The purpose here is to spotlight a few lines or a few paragraphs from a new release or backlisted title. This way my readers get to sample some delicious snippets and I'll do my best to tease, titillate and tantalize you into the weekend.
Today I'm teasing with my new release. Well, it's actually a re-release of HER DEVOTED VAMPIRE, a revised and expanded edition of an older story. Bridget Shanahan was mugged and stabbed, so Fredrick brought her home and is trying to explain that neither of them are human. It's not going well.
“Focus, Mr. MacGregor. You brought me here, and I wake up to find myself naked with a stranger asking me how I can heal like…like—”
“Like the Elder Races.”
Bridget blinked. “The what?” Why does that sound familiar?
“Elder Races, vampires and werewolves.”
Okay, this guy has completely lost his mind.
She blinked at him. His lips tightened, and he shook his head with a sigh before he rose and strode across the room to a small bureau. She watched his ass the whole way, trying not to appreciate how well his jeans fit. His legs weren’t bad, either.
Now who needs to focus?
She missed what he’d picked up, but caught sight of her pocketknife when he flipped open the longest blade and held it against his palm. Before she could say anything, he dragged the blade across the flesh of his hand.
“What are you—?”
He hissed in pain, but very little blood flowed from his palm. The wound zipped itself together like a Ziploc bag. Bridget gaped at his hand, wondering when she’d entered the Twilight Zone. The old 50s show would have explained everything, but when he snapped the pocketknife closed, her feelings of unease settled happily into her guts along with reality.
Who is this guy? Why did she feel this overwhelming attraction for him? And why the hell didn’t he bleed when cut? No one’s skin zipped itself together. If that was the case, there’d be thousands of doctors out of work.
“Who are you?” She shrank from him.
“I told you that before.” He causally set the knife aside. “My name is Fredrick MacGregor.”
“Okay, then, Mr. Obtuse, maybe a better question should be what are you?”
“You’re right. That is a better question.” Fredrick offered her a mischievous smile, but showed no teeth. “I’m a Noctivenator, commonly referred to as vampires, one of the Elder Races. What I’m less sure of and far more curious about is what you are.”
“Noctivenitor, currently clanless, but still respected among the Clans.” He gave her a sweeping bow straight out of an Errol Flynn movie.
This guy is completely delusional.
“And you, Ms. Shanahan? What are you?”
“What I am is pissed off and wondering where the hell my clothes are.”
Her statement came out more of a snarl than conversation, but he remained unmoved. That just pissed her off more, and she welcomed it. Being mad was preferable to being scared, and right now, the crazy man whose hand didn’t bleed scared her spitless.
Plus he thinks he’s a vampire.
Amazon | Smashwords
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