Blog Tour: Blood Series by Elizabeth Morgan
Scottish
Werewolves: freaky Vampires and a Slayer with a bad addiction and an
insane legacy. Add a big dose of sarcasm, sizzling chemistry; a lot
of silver and a ton of blood and . . . Welcome to the Blood Series.
They're
back! The Blood Series has been revamped and repackaged and is
available to buy now!
Note:
She-Wolf and Cranberry Blood are both previously published titles,
but have been polished, improved, and have even had scenes added for
their re-release. Both books as well as all that will follow will be
self-published.
~
* ~
She-Wolf
Blood
Series Prequel
Blurb:
Dealing
with the Rogue Werewolves terrorizing his Pack? Simple.
Trying
to convince his mate he does
want to be with her? Bloody impossible.
Owen
MacLaren is the Alpha's son and the Pack's second, and he has never
been one to let anything get to him. So when a bunch of Rogues begin
purposely dumping mutilated bodies around the Pack Keep, he is more
than ready to deal with the Werewolves responsible.
But
one night off and a trip to a local strip joint for a colleague's
stag night changes things, and Owen soon discovers he isn't immune to
everything . . . .
Being
an independent Loup and travelling the world? Easy.
Having
to come home and face the Werewolf who broke her young heart?
Challenging.
After
five years away, Clare Walker finds herself back home in Scotland,
working in a strip club. The tips are decent, and she gets to dance,
but it isn't a place she thought she would
ever be, let alone Owen, her Pack second and the mate she has always
desired.
Although
Owen is determined to prove he wants to be with Clare, things can't
go smoothly between them, not when they have past issues to sort out
and a bunch of unusual 'Rogues' to deal with.
This
title contains explicit language, violence, and graphic sex.
Author:
Elizabeth Morgan| Length:
Novel| Content:
Paranormal Erotic Romance| Publisher:
Self-Published
Buy
Links:
Smashwords:
Barnes&Noble:
Amazon UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/She-Wolf-Prequel-Blood-Book-1-ebook/dp/B00MT091TK/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1408734869&sr=1-2&keywords=Elizabeth+Morgan
Amazon:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/She-Wolf-Prequel-Blood-Book-1-ebook/dp/B00MT091TK/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1408734869&sr=1-2&keywords=Elizabeth+Morgan
Amazon:
Also
available on Amazon! And will soon be available in print!
~
* ~
Excerpt:
The music ended. The two
women grabbed their clothes and headed backstage, hips swinging, as
one and five pound notes hung out over the edge of their
thongs.
“Give it up for Jenny and Jean, our tantalizing duo,”
said an invisible male, his gruff voice echoing throughout the
club.
“Christ, they’ve got a voice-over.”
“Oh aye, this
is a real classy joint.” Luke knocked back his beer.
“Better
than some places,” Karl said.
“And now, gentlemen, it is with
great pleasure that I introduce you to the newest Lollypop.”
“Oh,
sweet Jesus.” I stifled my amusement with another swig of
beer.
“The feral goddess with the wildest moves.... The one, the
only, She-Wolf.”
“This should be interesting.” Martin
grinned, slinging his right arm over the back of his chair and making
himself comfortable.
A familiar guitar riff began leaking through
the speakers as the stage lights turned from hot white to dusky blue.
The guitar riff kicked in.
“Follow You Home” a song by my
favourite band, Nickleback.
“At least she’s got good taste in
music,” I murmured to no one in particular while rolling the neck
of my beer bottle between my hands.
The red velvet curtains parted
and the verse started. A black iron chair slid along the stage and
then stopped, perfectly in the middle. The female strolled out of the
shadows, one long leg in front of the other, smoking her cigarette.
She wore a large black hoodie, dark denim hot pants, and black
leather knee-high boots.
The prickling sensation sharpened along
my spine, causing me to shiver.
“Weird fucking costume for a
stripper,” Martin said.
Her long black hair hung back in a high
ponytail. Black and silver eye shadow framed her eyes, the blended
shades bold against her smooth, pale skin.
Smoke rolled along the
stage as she stopped before the chair. At the sound of the singer’s
voice, she flicked her cigarette to the side and stretched both her
arms above her head. She then bent forward until she pressed her
hands flat on the stage.
“What is this shit? Bloody keep fit?”
Martin grunted.
“Take your fucking clothes off,” Karl
shouted.
She pulled herself up slowly, and as the bass guitar
kicked in, her body swayed to the right and she fell straight into a
spin, which seemed to last forever.
“Looks like the stripper
knows ballet,” Robert said.
“Fuck the stripper.” Luke
laughed. “How d’ya know that’s ballet she’s doing?”
“My
little sister has studied it for years,” Robert said, his focus
glued to the stage.
The woman dropped into splits. After a moment,
she brought around her right leg from behind to join her left, and
then fell backward. She pushed herself off the floor, then jumped up
and landed on her feet. A wicked grin curled the corners of her mouth
as she rolled down the zip of her hoodie, exposing inch by inch of
creamy, pale flesh.
The familiar sweet scent touched my nose once
more, growing more potent with each second, battling against the
other smells to stand apart. With a deep breath, I dragged the
stuffy air of the club deep into my lungs, cancelling out each odour
until all that remained was the aroma of . . . flowers? Not the
sickly fragrance of floral perfume, but actual flowers.
Her hips
began to sway as she shrugged off the hoodie and let it fall. The
curve of her waist, and the sight of her supple breasts in her black
lace bra, made my mouth dry. I knocked back the rest of my beer,
hoping like hell it would help my sudden thirst.
The pale blue
light caught the shimmer of her glitter-dusted skin as she brought up
her right arm and then placed her hand behind her head.
Sizzling
heat spread through my entire body as the distinct taste of wild
flowers and sea salt exploded on my tongue. The bittersweet mixture
filled me, conjuring images of the meadows bordering my father’s
manor; of a young girl laughing as I chased her across the grounds,
the scent of the sea wafting from her blonde hair.
My Wolf
groaned. My blood heated.
“Great breasts,” Luke said.
“That’s
what I’m fucking talking about.” Karl leaned forward and banged
his fists on the table. He threw back his head and howled. Any other
moment, I would have found such a reaction hilarious, but I couldn’t
pull my focus from the woman on the stage; couldn’t move due to the
heavy beat of my heart banging against my ribcage. I knew that scent,
would know it anywhere.
She made a slow turn as she loosened her
ponytail and shook her head. Her hair streamed down her back like a
glossy black waterfall. She finished her spin, then her focus landed
on me, and the air caught in my throat.
Clare.
Her
body went rigid. Her sultry gaze hardened as she stared at me.
Clare
Walker. I’d know those moonlit eyes
anywhere.
What in God’s name is she doing
working in a fucking strip club?
Straightening,
I tensed as my wolf skimmed the surface. My energy pulsed as his
focus zoned in on her. A moment was all it took. My Wolf settled.
Satisfaction hummed through me. Acceptance.
What
the fuck?
Her jaw tensed, chin tilted up
as she stared us both down for a single moment, before she ran and
grabbed hold of the stage pole on the right. Her feet left the floor
as she wrapped her legs around the brass and spun.
I let out the
breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, but the tension didn’t
drain from my body.
Her feet hit the floor, the pole between her
perfect thighs. She pulled herself upwards, rubbing herself against
the warm metal.
Every drop of blood in my body headed south.
She
swung round and pressed her back against the pole. Her hands traveled
down her breasts, then her stomach, to stop at the waist of her hot
pants.
My jeans suddenly felt too tight, and the sound of my
heartbeat drowned out the loud music.
She slid her hot pants down
her thighs and....
The neck of the beer bottle broke in my
hands.
“You okay?” Robert looked at the bottle.
I let my
gaze slip down to the broken glass and grunted. “Oops.”
Throwing
the shards on the table, my attention turned back to Clare. She
crouched before a group of men pushed up against the stage. Fire
licked through me at the sight of them slipping notes into her
cleavage and the band of her knickers, their fingers skimming her
milky flesh. The sight caused a strangled snarl to break from my
throat.
Easy boy, this is Clare. It’s
just Clare.
My Wolf
began to pace, hackles rising, the urge to beat the shit out of them
and protect her overwhelming me. No man had any right to touch her. I
didn’t want any other man to touch her, let alone look at her, and
the sudden realization scared the hell
out of me.
She stood and danced away from them. Every move she
made was graceful; each step seemed to have a meaning. Touched by the
fake moonlight, her body shimmered with sweat and sparkling body
dust. She looked exotic, feral. She was Loup-garou.
She was mine.
No. Not mine. She’s
not mine. It’s fucking Clare, for Christ’s
sake!
That simple fact didn’t stop the
images filling my mind—images of her writhing across the damp earth
of the forest floor, the light of the moon bathing her pale flesh.
I’d explore every curve and crevice with my fingers and tongue
until she begged me to mark her. Claim her.
Those wants alone had
me hard as a rock, and on the border of having a panic attack.
Fuck,
this is bad. Margaret Thatcher dancing naked in the rain. Margaret
Thatcher dancing naked in the rain . . . .
Hiding my hands under the table, I pulled the small shard of glass
from my right palm, ignoring the tingle of my flesh pulling together
and closing the small wound.
Five years since I had last seen her.
She’d been nineteen and preparing to go to London to live with her
mother while she studied dance at university. By the look of her
body, she had studied damn hard.
My fingers sank into my thighs as
she curled around the left brass pole.
Last time I had seen her,
she wore dungarees she could hardly fill. Now, her body looked
athletic, but she had more curves than a damn racetrack.
She
turned her back to the audience. My focus slipped to the four,
tattooed paw prints climbing up her right hip. I couldn’t stop the
smile forming on my lips, nor stop the thought of tracing those
delicate designs with my tongue.
She stepped up on the chair and
spun again.
“I think I’ve found my lap dancer.” Karl’s
words came out slurred.
The urge to punch his head through the
wall rushed through me.
Clare dropped onto the chair. Her knees
spread wide, showing the audience the soft junction of her milky
thighs.
I swallowed the groan lodged in my throat. The zip of my
jeans was two seconds away from splitting.
Applause roared
throughout the room as she struck her final pose and the music ended.
Tension wound through my entire body, and I had to fight to stay in
my chair as a string of crude comments left the mouths of the
majority of men around me.
She grabbed her clothes and made her
way off stage. The hypnotic sway of her hips, and the sight of her
perky arse sitting in those lace panties, struck as painfully
uncomfortable. The blood in my veins burned; the tension in my
muscles pulsed.
She disappeared from view.
What was this
insane, ecstatic joy that she hadn’t removed her underwear in front
of these perverted bastards about? All I knew was that if she had, I
would have had to kill everyone.
Not good,
Owen.
The sweet smell of her sweat had
mixed with her natural aroma which now seemed to cling to my
nostrils, teasing me. I wanted to find her, rip those knickers off
her with my teeth, and bury my head between her thighs until she came
apart on my tongue.
Not fucking good at
all.
Deep breath. What I needed to do was
calm the fuck down and then talk to her. And I really needed
to talk to her. This was Clare, for fuck’s
sake. I had watched her grow up. This was wrong. So fucking
wrong.
The metal frame of the chair dented under the pressure of
my fingertips as the others continued to talk about her.
What the
fuck was she doing here, anyway? Taking her clothes off and dancing
in a shitty strip joint?
She was supposed to be performing on
cruise ships. In clothing.
Her life is not
my business. It’s not my business. At least it wasn’t, until
now.
“So, Owen, you having a lap dance
or-or not?” Karl burped, then knocked down the rest of his beer
“Going to be a bit fuck-king boring sitting ’ere on your own.
Maybe we can find you a nice blonde.”
Fuck it! I needed
to speak to her.
~
* ~
Cranberry
Blood
Blood
Series: Book One
Blurb:
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.
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.
This
title contains explicit language, violence, and some scenes of a
sexual nature.
Author:
Elizabeth Morgan|
Length:
Novel|
Content:
Urban Fantasy with Paranormal Elements|
Publisher:
Self-Published
Buy Links:
Smashwords:
Amazon US:
http://www.amazon.com/Cranberry-Blood-Book-Elizabeth-Morgan-ebook/dp/B00MXDVWDQ/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1408735068&sr=1-5&keywords=Elizabeth+Morgan
Amazon UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Cranberry-Blood-Book-Elizabeth-Morgan-ebook/dp/B00MXDVWDQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1408734869&sr=1-1&keywords=Elizabeth+Morgan
Barnes&Noble:
Also available on
Amazon! And will soon be available in print!
~ * ~
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?”
~ * ~
Author Bio:
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, Lesbian), 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:
Website:
www.e-morgan.com
Twitter: @EMorgan2010
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/ElizabethMorgan
Blog:
(Shared with Dianna Hardy):
http://notjustastiffupperlip.blogspot.co.uk/
~ * ~
International
Tour wide Giveaway!
Elizabeth
is giving away 2x ebook sets - 1 ecopy of She-Wolf &
1 ecopy of Cranberry Blood - and 1 lucky winner will win themselves 2
signed cover flats and an exclusive Blood Series themed red, glitter
glass and wine charm.
Rafflecopter link:
~ * ~
Blood
Series Blog Tour
August
18th - Bex
'n' Books:- http://bexnbooks.blogspot.com
19th
- All Things Romance: http://lynnareynolds.wordpress.com
20th
- Dianna Hardy:
http://www.diannahardy.com
21st - Mina
Carter: http://mina-carter.com/blog/
22nd
- Jens Reading Obsession:
http://jensreadingobsession.wordpress.com/
23rd
- Kiru Taye: http://kirutayewrites.blogspot.co.uk/
24th
- Book Reviews by Lynn: http://bookreviewsbylynn.blogspot.co.uk/
25th
- Release Day:
Love
Bites & Silk: http://www.lovebitesandsilk.co.uk/
26th
- Krista Ames: http://www.apassionforromance.blogspot.co.uk/
27th
- Zee Monodee: http://zeemonodee.blogspot.co.uk/p/welcome.html
28th
- Doris O'Connor: http://thetardisscribbles.blogspot.co.uk/
29th
- Evocative Book Reviews: http://evocativebookreviews.com
30th
- Lucy Felthouse: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/
31st
- Ms. ME28 Reviews: http://msme28reviews.blogspot.com
Thanks for hosting me, Myra. :)
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