Excerpt--The Haunting of Rory Campbell

After last week's spate of new stories, this time we head for another blast from the past with a snippet from The Haunting of Rory Campbell, another novel from ImaJinn Books. Rory Campbell is a professional ghost whisperer, I suppose you could say, although I wrote this book before that term came into vogue. While investigating a haunted historical site in North Carolina, she encounters Lachlan MacGregor, a Scottish immigrant who died in the 18th century. Ghostly hijinks ensue.

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***

            A few hours later, suitcases unloaded, cameras and tape recorders strewn all over the living room, Rory sat at the kitchen table writing out a game plan.  Tomorrow she’d set up tape recorders in places most likely to yield results.  Based on the background information, she’d already ruled out the pink bedroom, but the kitchen and the library seemed promising.  Tonight she’d collate her notes on previous sightings, which would make a good first chapter to her book.

            Finally she stopped, eyes aching from looking at the computer terminal.  Time to wind down for bed.  But she had nothing whatsoever to do with herself.  The place had electricity, yes, but there was no TV, no radio, and she was tired of looking at the computer, even for entertainment’s sake.

            She’d almost decided just to go to bed and read when she remembered the big, deep, claw-footed porcelain tub in the upstairs bathroom.  The thought of a nice, warm bath made her realize just how long a day she’d had, and how much she needed the relaxation.

            The water sputtered a bit when she turned on the tap, blowing a nice spray of rust with it, so she let it run until the water was clear before she stuck her hand in to test the temperature.  She wondered how old the pipes were, and if they might have lead in them.  She’d have the water tested as soon as possible.

            The bathroom filled with steam as the tub filled with hot water.  Rory went back to the pink room to retrieve the paperback horror novel she’d picked up at the grocery store.  She found horror novels vastly entertaining.  Devoting her professional life to the paranormal had given her a perspective somewhat different from the average reading public’s, and she often laughed her way through the most gruesome tales of preternatural mayhem.  Stephen King could still scare the hell out of her on occasion, though. 

            Book chosen, tub full and steaming, Rory peeled off her clothes and settled down into the nearly too-hot water.  It would cool quickly enough, but right now it was warm enough to turn her pale, freckled skin an interesting lobsterish color.  She wished she had bubble bath, but unfortunately she hadn’t thought about it when she’d been at the store.

            She read for a while as the water cooled to comfortably warm.  The heat and the stress of the day combined to fill her body with lassitude.  As the mayhem in the book began in earnest, she found her eyes drifting shut.  Finally, after nearly dropping the book into the water, she laid it aside and closed her eyes.

            Warm steam caressed her face, and the warm water lapped softly against her thighs and breasts.  With her eyes closed, the dampness felt like a hand against her face, each bead of sweat seeming to pop as it rose on her upper lip.  She felt as if she were floating, though her body rested securely on the floor of the tub.  Giving herself up to the floaty sensation, she let it carry her away.

            She didn’t fall asleep.  Not quite.  She hung suspended between consciousness and slumber, thinking of nothing, only feeling.  Sensation filled her, until it seemed nothing existed outside the layers of her own skin.           

            The heat, which had lain soft and damp against her skin, shifted as her breathing deepened.  It was like the caress of hands, moving up and down her body, the imagined touch adding to the deep, pervasive lassitude which had completely filled her.  She smiled a little, sank deeper into the water, but her conscious self was unaware of the action.

            And heat grew within her.  Liquid still, like the heat of the water, but pooling within her body, sinking to lie between her thighs, until that place ached with heaviness.  Sticky and hot, she moved, her hips pulsing softly.  She didn’t know she did it.  She thought she dreamed.

            But the dream was all of heat and water, growing and moving as it passed over her body, molded firm around her breasts, slipped soft down her belly, feathered against the insides of her thighs . . .

            Rory woke with a start and sat gasping, still feeling the heat, her body teetering on the edge of completion.

            What the hell was that?

            It had to have been a dream.  Certainly the heat hadn’t been real--the bath water had turned almost icy around her.  She stood, shivering as she snagged the towel from the sink.  Her legs wobbled.  She scrubbed herself dry and shivered her way into her pajamas.

            She stared at the water as it swirled and glugged down the drain.  She’d had strangely intense emotional experiences at haunted sights before, but never anything like this.  It had to have been a dream, the result of fatigue and her understandable preoccupation with the possible haunting of the house.

            At least, she hoped that was all it was.  Anything else didn’t really bear thinking about.

Excerpt: Vampire Apocalypse: Revelations

With Vampire Apocalypse: Revelations, we get to the last books I originally published with Dreams Unlimited. The Vampire Apocalypse series was originally envisioned as a series of novellas. The first two, Julian and Nicholas, were published under separate cover, and I was working on the third, Lucien, when DU went out of business.

I decided to stick to the original plan of connected novellas, but finished Lucien and wrote one more, Lorelei, and sold them as a package to ImaJinn. Then Book Two: Apotheosis, followed with four more connected novellas: Lilith, Rafael, Tara, and Julian--Redux. Both books are still in print through ImaJinn. Overall, it's one of those worlds I keep thinking about revisiting, but I'm not sure if I should.

From Vampire Apocalypse Book One: Revelations--Julian

Lorelei Fletcher was in over her head. She should have followed her instincts from the beginning. Too late for that now—she just hoped she could get the hell out of here somehow.

On any other night but Halloween, she never would have followed Dina east of Tompkins Square Park, dance club or no dance club. But Halloween and her vampire costume made her feel invincible, so she’d agreed.

They’d never made it to the dance club. Instead, following directions given Dina by her latest boyfriend, they’d ended up here, in a bizarre tenement building where all the rooms seemed to be connected, and where no hallway seemed to be the same shape from moment to moment. Lorelei was beginning to wonder if the weird smell in the place was some kind of hallucinogen.

It would, at least, be a logical explanation for why everyone was so weird. Everybody in the place was dressed like a vampire. It hadn’t seemed strange at first. It was Halloween, after all. Lorelei herself made a stunning vampiress, or so she thought, with her black hair and naturally milky complexion. But, unlike the weirdoes at this party, she only played vampire one day a year.

She had to admit the image of the vampire intrigued her, sometimes to the point of obsession. She could spend days watching every vampire movie she could find, tracing dim, elusive memories. In twenty years, she hadn’t found a mirror to the scene she remembered from childhood. But compared to these nuts, she was a paragon of sanity.

She’d been accosted half a dozen times by guys with razor blades, and, looking for the bathroom, she’d stumbled into a couple of leather-clad women sucking each other’s wrists with an enthusiasm Lorelei reserved for sex or good chocolate. She’d heard about things like this, but she’d never really believed people could be so freaky. So much for unbridled optimism.

She wished she knew where Dina was. Lorelei had lost track of her about an hour ago, when they’d split up to find the front door. They were supposed to meet at a designated bathroom fifteen minutes later, but Lorelei hadn’t seen Dina since. Nor had she seen the front door.

Somewhere a clock began to strike. Lorelei looked at her watch. Midnight. A woman in a bright red cape brushed by her, a coppery smell of blood drifting in her wake.

“Excuse me,” Lorelei said, but the woman only cast a grin over her shoulder and kept walking.

“Thank you so much.” Lorelei came to a halt and crossed her arms. This was ridiculous. She could swear she’d been down this stretch of hallway at least twice. Where the hell had the front door gone? She thought a minute. If she went this way, she should end up back at the bathroom...

The voice, faint but frantic, seemed to come from around a bend in the hall.“No! Stop it, Nicky!”

“Dina!” Lorelei broke into a run.

“Get your hands off me, you bastard!”

“Dina!” Lorelei ran full-tilt into the closed door. She was certain it was the bathroom—or a bathroom—and behind it Dina’s voice rose, frantic.

“No! Nicky, no!” >The voice sobbed now, in terror. >

Lorelei slammed herself into the door. >“Dina! Dina, hang on

Hang on to what? Lorelei had no idea what was going on. Her breath tore in her throat, heaving toward panic. Visions of razor blades and blood swam in her vision. >She smashed herself again and again into the door until she thought her shoulder would shatter. Suddenly the door came open with the sickening sound of splintering wood.

There was Dina. There were no razor blades, but there was blood.

A big, dark-haired man had her pinned against the wall, face buried in the bend of her throat. Of course, Lorelei thought fleetingly. If they thought they were vampires, of course they’d go for the throat. Shallow cuts, probably, like the wrist cuts.

“Get away from her, you freak!” Lorelei grabbed the man by the shoulder and dragged at him, trying to haul him off Dina. But he was heavy, and stronger than she could have imagined...

Panic clawed up her throat. This wasn’t like the wrist-sucking girls in the bathroom. Something more was going on here. >The room reeked of blood. From this angle, Lorelei could see it, winding in a thick, red line down Dina’s bare shoulder, down the length of her arm, dripping steadily from the end of her index finger. Dina’s head was thrown back, the man’s mouth fastened to her throat...

He was killing her.

Lorelei struck him again, fruitlessly. Then, so deep into panic she had no awareness of it anymore, she grabbed a handful of his silky black hair and jerked as hard as she could.

The man’s head snapped back. Blood sprayed everywhere. He turned toward Lorelei as Dina’s body slumped down to the floor, filling the small room with a rhythmic spray of blood that suddenly subsided.

The man grabbed Lorelei’s hair on either side of her face, holding her riveted. She’d thought the paleness of his skin was makeup, skillfully applied. >Now she saw it was only his skin, smooth, seamless, painfully white. He opened his blood-filled mouth and she saw white again, slender fangs.

He struck. ***

Julian Cavanaugh had been sitting in the alley for hours, chain smoking and smelling blood. He came here every Halloween, to remind himself of what he'd been, and what he'd become.

Sometimes he wondered why he did it. With the blood-smell in his nostrils the craving became almost unbearable even with the aid of the cigarettes, which weren’t exactly over-the-counter Marlboros. But if he could sit here from dusk until dawn, smelling the blood and not giving into the need, he knew he could make it another year.

As of tonight, it would be two hundred and thirty-six.

Sometimes he thought it was a waste of time, namely the hours he invested every week making the cigarettes. The tobacco he could buy at the mall, nicely dried and prepared, but three of the other ingredients were herbs which, as far as he knew, had been extinct on this planet for a millennium. Except for the few plants preserved by a Native American shaman, given to him by a god of blood, then passed on to Julian two hundred and thirty-six years ago.

Deep, throaty laughter came from a second-story window. Julian recognized the voice. >Nicholas had been made a vampire three years ago tonight, during the annual Halloween bloodbash. Vivian had made him. As Julian recalled, she’d found him in a bar and brought him home for the party. It was strange to Julian how many humans were willing to come, to slash their wrists and lap each others’ blood, pretending to be something they couldn’t begin to imagine.

Julian lit another cigarette from the tip of the butt in his mouth and listened to Nicholas’ voice. A woman answered him, first laughing seductively, then, suddenly, in fear.

“No. Stop it, Nicky.” He heard scuffling. “Get your hands off me, you bastard!” Then she screamed, “No!”

Julian closed his eyes tight and sucked hard on the cigarette. He’d promised himself a long time ago to stay out of the business of other vampires. >But he hated to hear the taking of an unwilling victim.

He should get up and walk away. Inside, the voices rose. Another woman’s voice screamed from the other side of the door. >Julian snubbed the cigarette against the brick wall and put the butt in his jacket pocket. Gathering himself, he leapt, catching the sill and levering himself up on it. The cigarettes had stilled the need for blood, but hadn’t affected his strength.

The victim’s head lolled against the partly-open window. All Julian could see was a mass of gold-brown hair and Nicholas’ face pressed into her neck. Julian grabbed the window and shoved upward. >He should have moved faster. Now it was too late to save her.

Suddenly the bathroom door burst inward and another woman half-fell into the room. With an astonishing show of strength, she tore Nicholas away from the dying blonde woman. And Nicholas, predictably, turned on her.

Julian launched himself through the window and onto Nicholas’ back, breaking him loose from his victim and knocking him to the floor. >The woman fell in a heap to the ground, all pale skin and black hair, unconscious, not from blood loss, but from the beginning of the vampire’s trance. Her throat had been pricked, but not penetrated.

Nicholas, interrupted at the beginning of a new feed, stumbled. Julian grabbed his shoulder and shoved him down. The younger vampire glared up at him, eyes glinting black.

“You,” he said, his voice still wet with blood from the first girl.

“How observant,” said Julian dryly.

Nicholas leaped at him. Julian hadn’t expected that and he threw up an arm to ward Nicholas off, but he landed hard against him, threw a punch that smashed Julian’s lip against his teeth. The taste of his own blood made Julian momentarily dizzy.

“Stop,” he said, his voice pitched low and deep. >

Nicholas stopped. He was young, his three years no match for Julian’s eight centuries. >He gaped at Julian, then struggled to formed words. “There’s a Call out for you, man.”

Julian stared. There had been no Call put out for a vampire for nearly two centuries. >But under the compulsion, Nicholas had no choice but to tell the truth.

“Sleep,” Julian said finally, and Nicholas slumped to the floor.

Julian turned to the dark-haired woman. She was alive. He could still help her. It was far too late for the other woman. All he could do was get away from the smell of her blood as quickly as possible. Gently, he lifted the living woman from the floor.

EXCERPT: Time and Time Again

 Time and Time Again was my first published novel. It originally sold to Dreams Unlimited, then was reprinted in paperback at ImaJinn Books when DU went out of business. It's still available in paperback and electronic formats through ImaJinn Books or Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

Five years ago, Britt Keane's husband was gunned down in an apparently motiveless act. She’s hired a displaced Russian physicist to build a time machine. Then she hires Jesse Branson to go back in time with her to save her husband.


Unbeknownst to Britt, Jesse's a private investigator who was investigating Adam Keane’s finances just before his death. Britt's quest gives him an opportunity to close the case. When he hears about Britt's time machine, he's convinced he's in the presence of a madwoman.


But the machine works, and Jesse and Britt must face the ultimate question—can the past really be changed? And if it can, should it be?

ONE

Jesse Branson could almost hear his car breathe a sigh of relief as he parked in the long circular driveway in front of the Keane mansion.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled as he got out. He normally didn’t talk to his car, but he felt obligated to apologize for the harrowing trek up the mountain. It had been touch-and-go for a while, when he’d wondered if the ancient Toyota would just give up and roll back down to a more comfortable altitude.

Now the car looked like something the Keanes had put out on the curb to wait for trash day. With a wry smile, Jesse patted the car’s hood, then wished he hadn’t. The metal was almost hot enough to burn. He sucked the quick pain out of his fingers, wiped them dry on his jeans, and headed up the long, flagstone walk to the double front doors. The afternoon sunlight blinked blindingly off the textured glass inlays in the doors’ upper panels.

As far as Jesse knew, no one had ever questioned how Dr. Adam Keane, a pediatric surgeon at St. Matthew’s Children’s Hospital, had managed to afford this palatial mountain estate. Keane had, after all, been quite a successful doctor, and his medical supply firm brought in a steady and large profit. But, five years ago, Jesse had been given reason—and a decent salary— to look more closely.

Determined to find the truth, Jesse had done so—but had been unable to prove it after Keane’s murder.

Then, last week, he’d been scanning the classified ads in the Denver Post, looking for a car. And there it was, a bold, strange little ad calculated to catch attention:

WANTED: Individual with firearm license. Preferably single, with no family attachments.

Weird, he’d thought, and then he saw the phone number. He recognized it—he’d been only days away from getting it tapped when Keane had died.

When he called the number and found himself talking to Mrs. Keane herself, the deal was clinched. Whatever she wanted done, he would do it, for the chance to close the case.

Well, within limits. He hadn’t yet decided what those limits were.

And now he stood at the Keanes’ front door. He scrubbed his dusty cowboy boots on the mat and rang the doorbell. Chimes echoed inside the house. The entry hall must be huge.

Silence settled, and Jesse was about to ring again when the doors opened, swinging silently outward. Beyond, in a foyer nearly as big as Jesse’s bedroom, stood a smallish, sober man in a pricey gray suit that didn’t hang quite right on him.

“Yes?” said the man. “May I help you?” The politeness seemed practiced, not quite natural.

“I’m Jesse Branson. Ms. Keane is expecting me. I’m here about the ad.”

The man nodded. “Of course. Come in.”

Light from a wall full of bay windows filled the spacious front room. Beyond the windows, the mountain fell away in a steep, tree-covered slope. In the distance marched a line of spectacular snow-capped peaks. The room itself held a cream-colored sectional sofa, positioned to take advantage of the windows.

“Have a seat,” said the doorman, or butler, or whatever he was. “Mrs. Keane will be with you shortly.”

Jesse settled into the chamois-soft leather sofa. He would have expected to see a TV in the room, but there was none. The view, he supposed, was sufficient entertainment. He propped an ankle on the other knee and tapped his still-dusty boot.

As much time as he’d spent pursuing Adam Keane five years ago, Jesse had never met the man’s wife. He’d seen her from a distance, so he knew what she looked like, but there had never been reason to get any closer.

Which, as it happened, was for the best. Because if she were to recognize him now . . .

The distinctive click of heels on tile rose from an adjacent room. Jesse stood.

She came into the living room seconds later. Jesse was wrong—he hadn’t known what she looked like. Five years could change a person.

She was taller than he’d thought, wearing a tailored ivory suit that sleeked over just-right curves. Her brown-black hair fell in a soft wave to just below her jawline. Upturned eyes the color of espresso scrutinized his face. She looked elfin, he thought, but not like a particularly friendly elf. More like the kind who’d leave coal in your Christmas stocking.

“Britt Keane,” she said, holding out her hand. Jesse took it firmly.

“Jesse Branson,” he replied.

“Please, sit down.”

He sat, and Britt followed suit, settling into the other section of the sofa. She crossed her legs neatly, folding her hands in her lap.

“So, Mr. Branson. The job’s yours if you want it.”

He gave an incredulous grin. “What? That’s it? That’s the interview?”

“Yes. That’s it. Do you want the job?”

“Aren’t there other candidates?”

Lips pressed together, she eyed him again. Small lines bracketing her mouth told Jesse she’d once smiled frequently. She wasn’t smiling now. “I didn’t contact anyone else. I have very specific needs, and you were the only one who met them.”

Jesse considered that, then found himself unable to resist her inadvertent innuendo. “What, exactly, is it you want me to do?”

Her face reddened. “It’s all quite complicated, I’m afraid.”

Her blush was lovely. Under other circumstances he might have tried to elicit another. But there was more to concern him here than a pretty woman.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Keane,” he said, “but I can’t accept a job I know nothing about.”

“Understandable.” Composure back in place, she uncrossed her legs and crossed them in the other direction, exposing an intriguing few inches of thigh in the process. Jesse sensed hesitation, as if she didn’t really want to go into details.

Finally she took a quick breath. “To be honest, Mr. Branson, I would be much happier taking care of this situation myself. But I need someone who can handle physical confrontation. Someone who can use a gun. Which is why your military background appealed to me, as well as some of the . . . independent projects you mentioned in your résumé.”

Jesse shifted. Curiouser and curiouser. What in the world could this neat, sophisticated woman want from him that would have any relation to his military service, or to the few soldier-of-fortune type missions he’d taken on?

With a slight twitch of one eyebrow, he met her brown gaze directly. “So,” he said, “who exactly is it you want killed?”

“I don’t necessarily want anyone killed.” She leaned forward a little, her hands clenched together so tightly her knuckles turned white. “On the contrary, Mr. Branson. I want you to save my husband’s life.”