Detective Valentina Kureyev had been assigned to one of the worst cases of the century. A serial killer haunted the streets, depositing bloodless corpses throughout the section of town known as Little Europe. She hadn’t a clue to the identity of the culprit, as the appearance of more bodies had begun to cause terror and […]

Lucien D’ Angel is a celebrated paranormal detective with a lucrative television show and numerous best selling books pertaining to the world that may exist beyond the human experience. He’s managed to keep the proverbial low profile over the decades and has purposely stayed out of the public eye, due to a secret that he […]

“Have I plunged from my lofty pedestal, Kate?” The sound of his throatily intoned words filled the air, a swirling mist of enticement apparent in each syllable. “Has the hideousness of my past diminished any of the esteem you may have held?”
“No.”
Her candidly issued response sent a tremor of unspoken relief running through him. She struggled to breathe, inhaling the spicy masculine scent radiating from him. Her body thrummed at his proximity and she swayed. Her heart thundered as his head lowered, the tip of his heated tongue grazing her lower lip and moistening the sensitive flesh. A low-pitched moan escaped her at the tentative touch and her lids fluttered downwards, her body suffusing with an all too familiar flame. Her hands slipped from the pockets of her robe and settled on his shoulders as she tried to remain steady. Kate floundered to suck in a wisp of a strangled gasp as the pressure of his lips brushed her jaw, leaving behind a scintillating trail of fire. Except for the gentle pressure of his mouth against her tender flesh, he didn’t place a hand on her. Kate felt an uncontrollable restlessness arising within her as his hair brushed her face, the unhurried descent of his lips along her neck evoking exasperating quivers of arousal.
“Order me to stop, Kate.” The murmured words were urgently against her skin, hunger evident in each syllable. “Tell me to leave you well enough alone.”
Pulsating with need, Kate grasped at his shirt, her fingers twisting into the material as she rose to the tips of her toes. Dante exhaled deeply, the warmth of his breath inciting an excited chill to rise on her overly sensitized flesh.
“Stop me, Kate.” He groaned, the weak plea issued into her ear. “Stop me and I won’t touch you.”

Uttering soothing words of comfort, Val sank to her knees before the elderly woman. She carefully pried the guilt frame from her grandmother’s strong grip. There was a moment’s struggle before the woman relented and allowed her to take the frame. Val held a baited breath as she turned the precious remnant of the woman’s past over and stared at the sepia colored images of long ago.

Old Russia was evident in the photo, a land that didn’t exist any longer. A figure, that Val immediately recognized as her grandmother as a child, stood at the forefront of the faded photograph. Dressed in a short white frock and black calf high boots, typical of the era, Val judged her to be six or seven years of age. Immensely proud, the child was beaming at the photographer.

However, it was not her grandmother’s childish image that caught Val’s attention. There, the moment forever captured in time, was a startling figure. She lifted her puzzled gaze to the elderly woman, her normally inquisitive mind spinning.

“I was six.” Her grandmother managed in a low whisper, brusquely waving an imperious hand at her daughter-in-law, ordering her away. Val’s mother, forever respectful, slipped back into the far recesses of the kitchen. “The Imperial Court was on holiday. Their caravan went through our humble town. Great stallions, proud uniforms, it was a moment of great importance for anyone to see.” She smiled, her faded eyes as faraway as the memories. “My mother, she made me wear my best dress, in case the royal family would stop in the streets. “ She smiled wistfully. “The entire village turned out for the event that day, lining the main road. We all wanted to catch a glimpse of the royal family, not realizing it would be the last time we would ever be privileged to see such again.”

“The revolution?”

“A few months later, the revolution would occur.” Her grandmother conceded with a nod and a grimace. “The handsomest of the court was the youngest baron. Women would swoon when he entered a room, attired in his official uniform. I,” She pressed a forefinger to her chest to emphasize. “Little me, in my best dress, happened to draw his attention. He rode on his great charger to my side. He was so dashing, in his uniform, with his devilish smile. I fell in love with him, at that moment.”

Val smiled tightly. Her grandmother could recall a six year old girl’s fanciful crush upon a member of the royal court. After all of these years, it seemed as if the Baron had made an everlasting impression.

“The baron, he dismounted from his horse. He approached me, smiling, with those strangely colored eyes. He took the simple spray of flowers that I held and he thanked me.”

“The picture?”

“A man in the village wanted the picture for posterity. The baron waited, patiently permitting me a moment in time to remember for the rest of my life.”

Val exhaled a strangled breath as she peered back at the image. Her grandmother’s twisted finger trembled as she touched the glass, trailing over the photograph. She stopped on the image of the man that stood at her youthful side.

“Baron Demetri Ivanovich Sergei Daskova Petronov.” She whispered. “The year is nineteen sixteen.”

Petronov. Val remembered it as the name carved upon the dead man.

Val sat heavily down upon the carpet. She felt shock, awed as she stared into the face of the man. He was, beyond a doubt, the exact image of the individual that had been in their presence. The resemblance was startling.

“He is the great-grandson, Babushka?”

“No, child.” The old woman shook her head disdainfully, her gaze straying to the still filled cup of now cold tea.

“Babushka,” Val began heavily. The old woman turned back toward her with the unmistakable expression of dread written upon her face.

“The Baron Petronov supposedly died unmarried, three weeks before the revolution.” She continued heavily, reverting back to her mother tongue. “He had never taken a wife nor had he sired children.”

“This man,” Val began, a chill washing over her flesh as she looked up into the face of the woman that had regaled her with so many fanciful tales in her childhood.

“Upyr, Valentina.” Her grandmother whispered in deep and ominous tones. “The man, the man that was here,” She pressed her fingers to her heart. “This man is upyr.”

Vampire

“What do you presume I am, Evangeline?”

Again, there was that damnable smirk, although his eyes said otherwise. She wondered if he truly dreaded what he was about to reveal to her.

“Tabloid fodder says, in order to be one of your elite crew members, you either have a pact with the devil or you’re a vampire.” She scoffed at the absurdity of the words even as she uttered them.

“In other words, you believe in the probability that I am of some other creation, besides human? ” He left the question hanging in the air as he took a hesitant step toward her.

She shrugged. “Are you a vampire?”

He threw his head back and laughed, the sound deep and smoky as it filled the room. He seemed purely amused by the assumption and continued to chuckle lightly as he wiped the trace of mirthful tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Ah, my dear, I am not a blood crazed vampire.” He calmed himself and Evangeline felt the heat of color flood her face. Lucien forced himself to continue with marked levity. “You may rest assured that your lovely neck is perfectly safe this night.”

“Do you have a pact with the devil?” The words were pronounced with great effort and Eva felt herself become chilled to the bone.

“No. There isn’t a pact with the devil.”

Eva knew she would have been ignorant to miss the particular stress he had placed on his response.

“Are you one of the undead?”

“I cannot be in league with the undead if I have never experienced the blessing of death.” He supplied the answer so simply, as if he were discussing the events of the weather, although she did catch the faintest sense of remorse and irony that clouded his words.

“D’Angel.”

The pronunciation of the name fell from her numb lips. She realized as she said the word that it did seem to fit him, oddly enough. He did bring to mind the paintings she had seen of angels in her youth, elaborate images that had filled the stained glass windows at the church her parent’s had attended. Those same angels had been pale and glowing, radiating with a serenity that was undefinable. Nevertheless, there was something else. There was some sort of…she was not aware of what, precisely, even though the angelic reference to Lucien D’Angel hit a distinctly sour note.

Angel’s Fire, Demon’s Blood is available at www.Amazon.com and http://wildhorsepress.webs.com