So, I started this sequel to DEAD PERFECT back in 2009. Like so often happens, I started it and then it just sort of fizzled. Sometimes when I go back to a story, inspiration strikes and it becomes a book. Sometimes it just fizzles out again. So......this may or may not become a book, but it's what I'm working on at the moment.
UNTITLED PARANORMAL ROMANCE
The dream came every day and it was always the same. And even as it unfolded, never changing, the man who had once been known as Jim Hewitt wished that was all it was, a dream….
He followed the vampire and the woman home, intent on destroying the one and rescuing the other. And he had come so close. Armed with a bottle of holy water and a sharp wooden stake, he had attacked the vampire as they arrived at their lair. The holy water had done its job, burning the vampire’s face, giving Hewitt the window of opportunity he needed to drive the stake into the vampire’s back.
He hollered at Shannah to run away as he twisted the stake in Ronan’s back.
The scent of fresh hot blood wafted through the night.
But Shannah didn’t run away. With a scream of rage, she grabbed him by the arm.
Startled, he glanced at her. “What are you doing?”
“Stopping you!” She yanked his hand away from the stake, her fingers curling around his wrist in a grip like iron.
“Are you crazy?” Hewitt exclaimed. “He’s a vampire!”
“Yes!” she hissed, baring her fangs. “And so am I.”
Startled, he could only stare at her, and then he lashed out as fear and fury swept through him.
She laughed as he struggled in vain to free himself from her hold. And then she trapped his gaze with hers. “Stop fighting me,” she commanded.
Unable to resist the preternatural power in her voice, his arms fell limply to his sides. Helpless to move, he watched her drop to her knees beside the vampire and pull the stake from his back. A torrent of dark red blood flowed from the nasty wound.
And then the vampire sat up and uttered the most chilling words Jim Hewitt had ever heard.
“Bring him to me.”
The nightmare grew worse even from that point on. Shannah released him from her spell and dragged him effortlessly toward the wounded vampire. Fear spiraled through Hewitt as he gazed into the vampire’s blood-red eyes.
“I warned you,” the vampire said. “You should have listened.”
Hewitt struggled in vain as the vampire’s fangs sank into his throat. For a time, he seemed to be drifting between this world and the next. And then, as from far away, he heard the vampire’s voice.
“Listen to me. You have only a few minutes to make up your mind. Do you want to live or die?”
Hewitt stared up into the vampire’s face. How could he be expected to make such a decision? He was a vampire hunter. How could he choose between death or spending the rest of his existence as a vampire?
“Your time is running out,” Ronan said curtly. “Make your choice!”
“Live.” Hewitt forced the word from the depths of his soul. “I want…to live.”
With a feral cry, the vampire bit into his own wrist. “Then drink,” he said, and his voice was like sandpaper over steel.
Hewitt grimaced as dark red blood – vampire blood - dripped from the wound in the vampire’s wrist into his mouth. He choked down the first taste, hating what he was doing, hating the creature who had brought him to this.
And then, to his amazement, he latched onto the vampire’s arm with both hands, drinking eagerly, afraid the vampire would make him stop. How could something so repulsive taste so good?
“Damn you!” he cried hoarsely, and then he pulled the vampire’s wrist to his mouth again and took his first step into another life.
The man who had once been Jim Hewitt jackknifed into a sitting position, the nightmare still fresh in his mind. Not for the first time, he wondered why he was plagued with the same dream night after night. He was a vampire now and everyone knew that vampires didn’t dream.
Jim Hewitt had died that horrible night. It seemed only fitting that he lay his old name to rest, too. It seemed a wise decision for a number of reasons, but mainly because Jim Hewitt the vampire hunter was also dead. He considered several before deciding on Travis Dark. Travis for the man who had fathered him. And Dark....he grunted softly. It had been another of Ronan’s aliases. It seemed only fitting to take his sire’s name, as well.
“Travis.” He murmured it out loud, wondering how long it would take before he answered to it automatically. Of course, it was a moot point at the moment, since he was the only one who knew he had discarded the name he had been born with.
If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the horror of waking that first night and realizing it hadn’t been a dream. Even now, a month and a half later, he sometimes woke feeling lost and disoriented. He was supposed to hunt and destroy vampires, not hide from the hunters.
As he did every night on waking, he cursed the vampire who had turned him although, to be honest, he had no one to blame but himself. If he had left the damned, blood-sucking creature and his woman alone, none of this would have happened.
He blew out a sigh. He had hunted vampires his whole adult life, had thought he knew all there was to know about them. Just proved how wrong a man could be, he thought bitterly, and once again, he cursed Ronan for turning him and then leaving him. A sire was supposed to stay with his fledgling for at least a year, help him adjust to his new life, teach him how to hunt, how to find shelter, how to defend himself, if need be. A sire wasn’t supposed to abandon those he turned.
Travis swore softly. Sure, he knew about hunting vampires. He knew how to find them, how to immobilize them, how to destroy them.
What he didn’t know was how to be one.