I am working on a new story called The Collector, hopefully available around Halloween.
There is no cover yet, so I'm borrowing Mr Somerhalder, 'cause he's really pretty and, yes, there are vampires in the story. Here is a little snippet to tease the literary tastebuds. I hope you like it 😀
The mist was low on the ground, the moon high above him casting pools of light through the clouds as they chased each other across its surface. Walker stared up at it, enjoying its soft light from where he perched on the edge of the inappropriately large, in his opinion, ornate stone monument.
Who in the hell needed a headstone the size of a small house? What difference did it make? You were gonna be taking a dirt nap under the damn thing, not taking selfies with it! Prestige. Status. Those were the two words that tap-danced across his mind. He shook his head. What did prestige or status matter when you were dead? It might be a kiss my ass to some of your relatives whose share of the will you spent on it but, in twenty, thirty years, they’d all be dead, too! Then who’d give a crap?
He turned to look at the name carved into the black marble. The gold lettering gave off an iridescent glow in the light from his pocket torch. Gerald Higginbottom. Taken from us too soon. Walker checked the dates and gazed heavenward. Too Soon? Couldn’t they think of a better platitude? He was ninety-three for God’s sake!
Walker yawned widely as he turned off the torch and shoved it back into his jacket. He stretched his arms high above his head and winced as his muscles creaked in complain at the dampness of the air. Maybe he was getting too old for this shit. He blew on his hands to warm them, then scoffed at the ridiculousness of it all. Here he was, at his age, spending another night in another cemetery sitting next to another pile of dirt. Speaking of which…
The earth on the fresh grave beside the monument he’d chosen as his ring side seat, began to move. Only a little, but enough for the trained eye to see, even in this light.
“Come on,” Walker mumbled impatiently. This was his third and, thankfully, last one of the night and he wanted to go home. He had three episodes of Game of Thrones and a bottle of A+ waiting for him.
The mound of earth grew slowly, then finally collapsed in on itself as a pale hand pushed through the dirt and into the cold night air. Walker watched, a half-smile curving his lips. He loved this part and always had to tamp down the urge to help, but it was forbidden. It was better in the long run if they did it themselves. Bit like a chick emerging from the egg, it was all part of the process. He was simply there to guide them when their rebirth was over. His smile widened as the grave’s occupant emerged from the ground in a tumble of wreathes and posies that had been laid atop of it. She stood up, wild-eyed and afraid as she looked down at herself, bare feet pressing into the dirt. She lifted her hands, stared at her ruined fingernails and said the same two words everyone else said on realising what had happened.
“Indeed,” Walker replied, holding up his hands in surrender as she spun around to glare at him, her teeth bared, fangs glinting in the moonlight. “Whoa there, sweetheart. You can put those away. I mean you no harm.”
“What’s going on?” she ground out. Fear making her more dangerous than even she could imagine. “Where am I?”
“Two excellent questions,” Walker soothed. “I’m going to take you to someone who can answer them, and everything else you need to know. Come,” he held out his hand, “you must be hungry.”
“Who are you?” She hesitated only a moment before she took it and stepped off what should have been her final resting place.
“Name’s Jack, Jack Walker.” He smiled, enjoying her soft gasp as his fangs descended. “I’m The Collector.”