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Preview "Tales of a Vampire Hunter"

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Excerpt from "Tales of a Vampire Hunter" - Omnibus Edition: The Collected Works of the Tales of a Vampire Hunter Books 1 - 3

Author's Favorite Excerpt from Tales of a Vampire Hunter - Omnibus Edition: The Collected Works of Tales of a Vampire Hunter 1 - 3 

From Book 3 (Bespelled)


Bangkok, Thailand

Oliver Ripley exited the limo and stepped into another world, a place peaceful and serene. A winding brook babbled over rocks, and fragrant white flowers bloomed along a stone pathway. Sculptured faces of ancient Asian Gods gazed at him from jungle-lush foliage. Silver chimes tinkled, and exotic birds chirped. Oliver did not let the Zen-like calm shake his resolve to do the violence he’d come to do.

“They are ready for you.” A delicate Thai woman met him where the stone walkway widened and became a patio. Tonight, she wore a ruby-red silk, traditional Chakkri dress shot through with gold thread. Her black hair glistened, coiled low on her neck.

She walked briskly down a wood-planked dock, over the gently rippling turquoise-blue sea to a large pavilion flanked by two more just like it, filled with people. His audience. The ones who paid his rent with their twisted desires. He wondered what it cost them to indulge their morbid cravings. Judging from his cut, it had to be a pretty penny. And what of their souls? Did they carry what they witnessed with them, like a dark secret, or did they manage to leave it behind in a way Oliver never could?

The nameless Thai woman left Oliver in the empty center pavilion and backed away from him, bowing low out of respect and maybe a touch of fear.

The party had been going on for a while. Some people were already naked. Others lounged fully clothed and intent on Oliver’s every move.

Oliver waited until the sun had gone down, and that twilight time had come when the clouds were dark purple, black and blue. Under a bruised sky, he would do what he’d come to do. He hoped, as he did every time, this would be the last.

He lifted his hand, calling for silence, which came swiftly. The crowd was eager for the show to begin.

“Bring me the girl,” he said.

A woman in the audience yelped, setting off the nervous laughter of others in the audience. All eyes were on him and the girl who walked slowly toward him, like a bride, down the narrow dock and over the water that sparkled now in the moonlight.

She was young and very lovely. Shades of brown. Autumn. Shaggy, red-brown hair, cocoa skin, doe eyes. Naked, and unbound, she walked to him, stopping a respectful distance away, meeting his eyes. On her finger, she wore a large ruby ring marking her a Vladula clan vampire. Her breasts were tiny and her legs long. Hair formed a triangular thicket between her thighs. In the black coils, bits of red caught the light of the oil lamps lining the edge of the pavilion.

“Why are you here?” he asked, not speaking the words aloud, but pushing the question into her head as they gazed at one another for the first time—vampire and vampire slayer, hunted and hunter, instantly connected.

The audience need not hear this part, the truth they had not paid to witness. But Oliver had to. “Are you prepared to die?” he asked, when she did not answer, speaking aloud this time.

A woman in the audience shrieked. This was part of what they paid for—the sense of danger, being so close to a real, live, honest-to-goodness vampire and vampire slayer, facing death made palpable and entertaining because it wasn’t their own. Aware they were in the presence of creatures capable of taking their lives, quickly and efficiently, had they the desire. Sex and death and danger formed a wicked cocktail, an addictive drug. Most, of course, thought it was an act. A snuff film performed live for their twisted enjoyment. Made more interesting by the roles played—creature-feature monsters come to real, sexual, and deadly life.

“I want to die.” The girl’s voice rang out in his head and then repeated out loud, soft and sure.

The crowd cheered.

Oliver looked away from the sadness in the girl’s eyes and watched as a middle-aged white man with a huge cock shoved a small blonde woman to her knees and pushed himself into her mouth, gripping her long hair, his shifty eyes glued to Oliver.

“Why?” Oliver looked once more at the girl, pushing his voice into her mind where no one else could hear.

“I didn’t ask for this. I’m scared.” Tears spilled from her eyes as she spoke the words aloud.

In the audience, clothes were shed, tops lifted, nipples sucked, cocks stroked. This was what they’d come to see. This was what they’d paid for. This was what they wanted. Sex and danger and death.

“Fuck her,” someone said, their tone that of one already in the throes of pleasure, impatient for their climax.

“Kill her,” another shouted, their voice gruff with a darker excitement.

Oliver spoke aloud as the vampire girl had. “You desire it fast and hard. Quick.” He leaned closer to the girl, his lips almost brushing hers.

The audience’s collective excitement hung heavy and alive in the air, like an electrical storm. Flesh slapping on flesh sounded a drum-like beat that seemed to echo the pounding in Oliver’s heart.

The girl trembled. Her eyelashes swept down as she looked away, but she stayed in place, standing before him begging him to kill her, save her. Pushing the words into his head.

Oliver sighed. She was another too weak to free him from his curse. Another who only begged him to put her out of her misery, with no idea of his. Weak she was, afraid and suicidal. A victim of the vampires, a fledgling with no Master. A Vladula.

He slipped his hand under her hair, his thumb resting on the frantic pulse fluttering in her neck. The hairs on his arms rose.

“Please. End it.” She opened her eyes. They were dry now, determined.

“Would that I could end it for us both,” Oliver said softly, too softly for anyone else to hear.

His hands on her shoulders told her what to do. She sank to her knees, mouth open before him, those huge eyes still begging him. Her voice was silent, but in his head, her thoughts flowed as his slayer soul reached out and easily snared her newly-made vampire essence and the small nugget that remained of the girl she once had been.

He saw into her mind as if watching a movie. She showed him how they’d come for her in a dark, underground parking garage. Arms loaded with books, fumbling for her keys, she had been an easy victim, lost before she hit the ground. And then, the man with a black Mohawk, who wore a leather collar studded with silver spikes. Spike Vladula. Blood. Voices as she lay dying. “The key. The doorway…” as the vampire took her over, brought her to the brink of death and then eased her back. In the end, dying, afraid, she’d drank the blood, heard the strange, senseless words. I don’t want to die, she’d thought then as she did now. But I can’t live like this.

“Why?” Anger and sadness flooded him. He yanked her head back with a fistful of her hair.

“If I have to live like this, I’m already dead.” Her voice was a scream in his head.

She answered the wrong question, telling him why she wanted to die as if he didn’t know the gut-wrenching torment one such as she felt trapped by abilities she never asked for and didn’t want. She did not know why Vladula had picked her, why she was here, or why she was about to die.

Guiding her hands to his cock, he held her fingers in his, showing her how to do it. His anger, her fear, their shock and confusion, on stage before people who now fucked all around them, eyes glassy, drunk on forbidden pleasures, had quickened his breath and hers. His flesh surged upward, driving into her seeking fingers. His fury adding to the tension.

Her lips appeared bruised, swollen like her nipples, sweet buds tight and high despite the balmy ocean breeze. Her thighs parted. She looked up at him as if no one watched them. Her eyes locked to his fingers as he slipped buttons free of leather and wrapped his fingers around his cock.

The memories running through her mind as his soul enveloped hers like a cocoon could be nothing but truth. She could not hide anything from him in the throes of death as he took her life. But what did it mean? Why would Vladula send a messenger with no message? Or a message that made no sense? If she had been able to lead him to Spike, Oliver wouldn’t have been so irritated. He’d simply kill Spike and anyone stupid enough to be with him. As it was, being tipped off about his cover being blown just meant he’d have to leave Bangkok so he’d be free to hunt without the distraction of dealing with Vladulas. Though killing them was enjoyable, he preferred to do it on his terms and on his schedule.

Distracted, Oliver watched a man shoot a thick stream of white over a curvaceous woman’s breasts as the dying vampire girl worked Oliver’s own hard flesh as if the thick appendage she sucked was her lifeline. Her moans vibrated along his shaft.

Pleasure peaked, and around them, the air began to glow and spin. Energy whipped the colors into a rainbow swirling around them. A cloud of pure life-force shimmered around vampire and vampire hunter.

A collective gasp swelled from those who watched. Could they see it? Feel it? Oliver thought they must, on some level, though most convinced themselves it was an elaborate, very expensive show.

“Beautiful,” someone said, wonder in their voice.

Inside, where none could see, and only Oliver and the girl could feel, their souls spun together. Oliver’s dipped inside, finding her essence fresh and young, innocent and blameless. A life too soon taken away, condemned. His heart contracted. Pity flooded him. As tears flowed from her eyes, and his seed filled her mouth, he felt her at her core. He knew her as if he’d been with her always. From her first steps to the ones that had led her here. And he cared. He cared enough to free her.

Gratitude shone in her eyes as she realized what was happening to her, even as the light within them dimmed, and his slayer soul began to extinguish the faint light still clinging to life within her.

The crowd roared its satisfaction when the girl slumped to the stage.

As the last spark of her life began to fade, and Oliver waited for the cold, dead stare he knew well, a frisson split off from the cyclone of their combined energy, as if seeking to escape death, untethering itself and fleeing the girl, spitting and stinging as it slammed into Oliver like a fist punch to the chest. Hunters absorbed energy from the vamps they killed, but Oliver had never felt anything like this before.

At his feet, the girl jerked as if shocked by jolts of electricity. Her chest lifted, back arching, breath gasping. Her eyes flew open, and her scream seemed to shove the foreign, contaminated thing deeper into Oliver.

His slayer energy swelled, a hurricane circling the vampire curse—for surely, that’s what the crackling thing was—smoothing it, containing it, and absorbing it until it winked out, not even a smolder remaining.

The girl stirred and opened her eyes. She blinked. Confusion furrowed her brow, her thoughts as jumbled as his, and still

Despite his confused astonishment, Oliver scooped the girl up, tossed her over his shoulder and left the stage. His long legs made quick time up the dock.
The tiny Asian woman met him, passing him the usual small pouch containing his pay. She bowed low, not meeting his eyes, not remarking on the limp girl he carried.

In the driveway, the limo waited as it always did. The breeze fluttered perfumed flowers, and night sounds whirred. The noise of the crowd, dressing, whispering in low voices, seemed far away, soon locked beyond the insulating world of the limo. Driving down streets clogged with cars, red and white lights streaking by, it was silent. Oliver was left alone with his jumbled and raw emotions, the strange girl sleeping on his lap, nestled under his jacket, her face peaceful. She’d passed out.

For Oliver, the torment over the night’s unprecedented events was quieted by the shrieking of awakened inner demons. Closing his eyes, he let the memories consume him.

READ MORE . . . BUY Tales of a Vampire Hunter now ($2.99 for a limited time)

Water me, Baby

S

One from the vaults . . . still true today.

Some people search their entire lives for a place to call home. Some, born by the shore, never feel quenched until the dry, arid heat of a desert causes their internal landscape to gush like a waterfall. Others, surrounded by wide-open flatlands, only feel unbound and free atop high mountains, cosseted by trees.

Raised by nomads, I always wanted nothing more than a stable home—any home that would not change. However, though I have been content in many places, none nourishes me like those by the ocean.

For many years, the sea was only a dream that whispered to me like an unknown lover. It was an image captured in film and in the lyrics of songs that moved me as love songs never did. I flew over oceans and drove past them, trapped in the family station wagon, unable to convince my father to pull over and let me walk along the shore to feel the waves lapping at my adolescent toes. I fished rivers, but did not find them wide or deep enough. I swam in lakes but, in their murky depths, I felt the grounding pull of the land surrounding me and longed for a crystalline blue, saltwater abyss.


When I had freedom to roam at will, I set my sights on California and, after traveling the coast like one whose task it was to map every crevice, I found the place my soul calls home—the short stretch of rugged coastline between Monterey and Carmel. It was there I sat, on a day forever etched in my memory, and decided to pick up my pen after many long years, and write again. Inspired by frolicking otters, windswept cypress trees, and the harsh surf pounding the rocky cliffs, I began notes on what was to become my first novel. I was home. I had a purpose. My spirit was awash in salted water. Life was good.

Now, I live in Chicago, on the shore of a great lake, but the ocean still beckons like a friend who is just out of reach, never forgotten, and always longed for. I see her within my fondest memories and everywhere, in my writing, is water.

From Eden


The water moves, liquid around me.

I belong to it - slippery, soft, alive. I breathe it, taste it. It fills me.

I am a mermaid, a dolphin, a goddess.

The hands on my body are worshipful, though not always gentle. Some bodies inspire me to flatten my palms, and skim lightly over their surfaces, while others seem to beg for a pinch or a rougher jerk. Some taste of the sea, while others hold the perfume of flowers on their tongues.

I go with the moments as they come, drifting from one to the next.

Buffeted by flesh, I float in pleasure.



From In The Name of The Father


The house was easy to find. It was the only one at the end of the road, perched high on a cliff overlooking the sea. Even up here, the gusty wind blew sand over Michael's boots, and he could smell the ocean's salted, fresh-fish scent.

Dropping his bag, he rechecked the safety on the snub-nosed .38 he'd bought in Ixtapa before hitching his ride.

Sheer, white curtains billowed through an open window of the inviting house, waving him closer it seemed. An old rocker painted sky blue moved a ghostly to and fro on the porch. Everything else was still. The only sound was the crashing of waves far below.

As Michael started walking again, he prayed Isabella was waiting.



From Amethyst’s Feather 


When Amethyst was told her father’s plan, she wept for days. She cried so many tears the creek twining through her garden became a river of salted water that did not evaporate until she was long dead. Every bloom in her garden withered to dust, except for the lilacs; these flowers bloomed lusher than ever before.

From Amaranthine Rain 


Rain spills from the azure sky, washing away sorrow and taking away pain. Upon an ancient river, we now float coming and coming again as our bodies cling together, eternally pleasured and eternally bound.

“Evermore, Jack…mine now,” Diane says, pulling me under the waves.

My toes skim pebbles smoothed by time as the water takes me into a dark abyss where violets bloom in currents fed by rain—never ending rain.


****

We are born in a gush of fluid, and our bodies are composed of approximately 65% water. Like life, water is continually moving, lured by the tug of the moon, and changes in our world. One moment, it is mist, then ice, then rain. It sustains us.

In my erotica, people play dangerous games suspended over hotel bathtubs. They share their wives in bubble-filled whirlpools, and they cross rivers, pausing to look at their reflections in the water below in an effort to find themselves. Water often symbolizes love, safety, and home. It lifts the human spirit, supports the body and soothes the mind. Much like sex, it allows us to drift in a special place that is almost primal in its necessity to life itself.

If you live by the water, go there today. Get your feet wet. If you are landlocked, draw a bath, light some candles, and allow yourself to float, weightless in sensuous water. Close your eyes, and be reborn.

Bespelled: Tales of a Vampire Hunter - Sneak Preview

The thrilling conclusion to the bestselling "Tales of a Vampire Hunter" series. 


Oliver Ripley is older, wiser, and harder . . . a vampire hunter mutant drowning in pain and excess and guilt, hell-bent on punishing himself and taking down as many vampires as possible in the process. Once more, his enemies draw close, setting an irresistible trap. But, Oliver no longer wants to run. A different man now, immoral and depraved, he's become the very thing he swore he would never be. Fearing nothing, with nothing to lose, he seeks only revenge, and leaves only death in his wake. But when everything changes, can he find the human soul within himself in order to save our world and protect the innocent victims of a demonic plot as ancient as the universe itself?

Here's a steamy sneak peak:

CHAPTER ONE


Bangkok, Thailand

Oliver Ripley exited the limo and stepped into another world, a place peaceful and serene. A winding brook babbled over rocks, and fragrant white flowers bloomed along a stone pathway. Sculptured faces of ancient Asian gods gazed at him from jungle-lush foliage. Silver chimes tinkled and exotic birds chirped. Oliver did not let the Zen-like calm shake his resolve to do the violence he’d come to do.

“They are ready for you.” A delicate Thai woman met him where the stone walkway widened and became a patio. Tonight, she wore a ruby-red silk traditional Chakkri dress shot through with gold thread. Her black hair glistened, coiled low on her neck.

She walked briskly down a wood-planked dock, over the gently rippling turquoise-blue sea to a large pavilion flanked by two more just like it, filled with people. His audience. The ones who paid his rent with their twisted desires.

He wondered what it cost them to indulge their morbid cravings. Judging from his cut, it had to be a pretty penny. And what of their souls? Did they carry what they witnessed with them, like a dark secret, or did they manage to leave it behind in a way Oliver never could?

The nameless Thai woman left Oliver in the empty center pavilion and backed away from him, bowing low out of respect and maybe a touch of fear.

The party had been going on for a while. Some people were already naked. Others lounged fully clothed and intent on Oliver’s every move.

Oliver waited until the sun had gone down, and that twilight time had come when the clouds were dark purple, black and blue. Under a bruised sky, he would do what he’d come to do. He hoped, as he did every time, this would be the last.

He lifted his hand, calling for silence, which came swiftly. The crowd was eager for the show to begin. “Bring me the girl,” he said.

A woman in the audience yelped, setting off the nervous laughter of others in the audience. All eyes were on him and the girl who walked slowly toward him, like a bride, down the narrow dock and over the water that sparkled now in the moonlight.

She was young and very lovely. Shades of brown. Autumn. Shaggy, red-brown hair, cocoa skin, doe eyes. Naked, and unbound, she walked to him, stopping a respectful distance away, meeting his eyes. On her finger, she wore a large ruby ring that marked her. Vladula. Her breasts were tiny and her legs long. Hair formed a triangular thicket between her thighs. In the black coils, bits of red caught the light of the oil lamps lining the edge of the pavilion.

“Why are you here?” he asked her, not speaking the words aloud, but pushing the question into her head as they gazed at one another for the first time—vampire and vampire slayer, hunted and hunter, instantly connected.

The audience need not hear this part, the truth they had not paid to witness. But Oliver had to. “Are you prepared to die?” he asked, when she did not answer, speaking aloud this time.

A woman in the audience shrieked. This was part of what they paid for—the sense of danger, being so close to a real, live, honest-to-goodness vampire and vampire slayer, facing death made palpable and entertaining because it wasn’t their own. Aware they were in the presence of creatures capable of taking their lives, quickly and efficiently, had they the desire. Sex and death and danger formed a wicked cocktail, an addictive drug. Most, of course, thought it was an act. A snuff film performed live for their twisted enjoyment. Made more interesting by the roles played—creature-feature monsters come to real, sexual and deadly life.

“I want to die.” The girl’s voice rang out in his head and then repeated out loud, soft and sure.

The crowd cheered.

Oliver looked away from the sadness within the girl’s eyes and watched as a middle-aged white man with a huge cock shoved a small blond woman to her knees and pushed himself into her mouth, gripping her long hair, his shifty eyes glued to Oliver.

“Why?” Oliver looked once more at the girl, pushing his voice into her mind where no one else could hear him.

“I didn’t ask for this. I’m scared.” Tears spilled from her eyes as she spoke the words aloud.

In the audience, clothes were shed, tops lifted, nipples sucked, cocks stroked. This was what they’d come to see. This was what they’d paid for. This was what they wanted. Sex and danger and death.

“Fuck her,” someone said, their tone that of one already in the throes of pleasure, impatient for their climax.

“Kill her,” another shouted, their voice gruff with a darker excitement.

Oliver spoke aloud, as the vampire girl had. “You desire it fast and hard. Quick.” He leaned down, closer to the girl, his lips almost brushing hers.

The audience’s collective excitement hung heavy and alive in the air, like an electrical storm. The sounds of flesh slapping on flesh sounded a drum-like beat that seemed to echo the pounding in Oliver’s heart.

The girl trembled. Her eyelashes swept down as she looked away, but she stayed in place, standing before him begging him to kill her, save her. Pushing the words into his head.

Oliver sighed. She was another too weak to free him from his curse. Another who only begged him to put her out of her misery, with no idea of his. Weak she was, afraid and suicidal. A victim of the vampires, a fledgling with no Master. A Vladula.

He slipped his hand under her hair, his thumb resting on the frantic pulse fluttering in her neck. The hairs on his arms rose.

“Please. End it.” She opened her eyes. They were dry now, determined.

“Would that I could end it for us both,” Oliver said softly, too softly for anyone else to hear.

His hands on her shoulders told her what to do. She sank to her knees, mouth open before him, those huge eyes still begging him. Her voice was silent, but in his head, her thoughts flowed as his slayer soul reached out and easily snared her newly made vampire essence and the small nugget that remained of the girl she once had been.

He saw into her mind as if watching a movie. She showed him how they’d come for her in a dark, underground parking garage. Arms loaded with books, fumbling for her keys, she had been an easy victim, lost before she hit the ground. And then, the man with a black Mohawk, who wore a leather collar, studded with silver spikes. Spike Vladula. Blood. Voices as she lay dying. “The key. The doorway . . .” as the vampire took her over, brought her to the brink of death, and then eased her back. In the end, dying, afraid, she’d drank the blood, heard the strange, senseless words. I don’t want to die, she’d thought then as she did now. But I can’t live like this.

“Why?” Anger and sadness flooded him. Seeing the man who’d killed his daughter, even in this girl’s memory, filled him with murderous rage. He yanked her head back with a fistful of her hair.

“If I have to live like this, I’m already dead.” Her voice was a scream in his head.

She answered the wrong question, telling him why she wanted to die, as if he didn’t know the gut-wrenching torment one such as she felt trapped by abilities she never asked for and didn’t want. She did not know why Vladula had picked her, why she was here, or why she was about to die.

Guiding her hands to his cock, he held her fingers in his, showing her how to do it. His anger, her fear, their shock and confusion, on stage before people who now fucked all around them, eyes glassy, drunk on forbidden pleasures, had quickened his breath and hers. His flesh surged upward, driving into her seeking fingers. His fury adding to the tension.

Her lips appeared bruised, swollen like her nipples, sweet buds tight and high despite the balmy ocean breeze. Her thighs parted. She looked up at him as if no one watched them. Her eyes locked to his fingers as he slipped buttons free of leather and wrapped his fingers around his cock.

The memories running through her mind as his soul enveloped hers like a cocoon could be nothing but truth. She could not hide anything from him in the throes of death as he took her life. But what did it mean? Why would Vladula send a messenger with no message? Or a message that made no sense? If she had been able to lead him to Spike, Oliver wouldn’t have been so irritated. He’d simply kill Spike and anyone stupid enough to be with him. As it was, being tipped off about his cover being blown just meant he’d have to leave Bangkok so he’d be free to hunt without the distraction of dealing with Vladulas. Though killing them was enjoyable, he preferred to do it on his terms, and on his schedule.

Distracted, Oliver watched a man shoot a thick stream of white over a curvaceous woman’s breasts as the dying vampire girl worked Oliver’s own hard flesh as if the thick appendage she sucked was her lifeline. Her moans vibrated along his shaft.

Pleasure peaked, and around them, the air began to glow and spin. Energy whipped the colors into a rainbow swirling around them. A cloud of pure life-force shimmered around vampire and vampire hunter.

A collective gasp swelled from those who watched. Could they see it? Feel it? Oliver thought they must, on some level, though most still convinced themselves it was an elaborate, very expensive show.

“Beautiful,” someone said, wonder in their voice.

Inside, where none could see, and only Oliver and the girl could feel, their souls spun together. Oliver’s dipped inside, finding her essence fresh and young, innocent and blameless. A life too soon taken away, condemned. His heart contracted. Pity flooded him. As tears flowed from her eyes, and his seed filled her mouth, he felt her at her core. He knew her as if he’d been with her always. From her first steps to the ones that had led her here. And he cared. He cared enough to free her.

Gratitude shone in her eyes as she realized what was happening to her, even as the light within them dimmed, and his slayer soul began to extinguish the faint light still clinging to life within her.

The crowd roared its satisfaction when the girl slumped to the stage.

As the last spark of her life began to fade, and Oliver waited for the cold, dead stare he knew well, a frisson split off from the cyclone of their combined energy, as if seeking to escape death, untethering itself and fleeing the girl, spitting and stinging as it slammed into Oliver like a fist punch to the chest.

At his feet, the girl jerked as if shocked by jolts of electricity. Her chest lifted, back arching, breath gasping. Her eyes flew open, and her scream seemed to shove the foreign, contaminated thing deeper into Oliver.

His slayer energy swelled, a hurricane circling the vampire curse—for surely, that’s what the crackling thing was—smoothing it, containing it, and absorbing it until it winked out, not even a smolder remaining.

At his feet, the girl stirred and opened her eyes. She blinked. Confusion furrowed her brow, her thoughts as jumbled as his, and still wide open to him. Not a hint of vampire curse tainted her now. Somehow, Oliver had danced with her soul and seduced away only the vampire part of her, leaving the girl as pure as before she’d been attacked and used in the Vladula’s war against him.

Despite his confused astonishment, Oliver scooped the girl up, tossed her over his shoulder and left the stage. His long legs made quick time up the dock.

The tiny Asian woman met him, passing him the usual, small pouch containing his pay. She bowed low, not meeting his eyes, not remarking on the limp girl he carried.

In the driveway, the limo waited as it always did. The breeze fluttered perfumed flowers, and night sounds whirred. The noise of the crowd, dressing, whispering in low voices, seemed far away, soon locked beyond the insulating world of the limo. Driving down streets clogged with cars, red and white lights streaking by, it was silent. Oliver was left alone with his jumbled and raw emotions, the strange girl sleeping on his lap, nestled under his jacket, her face peaceful. She’d passed out.

For Oliver, the torment over what had happened was quieted by the shrieking of awakened inner demons. Closing his eyes, he let the memories consume him.

(Releases December 19th)

Darker Edge of Desire Excerpts

Love, passion and sex…it’s all here in Darker Edge of Desire. Gothic literature has always possessed a dark attraction ripe with the promise of the forbidden and the sensual. In Darker Edge of Desire, Mitzi Szereto takes the sexualized Gothic and ratchets it up a few notches into the danger zone, opening a door into the darker side of lust and love that only the courageous dare to venture through. Venturing even farther into the world of mystery and romance than she did in the critically acclaimed Red Velvet and Absinthe, Szereto creates an atmosphere with a distinct Gothic flavor where we explore our more forbidden desires. In these tales, love and lust (and kink!) know no boundaries, and all nature of beings—vampires, werewolves, shape shifters, ghosts, and succubae—abound. Tread carefully, danger and desire lie ahead! Includes a special foreword from bestselling author Kate Douglas and a special afterward from bestselling author Rachel Caine and my erotic horror story, "Red House", about a mysterious vampire with a bone to pick with an old priest.

Check out excerpts like this one of "Red House", here.

“Red House” by Zander Vyne

His feet made scuffing sounds on the linoleum as he shuffled from the small galley kitchen back into what served as his living room. The church provided meager lodgings, but free was better rent than many paid, and he did not require much room. He had managed to save most of his salary over the years and looked forward to retiring to a warmer clime, perhaps near an ocean where he could afford a large house and a maid to clean it.

The television cast shadows along the walls and ceiling. No other light shined, not even a candle. John liked it dark at night, after being under the bright fluorescents of the church office all day. Even the stained-glass windows tourists gasped over grew tiresome after long enough, the sun making the red glass stab his eyes like knives, causing terrible headaches.

At first, he thought the dark shape in his reclining chair was a shadow. It had to be a shadow. Then, it spoke.

“Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“Who are you? How dare you? What do you want? Get out!” John shouted, blurting every thought in his head in his panic.

The man did not move. “Please, sit,” he said, pointing toward the small chintz-covered chair John reserved for his rare guests.

It was the Englishman, the one who had disappeared from the confessional. The one John had thought of several times since the incident. The one he’d dreamed of, much to his dismay.

“You must leave at once or I shall call the police,” John said. It never served to let anyone see your fears, or know your weaknesses. But, he had grown old, and it was harder than it once was to hide behind the mask of priesthood, especially here in his ratty old robe and dirty slippers. He shifted from one foot to the other, alarmed to find his hand shaking as he tried to point commandingly to the door.

“You will do no such thing,” the man told him in a voice so deep, and so genuinely commanding, it caused John to stand up straighter, a frisson of energy crackling down his spine. “Sit. We have much to discuss, you and I.”

John did as asked, his voice fainter as he offered one last protest. “You’ve no right to be in my private chambers.” Clamping his mouth closed, he swallowed thoughts about making an appointment, about the lateness of the hour, about custom and ritual, about the church. The strange man’s posture, tone, and very presence told him he’d have none of it.

Wearing a dark suit, white collar and black tie, his shoes shined so that John saw reflections from the television, the man looked like an attorney, or an undertaker. His features, even masked in half shadow, were arresting. Strong, angular jawbones met to form a firm, wide chin; long blade-like nose and lips managed to be sensual though they were thin.

“You’ve dreamed of me,” the man said. His expression held no animosity, yet his brown eyes glittered with fierce intensity.

A ripple of fear coursed through John’s middle. It would do no good to lie.

 ♥♥♥

Paris is For Lovers (and Vampire Hunters)


I'm wrapping up final edits for IMMORAL: Tales of a Vampire Hunter, and spent the morning pinning pictures of the settings on Pinterest. Each photo I found seemed more haunting than the last, and I found myself longing to go there again, remembering all the things I love about the city I've visited more than any other.

This love affair has prompted me to set many stories in the City of Light, I realized. After a bit of rummaging around my collection of writing ideas and unfinished work, I came across this unfinished story. Sometimes, it's very clear why I never completed a particular piece, why I abandoned those words in favor of others. But, sometimes, I come across things I don't even remember writing, things that seem like they should have gone somewhere other than cold storage.
Like this one.

I Love Paris

What was I doing?

This was insane, heading down an alley in Paris with a man I didn't know like he was a trusted lover, his hand riding my ass like he owned it, like he wasn’t just some French fuck I’d picked up in a bar two minutes ago.

My week had been weird all around; I’d been traveling with my best friend, Lila, and my boyfriend, Scott, who bailed on me after a fight in Barcelona that started over the best train to take to London and ended with them confessing to a drunken fuck the night before. They are probably back in Portland now, two days early, fucking each other just like before we left, even though they denied it. Lying mother-fuckers.

I’d ended up at Harry's Bar because Scott had wanted to see it; the idea that F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemmingway had frequented the place in the '20s and '30s apparently had given wannabe writer Scott a hard-on.

Tonight, the last night of my trip, I’d gone to spite him, feeling powerfully and happily alone. The bar was all right I guess, more knock-off French than “Casablanca”, but it was dark and the drinks were reasonable in a city where most tourist places were a total rip-off. After several glasses of house red and a few chanteuse songs I was sad and drunk as I wove a somewhat wobbly path toward the door.

Getting laid had been the last thing on my mind.

Read more

Sneak Peek at IMMORAL: Tales of a Vampire Hunter #1

IMMORAL: Tales of a Vampire Hunter by Zander Vyne
See why Flashbot named Oliver and Miranda one of the "World's Sexiest Couples".

Paris, France

 From Chapter 9

“Where are we going?”

“It's a surprise. You’re going to love it. Promise,” Miranda said.

Looking at her sparkling eyes and happy smile, Oliver relaxed. Whatever came, at least they would have this night and, for the time being, she seemed to be as caught up in the moment as he was. They were good together.

Aboard the crowded train, they found no seats. There were poles to hang onto. She slid her hands up the cold metal like a stripper, intentionally baiting him. It felt dangerous. It felt naughty. Her ass pressed into the pole, her back arched, her fingers gripped over her head. She felt many eyes devouring her, and she shivered.

Read more »
or






Sneak Peek: Smoke and Mirrors

Smoke and Mirrors, written by Zander Vyne and first published by Erotiqué Press, is a short story in the great tradition of the golden era of erotic writing: the era of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller. It is a piece that is at the same time pastiche and homage.

Smoke and Mirrors is a story of passionate self-deception and nostalgia for something that never was.    Christian, a young student in New York, meets and is pulled like a satellite into the gravitational field of the older and very eccentric Monique. In a small apartment on the lower West Side, the mysterious and sexually insatiable Monique has fabricated the myth of a Montmartre garret with Gauloises cigarettes and Edith Piaf records. She pulls him into her nostalgic bower, regardless of the fact that the original has never existed. Christian eagerly plays the American in Paris to Monique’s Irma La Douce. He is utterly transfixed by her body, her hungers, her accent and her menagerie of manufactured memories.

This is a story about perfect sexual love and how, although never real, it is no less alluring or arousing for being a mirage. The memory of his time with Monique is perfect precisely because it is not reality. She has left him a gift that few women are willing to give: the remembrance of a flawless love.

Vyne’s artful use of imagery and careful language are what pulls the reader, like Christian, so quickly and completely into Monique’s Parisian fantasy. Smoke and Mirrors is a story within a story within a story, and Vyne gives the reader enough credit to ask the question of how aware each character is of the fictionality of what they are creating together in the act of playing out this fantastical love. ~ Remittance Girl

Reading this review now (it was first published in 2009 on Remittance Girl's website), I'm still as thrilled as I would be if Stephen King or my new favorite writer, Hugh Howey, wrote a review on one of my stories. I have a bit of a crush on Remittance Girl, and count myself as one of her first, and most rabid fans. If you haven't read her work, you're really missing something special; she writes real erotica that manages to be literary, thought-provoking and sexy all at the same time.

READ SMOKE AND MIRRORS NOW

IMMORAL: Tales of a Vampire Hunter #1

I am so excited to have the rights to this novella back, and to try self-publishing for the first time. Oliver Ripley originally appeared on my blog as a serialized novella. I challenged myself to publish each chapter as I wrote it (no editing, no plotting ahead, two chapters per week). The reader response was astounding, and that kept me going despite writing myself into corners I had to claw my way out of, and hitting that mid-novel slump where none of it seemed to be coming together. In the end, Oliver became my first published novella. I am feverishly working on a sequel, and hope to have both available soon wherever books are sold.

Betrayed by his family, vampire slayer Oliver Ripley finds himself on the run with his sworn enemy, fledgling vampire Miranda Vladula, who claims to hold the key to secrets that could free them both.

Miranda thinks she will do anything to lure a Ripley into her trap, but Oliver does not turn out to be the cold-hearted killer she expects.

Discovering their fates intertwined, Oliver and Miranda fight enemies they did not see coming when they uncover a plot that could destroy them and everyone they love.  Forced to face a horrific truth that challenges everything they have ever believed, with no one to trust but each other, they must fight their growing attraction even as they battle for their lives.

As their world crumbles around them, Oliver and Miranda find danger, secrets, and temptations wherever they turn.  Burning with passion too hot to ignore, not even the threat of death can tear them apart.

Does Oliver have the strength to fight a legion of angry vampires? Can he resist his hunger for Miranda, knowing to succumb to passion could kill them both?

READ CHAPTER ONE NOW
Vacancy (a stand-alone story)

Coming Soon - Whiter Than Snow

Whiter Than Snow, from Weather Girl and Other Kinky Stories by Zander Vyne, will be included in Maxim Jakubowski's Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 11. PRE-ORDER NOW

READ A PREVIEW

New Release: Pirate Booty

Out NOW: Pirate Booty - Erotic Tales Of Buccaneers And Captives Edited By M.Christian featuring my story, Adrift.

Here's a real treasure for fans of the debauched and kinky adventures of pirates - a brand-new anthology of some sea (and even space)-fairing privateers and scallywags edited by M. Christian.  Pirate Booty - Erotic Tales Of Buccaneers And Captives is this a delightfully kinky read featuring many of my pals and fellow erotica authors.

Sizzling tales of pirates and captives. Here's your chance to swing by or force others to swing by all-kinds of yardarms in this outrageous collection of erotic tales by Zander Vyne, Jude Mason, Theda Hudson, Catherine Lundoff, Billierosie, PM White, Joe Vadalma, Wade Heaton, Jay Lawrence And Harry Neptune, RV Raiment, Karen Taylor, and Blake C. Aarens - top authors edited by M.Christian. Full of the unrestrained, twisted passions and lusts that make pirates so hot! Populated by historical, contemporary and space-faring privateers ... plus a good dash of BDSM to spice up the brew. Pick up this anthology and you will not be disappointed.


Read a preview of my story, Adrift.

BUY NOW

Pirate Booty

Yo, Ho, Ho Pirate Erotica is now going to be called Pirate Booty.  How's that for a title?  If the funny play on words doesn't sell it, the stories contained within will.  I had the pleasure of reading a preview, and was blown away by all the talented writers who contributed top-notch work to this anthology.

You can read a preview of my story, Adrift, by clicking on this link.

Yo, Ho, Ho: Pirate Erotica

I've been so busy writing, I forgot to tell you my story, Adrift, was accepted by M. Christian for his soon to be released collection of pirate erotic. Look for more Yo, Ho, Ho: Pirate Erotica news soon! In the meantime, check out this preview - Adrift

Too Much Boogie: Erotic Remixes of the Dirty Blues

Too Much Boogie: Erotic Remixes of the Dirty Blues is out and available in stores everywhere!

The collection includes stories by some of the best erotica writers working today, and I am proud to have my story, Tricked included. It was my first hard-boiled, noir tale, and a reader favorite as well as a contest winner in Desdemona's hard-boiled erotica contest.

To read a preview, click here.

BUY NOW

Red Velvet and Absinthe


Exciting news! One of my favorite stories (and yours too, judging by the number of comments it received when I shared it here), La Belle Mort, is going to be a part of Mitzi Szereto's collection, Red Velvet and Absinthe: Paranormal Erotic Romance.

Look for it at booksellers this Fall or pre-order now at Amazon.

Here's a sneak peek.  La Belle Mort

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

“It’s sad isn’t it? I mean, you made a mistake and you're sorry so it feels like it shouldn’t be over but, oddly, it is.” Paul said this looking off someplace over my head. He sounded detached, more like a scientist explaining the pesky nature of his experiment rather than a man breaking up with the girlfriend who desperately didn’t want him to.

I gaped at him, struck mute by confusion. I couldn’t absorb what he was giving me. From my point of view everything had been fine, happy even. We’d met, he was amazingly funny, smart and a total flirt. He’d actually warned me away from him, told me he’d break my heart if I fell in love with him but when, for the first time in my life, I listened to a man and distanced myself from him, he’d been doubly charming until I fell madly in love with him. He’d said he loved me too, had said it in public even, in front of people. He was the one who said we shouldn’t see anyone else, who planted dreams in my head, who’d given me an engagement ring and the promise of his love, always.

That man and this man, were completely different. This man seemed to not care if he ever saw me again.

“I hope you know I really loved you,” he said, still not looking at me.

“I loved you too,” I said, controlling a whimper, twisting my ring around my finger. Loved? I LOVE him. How could he go from promises and adoration to this?

“I hear the plane engine starting,” he said with that crooked smile that used to make me melt but now made me want to slap him so hard he’d scream like a woman.

“What plane? You're going someplace?” I reached out, my fingers clutching at his shirt.

“No sillygirl, the plane scene at the end of Casablanca.”

“You mean the one where she leaves in tears and he goes back to his bar to drown his sorrows in other women?”

“Actually, he went off to fight the war with Claude Rains.”

Maybe I Suck


You've heard about successful writers who wrote only on napkins, or tiny notebooks, every chance they had, while working fourteen hours a day, raising ten kids and volunteering at their local homeless shelter. The point of their stories is to make other writers feel like shit when they don't write.

Today, I found myself with a slice of time to call my own and, of course, sat down to write. I started working on a blog post explaining my absence, but I stalled before I wrote a word. Did I want to apologize for not being here, say I'd be coming back, finishing this story or that novella? Did I want to talk about publishing deals or plans for a new website design? Did I want to thank the people who still come here despite my recent lack of new posting (I really am grateful to all of you) or, did I want to just admit that I am tired? Tired from working non-stop, traveling constantly, expending all of my energy on a day job I perform for the money. I sold out to suckle upon the fatted tit of corporate America and I am too exhausted to sugar-coat it today. Too exhausted to write.

All my favorite writers say they write everyday. I admire that, and when I don't write daily, I stop calling myself a writer. Unable to produce new words, I read old, filed away, story beginnings. I tell myself I am looking for something worthy of posting on the website, or something to spark an idea, but I am really looking for a reason to keep writing, to not give up. I find snippets of ideas, sometimes whole pages, more often paragraphs. I find breakups and surviving, sex and memories. I find funny things, painful things, and I find this, filed in August, 2006 and forgotten about.

Working Story Title - The Church

I’d seen him in the village. He was hard to miss. Heathcliff, Lord Byron, Jim Morrison; all my girlhood fantasies rolled into one tragically beautiful package. Dark, lanky, foreign; his lonely, haunted air captivated me from the first time I saw him riding his bicycle through the grove of olive trees near the town’s 500 year old church.

I saw him in the square, in the park, down by the river. Once, in the flower shop, he brushed against me but he never looked at me. I knew his eyes were so dark they were almost black because I’d watched him often, growing bolder the more time passed without him catching me spinning my lustful castle in the sky all around him.

He had a faraway dreamy quality about him. He looked bored, yet snapped with energy. He was always alone.

I never had the nerve to follow him home though I ached to climb whatever stairs led to his house, knock on his door and throw myself at his feet, confessing weeks of lustful fantasies, begging him to fuck me.

When I finally met him, it turned out I could not utter a word until he demanded it.

“Yes,” I screamed.

Smoke and Mirrors

When Christian, an American college student on summer break in New York City, meets Monique—a French-born coquette with a mermaid’s face and a siren’s allure—his life undergoes a gestalt-like shift, and he knows he will never be the same.

Through Christian’s intense, intimate flashbacks, Smoke And Mirrors paints a vivid, moving picture of obsession, first love, and sexual decadence.