Dusting Off Old Manuscripts

Remember your first story? I don't. Seriously. All I recall is it was either horror or YA mystery and I wrote it in a blue spiral notebook. I went on to write a series of short stories and two more novellas, all before entering high school. Then I became interested in the 1920's and 1930's, particularly gangsters and Prohibition, so my stories revolved around those subjects. (Believe it or not, I still have a few pages of those stories.)

By the time I went to college and decided to major in English, my interest had shifted to more "literary" work and I was writing poetry and character-focused stories about expatriates in France during WWII or revolutionists during the Hungary uprising of 1956.

It took me nearly 20 years, a few poetry, review, and freelance article publications,before I came back to my dark genre roots. Okay, maybe not that long, but you get the idea.

During this time, I found I was writing but not producing. Oh, I would start a story, then the inner editor would kick in and I'd abandon it. So one day I decided I was going to write a story without going back and reading what I'd written until I finished. And I did. That was a YA horror, which will probably never see the proverbial light of day.

My next project was also my first NaNoWriMo: a dark vampire historical. Yes, I did finish it.

And, like the YA horror, I promptly pushed it aside as worthless. After all, I'd been taught first novels aren't publishable. (Although technically it wasn't my first...)

I couldn't help but wonder if the vampire story just needed a chance. So when I came across a class that focused on revamping abandoned manuscripts, I thought why not? Granted, I'd learned a lot about writing since that first NaNo, taken online classes, joined writers groups, worked with critique partners, etc. Maybe I couldn't salvage the entire book, but if parts were worth saving, it might be worth it.

The fate of this particular manuscript is still unknown. Then again, the class just started. :-)

A Tale of Two Vampires

It's official! I finished The Ripper's Daughter, my vampire Victorian paranormal mystery for National Novel Writing Month on November 20 and verified it November 25.

I wanted to write about vampires, but I also wanted my story to be different. So I decided to make the relationship between Nathan and Stephen a symbiotic one. Stephen needed Nathan to drink his blood and Nathan had someone he could feed from without endangering other people's lives. Their relationship goes much farther, however, a sexual one they need to keep hidden from society. Not only that, but also continuing the charade of Stephen, Nathan's master, playing the part of his manservant.

Inspector Lewis

What really inspired me to write this story, though, was Inspector Lewis. The show aired on Masterpiece Mystery while I was plotting my NaNo WIP. Not that the two have anything in common except I knew, after watching Inspector Lewis, I wanted Nathan to be a former Detective Inspector.

Who would I pit Nathan against? Then it came to me. Who is the most infamous murderer in Victorian history? Jack the Ripper. (Okay, there are others, but I'm going with the most well-known.) And what if Jack the Ripper weren't human? What if he were a werewolf, and only Nathan knew this? So the DI risked his life and all he had to become a vampire and stop the Ripper? But what if he failed?

I explore this throughout the story. The guilt Nathan feels at failing to catch the Ripper and the determination to stop him when he finds the Ripper has come to Louisville, Nathan's new home. Nathan now owns a saloon called The Cloak and Dagger. I wanted a place where he could get information but not resort to making him work as a police officer or as a reporter. Besides, both those jobs would require working in daylight, something Nathan can no longer do. He can go out in overcast weather but direct sunlight will cause considerable damage, even death. And if Nathan dies, so does Stephen and vice versa.

Although this is a first draft, I thought I'd share a short excerpt.Remember, this is from a draft and is not intended to be considered final.

Please enjoy!

Excerpt:

I caught Stephen biting his lower lip, a worried expression on his face. Concern? He needn’t worry. After all, he turned me, knowing a vampire’s strengths and weaknesses. He knew I wouldn’t take foolish risks.

No, it was something else. Stephen hadn’t eaten or drunk much the last couple of days and seemed a bit sluggish and redder in the face, as if stricken with high blood pressure.

Something primal stirred in me. A faint coppery smell triggered an ache in my fangs which dropped slightly.

Our eyes met, Stephen’s blue ones darkening. He rose, pulling the brocade curtains shut against the moonlight and any passersby. We couldn’t risk complacency. To do so could put our lives in danger.

He crossed the room and sat on the sofa next to me. The light from the lamp glinted on his hair, throwing shadows across his face, the bridge of his aquiline nose. But my attention was drawn to his carotid artery. I licked  my lips, desire pooling in my body, heightened by his nearness and the smell of blood. As my fangs continued to drop, my need grew and I shifted impatiently, eager to drink.

Stephen leaned his head back. I unbuttoned his shirt collar, pushing it aside to reveal pale flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Leaning in, I breathed in the scent of soap and water, a clean smell.

He made no sound as I licked the skin, readying it. I looked down to see Stephen clench his fists and I wrapped my fingers around his wrist. The gesture served two purposes, to comfort him and to anchor myself against the ecstasy of drinking his blood.

Stephen closed his eyes. My breathing quickened, my heartbeat increased as adrenaline pumped through my bloodstream. In contrast, Stephen’s breathing and heart rate slowed as his heart struggled to pump the excess blood circulating through him.

Again, I marked the spot with a gentle swipe of my tongue, tasting salt. The ache in my fangs intensified and I became heady with passion, both for his blood and his body, which needed to be satisfied in that order.

I bit, incisors pricking his skin. A thin line of blood trickled free and I lapped at it. Within seconds I fed, my mind focused on Stephen and the pleasure this act gave both of us.

For him, it was relief. For me, it became an almost orgiastic experience.

His hand tightened on my leg, fingers pressing into my kneecap as I continued to drink. At first I worried I hurt him. But he assured me the sensation was one of pleasure-pain and far more preferable to the discomfort he felt when his body became gorged with too much blood.

     

A Farewell and a NaNoWriMo Update

I don't consider myself an empath, but something happened recently that's made me wonder.

For those of you who read my last blog post here, I indicated I'd given up writing. That also included my NaNoWriMo WIP. What I neglected to mention was the overwhelming sense of grief and loss I felt Monday and Tuesday, a pain so acute I seriously considered slashing my wrists and ending it all.

Wednesday I was fine. Whatever miasma of despair had lingered over me had lifted. Gone. Like it never existed.

But then came the rumors on Facebook someone I knew had committed suicide that past Monday. Yes, the same Monday. November 14. Sadly, the rumor was confirmed by a newspaper obituary.

While I knew this person, I didn't know him well enough to call him a friend, but he was a friend to many of my other friends. This is not a slight at him. I live in a different area of town than they do, so they hung out together more. But when I did meet him, I found him to be funny, kind, and a nice guy. Cliched but true.

Last night I attended a memorial to celebrate his life. The turnout was remarkable, easily a hundred people had come to pay their respects. The service ended up being moved from the chapel to the sanctuary.

I wonder now if my depression those two days had not been a psychic response to his death, something I was unaware of at the time and thus unable to control. I felt a similar grief when my grandmother died, but had no idea until I came home and my husband told me.

Again, I'm not claiming to be an empath. Only questioning a possibility.

Anyway, I'm back to writing. Finished my vampire Victorian paranormal mystery NaNo project this past Sunday. I've been thinking of returning to a neglected short novel and writing a couple of Christmas stories to post free online.

Because, when I think about it, I know he would want me to be the best damn writer I could be.

RIP.

Another Vampire Story For NaNoWriMo

When I participated in my first National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) challenge, I wrote a vampire story set partially during the French Revolution. Around that time, the Anita Blake novels and Anne Rice's vampire stories were quite popular, although I'd never read them.

Instead, I was influenced by anime and manga, particularly Vampire Princess Miyu and Hellsing Ultimate. I'd read Bram Stoker's Dracula, had seen numerous films based on it. But vampire lore has existed in other countries and cultures long before Stoker penned his horror masterpiece. I knew that if I wrote another vampire story, I'd want it to be different.

One of my favorite anime is the Mermaid Saga series by Rumiko Takahashi of Ranma 1/2 and Inuyasha fame. Yuta is a young-looking sailor who ate mermaid flesh 500 years ago. According to the legend, those who eat mermaid flesh either become immortal, die instantly, or mutate into horrible immortal monsters known as "lost souls."

When I decided to write this current vampire story, I wanted to get away from the blood sucker who stalks his victims. Nathaniel James didn't become a vampire because he wanted to subsist on blood. He wanted to become powerful enough to stop Jack the Ripper, a man who could shapeshift into a werewolf at will. But to become a vampire, Nathan had to find someone willing to turn him. And that was Stephen, descendent of a long line of vampire masters. People like Stephen have a dilemma. They produce too much blood and need someone to drink from them. But the people they turn die instantly from blood poisoning more often than not. If a vampire master can't find an assistant, the only way to get rid of the excess blood is through blood letting, such as cutting. But this practice is frowned upon as being barbaric. 

Stephen is Nathan's vampire master and also his manservant and lover.Not only do the men have to keep their vampirism secret but also their relationship. And that's not easy when a young prostitute, Charlotte, has her eyes on Nathan, a former Detective Inspector and someone she thinks is perfect to help her catch the Ripper. But Nathan has his own reasons for seeing the Ripper killed. 

Here are a few videos that influenced the story.

Mermaid Forest - Lost Souls

(Unfortunately, I can't embed this video, but here's the link:)

http://youtu.be/taW-njNouvk

  

Just My Blood Type

I'm very proud to announce the release of Just My Blood Type, a collaborative short story I collaborated on with the very totally awesome Carrie Clevenger. It's a free read featuring one Xan Marcelles, whom I totally suggest you check out.

As for what went into Just My Blood Type? I'd been following Carrie's progress with Crooked Fang and one of our conversations steered toward a collaboration. Something possessed me to fictionalise my erotica nom de plume, and as for the rest, it's there, it's done, and you can download it here.

This was a great story for Carrie and me to examine the mechanics of our collaboration. It is our sincere hope that you will enjoy reading Just My Blood Type as much as we enjoyed writing it.

Playing in the Past

 

Lately I’ve been playing around with the idea of writing a vampire/werewolf tale set in Victorian Louisville.

It wouldn’t be my first historical. As a rule, I don’t write them very often. Nevertheless, I enjoy reading such stories, particularly those set in the 1920s-1940s. The clothes, the cars, even the music... What’s not to love?

I first ventured into writing historical stories while in high school. Many of these were crime dramas set during Prohibition. Even then, I did my research. However, given these were stories written for English class or a few friends, I didn’t have to worry about historical accuracy, although I tried to be as realistic as possible.

Flash forward a decade or so. After graduating with a degree in English, I pretty much stopped writing creatively. When I decided to write my first novel, a YA horror, I set it in a village trapped in the American Colonial past. The following year I participated in my first National Novel Writing Month challenge. My story about a vampire hunter was partially set during the French Revolution.

Neither of those stories will see publication.

So why this renewed interest in  writing historicals? I think it’s simply a matter of needing a change, of wanting to write something different.  

And there is that Tod Browning idea...   

What a Week It Was

A few days ago, I announced I’d lost all interest in writing. I also pulled a free short story I’d written off my blog.

My frustration wasn’t based on any one factor. Instead it was a myriad of issues. Remember those Tom and Jerry cartoons where Jerry throws dishes down at Tom? Tom valiantly tries to balance the ever-growing pile and, just when he thinks everything will be okay, Jerry tops the teetering stack with a teacup and the whole shebang crashes to the floor.

That story was the teacup.

Luckily no one in my writing groups threatened to shoot and put me out of their misery.

Should I have vented? I don’t know. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly, knowing I could alienate people. After all, no one wants to listen to Whiny Wendy.

Yet maybe it helped others who felt the same way. After all, writers are still human, last I checked. We all have self-doubts, fears, and frustrations.  

The trick is to KEEP WRITING AND NEVER GIVE UP. (Yes, those are in caps for a reason.)

I reposted the story, a vampire-centric short. Another author pointed out (and rightly so) that I’d once said since I didn’t usually write about vampires, people wouldn’t like/read my work. I think her concern was did I write this story because I truly believed in it or because I thought it would bring me readers?

Rest assured, I would never write a story unless I wanted to. Like I told another writer, we have to write the stories in our hearts and not necessarily what we believe will sell.  

So it’s not that I would never write a vampire story. My first NaNoWriMo was a vampire novella set during the French Revolution. But when I do write vampires (or werewolves), I hope my stories are unique.

Anyway, a big THANK YOU to those of you who encouraged me and ordered me not to give up. Even if I didn’t respond to you individually, I read all your replies. And if there’s someone out there feeling self-doubt, remember this:  

You’re not alone. Trust me. We all go through this at one time or another.

If you’d like to read the story, it’s at http://www.pamela-turner.com/2011/04/repost-short-paranormal-story.html

For those of you who read and commented, thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it. :-)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I just got an idea for a werewolf tale and a drawing I need to sketch out.

Full Steam Ahead (Almost)

So I'm getting ready to start the third draft of the as yet untitled Zaphkiel Project. Usually my titles come to me right away. For some reason my muse, who bestows clever titles, decided to take a vacation. At this point I may end up calling it Zaphkiel. But there's already a book called Raziel and another titled Samael, so yeah, I'll keep working on it. (Raziel is also the name of a character in the Zaphkiel Project.)

Meanwhile, I'm still trying to figure out what my 50k writing challenge will be about. I don't normally write about vampires. Okay, there was that one short novel set during the French Revolution. For the sake of all our sanity, I won't release it on unsuspecting readers. Yet. (Evil grin.) Anyway, this idea about a vampire steam punk won't leave. Except it would involve steam boats and pirates as well, all set in Victorian Louisville.

Of course this means more research. I don't have a story yet, just a character who has what I hope is an interesting problem.

You Can't Do That!

Imagination. Writers are required to utilize it, to bring a unique spin on familiar themes. But what happens when readers, who heretofore demanded originality, cry, "You can't do that!"?

I'm not referring to obvious situations where an action results in a specific reaction. For example, if an ordinary person is shot, he or she will bleed. Now if the person has preternatural abilities then the game plan can change.

What I'm talking about are certain characters, particularly supernatural ones, whose actions have become defined by a set of unwritten rules.

Take the vampire for example. He or she is repelled by garlic, shuns holy water and crosses, turns into dust in sunlight, and is generally evil. A simple basic formula every writer crafting a vampire story should adhere to, right?

Um, yeah. Whatever. If that's true, then how does Miyu, the titular vampire from Narumi Kakinouchi's manga and anime Vampire Princess Miyu, move through the human world with ease? Holy water and crosses have no effect on her. She walks in daylight without fear.

Hellsing's Alucard uses bullets made from the silver of a melted cross. Unlike Miyu, however, he prefers the night. But his agenda is different from hers. He hunts other vampires. Miyu targets Shinma, god-demons who escaped when the gate between their world and the human one was opened.

Angels also seem to be forced into certain roles. Here the rules imply holy angels must always be good. Demons and fallen angels must always be evil.

Why? What purpose does it serve to pigeonhole these characters? If your vampire wants to work on the side of justice (Angel, Nick Knight) then let him or her. If your demon desires to fight evil, why say no? If he has free will then it would seem an individual choice. For that matter, why can't a holy angel become corrupted with power?

When we restrict our characters, we essentially shut off that part of ourselves which probably inspired us to write in the first place. We lose that ability to wonder "What if?"

Remember, you're the writer. These are your stories. Just because someone says your character can't do something, doesn't mean they're right. Challenge their preconceived notions. Give them something different.

Buffy vs Edward

I'm going back to Buffy for this week's post. It must be no secret by now, even to those new to this blog, that I'm a sad geeky Buffy fan.

Non-geeks, however, sometimes make the mistake of assuming if I like Buffy, I also like Twilight. After all, they're both about teenage girls who fall in love with sexy vampires, aren't they?

To a Buffy geek, this is a sacrilege. I could go on at length about why Buffy is miles away from Twilight, without even touching the quality of the writing.

Buffy is an independent minded young woman who kicks vampire butt. One of the main themes of at least the first few seasons is that she's not only the Chosen One, she's also an ordinary teenage girl dealing with the demons of High School. For most people, the demons of High School are metaphorical. Hers happen to be literal.

Yes, Buffy loves a vampire. But in the end she realises that the relationship is going nowhere and she has to leave him (and I am talking about Angel here - I never really believed Buffy was in love with Spike, but we'll leave that argument for another time). On the other hand, I believe Bella ends up marrying her vampire, even though a human/vampire relationship is problematic at best (and I've discussed that on this blog before).

But really, I think the best argument for proving why Buffy is better than Twilight can be found in the wonderful YouTube video 'Buffy vs Edward'.

I present Exhibit A.

Some love for our bad (fictional) boyfriends

I've been struggling, fighting tooth and nail to finish a very uncooperative novella. It started out strong but at some point things fell apart. Now I'm trying to put it back together and see if I still have a story at the end. I'm afraid the whole thing may be a fail.

I also fail at blog posts this week. The part of my brain that comes up with blog topics, and usually doesn't have too much trouble, is empty right now. The best I can come up with is a counter-argument to Sara's great post on Wednesday about how vampires make bad boyfriends. I will make my argument with YouTube videos, because that is far more coherent than anything I could come up with right now.

The first video features Bad Boyfriend by Garbage and extols the vices of two blond vampires, Spike from the Buffyverse and Eric Northman from True Blood.




Next up is a fanvid set to Black Black Heart by David Usher. I'm a recent convert to The Vampire Diaries, only having started watching the first season recently. I was afraid it would be too sparkly and good brother Stefan Salvatore is afflicted with both a great deal of sparkle and more than his fair share of Angel-ish brooding. Maybe it’s all that forehead, I don't know. But bad brother Damon - wow, Damon is an actual vampire. And he's bad. So very, very bad. I am now completely addicted to this show.





Here's something for Sara and her inexplicable and somewhat blasphemous affection for Buffy's rebound boyfriend Riley. The song is by Taylor Somebody or other. I have no idea what's going on in the video because I gave up watching it in order to go look for more Damon Salvatore fanvids.




After a great deal of searching and a regrettable exposure to Britney Spears (apparently Toxic and Womanizer are very popular song choices for fanvids, to which I say, what the hell?) I found this gem set to Anberlin's cover of Enjoy the Silence. I watched it more than once, to ensure the overall quality of the product and to make sure that Damon's drunken sexy dance was adequately represented.





To sum up: if loving Damon Salvatore is wrong, I don't want to be right.

I promise I'll have an actual post next week. ;-)

Why Vampires Make Bad Boyfriends

Writers of any genre involving paranormal creatures are united in their fondness for "Buffy the Vampire Slayer". And sooner or later, amongst Buffy fans (at least the female ones), the question invariably arises: which of Buffy's boyfriends is best?

Fans of Spike and Angel seem fairly evenly divided. I, however, have always gone for Riley. Yes, I know, he's usually considered boring. I rather like 'boring'. Riley was solid, dependable, reliable, trustworthy (well most of the time, anyway). And he had a healthy respect for independent-minded women. And, most importantly, he was human.

I do understand what the whole 'sexy vampire' thing is all about. Vampires are the ultimate Bad Boys, and a lot of women are attracted to bad boys. For some reason, I never have been. The only 'bad boy' I ever had a thing for was Han Solo, and when I wrote my Star Wars fan fiction, at age 14, the alter ego I created to put myself in the Star Wars universe was Han Solo's half sister - even at that age, I had worked out that dating someone like him would lead to trouble.

But let's look at why vampires make bad boyfriends. First of all, there's the whole 'immortality' thing. If you want someone to grow old with, don't choose a vampire because they don't. He's still going to be looking young and sexy when you're old and wrinkly and drawing your pension.

Then there's the issue of not being able to go out in sunlight. You won't be able to go on beach holidays with your beloved. Or for picnics in the park. Or anywhere, in fact, that requires going out in daylight. That's going to be problematic in any relationship.

Another thing that occurs to me is that actually, it shouldn't technically be possible for a vampire - a male one, anyway - to have sex. Vampires don't have heart beats, and without a beating heart the blood does not flow through the body, and...well, let's just point out that blood flow is a key factor in being able to have sex, at least for men. But OK, vampires aren't real, we are talking fantasy, and the act of sucking blood has been equated with sex since Bram Stoker wrote "Dracula". So I am prepared to suspend my belief for this one, at least.

But ultimately, human/vampire relationships are doomed to failure, and even Buffy realised this in the end - it's why she accepted her relationship with Angel was over.

Maybe I'm far too sensible for my own good, and that's why I've never gone for the 'bad boy' idea. But I'm happy to let all the other Buffy girls fight over Angel and Spike. I'll take Riley. I prefer 'boring and dependable' over 'exciting and dangerous' even when it comes to fantasy men.

I accept I'm in the minority here. Maybe I'm just weird. I'll take a geek over a bad boy any day. In the long term, they'll cause less heartache.

Requiem is Available Today

The moment that every author waits for has finally arrived. My book was released.
Requiem is now available from Noble Romance and I couldn't be more excited.

Requiem is the story of Kate, a vampire succubus, who has wandered through life feeding on both the blood and sex of mortals, with an utter disregard for human life. Even that gets boring after a while. But problems don't arise until Kate meets the new “Hollywood Heartthrob,” Aidan Cross.

Aidan is human, which would normally put him on the menu, but Kate finds herself attracted to him in more ways than one and decides to wait before she kills him to see if the allure is something more than his irresistible good looks.

Jack and Kate have a very complicated relationship dating back to the fall of Rome. He's an angel, she's not. One night with her will make him fall and be damned to life in the demon ranks, and she'll become mortal.

With Aidan, she gets a chance to play human. One night with Jack and she'll actually be human, but that also means giving up everything she loves.

Requiem is an unapologetic look into the journey of one vampire--a memoir of sorts. Kate is unrepentant about her lot in life and her need to feed, but instead of being a complete villain, she undergoes a journey of redemption, and learns that life is more the selfish pleasure.

To give you a little taste, I'll give you an excerpt:

If I weren't already dead, I would die of boredom.

In fact, I wondered if I could die again from the crushing wave of tedium the lecturer's words stirred as he droned on about microquasars, primordial magnetic fields, and dark matter. So what was I doing at an astrophysics lecture? I was out hunting. And as soon as the speech was over, I would lure the handsome graduate student two rows in front of me out back to the quiet little alley and drink his sweet life's elixir.

Or at least that's what I would have done, had my phone not started going off in the middle of the lecture. Annoyed, I made a quick exit out of the auditorium. Another missed opportunity. One I was particularly upset about, considering I had already invested a little over one hour of listening to that boring discussion.

The phone stopped ringing before I could answer it. A cool breath grazed the back of my neck. Only one person would call me off of a hunt and play like this. "This had better be good Nick," I said, through gritted teeth. I hadn't fed any of my hungers in nearly a month, and I was ready to tear the head off of a cow if that would've quenched my thirsts.

He materialized in front of me, a mischievous smile on his face.

Nick was a demon from way back, although his exact age I couldn't be sure of. He never would come clean about that. We both usually stopped at the Roman Empire, although sometimes he would hint at knowledge of Mesopotamian culture far beyond what's known in history books.

Unlike the popular culture images of demons, he didn't have scales or claws. Most demons didn't. Nick had a passing resemblance of a young Johnny Depp this century. He was fond of changing his appearance to avoid being recognized, especially if he chose to stay in a city for a long time. One of the first things you learn, as an immortal, was to either stick with really big cities or move a lot, in order to avoid being recognized.

Of course, most of us avoided social interactions with mortals. They tended to have the pesky habit of dying just when you'd finish breaking them in like a pet. It was a lonely existence we led. Most of us were solitary, having brief moments of companionship and no true circle of friends. Immortals tended to have very little patience for other immortals. Perhaps it was the fact that our longevity made us very depressing to be around—we often spent too much time reminiscing about the good old days. Then again, there were always exceptions to the rule.

I think one of the things that endeared Nick to me was that, unlike a lot of other demons I had come across in my years of living, he had at one point been mortal. Like me, he had made a choice that led him to the life he had now.

"I need you to do me a favor."

Not in the mood for what he had in mind, I shook my head and walked out of the building into the cool spring night.

Nick followed behind me, "Kate, please."

"Nope. I'm not interested," I replied, walking briskly down the city sidewalk.

"You know you've been in a bad mood for five years now." He kept pace with my rapid steps, breathing down my neck.

Five years might as well have been a few months the way time passed for us. One of the first things people think of with immortality is how cool it is to know that you get a chance to live forever. You get to see the world change. In actuality, it can grow quite tiresome. The world changes, but you stay the same, locked in an unending cycle.

Sure, you drift along doing whatever you please, but soon enough you've seen it all, then the thrill is gone. Humans have no idea what the phrase "the more things change the more they stay the same" truly means, but I do. I learned the meaning millennia before the phrase was ever created.

God I was bored. Could you have a midlife crisis when you were well beyond a mortal mid life?

I stopped abruptly and did an about face. "What's the favor?"

"Now we're talking." Nick smiled. "There's a party over in West Hollywood at some house. I need to get a few contracts signed."

"Don't you have enough celebrities who have sold their souls?"

"This is not a celebrity. It's some agent who wants to be head of a studio."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "What do you need me for?"

Nick did his best to be charming. "I need you to use that lovely succubus charm of yours to get me in the door."

My succubus charm. I rolled my eyes at the mention. I didn't like using my so-called succubus charm if I wasn't in the mood to use it to feed.

It's a well-known fact that most vampires feed off of blood alone. But the much lesser known fact is that some of us had the ability to feed off of other things, such as emotion, energy or sex.

I could feed off either blood or lust. Unlike my pure-vampire brethren, I got the chance to choose what sustenance I wanted at the moment. It was all because my maker was an incubus, a male vampire who could feed off of lust. So when I died, I got the very same abilities.

It came with some perks. My maker was a very handsome man. His skin glowed milky white, his lips were lush, his hair a rich black. But his eyes were the most beautiful, the most compelling—violet with silver rings around the irises. His incredible looks and mesmerizing eyes were for luring in prey, the succubus and incubus arsenal. Things he couldn't help but give to me when he made me. When I died, everything about me changed, and the people I had known would not have been able to recognize me. Becoming a vampire succubus changed my appearance so much, I scarcely remember what I looked like in my mortal days.

"You know I don't do parties." I sighed. I hadn't been to a Hollywood shindig since the Rat Pack were the Kings of Cool and Marilyn Monroe was still making films.

"Please. I don't ask you for many favors," Nick reasoned. "Besides, it could be fun."

"You know how I feel about today's Hollywood," I reminded him.

"Yeah, and that's why you haven't been to a movie since A Clockwork Orange in nineteen seventy-one."

Knowing what it meant for him as a soul collector, I couldn't hold onto my reluctance for long. Live long enough, and you had a habit of collecting favors that could be cashed in anytime, place, or century. "Fine. I'll help you."

He smirked and pulled my hand, tugging me in the direction of his car.

The party in question was being held in the West Hollywood hills. It didn't matter which decade in Hollywood's history you were in, the parties remained the same. The elite came to rub elbows and network, while young starlet hopefuls acted as eye-candy for the lecherous executives and agents. Although it had to be said, the starlets today were far more forward about the things they were willing to do to fulfill their ambitions than their predecessors had been. Where the infamous couch sessions were kept secretive in the old days, today's hopefuls had a definite exhibitionist streak.

Security at the mansion was tight. So tight that there was no way for a crasher to get in without making a scene. No wonder Nick needed me. Soon I stood before the burly doorman, who'd been assigned to check invitations.

"Your invitation, ma'am?"

I smiled and turned on my preternatural charm and charisma. "Darn, I must have left it at home." I let my voice roll over him like velvet, cloaking any suspicions he might have had. I flashed him another quick smile. One that said, look at me, I'm cute. He smiled back and let Nick and me through the door.

The party was just as I had anticipated—too cool and trendy to really be hip. The room was dim—what they liked to call mood lighting. Truthfully, it was just irritating. My eyes could adjust to any level of light, but I suppose I felt the halfhearted attempt was ridiculous. On or off, was my thing. One or the other, none of this mood crap.

I looked around the party with a hungry gaze. My brain switched over to predator mode, scanning the crowd for a meal. There were plenty of victims . . . err . . . I mean, oh hell, why finesse the truth? I meant victims. I had only to choose the hunger I wanted to feed.

A short man carrying two drinks approached me. He had a shiny bald head that reminded me more of grease than anything else. I found him utterly disgusting as he smiled and handed me the second drink in his hand. I sniffed it, taking in the scents of mint, rum, lime, club soda and sugar. But there was something else in the cocktail no human nose would have detected. A Mickey. The poor, greasy, little bastard was trying to slip me a dose of Rohypnol, a date rape drug, not knowing what I was and that his special cocktail would have no effect on me. I took a sip of the drink and gave him a sensual smile.

He showered me with the usual slimy compliments lowly producers, without any real clout, gave to all the wannabe starlets. The typical, "You are a very beautiful woman", "You ought to be in movies", or my favorite, "I can help you get into the pictures, if you're willing to do what it takes".

I smiled and nodded politely, every so often offering a gracious giggle while I pretended that the drug in my drink was starting to take effect. He examined my tired eyes. His black irises narrowed on my bosom. I recognized that dark glimmer, the vicious stare. He hunted those he felt were weaker, stupider, and more susceptible to what he perceived as charm.

He had no idea I was a predator, too, and that he had just become prey.

I let him usher me out of the party and to his waiting car. He smirked as I pretended to drift in and out of consciousness.

I decided to kill him tonight. I didn't have to kill him to feed, but I wanted to. I wanted to feel his blood run hot down my throat, hear his pathetic whimper as he realized what was happening, and I'd enjoy it. I'd decided from the moment he approached me with a cocktail laced with Rohyphnol that he would die in a painful manner. I would not roll his mind or seduce him into sex to feed. That would make him enjoy it too much. I'd made up my mind, when I decided to kill him, to make him suffer.

He pulled the car into a dark, open field. He was going to rape me—well, attempt to rape me—in the open, away from anyone who could bear witness to his crimes.

That was fine and dandy for me. No witnesses.

Opening my eyes, bright and full, I smirked and moved to the edge of my seat. He nodded and smiled as I placed a hand on his groin.

He unbuckled his pants and wriggled them down around his ankles, before leaning his seat back. I suppose he merely assumed he didn't use enough of the drug to keep me asleep. But judging by the look on his face, he wasn't too disappointed.

I sniffed the foul smell of his sweaty crotch. He disgusted me on every level. But the prize was yet to come. I could smell the blood in his femoral artery, flowing just under the surface of his white-gray skin. It was a smell I knew very well. A smell I relished and enjoyed, especially now that I was starved for it.

A smirk graced my lips as I extended my canines into two dainty fangs. I kissed his thigh, right at the femoral artery, and licked the area, anticipating the scalding release of his blood. He let out a happy sigh. Mustn't play with my food, I thought to myself, just before I plunged my fangs into the meat of his flesh.

He yelped in pain and tried to beat me off of him. I took both of his hands into one of mine and held him firm. His blood was hot as it flowed out of him and into me, filling my belly with its warmth.

When his heart stopped beating and the blood had run dry, I released my grip on him and let his corpse slump in the seat. He had been a good meal, if nothing else.

My hunger satiated, I got out of the car and ran with my superhuman abilities away from the scene. To anyone who might have been passing by, I would have only registered in their subconscious as barely a blip on their radar.

Was I worried that when the cops found the body they'd trace it back to me? Nope. They would find no evidence that I even existed. No remnants of shed hair or skin for them to find. Nothing with a shred of DNA. That sort of stuff didn't really apply when you became an immortal. Like I said, the world around me changed, I didn't.

I, like every other undead creature on this planet, was stuck in a permanent stasis.

Full, I felt better, physically, but my mood was still shitty. And, I was still bored. The kill had been easy, too easy, like everything else in this modern world. I'd had millennia to perfect my techniques, to learn to stalk and truly hunt my prey, but in this modern world of technology and instant gratification, it had all become so easy. There was no thrill of the chase anymore. Hell, there was no chase. Humans had grown soft.

Young vampires relished this culture of instant gratification. This breed of human that was so easy to catch. There was no thrill to it. I remember the days when humans had true warriors who would put up some fight. Sure, they lost every time, but it was a hell of a lot more fun. And people thought these modern days were violent.

I was in a sour mood when I finally got back to my house in Redondo. The home came complete with its own private beach access, a little ways down a hill.

Built in the mission style, with lots of Spanish architecture, the home had attracted my attention and I'd purchased it when it was still brand new during the twenties. I mean the nineteen twenties, although I did buy a little villa in Greece during the year 20 B.C. It's was a nice home in Athens. Unfortunately, it got destroyed in an earthquake and the subsequent fires. Oh well.

I opened up all the windows in the two-story home, with lightening speed, allowing the sea breeze from the Pacific to fill the house. The morning sunlight peeked in, chasing the darkness from each room. It was an old wives' tale that vampires would burst into flame or turn to dust from contact with sunlight. We could be out anytime we pleased; however, in the days of old, it was easier to hunt at night.

I curled up in my favorite chaise and began to read Eugénie by Honoré De Balzac in its original French. Being fluent in most languages, including the dead ones, was one of the perks of having lived for so long, in almost every corner of the world, and not having to sleep as much as a mortal.

Vampires, in general, slept when we felt like it, where we felt like it. Hell, there'd been years where I hadn't slept at all, and then times where I slept for years. I missed the entire American Revolution. I had decided that since I was so bored of that era, I'd find a nice place to sleep it out. I slept for an entire decade between 1776 and 1786 in a mausoleum in France. It was the safest place to be at the time. I didn't need to worry about some overzealous villager or uneducated peasant believing folklore and trying to stake me.

Not that a stake through the heart would kill me. I learned that early in my afterlife. It would hurt, be uncomfortable and plain irritating, but it wouldn't kill me. Very few humans could actually kill an immortal. It took a special breed. They had to be born, but often these natural slayers had no idea they held such special powers. And as time went on, there were less and less demon, vampire, or whatever else-slayers out to kill us. The humans had become so used to our presence, they typically ignored that little voice in their heads that said there was something wrong with the person standing next to them. We were living in an age of political correctness; no one wanted to be the one to point out that there was something different or not right about his or her neighbor, or the beautiful woman sitting at the bar. They didn't want to be stuck with a negative social stigma.

In truth, most of us were thankful for that. Those of us old enough to remember the bad ol' days, where bringing attention to yourself made you a pariah, were well accomplished at blending in with the humans and not arousing suspicion. Sure, there were a few little clues that we were not like them, but for the most part, we looked like any other humans. Even demons and angels blended in well. They shifted in and out of forms when needed.

Do you know how to tell when there is an ageless immortal in the room? It's not the expensive clothing they're wearing—that can be imitated by mortals. It's the jewelry they wear. Those of us who are old tend to collect pieces throughout the years and wear them. Pieces that belonged in museums. Of course, mortals would think they were clever replicas if they had even noticed them to begin with. That little distinction was not enough to cause humans to think we were unlike them.

It was the young ones we worried about. The ones who tended to be reckless and impulsive, bringing attention to themselves by acting out their God fantasies. They were the ones most at risk and who needed to be kept in line. That's why, when a new vampire is made, their sire is around them for a few years, showing them the ropes, even if they don't plan on making them a companion. We weren't completely dog-eat-dog. We did have some sense of moral responsibility. Mainly our code was limited to the whole life in the shadows thing.

Granted, we didn't really live in the shadows, but we were the ultimate secret society. Only a select few even knew of our existence. We immortals, all of us, not just the vampires, liked to keep our existence secretive. We didn't want mortals to spoil our fun and games.

I was just getting comfortable in the chair, reading the book's climax, when I felt a presence in the room. I looked up from my book to see Nick sitting in the chair across from me. He had a glow about him, a glow I'd seen a hundred times before. The glow he got when someone signed their soul away.

Nick had once told me that collectors were motivated to collect souls not only because it was their job, but also because they got a real energy boost from it. It was like a feeding for them. He explained it was similar to the glow and feeling of complete satisfaction I got when I fed on sex and lust rather than blood.

"You know when you sit utterly still like that, it's unnerving. It's like you're a statue or something," he said.

"It takes years of practice to be able to sit like this," I replied. It was true. After being dead for a while, you find you don't really have to do things like move. You never get uncomfortable from staying in one position for too long.

"Centuries, I suppose," he said, taking two tickets out of his jacket's inner pocket. He looked around the living room. "You know there are really only two things you need in here, a refrigerator and a television."

"When I do eat regular food, I eat out. And you know I haven't owned a television since I Dream of Jeannie went off the air." I loved that show with all its kitschy humor. They just didn't make sitcoms like that anymore.

Nick snorted at that. He and I had this discussion a lot, and he knew he would gain no ground. It was always fun to get two very stubborn immortal beings together.

"I've got two tickets here for a movie premiere tonight." Nick fanned himself with them.

"So," I replied indignantly. "I've been to plenty of premieres. None of them have been as much fun as the one for A Streetcar Named Desire."

"You only say that because Marlon Brando was the last celebrity crush you had and you fucked him afterward."

I smiled at the mention of that tryst. "What can I say, Marlon was a good shag. We lasted the whole weekend actually."

"Ah yes." He smiled fondly. "I got an excellent soul out of that deal."

I shagged Brando, and Nick got his soul. Oh, don't feel too bad for the bloke, he did go on to be one of the biggest movie stars of all time and live a long life.

"Come on, Kate. You've been in a rut. Maybe this is just what the doctor ordered." Nick put on his best charming smile. "Besides, there will be plenty of food there."

I frowned and put down my book. "I'm full."

"Oh right, you probably drained that guy you left the party with. But I bet you haven't fed the succubus part of you yet." He no doubt noticed the lack of a glow in my skin.

"I can go years without feeding that."

"But then you need blood more often," he reasoned.

I nodded. He was right, damn him.

It wouldn't kill me to get out and go to the premiere. I just didn't do the whole Hollywood scene anymore. It was hard to keep a low profile in this digital age if you insisted on being at every hot spot or celebrity haunt. The paparazzi were bolder these days, and with everything being recorded for posterity, people would notice the lack of aging.

"All right. I'll go." Nick was one of two people who could get me to go to these sorts of things. I considered Nick one of my only two very close friends. The other one was a very old friend, and was due for a visit very soon.

Nick got up from the couch. "Great. I'll pick you up at five thirty. Movie starts at seven."

"Who's the soul?" I asked.

"Does it really matter? Some bit actress. Let's just say she'll soon be a star." Nick liked working the Hollywood beat. Besides the perks, like movie premiere invitations and award shows, there were lots of easy souls, ripe for collection. Plenty of people would sell their souls for money, power, and fame; Nick was just there to collect. All they had to do was say the magic words, "I'd sell my soul . . . ." or some variation thereof, and poof. There was Nick, contract in hand, ready to have them sign away. And no, it wasn't signed in their blood. It was done with a ballpoint pen, preferably black ink.

I wasn't really in the mood to read anymore. Nick had ruined it with his movie talk. Instead, I decided to go shopping and get a little pampering done. I wanted to look my best if I was going to a big movie premiere tonight. Although, for a vampire who was a succubus, it wasn't really hard for me to look appealing. All I needed to do was smile.

Now that its out, I have to ask you to purchase your copy over at Noble Romance
But stayed tuned, The Witching Hour will be out this November. And don't forget to head over to my website for the virtual release party!