I'm very excited to be back at the blog and announcing the release of The Power of Muse and Inspiration!
It's my 3rd sole author from XOXO publishing. The wonderful Amanda Struz did the cover and I'm pretty proud of how this vampire tale turned out.
Again, the story came from the Love Tells All anthology through XOXO called Jude's Gift for Valentines Day.
A story of a 300 year old vampire searching for a partner and when he finds the one he loves this man is not ready to commit.
Will writer William Chatterley give in?
You'll need to read to find this out!
Blurb: No such thing as vampires!
William Chatterley is an up and coming author looking for a partner after many dead end dates. Finally, he believes he’s found a suitable mate in Andrew and they see one another.
The vampire Jude is weak from being without love in his life. When he sees the author, he desires him right away but his companion is a stumbling block.
How will he get passed it and when he does, will the mortal want to be his partner? What will he choose? Will Jude convince him to become his eternal lover?
William grabbed his chest and heaved in heavy air when he returned to his address. He tossed his gloves and slid to the floor while rubbing his moist face. Tears streaming, he began to weep, recalling the horrific sight of something snapping the neck of his new friend.
What was that?
It couldn’t have been what he thought. No way, not a vampire!
Those things don’t exist. The myths are only kept alive by those who worship the great Anne Rice and the teens who love that wretched movie, Twilight.
“Ughh…” The author felt the bile in his throat, his stomach churning at the continuous thought of that monster, that thing with red eyes murdering Andrew.
Could he have been imagining things? No. He was out there in the middle of the night with this man who seemed quite nice and now, he was dead, snuffed out like a minor insect by some unexplainable thing.
He reached for his favourite black scarf a female friend had gotten him from the Far East but it wasn’t there. William’s eyes widened, patted his chest, and looked around for the silk accessory. He recalled tightening it around his neck just before he took off into the fields, urging poor Andrew to follow him, “Oh God!”
Could he have dropped it? What if he lost it near the scene of the crime? Would they come after him and try charging him with the killing?
The writer’s heart thumped in his chest. He tried to breathe but it hurt too badly. William shook his head and held himself as he shivered in fear. “What if…what if…” he cried. More moisture fell from his brown eyes.
They’ll find me. I know they will.
After about a half hour of sobbing and reasoning to himself how he couldn’t possibly be targeted, he got up and strolled to the bathroom to wash his face. The cool water felt refreshing, jolting him a little but making him relax. He tried his best to wash away that vision of carnage, the ruthless slaying of an innocent man that he really wanted to fancy.
He couldn’t forget those eyes of his attacker; those red irises, the fangs, the pale skin, along with full sandy brownish blond hair atop the being’s head. His huge hands and body covered in a black cloak. It was all William could see under the night light in St. James Park, too dark to see anything more.
This fiend must’ve been the thing that drew him into the park in the first place, but why and how? Surely not to kill Andrew or was it to murder him?
The novelist shook his head, dried his face, and the front of his hair with the towel hanging on a nearby rack. He grabbed a couple of sleeping pills and popped them with a small drink of water . In truth, he would’ve liked to take a shower or bath but he just felt so weary from all the events that transpired he only wanted to rest.
Dragging himself to the four post bed, he shed his clothes and tossed them on the floor. He slid in between the cool light blue sheets which sent a quick jolt through his system the moment his skin made contact.
“Mhmm…” he sighed and closed his eyes tightly, allowing the teardrops to flow from his lids. In anguish from over what had happened and even more considering what might be next.
Would they try pinning the murder of Andrew on him? He had no alibi for the time of death, no lie he could attach himself to so he could cast doubts in the minds of those at Scotland Yard.
William didn’t want to think that his career as an author would be so abruptly cut because of suspicion of a crime he didn’t commit.
The realization ate away at his core. How would he talk his way out of this one?