Charity Sunday: Truly Humanitarian – #Conflict #Disasters #Vampires #CharitySunday

 

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

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