Welcome to another guest post day at Michael's.
Today, I'm happy to have Lisa Worrall back at the blog. She's hilarious! Love her lots and her book a right, Nanny for nate is getting rave reviews. I have it, I just need to read.
Here is a guest post from my good friend and great author.
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I wasn’t sure what to talk about today, but the first words that popped into my head this morning were “clowns or midgets”. I should explain....the words relate to a line in my favourite T.V show, Supernatural where Sam tells his brother, Dean, that he had a really weird dream and Dean comes back with, “clowns or midgets?”
I know they say that dreams are the brain’s way of processing everything that has happened during your day, and giving your imagination an airing but I’m curious—when was the last time you ran into a pack of flesh-hungry zombies in your local supermarket? (Although I do have a personal ritual of my own where I look out through the curtains before I go to bed each night...to check for any of the living dead shambling up the street. Yes I know I’m nuts, but we really don’t need to discuss that at the moment.) The last ravenous thing I encountered in the supermarket was my five year old who insisted that if she didn’t have that bar of chocolate now, this minute, if not sooner, she would expire on the spot and everyone would see what a bad mother I was.
I mean, seriously, when did you last look over your shoulder in the fog and find some sort of out of this world cross between a moth and a man behind you? Chances are the only thing you’ll find behind you in the fog is some other poor schmuck who can’t see their hand in front of their face as they fall over you and curse you for standing still.
Sure, walking home in the dark alone is an unsettling business at times, but are you really worried about the teenager in a hoodie rushing at you to steal your handbag? Or is there a darker place that your mind automatically goes to, just because the moon is high and you’re still ten minutes from the safety of your bed? The fear that the menacing growls you hear behind you are not from a pissed off Yorkie, but a slavering werewolf with saliva dripping from its jaws ready to rip you apart and feast upon your still steaming entrails, biting into your heart and stilling its beat forever before—Sorry, I got carried away there for a moment.
And let’s not forget the tall, dark, handsome stranger whose eyes burn like dark coals in his pale face. Whose ruby red lips just made for kissing feel so damn good on yours, igniting a heat within you the like of which you could never have imagined. Who cares if he doesn’t breathe and that hickey he’s giving you is slightly more painful than the ones you used to get in high school; and yeah he might look out of place at Sunday lunch next to your Uncle Jack when he’s wearing that stupid cape and medallion, and no one can understand that weird accent—but you can work around that can’t you?
So why does our imagination throw us into these situations once the lights are turned out and the Sandman has sprinkled his magic dust? Why does it fill our head with images of the thing under the bed, or the vampire with its fangs ready to strike? Who knows? And quite frankly, who cares, because if it gives us these exciting and edgy premises for our writing...I’m happy to stomach a few bumps in the night—aren’t you?
Which segues nicely into my second novel: Thirst—released by Silver Publishing at a date unknown.
No, Carter Gray, the vampire in my novel does not wear a cape and a medallion. He tends to wear jeans and tight fitting T-shirts that show his muscles, and he speaks with a gentle Virginian drawl, not a harsh Romanian bite. Not that Max Bowman, one of Virginia’s finest would care what Carter wore. There is a serial killer on the loose in his town and after a bizarre first meeting, and the discovery of what Carter is, he realises that he needs the vampire’s help to solve the case.
So here is a little unedited excerpt to whet your appetite and a big thank you to Michael for having me. Have fun and sweet dreams.....muuuwahahahaha!
In eighty-four years he had never left anyone alive - until now. Until Max Bowman had looked up into his eyes and had whispered: “Please...”
“Fuck!” he cried out. His fingers crushed the steering wheel when his stomach cramped painfully again. How is he doing it? How is he making me forget who I am. Making me deny my thirst? Is it a spell? Some form of dark magic? He half-laughed at the ridiculous journey his desperate mind was taking him on. Yes, that’s it, Car. He’s a warlock. Very astute. His senses were assaulted by another agonizing swathe of pain, turning his blood to molten fire in his veins. “No!” he hissed, wrenching open the door and stumbling to his feet. It was time to end the confusion and the pain. Time to end him.
By the time he reached the penthouse, he had wrapped an arm around his stomach to try and ease the gnawing ache of his hunger. He hadn't fed for more than twenty-four hours and he needed blood, now. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror above the table in the hall and seeing the dark circles below his eyes, and his sunken cheeks, his anger raged through him. His pale skin was chalky and bone white, his lips bordering on blue. Bowman had done this to him, and now he was going to pay. He needed blood and he knew just where he was going to get it - knew exactly how to end this nightmare.
Striding toward the master bedroom, he pushed at the door and it flew open with such force that the sound of the handle bouncing off the wall before the door slammed shut, awoke the man in the bed. He saw the fear build in Max's eyes when they slowly focused on him.
“Carter?” Max's voice was slurred with sleep and he struggled to sit up in the bed, watching Carter’s advance. He could feel the man’s anger rolling off him in waves and his gut clenched in fear and trepidation. This was a side of Carter that he had not yet seen and for the first time, he felt very afraid. “What is it? Are you okay?”
The laugh was cold. “Am I okay? No Max, I'm not even in the vicinity of okay,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
Before Max had had time to register any movement from Carter, he was looking up into angry eyes and felt a taut ass against his thighs as the older man straddled his hips. “What are you doing?” he managed to grunt when both of his wrists were pushed above his head on the pillow by an iron grip, pinning him down with ease. Trying to struggle, he cried out at the pain in his ribs with the movement. “Stop, Carter, you're hurting me.”
Carter's eyes darkened even further and his anger took on a vicious edge. “I'm hurting you?” he snapped, his face mere inches from Max's. “What about what you're doing to me? Who are you? What do you want from me?!” What might you do to me if I let you live?
Max swallowed, noting the way the other man’s eyes followed the bob of his Adam's apple. Fuck! He cringed back into the pillows his stomach churning, nausea rising up into his throat. He knew he was totally defenseless. “I don't understand...I don't know what you're talking about...I haven't done anything to you.”
“You haven't done anything?” Carter repeated disbelievingly. He bent his head so close that when he flicked his tongue out across his lips, the tip of it touched Max's mouth. He inhaled the gasp that fell between them. “You've done everything. Eyes boring into me. Tempting me with that body. And your scent, God, your scent,” he ran his nose up the side of Max's jaw and pressed his lips to the smooth, sensitive skin behind the shell of Max’s ear. “I can smell you on me, Max. Your scent is burned into my flesh. I can hear your blood pumping, taste the sweetness of it on your breath.” If his tone hadn’t been so angry, the words would have sounded like whispered promises of passion. Instead each fell from his lips with the bitterness of a curse.
Max gasped when Carter's lips parted and he felt the wet trail of the man’s tongue as it licked from his jaw to the pulse point in his throat. “Carter,” Max groaned when he felt those cool lips against his sleep-warm skin, the flesh being pulled into Carter’s mouth and his tongue flicking against it feverishly.
“Oh, God.” Max was torn between fear and desire as a garishly red warning light flashed in his brain and he felt raging certainty flood through him. His thoughts burst rapid and quick fire out of his senses’ roiling confusion. Oh, my God, this isn’t a game. He isn’t a serial killer with some weird kink, Bowman. The cold skin, the fiery eyes, the speed, the strength. Holy fuck, how could it be possible? How could it be real? To his logical cop’s brain, it wasn’t possible. But with Carter looming over him, holding him down, no mercy showing in the green gaze; he knew that logic had no place here. “You know what I am, Max.” Yes; he knew exactly what Carter was. He also knew what was going to happen, and, God help him, he wanted it.
Carter felt the quickening of Max's pulse beneath his tongue and he moaned at the sound of his name falling from those slightly parted lips. Lifting his head, he took one look into lust blown brown eyes before he slanted his lips across Max's, swallowing the moan that rumbled in the young man’s throat and feeling his mouth open readily under his, allowing him entrance into dark, wet, heat. He could feel Max's arousal against his own, the heat of desire burning through the denim of his pants. On a muffled cry, he broke the kiss, in an attempt to control the fire that was raging throughout his bloodstream. “No, no more,” he ground out, “this has to end!” His fangs descended and he pressed his mouth to the smooth tanned column of Max’s throat, scraping his razor sharp teeth along the sensitive skin.
THUD! Oh yes. I know exactly what Lisa is talking about. Those wierd thoughts that come into your head and make you go, what the? o.0
Yep, I've had those. Wait for Vertigo to release.
I look forward to reading THIRST when it comes out Lisa. Congrats.
hope you enjoyed that post. See you tomorrow for one of my fave authors and people in the industry, Angel Martinez.