where the Island once sat, and where his father unleashed his evil upon the world. He swam to shore and walked several miles to the city itself. He felt himself driven to the large Cathedral that sat near the center of the city. He would make it his own, for now. In this building, the former leader of the vampires here used the building as a sort of City Hall for the supernatural.

He didn’t feel as if he was a vampire, though he did have a driving urge to drink blood. He forced himself abstain from such activities; they were unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Besides, the world knows what he had done and it will be hell for him to redeem himself. “Angel Eyes, Vampire Tears,” and “The Lighthouse,” told the truth to the world of Lelio Froste.

Nothing burst into flames the first time he entered the cathedral, which he did as stealthily as he could, he did not want anyone to know he had returned yet. He went through the main entrance, past the pews, past the tabernacle itself, and into the back where the priests might have made their quarters and found a room that he found to be suitable. The room was dusty and dark, but his eyes were well acquainted with darkness, and he could see perfectly. He lay down on that dusty bed and stayed there for several days as he rolled thoughts around in his mind of how he would redeem himself for all that he had done in his existence. The room was a poor man’s room, which would have been a fitting place for true priests that must have once called these rooms home. It was a stark contrast to the main hall where the people once sat for mass with its extremely tall ceilings with all the Gothic columns. All of the religious idols were gone now; most of the stained glass had been replaced with geometric shapes rather than the Stations of the Cross.

As he lay in that bed, he knew that someday he would restore the cathedral to its full glory and open it back up to the worshipers of God that had gained their faith after being left behind. He thought of it as being a good deed that he could perform for the city, but for now, it would be his home.

He lay in that bed for much longer than would have been comfortable for a human of any age, when he would sleep; he would be plagued by a dream.

It had felt as if they had been held up in a run-down hotel for hours, he was waiting for it to become dark enough for her. He knew that this woman of his dream was a vampire.

He watched her as she slept, he tried so hard to see her face through the darkness, but the shadows of the dream were evil and constantly obscuring her face. He was becoming frustrated as she lay there in perfect stillness. He felt a longing for her, a feeling that he had never felt before, and he knew that this feeling was love. He knew that this serene creature had been resistant to him; he thought that maybe that was what the feeling was all about, but he could not explain away that it was love. Her read hair was partly covering her face; he could barely make out her full lips slightly upturned in a slight smile.

There was a moment where he was afraid that this might be Sakara, but then he realized that this woman was far taller that his sister.

He wished he knew what she dreamed of as she slept. He wanted to go to her, to awaken her by tearing through her clothing, but he knew that was not what would prove to her that he truly loved her. It did not change that fact that he wanted to taste every bit of her body. He could care less if he ever tasted her blood, he wanted to love her, and he wanted to truly make love to her. Lelio Froste wanted to give himself completely to her.

The thing that he found most infuriating was how she would compare him to his brother, but he did not know how this mystery knows of his brother. How did he know she did this, he had not seen her before this moment in the dream. He heard a sudden, faint catching of her breath, indicating that the vampire sleep was releasing her. He turned his head back towards a television, before she could realize he was staring at her.

“Lelio,” he turned to her and saw she was wide awake.

“What?”

“Your mind is wide open to me.” He cleared his throat as he was frightened of what that might mean. Had she been awake as he stared at her? He suddenly forgot that it was a dream as he walked over to her. She looked up at him; he could still not see her face. He wanted to scream, begging to God that he might know what the creature that had stolen his heart looked like.

It was a restful time for his resurrected body while his mind raced. There was not epiphany; there was not grand self-discovery, only the rats that scurried about on the floor as his dream plagued him. He was pondering if he could ever truly redeem himself when he felt a presence, a familiar presence inside the cathedral with him, and a familiar scent.

It had been several months since Lelio had entered that room when the presence had overwhelmed him to the point that he nearly forgot the dream. It was not searching for him or wandering through the structure, it was as if the presence was waiting for him. He did not want to move from his dusty sanctuary, part of him was afraid; he did not want to go walking into any battles with those who might have to make him pay for what he once was.

He left his little room and slowly made his way to the main hall, the dread filling him, the scent burning away his nose hairs. He had once been a coward, he could not believe that he was going to face this presence on his own, hoping that he could convince it that he was a changed creature. He walked out into the main hall and up next to the tabernacle, he was lucky that he did, he needed to grab hold of it to keep from falling as his eyes met that of the presence.

“Howdy, Cowboy.” He was wearing a duster and a ten-gallon cowboy hat. “I’m Ba-ack.”

Lelio felt his mouth fall open, if it had been a cartoon, his chin would have hit the floor. There were three long rows of pews; the presence was sitting in the very center of the middle row. His old source of blood was gone in the rapture, so he had refused to feed again, which brought the rotting on again. “Howdy, Sheriff.” His face was not that mobile as Lelio greeted him, now that it was covered in duct tape again, he had to raise his fingers to his face to draw his lips into a smile.

Cacious was a vampire that refused to feed, so he suffered from a rot that followed him through time. After exchanging blood with the sister he had thought was dead, yet was a vampire, his form was healed. Cacious took this form, the rotting form, so that Lelio would recognize him. Cacious could see that Lelio was uneased by his presence, “Lelio, I know that we have not had a very loving past,” I let the illusion of the corpse fall so that he could see my NEW true form, “I know your intentions, I am here greeting you, not attacking you.”

“You know that I am a bit unhappy with how you have called my books lies?” He smiled as he leaned against the tabernacle, “I am also a bit unnerved that you have stolen my look,” it was meant to be a joke and Cacious did laugh.

“Your look? I was dressing this way one hundred years before you were born. As for your books, were they not lies?”

“Yes and no, Cacious. They were dreams, dreams that plagued me, but I could never tell who the actual characters were in that movie that played in my sleep. It was all things that I felt were going to happen, so I wrote it, plugging myself in and those I knew existed.”

“Interesting, and you know your father is up here now too, right?”

There was a moment of fear that danced across his face, Cacious pretended no to notice, I knew how important his aura of confidence was to him. “Yes, I do. I don’t know how it will go, but if you are going after him Sheriff, I will be with you all the way.”

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THE BLOOD COMPANION by Jason Daniel Kowalczyk

THE BLOOD COMPANION by Jason Daniel Kowalczyk

"The Erotic Nightmare begins for Lelio Froste in Jason Daniel Kowalczyk's first release."

This is the story of Lelio Froste and how he became a vampire. A man that in his mortal years, sadness was allowed to rule over him. It was the sadness that cost him his first love Sakara. It was many years after the divorce, when he had decided that life was not worth living, that she returned to him to save his life. She also offered him a new one. Lelio had to go through the transformation into a vampire to finally learn to value life. This story is not for the faint at heart or the easily offended. Jason spins a story of gothic, horror, erotica, love, and violence. Not only is Lelio able to save his own self, he somehow manages to save the world in the process. This is the first cut, first release, and unedited version of the tale.

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Excerpt from “The Blood Companion” by Jason Daniel Kowalczyk

It was not hard to find Sakara; I was able to find her by homing in on her scent. Not the slight scent of death that one carries throughout his vampiric immortality. But the scent that she had always had, the scent of her skin, her hair, scents that I had always associated with her. The wind seemed to carry that scent directly to me. It was as if the world was trying to usher me to her side.

She was at the top of the lighthouse that was set on the island just off the coast of the city. There were only two structures on that island, as I have mentioned before, the lighthouse and the Asylum for the mentally handicapped and disturbed.

It was like a scene out of a movie, her there on that catwalk, her hair gently swaying in the breeze. The sea beyond her, the stars in the sky, and the moonlight dancing on the waters adding a sparkle to the entire scene that could have been in any movie and warmed your heart.

I came down on the walkway near her and she threw her arms around my neck, she was giggling, “I am so happy that you came to me. I thought you were angry with me.” This was the Sakara that I had first fallen in love with when I was a mortal boy. This is the Sakara I had always wanted to have back in my arms again.

“No, Sakara,” I paused to kiss her neck, “you are my eternity, I love you.”

She pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, how I loved when she would do that. Her green eyes sparkled in the moonlight; “will the tale you are writing on the computer have a happy ending?”

I laughed heartily, “being in your arms right now, could there be any doubt to the ending of the tale being a happy one.”

Chills and a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Why?

Her smile wavered for a moment, then it was altogether gone, “I don’t want this, and you know that don’t you.” It took me a moment or two to realize what she had just said to me. It felt so right to be in her presence, and it shocked me to hear her make that statement at that moment. Not now, don’t do this now, this is too happy of a moment.

“LIES!” That buzz in the back of my head.

I knew what she meant, and I knew that it was not the love that we shared, “Don’t say this now, Sakara. It is not what you have; it is what you do with it.” Yes, I stole that line from the visions Sakara had shown me so long ago; Roger’s parents had said that to him. It was a true statement, wasn’t it?

“I don’t want to live forever, I never did, remember? I showed you that I was made against my will, I never wanted it, and I still do not. I had told Maggie I could deal with it, but I was so very wrong. I thought that if you were here with me, I could do it, but look what I did to you once I brought you over. Please, Lelio, do it because I do love you.” The saddest part of it all, as I looked at her, I saw her as more beautiful than I had ever seen her. She had finally regained that innocence that I had always seen in her eyes.

My arms came away from her and I stepped back a few steps, “I wanted this only to be with you. We should be one, how can you say that you do not want this, when we are finally together.” I was groveling, I know it, but I know what she was to ask of me, and how could I do such a thing.

She sighed and turned her back to me, “I do not want to be a monster. I may have control of the Darkness within me, but I am still a monster that lives by killing others. Deep down inside, you have always been strong and can take whatever comes your way and survive with it no matter how you ache. I am not as strong as you are. I do not want this, I never did, and I could never live with it. No matter how you hurt, or how you have thought to kill yourself, you go on, and you survive. The vampires need someone that strong to be their god. There can only be darkness if I keep this power.”

“LIES!” All right, that damn buzz in my head was beginning to piss me off.

I placed my hands on her shoulders and turned her to face me, “Let me be strong enough for you, don’t give up as I have done all of my mortal life. Fine, you don’t want to kill, that is fine, I will overfeed each night, and you can feed from me. I will do anything it takes to keep you here with me. Hell, I will open up my own blood bank; let the humans donate their blood to you. What we do not feast upon, we will give to the hospitals to save the lives of the innocents.”

Her eyes glistened as blood tears swelled in her eyes; “you would do such a thing for me.”

“Your happiness is very important to me,” I think there were tears in my eyes; “I will easily do anything it takes to keep you here with me. I don’t like to kill, and I don’t even have to, as Roger told you. That is why I only feed on the scum of the city; it keeps my conscience from attacking me. But if you wish, I won’t even kill then, I will take what I need and let the bastard live.”

“It is different for me and you know it. It is not only the monster that I have become, I want to be free, and there is only on way for me to do that.” She struggled to be strong and to hold her tears back; “the only way I can truly be free from all that I have done is to fade from existence. I have thought only of this while you were in the earth. It is what has to be, I cannot turn away from what must be. If I destroy myself, hundreds will die, I can‘t allow that. It has to be you.”

What has to be?

If I had not been so heartbroken, I may have asked what the hell she meant by that.

“Is that why, because I left you to go into the earth?”

“No, Lelio. This is not for me, and you have seen that, you have to have seen that all along. I know that sooner or later my mind will go again, and if I have all this power, then there will only be disaster in my future, disaster in everyone’s future. I don’t wish to hurt anyone anymore. I meant it when I asked you to do it when we were in Pensacola and I have wanted it ever since. I required you to take me before you took Adella, but after all I had put you through, I did not have the heart to ask.”

“LIES!”

“You are hurting me right now, Sakara.” I know it was a very selfish thing to say, but it was the truth and she knew it, I could tell by what I saw in her eyes. I should have never tried the guilt trip. I was desperate to change her mind, and I knew of nothing else to say that would make any type of difference.

She kissed me on my lips, “I love you, Lelio Froste, but this is not what I should be.”

“You do know that I love you, do you not?” Blood tears were streaming down my face as I heard her ask that question. I didn’t want this, but it was staring me in the eye.

(Her kiss was more passionate than ever before. “Make love to me, Lelio,” her smile was now a sensuous grin. I looked into her eyes and say my dreams of the past few years coming true.)

“I have always known this; it was just that I sometimes chose not to see it.” I felt my soul was about to shrivel and fall from my heart as I sighed my response.

(In that moment, the entire world disappeared, only the kiss existed. It was only this kiss that mattered, the past, present, and possible futures melted into the kiss, which suddenly defined our souls.)

“I don’t want to go on without you, Sakara,” I was lost in a sea of hopeless despair, and once again, the tears building were for my first love.

(Sakara never seemed to move from that chair, she just appeared lying on top of me, running her fingers through my hair, which I had always loved her to do and missed so very much.)

“YOU SON OF A BITCH, DON’T YOU DO IT. YOU CAN’T DO IT, IGNORE WHAT SHE IS ASKING OF YOU!” Catrina’s voice came into my head.

Not the scent of slight scent of death that one carries throughout his immortality as a vampire, but the scent that she had always had, the scent of her skin, her hair, scents that I had always associated with her. The wind had seemed to carry that scent directly to me and I followed it here to her and now I was in the midst of it all.

“I love you, Sakara,” I paused to kiss her neck, “you are my eternity, we are finally one.”

Sakara pulled a lock of her hair from her head, pulled the glove off of my dangerous hand, and tied it around the pinkie finger of my right hand, surprised to say the least that it did not burn away due to my small fiery affliction.

She smiled and looked into my eyes as she put her powerful hand on the back of my neck and pulled me down to her and led me to her soft neck. I pressed my lips against her neck in a kiss. I could see the gooseflesh rise before I let my fangs pierce her neck.

(In that moment, the entire world disappeared, only the vampire kiss existed. It was only this kiss that mattered, the past, present, and possible futures melted into the kiss, which suddenly defined my soul.)


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