Title: Cranberry
Blood
Author: Elizabeth Morgan
Series: Blood Series (Book #1)
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Publisher: Self Published
Release Date: Aug 25 2014
Edition/Formats It Will Be Available In: eBook & Print
Blurb/Synopsis:
Killing Vampires? Easy.
Tracking someone? Simple.
Helping, and protecting a Vampire
slayer . . . . Bloody hard work!
Thirteen years ago, Brendan Daniels
made a deal with a psychic. In exchange for information on the whereabouts of a
Rogue Werewolf, he promised to help and protect Sofia's granddaughter.
Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was letting himself, or his Pack, in for.
Nothing about Heather is simple, from
her weird dietary needs to her life’s mission. The girl can handle herself, but
the promise to protect her soon becomes a need, and one he can't fully
understand.
Vampire Slayer.
Born Infected.
Addicted to blood . . . but not by choice.
Born Infected.
Addicted to blood . . . but not by choice.
Heather Ryan is the current Slayer in
a long family line. Like all before her, she has spent her life searching for
her ancestor, Marko Pavel, the Vampire her family has sworn to kill. If that
isn't complicated enough, she is also a born "Infected", and to keep
her from becoming insane or giving in to her darker side, she is on a very
strict diet.
Now that her Grandmother Sofia has passed,
it is up to Heather to take the family legacy into her own hands. Or at least,
it would have been...if her Grandmother hadn't sent a Werewolf to help her.
What is the irritating Brendan
supposed to help her with? Sofia never told either of them. Luckily, it doesn't
take long for Heather and Brendan to find out that the Vampires have big plans,
and that the Leeches have waited a long time for them both.
****CONTENT WARNING****
This title contains
explicit language, violence, and some scenes of a sexual nature.
Excerpt
Lights spluttered above me, fighting with some
relentless attempt to come back on, even though the battle appeared hopeless.
It is hopeless. I’m trapped.
Fresh waves of pain rippled around my skull and
down my spine as I fought to see everything around me, but thick grey smoke
flooded the corridors. It crawled down my throat; the taste and feel of ash
coated my tongue, making me gag. The need to cough kept grabbing me while ash
blocked my nose and stung my watering eyes. My head throbbed, pressure in my
skull tightened, as I fought hard to keep my eyes open.
There has
to be a way out.
My eyesight had clouded from the smoke; my
nostrils burned with it.
The awareness under my skin blazed as hot as
the fire that currently threatened to bring the entire structure down on my
head, but I had to walk down here; every impulse in my body forced me forward.
I had no idea what I hoped to find, but I knew in my gut that I could get out.
My right hand hit the uneven wall before me; my
heart sank as I stood before the dead end.
My lungs burned as the smoke continued to
consume my body.
I wasn’t supposed to die down here.
Chapter One
~ Heather ~
Air
scorched my throat as my body jerked into consciousness. Eyes wide and
unfocused, I shot into a sitting position, fisting my hands against my chest as
I fought to breathe. My heart hammered, each beat loud and clear as it thumped
in my ears. My gaze darted around the room. Relief settled over me like a
gentle summer’s breeze as each small familiarity of my bedroom filtered into my
jumbled mind: the tall, old mahogany wardrobe to the right side; the window,
where light desperately tried to seep through the blinds; and lastly, across
from the foot of my bed, the vanity table in the same dark shade of wood.
Everything exactly where it should be, including me, in my bed, exactly where I should be.
I inhaled,
the simple motion causing a stitch to run up my sides, but I ignored it.
Sinking against my pillows, I rested my head against the wooden bed frame and
closed my eyes. One breath, two, three; my heart steadied back into its usual
rhythm. I rubbed my hands across my face, wiping away the sheen of sweat that
had broken over my skin. On my exhale, the quietness of the room embraced me.
The usual knots in my stomach started to tighten as the confusion of the
recurring dream faded. I forced my mind to reach out and grab the escaping
images, but, as always, reality quickly settled in and made my vision nothing
more than a blank canvas.
Dull
throbbing picked up at my temples. Shit.
A sigh escaped me. Not again.
I threw
back the covers and stumbled out of bed, suddenly aware of something gripping
the skin of my stomach and back.
“What
the—?” The raised hem of my black vest allowed a glimpse at the white bandage
strapped around my torso. “How the hell did that get there?”
Shuffling
steps took me over to the mirror on the vanity table where I studied the clean
dressing that clung to my washed-out skin.
Brow
furrowed, I stared at the white patch. “Okay. I really don’t remember hurting
myself, let alone bandaging myself up.” My focus snapped to a smaller bandage,
taped on the left side of my forehead. I studied my half-naked reflection with
confusion. My already pale, peach skin looked pasty white, my golden curls
nothing more than flat frizz. The throb in my temples increased as I forced my
mind to conjure some memory of what had happened last night.
Blurred
snippets of my most recent trip to London skipped through my brain. Standing on
the roof across the way from some club . . . . Then nothing but blank.
I grabbed
my comb and sat down on the edge of the bed, a hiss escaping my lips as pain
shot up my left side. I took a deep breath and began to pull the comb through
my matted hair, clenching my teeth as agony bit at my skull with each sharp
tug. My mind continued to sift through snips of the night: going out to look
for Carlson, finding him with Antonio. They had followed three drunken women
from a club and dragged them into a loading bay behind one of the larger shops.
Me following them and helping the three women get away . . . . At least, I think I did.
But what
happened after that? More blankness. Damn.
Hair pulled
over one shoulder; I plaited the limp mass and then placed the comb on the
vanity table. My forehead began to tighten, and the painful awareness of the
familiar thirst that started to crawl up my dry throat assailed my system. My
stomach gurgled.
God, I feel rough. I needed food and my mixture, followed by a
long, hot shower.
Rolling my
head in a circle, I listened to the small pops of tense muscles as I walked to
the head of the bed and reached behind the pillows for my sword. My hand met
the mattress. My heart stopped. I threw the pillow aside.
Where the hell is my sword?
A strange
reckoning tickled below the surface of my skin as my gaze tripped over the
room. Something isn’t right.
I walked
around my bed to my wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black jogging pants. My
focus landed on my sheathed sword, which leant against the white wall behind
the bedside table. I slipped into the garment and grabbed my sword, unsheathing
the blade as I tiptoed to my bedroom door.
The leather
sheath got tossed on my messy bed and the door eased open. Daylight flooded
through the slim stairwell window, lighting up the narrow, cream-coloured
hallway.
I walked
over to the next door and opened it gently; the familiar smell of my
Grandmother’s musky perfume hit me as I stepped into the room. I lowered my
sword since no one stood there, but my feet refused to move. Her furniture sat
where the pieces always had been. The purple bedding laid neatly, not a crease
in sight. A layer of dust covered her bedside table. The faintest trace of her
scent still lingered. A ball of grief swelled in my chest, lodging tightly
between my throat and heart.
I hadn’t
taken a single step in here for over a month. She would have wanted me to
clean, to open the window and air out the room, but I honestly couldn’t bear
the thought of dusting her away just yet.
I backed
out of the room and shut the door, letting out a breath I didn’t even realize
I’d been holding.
I’m finally going crazy. Somehow, I got myself
home; it doesn’t really matter how. Maybe I came in, sorted myself out, and
then passed out in bed? I must have. What other explanation could there be?
With a
sigh, I walked across the landing to the bathroom door. The throb in my temples
increased. My muscles felt tighter than a bowstring. A shower and something to
eat and drink; these should do the trick. Then maybe my brain would decide to
start working, and I could fill in the blanks.
The scent
of wet dog flew into my face once across the bathroom threshold. My clothes
from last night sat in a shredded pile on the black marble floor, along with my
set of daggers. The first aid kit lay open in the sink.
A deep
inhale revealed more; combined with the smell of dog, the bathroom held traces
of blood. My blood.
I stepped
into the room and peered into the waste-bin to see a large amount of dried, red
cotton wool.
“I don’t
remember doing this.” My eyes bugged at the mess.
Surely, I would remember doing this? Why the
hell do I smell dog?
Another inhale. And pine?
Something
really didn’t feel right. I had never been so bad that I couldn’t remember what
had happened on a hunt, and by the looks of things, I’d been in real bad shape.
Back into
the hall and to creep quietly down the stairs. The odour of dog grew with each
step, the smell of coffee and bacon gradually joining in. My stomach clenched
at the familiarity of walking down these stairs every morning to find my
grandmother happily cooking breakfast in our kitchen. Minus the smell of
animal, though.
I couldn’t
believe she’d died almost six weeks ago. God,
I miss her.
As I
stepped into the lower hall, a glance out of the side window showed my black
Range Rover sitting in front of the house, between the front door/porch and the
closed, wrought iron security gate. A long, silver scratch marred the paintwork
on the bonnet. Antonio’s face flashed through my mind.
I
remembered stumbling back to the car to find him there, waiting for me. The
bastard had dragged his filthy claw along my Rover. That son-of-a-bitch!
I killed
him, though. I think. He lunged and . . . . I looked down at my left arm. Two
pale lines slashed across my skin. He’d stumbled and caught me on the arm, but
I got him in the neck . . . .
The sudden
sound of rustling paper snapped me from my thoughts. Tension grabbed me, the
awareness crackling beneath the surface of my skin.
Someone is in my house.
Stepping
through the open living room door, a new scent invaded my nostrils. Tangy,
manufactured, like expensive cologne. An unfamiliar, black travel bag sat
tucked away between the red leather sofa and the TV stand. The papers rustled
again. I moved lightly toward the archway that lead into the dining room, my
sword still gripped comfortably in my right hand.
“Your
breakfast is getting cold, Heather. I suggest you stop trying to sneak in here
and just come in so that we can get this over and done with,” said the deep male
voice of whoever was in my kitchen.
What the hell is going on? Who is he? Why is he
in my house? How does he know my name? And why the hell has he cooked me
breakfast?
I took a
deep breath, and then exhaled before slowly walking through the archway into the
empty dining room. When I turned my head to the left, I saw a strange man
seated at my kitchen breakfast bar. He sat casually, in jeans and a forest
green T-shirt that clung to his broad, sculpted back and defined biceps. The
sun flooded into the kitchen through the side window and glinted off his
copper-blond hair, which brushed his shoulders.
“Are you
going to come into the room or stand there drooling all day?” He turned a page
of his newspaper. I couldn't place his accent, nor the sleepy twang that couldn't
quite form at the edge of his words.
I inhaled
again; nothing new amongst the scent of dog, pine, bacon, and coffee, which
meant he wasn’t a Vampire. Leeches smelled like mouldy, wet earth; not an
overpowering smell, but hidden underneath the products they wore. Not that a
Vampire could get in here, anyway. They could only come in with a personal
invite, and since they all wanted me dead . . . . No matter what state I’d been
in last night, I wouldn’t have invited one in. So, who the hell is this guy?
I walked
toward him, my sword glinting in the sunlight, the hilt gripped firmly in both
hands. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?” I stopped
three feet behind him.
“I’m not
going to hurt you.”
“Wrong
answer.” The tip of my sword found the firm space between his shoulder blades.
“I said, who the hell are you and what—”
“Killing me
isn’t going to help.” He turned another page of his paper.
“I
disagree. I think killing the stranger who broke into my house is a very good
idea.”
“I did not
break in,” he replied calmly. “My name is Brendan Daniels and I’m actually here
to help you.”
I snorted.
“Like I believe that.”
“It’s the
truth. Besides, if I really wanted to hurt you, I would have. I also wouldn’t
have left your weapons with you.”
“Well,
you’re obviously an eejit.”
He laughed.
“You have serious trust issues.”
“Trust
issues? Says the complete stranger who broke into my house and—”
“I used
your house keys. They were in your jacket pocket,” he said. “And yes, trust
issues, says the stranger. The stranger who promises he isn’t here to hurt
you.”
“Just
because you say you’re not here to hurt me doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”
“True. But
why go to the trouble of killing you when I could have left you lying in the
car park the other night and let the seven greedy Leeches looking for you find
you and bleed you dry?”
My stomach
turned as memories of my outing slammed clearly into my brain. I had walked
into a trap, so set on finding Carlson that the need to kill the bastard once
and for all had blocked all sense and reason. Twelve lower generation Vampires
had been waiting on the rooftops surrounding the loading bay. Carlson and
Antonio wouldn’t stop talking, so I backed out of the area, and that’s when I
saw them all. Their blood-red eyes watched my every move as their mouths hung
wide, displaying their fangs.
“I have
waited so long for this moment,” Carlson had said.
So had I.
My
grandmother never told me where to find him. She wouldn’t let me kill him even
though he deserved my sword through his neck more than any other Vampire.
They
obviously found out Gran had died and simply waited for me to come out and
play. I went, and they had been
waiting for me, and like some amateur, I walked right into their trap. I killed
two Vampires in order to get out of the loading bay, and then I had the other
ten, along with Carlson and Antonio, chasing me through the dark and empty back
streets of London. I tried to lead them somewhere humans wouldn’t find us; much
good it did me.
But none of
that explained who this guy was or why the hell he’d made himself at home in my
kitchen.
“So you
were there?”
“That much
is obvious. Who do you think brought you home?”
“How did
you even know where I live?”
“You have
sat-nav in your Rover. And, like I said, I’m here to help.” He slid off the
stool; the tip of my sword grazed his green T-shirt.
I clenched
my teeth. “Why help me? You don’t even know me.”
He finally
turned to face me. He’d pulled back his copper-blond hair, allowing me to see
his face fully. A broad nose accompanied by high cheekbones and a tall forehead
set off the deepest green eyes I’d ever seen. A fine layer of copper stubble
outlined his square jaw and surrounded thick, peach lips.
His emerald
eyes sparkled as I met his gaze.
“True, but
I helped you because I thought it would be in your best interest to get you
back to the safety of your own house.”
He thought
it would be in my best interest? Who the hell does this guy think he is, a
knight in shining armour? He looks like a friggin’ Ken doll, for Christ’s sake,
and . . . . Wait a damn minute. “Seven Vampires?”
He arched
an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Before,
you said seven Vampires? There were twelve left.”
“Well, you
eventually killed the Italian one before collapsing in front of your car,
leaving eleven. The blond one who couldn’t decide whether he wanted to eat you
or screw you—”
“Carlson.”
I shuddered at the memory of him pinning my body to the rough concrete road.
His thighs clamped my legs shut as he lapped at the blood trickling down my
forehead . . . .
“Well,
turns out he, as well as three of the others, actually needed their heads to
fight back, but the rest of them ran off, and since my priority is you—”
“You’re the
one who knocked Carlson off me?”
Memories
exploded and rolled around my mind like storm clouds. Carlson had slid his
talons into my waist, knocking me to the pavement and causing me to cut my
forehead. He had pinned me between the ground and his growing erection while he
demanded I beg him to change me. A few cheap insults and shoving some silver in
his ribcage was enough to piss him off—as if I would want to be blood-bonded to
the bastard who’d helped destroy my mother and father. On my refusal, he’d
bared his fangs; about to feed from me...then the next thing I knew, he was
gone. Once I got to my feet, I saw four decomposing bodies on the ground, only
yards away from where I, myself, had almost bled to death.
“Yes.” He
picked up a glass of orange juice and took a mouthful.
“Carlson is
dead?”
He gulped.
“Well, last time I checked, decapitation usually does the trick. So, yeah.”
A strange
relief flooded me. My hands began to tremble. I tightened my grip, trying to
keep a firm hold on my sword. “Are you a hundred and ten percent sure he’s
dead?”
“A hundred
and forty-six percent sure.”
I couldn’t believe
it. Carlson, dead. Well, in the sense that he wouldn’t be prowling the streets
or feeding ever again. He was actually gone. I suddenly didn’t know whether to
hug this strange man, or kill him for taking away my opportunity to kill the
monster that’d infected my mother. “Why did you kill him?”
He laughed.
“Well, I was considering letting him and the rest of his friends eat you, but
then that wouldn’t have made me a very good guardian, now, would it?”
Places to Find Cranberry Blood by Elizabeth Morgan
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Smashwords
Elizabeth Morgan is a
multi-published author of urban fantasy, paranormal, erotic horror, f/f, and
contemporary; all with a degree of romance, a dose of action and a hit of
sarcasm, sizzle or blood, but you can be sure that no matter what the genre,
Elizabeth always manages to give a unique and often humorous spin to her
stories.
Like her tagline says; A pick ‘n’ mix genre author. “I’m not
greedy. I just like variety.”
And that she does, author of erotic ménage horror, Creak,
paranormal erotic horror and UK, US & Australian Amazon best seller
(Gay/Lesbian, Fiction), On the Rocks, erotic romance, US, UK & Spanish
Amazon bestseller (Erotica Short Story) Truth or Dare? And sweet contemporary
romance, UK & US Amazon bestseller (British/Drama & Plays) Stepping
Stones.
She also has her hand in self-publishing. Look out for more
information on her upcoming releases at her website: www.e-morgan.com
Away from the computer, Elizabeth can be found in the garden
trying hard not to kill her plants, dancing around her little cottage with the
radio on while she cleans, watching movies or good television programmes – Dr
Who? Atlantis? The Musketeers? Heck, yes! – Or curled up with her two cats
reading a book.
For more information on
Elizabeth's work, published and upcoming, head on over to her site:
Places to Find Elizabeth Morgan
Blog (Shared with Dianna Hardy)
Thanks for hosting me, Steven. :)
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