Preston Ciora has ruled over the Western Vampyre clans for centuries, though not by his choice. He works the streets as a homicide detective by day. At night he dishes out justice within the vampyre community.
Nine hundred years since his sire and life-mate died, Preston remains emotionally scarred and alone.
A series of grisly murders rattles those under his protection and threatens to expose his ilk to the mortal world. All evidence points to a delusional vampyre who is in league with an ancient shape-shifter—who has an agenda of his own.
To make matters worse, a strange woman tells Preston he will find love in the arms of a fire-breathing hellion named Lindsey. Despite his efforts to defy the foretelling, Preston finds himself embroiled in a tense war to win her heart—a battle he is intent on losing
My never-ending dream usually began this way…
His skin felt like electricity crawling over it like scattering ants. He clawed at malnourished flesh as if trying to shed body cover; he wears tattered, second-hand clothes and lives in a place suffused in shadow. He vacates a room, destroys whatever rests in his path. Voices whisper behind closed, locked doors when he moves along the hall. Those unlocked were latched … the click drawing his attention and infuriated him.
Outside, he slammed the door in his wake. The night fails to soothe his bitter nature but he lets the silence rule. Behind him, he perceived a sigh of relief from those still inside the house.
Someone thought: Perhaps something in the night will devour him…
Did they not know he heard their thoughts?
The pale, gnomish man trembles with bridled rage. Turning, he breaks, yells at the top of his lungs, “Rot in hell, all of you!”
The dream settled yet his bitter presence continued to smother me.
History, this vile creature thinks, has repeated itself—once revered for bestowing immortality’s kiss, his converts now plot to overthrow him. Insurrections bore him. And traitors deserved no mercy.
The man turned, stared at the night shadows. His head throbs, pain severe enough to drop him to his knees. He strikes himself about the temple in the hope it would offer relief.
It did not.
Who was he? He wondered. Julius. Yes, his name …
“Come …” the voice beckoned again, louder.
Lips drawn tight in a sneer, he crouched, prepared to fight.
“J…uliu…sss.” The voice surrounded him on a strong current of chilled air.
“Show yourself!” Julius screams at the night.
Hearing nothing, he stumbled across the uneven dirt surface aiming for a mountain range ahead. It took a while but he finally located what he sought—a crevice leading into the foothills. The passage is narrow but he maneuvered easily, the only sound is gravel crunching beneath his worn out shoes.
The path opened into a large cave, illuminated with a faint glow where no light should be. Something indistinct vacillated in a dark shadow—a willowy shape then emerged into the faint afterglow shrouded in a cloak; the garment hood pulled close exposing only a brown, knotty chin. “At last, we meet.” It greeted.
“Who, what are you?” Julius demanded in a low, taut growl.
“One who walked thousands of years before the Nazarene,” It answered—something under the cloak behind it twitched—“I am Thad…de…ussss.”
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About the Author:
L.M. David has been writing novels since Jr. High school. Originally drawn to the genre of Science Fiction, she developed a fascination with paranormal/urban fantasy/romance, attracted to the dark erotic world of vampires which sparked a deep interest with the folklore and legends.
L.M. is an avid reader and in her spare time builds computers, quilts and makes jewelry. She has worked as a legal assistant and now as an insurance medical biller and coder. Born in New Jersey, she relocated to California and now considers herself a Southern Californian.
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