Sexy Vampires and Suspense!

Many years ago, Cardinal Desires won the Georgia Romance Writers' Magnolia Award in Mainstream, starring the hero of Sinners' Opera, Morgan D'Arcy.  Berkeley actually called me and asked if I had anything besides vampries.  Newbie that I was, I said, "No," instead of asking what they wanted.  Then I decided that Morgan couldn't have two forever true loves and Sterling Fox was born.  Sterling does a fine job of seducing Katy, the heroine.

Out of 5,000 entries, Cardinal Desires made the first cut in the initial Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest.

Finally, on October 15, 2013, Double Dragon Publishing released Cardinal Desires in print and ebook formats.  The book is also available on Amazon.

In short:     How can Katy McCaully resist Sterling Fox?  In her early teens, she fell in love with a thirteenth century warrior in a painting, and Sterling is the image of that Novgorodian knight.  He definitely has the keys to her chemistry set, but she mustn't succumb to his charms.  She's a forensic psychiatrist working with Scotland Yard.  He's a high-profile journalist who invades the underworld for a story or broadcasts live at the scene of the world's worst tragedies.  Police and media do not mix.  They are both trying to capture the animalistic killer the newspapers have dubbed the Vampire Slayer.  Modern London doesn't know that the Slayer has also killed four vampires.

Excerpt:  Scene, Present Day, London Hilton, Katy is attending a formal charity benefit:

“Trust Morgan to find the most beautiful woman in the room.”

The voice flowed as hot as molten silver.  Katy spun to see who’d spoken.  Dreams, past and present, fused.  Her mind reeled under an onslaught of impossibility.  Her soul did a double back flip.  On her thirteenth birthday, Katy had fallen hopelessly in love with a man in a painting.  On the canvas, medieval knights, armed with mace and sword, mounted on massive horses battled on a frozen lake.

The breathing replica of her warrior invaded her comfort zone.  “I swear he’s a divining rod.” A laugh, rich, magical.  “Where there are beautiful women, you'll find Morgan.”

Rarely did one see a face of such striking beauty, but there was nothing weak or effeminate about her warrior.  In white tie and tails, not armor, he was the epitome of svelte strength.  She itched to touch him, make sure he was real.

“I suppose I must introduce my friend.”  Morgan clapped her warrior on the shoulder.  “Sterling Fox.  Dr. Katy McCaully.”

“Good evening, Katy.”  His eyes were wicked, emerald green.

His name suited him perfectly.  Sterling was six-and-a-half feet of shimmering energy.  Silver blond hair fell in gentle waves to his collar. The tucked formal shirt enhanced a broad chest.  Powerful arms sculpted the sleeves of his jacket.  Struck dumb but not blind, her gaze traveled down his body, savoring the length of his legs to the tips of patent leather shoes.  The journey was a banquet for the senses.

Gentle laughter jerked her gaze back to his face.  The rhapsody of sound and light around them seemed unreal.  The touch of his hand was impossibly real.  Intelligence fell victim to awe.

Katy shook her head.  “You…you…”

Fate was having a good laugh at her expense.  She was never speechless, and here she was stammering, blushing like a wallflower at a high school dance.

“Me?”  He arched an eyebrow, dismissed his formal attire with a wave of his free hand.  “Tuxedos are totally out of character.  I'd rather be in jeans at a Rod Stewart concert.”

The pianist had fluttered her pulse, but this long, cool drink of water named Sterling Fox made her romantic heart thirst.  The man who’d shot her poise to hell was probably ten years younger.  He was handsome, fully aware of his effect on women and knew precisely how to play the game.  In two thudding heartbeats, Katy resolved never to dangle on his sterling chain of hearts.  As if she had no interest in him, she scanned the crowd.

Like a physical blow, a painful realization struck her.  “Sterling Fox, the Night Fox?”

This renowned journalist made her feel positively sexy and she loved his hands—custom-made for loving, not penning true-to-horrible life works.  “I’ve read your articles; wondered what kind of man would disappear into a Colombian cartel to profile the inner workings of a drug lord. You’re nothing like I pictured.”

“Disappointed?”  His voice was hot enough to endanger the ice sculpture on the hors d’oeuvre table—and to melt Katy.

Two tectonic plates collided deep inside.  Sparks?  The man was a bloody sparkler.  Hell, he was an arsenal of fireworks.  Her rabid hatred of the media suddenly seemed unjust.

 

Moaning and groaning, I suffered 2 rejections on my favorite (they are all my favorites) book this week, and being totally comatose, I forgot to post today. Self-serving that I am, I shall post an excerpt from the manuscript I'm grooming for the Wilder Roses of The Wild Rose Press. Better late than never?

Cardinal Desires won the Georgia Romance Writer's Magnolia award and was a semi-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Contest.

If the beginning is slow, I'm game for comments!!!! Here goes.

The beauty and the horror of what he saw made him tremble. In a place where only darkness should have been, light glared, stinging his eyes. A surreal gabble of voices and dissonant music hurt his ears. The squawk of a horn startled him, but he remained motionless, drowning in strange sensations and images. When his vision cleared, he was too weak and shaken to leave the sanctuary of the archway. It was night. That was somehow important. Yet it wasn’t really dark. Pink wisps of cloud colored the indigo sky. He knew where he was. Yet this wilderness couldn't be the home he remembered.

Everywhere, disorder and decay surrounded him. Wild roses choked the coral archway above his head. The flagstone path lay like a crumpled ribbon flung down in the chaos of flowers and vines that had once been the formal garden. He felt like a sleepwalker, awakening in the wrong time and place. His heart wept for the lost years. His eyes burned, unable to cry.

It seemed like yesterday that the cream of society had poured through those wrought iron gates, rusted now, hanging haphazardly on sagging hinges. The rich and famous had come to lavish parties, swam in bathtub gin and sipped contraband rum. Tuxedoed valets had parked cars made by Bugatti and Studebaker.
Prohibition. Brave men could make a fortune.

He stumbled one step, then two, and the pale loop of the driveway drew him faster past rustling palms, the meticulous lawns a riot of tall grass, but now he was only vaguely aware, his mind reeling again. He rounded a curve and came up short near the rusted main gates. Fragile emotional equilibrium tipped back into disorientation. A concrete sidewalk slashed a premature end to the tree-lined drive. Strangers strode across his property. Didn’t they know they were trespassing? A spark of anger pierced the lethargy trying to claim him.

On the sidewalk, a child froze, his eyes wide, pointing at him. He folded his arms over his chest, glanced down, expecting to see his fingertips bloody. He’d clawed his way out of the mausoleum but there was no blood. The pale skin was whole. His long, translucent fingernails lined with dirt but not one was chipped or broken.
"Look, Momma, a ghost." The lilting cadence of the boy's voice teased memory. "Told you that old house is haunted."
Jamaican, that was the accent, and a wonderful memory of wind-tossed seas and ships ferrying forbidden cargo brought a smile to his lips. The mother narrowed her eyes to peer into the gloomy shadows of the palm fronds. When their eyes met, she gasped, grabbed her son’s hand and pulled him along, her high heels beating a rapid staccato of fear.

"I am a ghost," he whispered, his voice breaking.

A heady, intoxicating scent lingered in the humid air. He inhaled the dusky human fragrance, and a sweet longing trembled through him. Saliva flooded his mouth. This desperation of mind and body was hauntingly familiar--half passion, half hunger—an overwhelming crescendo in his veins. Memories knocked at the gates to his mind. He mustn’t open those gates or he’d go mad. Did ghosts go insane?
He raised a skeleton claw to study the blue chords shining through tight transparent skin. Dirt-matted hair draped the shoulders of his coat, the once fine fabric rotted. The reek of the grave clung to him but he was corporeal, not a ghost.
A breeze blew in from the ocean. He inhaled the cleansing salt air deep into his lungs. He’d go to the shore, strip and bathe in the waves. Oh, yes, he'd loved the sea!

More sure-footed, faster than he dared believe, he raced down the overgrown path. As he slid down on the bank to wriggle his toes in the warm water, a tide of memories swept the child-like smile from his lips. There'd been another whom he loved more than the sea.

Her name had been Jessica Starling and she was the essence of her age—the Roaring Twenties. Everyone called her Jesse. When they married, she hadn't taken his name. "It's too long and you don't need me to wear your brand to know I love you."
Tears clotted in his throat. He swallowed the silent river of grief. Jesse's death had sent him on a rampage. He'd gone quite literally mad. Yes, that's how it had been. The last night he’d dwelt amongst the living, he'd killed seven innocents who didn't know who Jessica was or why their lives were exacted to pay for another man's sin. He hadn't even taken their blood. He'd watched them slowly bleed to death. Death, in its arrogance, had snatched her away. Arrogant and lethal as Death, he’d demanded Old Testament justice--an eye for an eye. Yet seven times seven lives couldn't avenge his loss. And so he’d laid his living body down beside his wife’s corpse.

Behind him, down a dark path, the mausoleum doors yawned wide—a mouth to the other world. If he surrendered to memory, he’d return to her, but his Jesse wouldn’t know, hadn’t known any comfort from his cold embrace. The immortal ocean lapped sand from the mortal shore. A full moon cut a white circle from the black sky. Life rang in him clear as morning’s bells. He yearned to be free of the lethargy and the stench of death.

And the past that had driven him to the grave.

(This is Travis Fimmel--gorgeous huh? He has a fan web site. http://www.travis-fimmel.com/ with more yummy pix)

London, England, a dark and stormy night in May, 2008

A talk show, Vampires Among Us, on the telly last week had captured my attention. Five attractive young mortals circled the show host and claimed to be vampires. These real vampires plunged hypodermic needles into their veins, extracted a thimble of blood and squirted cardinal sin into their mouths directly from the syringe.

Appetizing? Not much. Pleasure? Not any.

"Imagine, instead," I wanted to tell them, "pressing your lips to the throat. Open your mouth, run your tongue along the throbbing artery. Sink your teeth into that river of sheer delight. Your whole body vibrates with satisfaction more acute than sex. That's what it means to be a vampire."

The very idea of telling them chased away the Hounds of Hell called Boredom that had been nipping at my heels.

Avery, always the perfect manservant in his black suit and bow tie, asked, "Shall I fetch your coat, Milord? It's another rainy night in London."

I smiled at the old gentleman who'd served me for twenty years. “Yes, I'm off on my vampire hunt. Don’t wait up.”

“Vampire hunt?” He chuckled. “Shouldn't you wear a cross?”

With my fingers I made a cross, bared my fangs and hissed like a horror flick fiend.

At quarter-past nine, I nosed the Jag to the curb between an elderly Ford Escort and a new Mazda, switched off the headlamps then decided to park around the corner from the prying eyes. After a short walk in a misty rain, I opened the etched glass door of the Rose and Crown and bit the bottom lip of a smile. The cheerful neighborhood pub in Maida Vale was a supremely unlikely haunt for vampires! It had been easy to find coven. Unseen observer, I had watched them in their natural habitat, and the Rose and Crown it was on a nightly basis.

When the door swooshed closed behind me, I found myself the object of lively scrutiny. My clothes and my bearing set me apart from the crowd, but as suddenly as I'd turned their heads, they lost interest and returned to the serious business of having a jolly good time.

A babble of voices, the clink of glassware and the subtle throb of pulses blended in the seductive music of mortality. The aroma of strong ale and pub food was overwhelming. An American voice called for more ice. Barware dangled upside down from the wooden racks on the ceiling. Flushed faces smiled at their reflections in the "BASS ALE" mirror. A spattering of university students decorated the working-class crowd.

Instinctively, I shielded against the noise, rampant thoughts and emotions flitting around the room. I shed my coat, hung it on a brass coat rack and scanned the room for my quarry. Squat mushroom tables dotted the scuffed wooden floor. The chairs were an assortment of nobody-cares. To my left, a fire leapt in an arched brick fireplace, crowned by a picture of the Queen at her Silver Jubilee. As I gravitated toward the two brocade benches flanking the hearth, a familiar laugh chimed like a bell. The vampires huddled in the forest of Guinness cans sprouting from their table in a far corner.

This is from scenes (entire portions) deleted from my first novel Sinners Opera. Morgan and I invite you to finish reading this continuing story at www.lindanightingale.com.