Welcome
to our Charity Sunday blog hop for August. This month I’m
supporting one of my favorite organizations, Doctors Without Borders
(Médecins Sans Frontières). The brave volunteer medical
professionals who work with MSF provide essential care for people
affected by conflict, disease outbreaks, natural and human-made
disasters, and exclusion from health care in more than 70 countries.
With war, famine and climate change wreaking havoc worldwide, MSF’s
work has never been more critical―—or more challenging. The
stories on their
website are both harrowing and inspiring.
MSF
puts the “human” in humanitarian. They treat every human,
without regard for what side they’re on, their politics or their tribe. Compassion wins over every other consideration.
Anyway,
I will donate two dollars to MSF for each comment I receive
on this post.
For
my excerpt, I’m sharing the start of my paranormal erotic romance
novel Fangs, Fur and the Single Girl. What’s the
connection to MSF? In 2012 I edited a charitable anthology of vampire
tales entitled Coming
Together: In Vein. All proceeds were dedicated to MSF. My
story in that volume, “Vampires, Limited”, was the starting point
for the novel.
Anyway,
I hope you enjoy the snippet... and that you’ll leave me a comment.
It’s not much to ask, is it?
Excerpt
“Next!”
Bianca stabbed the intercom button with a crimson-tipped finger. She
tilted her chair back and closed her eyes, trying to summon some
enthusiasm for the next sacrificial lamb. Who would have thought it
would be so difficult? With the current craze for all things
vampiric, finding a new model or two with the appropriate pallor and
unearthly allure should have been a piece of cake. The city teemed
with Dracula wannabes. Why were the ones who showed up at her office
so lame?
She
needed new faces, new excitement, to keep her phenomenally successful
business running in high gear. A wry grin twitched at her
scarlet-tinted mouth. What she needed was fresh blood.
The
poster-sized cover images on her walls featured the dark-haired,
chalk-faced, chisel-chinned hunks that her readers expected. Swathed
in black, poised above the vulnerable flesh of their gorgeous prey
with fangs bared, they reeked of danger and desire. An occasional
female vamp joined them, jet curls tumbling into her pale cleavage,
carmine lips shining as though already painted with gore.
The
images were sexy, edgy, and irresistibly hip. In its first year, Vamp
magazine had broken the circulation record for a new publication. It
had become the de facto authority for the burgeoning vampire
subculture. It covered the fashions, the clubs, the bands, the latest
pseudo-vampiric celebrities. In the back, advertisements for skin
bleaching cosmetics and fang implants mingled with the personal ads.
“Attractive SWF seeks dominant SWM for blood-sucking adventures”.
The online version was almost as successful, though vamp fans seemed
to appreciate the nostalgia of paper.
The
cultural wave seemed to be far from cresting, but Bianca knew that
she had to keep innovating, or she’d be left in the dust by her
copycat competitors.
A
knock brought her back to the here and now. “Come in,” she
called, trying to erase the impatience from her voice. She flicked
her black bangs out of her eyes and assumed what she hoped was a
welcoming expression.
A
man glided in through the door, and Bianca thought for an instant
that there had been a mild earthquake. Reality somehow shifted. Her
stomach dropped away, as though her roller coaster car had just
reached a peak and plunged down the other side. The office and its
somber furnishings suddenly looked more solid, hyper-real, every
detail visible.
With
some difficulty, Bianca focused on the blond young man standing in
front of her desk. “Good afternoon.” Reflexively she took the
portfolio he handed her. “I’m Bianca Sorenson, publisher of
Vamp.”
“Jim,”
her visitor answered in a broad Midwestern accent. “Jim Bush. Thank
you for taking the time to see me, Ms. Sorenson.”
Jim
Bush was attractive, no question of that, but Bianca could see
immediately that he was all wrong. He was slender rather than
muscular, though he moved well as he seated himself across from her.
His gold-tinged curls and ruddy complexion fairly screamed health and
youth. She’d never seen anyone who looked less undead. He had such
an honest, open face that Bianca couldn’t imagine him looking
crafty or menacing. He wasn’t even wearing black. His tan slacks
and robin’s-egg sport shirt highlighted his trim physique and
heightened the blue of his eyes, but no vampire (at least, no New
York City vampire) would ever be caught wearing such a costume.
“You
think that I’m the wrong type for your vampire mag.” It was a
statement, not a question, and mirrored her thoughts so accurately
that Bianca was startled.
“Well,
you certainly don’t fit the stereotype. You’re a bit
too—um—wholesome for our readers.”
Jim’s
laugh held an odd, bitter edge. “Take a look at my photos before
you make a decision, Ms. Sorenson.”
Bianca
flipped open the portfolio and leafed through the contents. There was
no resume. The first two pictures were head shots, clearly
professional, and Bianca had to admit that the man’s smoldering
gaze was dark and seductive enough to send a chill up her spine,
despite the blue eyes and fair coloring.
“Do
you have any experience?”
“Depends
what you mean. But modeling experience? No, I’ve never been a
model.”
“Why
do you want to work for Vamp, then? What did you do before?”
“I
was in college.” He didn’t seem to want to say anymore about his
past. “When I saw your ad, it seemed natural to apply.”
Bianca
appraised him with the hard-headedness that was her trademark. He was
quite gorgeous. She wouldn’t mind taking him home. However, she
didn’t need a dilettante, a college kid on a lark. At the moment,
Vamp was her life’s work. She’d quit a good job at Vogue
to follow her hunch and it had paid off. She needed models who were
as serious as she was.
“I’m
not just fooling around. I want this job.” Bianca’s eyes
narrowed. His sensitivity was certainly unnerving. “Take a look at
the next few photographs. Please.”
She
flipped to the next picture and sucked in her breath. The image was
incredible. The scene was familiar but the intensity made it new.
She
scarcely recognized Jim. He wore a black velvet cape with a red satin
lining and white gloves. His face was poised above an exquisite girl
with long red hair that barely hid her obviously naked body. His full
lips curled into a snarl, displaying the most realistic fangs that
Bianca had ever seen. Blood dripped from those fangs, pooling in
shiny droplets on the woman’s creamy skin. Blood welled from the
puncture wounds clearly visible on her neck. The man’s eyes were
not on his prey, who wore a look of languid ecstasy. They were
focused toward the viewer, burning with a palpable hunger that made
Bianca swallow hard.
“Wow,”
she whispered. The photo had a dramatic, visceral effect. Her heart
raced. Her palms became sweaty. Underneath her black jersey, she felt
her nipples tighten into aching knots. “That’s amazing. How did
you manage it?”
“Try
the next picture.” The man’s body was tense, as though he was
working hard to hold something back. Tearing herself away with some
effort from the soulful gaze in the photo, she turned it over.
The
photograph that followed ripped her apart. Although vampiric in
theme, it was nothing like the camp pictures that her publication
featured. The same red-haired woman lay nude on a satin-draped bier,
graceful and pale. Her wrists crossed on her abdomen, just below the
modest swell of her perfect breasts. Her face was turned toward the
camera, her eyes closed, her lips parted. A trail of crimson fluid
trickled from her neck, across the white satin and onto the stone
floor.
Behind
the bier stood the vampire. His right hand held a white candle that
unevenly illuminated the arched vault. His left cupped his victim’s
breast, thumb resting lightly on her prominent nipple. His blond hair
was pushed back from his brow, damp with sweat. His skin was flushed
with the blood that he had swallowed, blood that still smeared his
lips. Looking into those eyes, eyes dark as hell, Bianca felt all of
his agony—his grief, his guilt and his awful, all-consuming lust.
Who
was she, the ethereal, terribly convincing victim? And who—who was
he?
She
didn’t see him move. Yet all at once he was behind her, his hands
on her shoulders, murmuring in her ear. “Barbara was her name. She
was my girlfriend, back in college. A terrible mistake.”
He
was so close, she should have felt the heat of his body, but it was
as if a mannequin was pressed against her, instead of a living
person. She could smell him, though, a sharp grassy scent that made
her think of the country and wide open spaces.
Casually
he trailed a finger up the side of her neck and circled her earlobe.
A shiver raced through her, winding tight around her nipples,
spiraling down to her sex. He nipped at her ear, playful, but still
hard enough to make her gasp. “As for me, you know who I am, don’t
you? Or at least, what I am.”
Don’t
forget to leave a comment. And if you’re interested in picking up a
copy of FFSG, you’ll find all the links at
https://www.lisabetsarai.com/fangsfurbook.html
