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Short Story Friday

A Lunch Date Gone Wrong

By:

Victoria Clapton

2019

 

The bright orange glow from tonight’s full moon glowed over the mostly empty benches on Jackson Square. It was a cool, autumn evening in the French Quarter. Most of the tourists and artisans headed home over an hour ago and were now missing the magical ambience that situated on the old cobblestones.

“Are you ready, Sybella Rose?” I shivered as Demien’s hand came to rest in the small of my back, reassuring me that this idea of a date, a date with a vampire, wasn’t crazy.

I held up a heavy picnic basket my friend Aloysius had filled and smiled. “Sure.”

Like me, Demien loved to go down to the river at night, to watch the waters of the Mississippi roll by in rippling shimmers, so I didn’t even ask him where we were heading for our lunch date at 2:00 a.m. Over the levee, towards the moonwalk, we had a spot.

He made no sound as he moved, guiding through shadows. Only his long dark hair, ruffled lightly in the breeze. The sweet, citrusy scent of bergamot assaulted my senses with every step he took, and I fought the irrational urge to reach out for him, to pull him into a kiss that he may not even want.

Recently, I’ve made a career at throwing myself at the almost five hundred year old vampire walking gracefully beside me. I physically could not stop myself. I needed to touch him, to consume him, to be consumed by him.

As he showed no signs of insatiable attraction, I can only assume he is not afflicted by the malady, a curse known as The Binding, as I was. This, too, his ability to ignore the urges pressed upon us, drove me even more insane.

Someone listened to Trombone Shorty in one of the cars that pass by on Decatur Street. This town, my beloved New Orleans, embraced its culture like no other place.

“Where are your thoughts?”

I hadn’t realized that Demien had paused at the crosswalk, waiting for the signal to cross over Decatur, and now scrutinized my temporary silence.

“I was just thinking about New Orleans and its artists. Such a special place.”

The walk light flickered, and we crossed the street. I did not even bother with why a vampire cares about crosswalk procedures at two in the morning. Demien was filled with so many conundrums, keeping up with them was impossible.

“That’s why we locals fight so hard to keep outsiders from ruining it.”

I panicked for a moment, right in the middle of the road, when it occurred to me I no longer held the heavy picnic basket. Demien urged me along, shaking the picnic basket he must have grabbed from me at some point as he guided me towards our lunch destination.

Nerves assaulted me. No matter how long this went on, I continued to find myself baffled at the way Demien’s presence both calmed me and shot my nerves to frazzled. I could never predict what he would do next. His actions caught me off guard.

So, I stood there on a grassy patch near the moonwalk and the river, watching him spread out a checkered picnic blanket for me to sit upon while we dined…well, while I dined.

His movements held my attention as he carefully unloaded the basket–a bowl of fruit salad, a po’ boy dressed, a few bottles of Abita Amber. The snacks kept coming, more food than I could eat.

My mouth draped open as Demien opened each item of food, arranging it beautifully before me, and then held his hand out to help me sit in the Victorian skirt I had chosen to wear tonight.

This man, this vampire, was ruthless. Terrifying. I had seen him kill. I’d felt his violent rage against me, and I could not reconcile the horror with his heart.

“How was your day?” He motioned for me to begin eating as he stretched out his impossibly long legs and leaned back on his hands.

“You’re beautiful.” I murmured, then cursed. I hated this curse. I took a breath, then I answered his original question like a normal person. “JoJo taught me how to draw a few veves today, but I had to promise not to catch anything else in the shoppe on fire.”

“Again?” There was a smile in his tone. I could not control the magick inside of me, everyone knew it. Asking me to not let my emotions take over, to not magickly ignite the voodoo shoppe or anything else into roaring flames was almost a joke.

“Look, Mr. Vampy-Pants, this is your fault.” I was teasing, but his dead body lost whatever semblance of pretend mortality he acted out as it froze into complete stillness and his gaze settled onto the water.

He had slipped back into the dark place where he resided, and I had to do something before my stupid comment ruined our lunch date.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, you know. Believe it or not, even though you are a huge pain in my ass…I enjoy your company.”

“You’re not eating.”

“Jerk!” I whispered under my breath but picked up the po’ boy and took a huge bite.

He scoffed but relaxes somewhat, and I focused on my food to keep from crawling into his lap and begging him to take me right there in public.

The moment between us was peaceful, enjoyable even, until a whirring sound and a warning yell pulled me from my happy place.

“Watch out!”

Demien scooped me up in a blur, and the eruption of thuds and thwacks in the place where we’d just been sitting took me by surprise.

“What the bloody hell?” I declared, though I’m less concerned with what interrupted our moment than the loss of Demien’s arms when he released me.

I took in the tenseness in Demien’s shoulders, the way he ever-so-slightly crouched, and looked beyond him to see that some punk had been out on the Moonwalk in the middle of the night in roller skates and had lost control, careening through the grass straight on top of our picnic.

Demien’s anger froze the kid into place. Having let his guard down with me, he’d slipped straight into predator mode at the first hint of me being in danger.

I stepped around my solid hunk of vampire and offered a hand to the kid who’d plummeted upon our lunch. “Here, let me help you up. Are you hurt?”

He stuttered and stammered, “N…no. I’m fine. I’m so-sorry.”

“Okay,” I said calmly. “You should go.”

Like any rational person, I thought that if anyone should get bitten here, it damned well better be me, but I kept my thoughts to myself and aided the kid to his feet.

“Sorry, again. I didn’t mean to…” The kid’s preservation instinct kicked in and he took off into the night.

I took a deep breath and began picking up the remnants of our lunch date gone wrong, and then pulled on the bond between us. “Demien, come to me.”

I didn’t know if he’d succumb to my request. He was just as likely to disappear into the night. I packed everything away except the blanket, which I flipped over.

“Demien, come and sit.”

He didn’t look at me. Deep down, I knew he couldn’t. He was fighting the demon inside of him, the predator that had wanted to kill, that still wanted to kill. But he once more found a place on the blanket.

Relief rushed through me…then insanity. Without any hesitation, I maneuvered my body until I was sitting between his two legs with my back up against his chest. My bare neck waiting, beckoning just below his mouth.

“Sybella,” he growled in warning.

His fangs brushed against my skin.

“What? Didn’t we come here for lunch?”

 

 

 

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Short Story Friday

Chasing The Enemy

by

Anne Marie Andrus

 

June 17, 1970
On the Eve of Graduation…

Thunderclouds raced east, leaving the Augusta air sparkling and ready for the biggest weekend of the year. Clear horizons sparked the campus bustle back to life as the noise of saws and hammers bounced off stately columns and rang past ancient oaks.

In a cluttered dormitory room a mile away, Stori shoved moving boxes around enough to find the corner of a mirror to check the hemline of her brightly flowered dress. “Stellar.”

“Too short.” A voice squawked from the corner.

Stori yanked the fabric lower. “It’s fine.”

“Nope, nope. Too short.”

“Jett, zip your beak.” Stori waved him off. “Tomorrow will be all high heels and graduation gowns, but tonight is the senior class party.”

“Bad weather.”

“Shush, the storms are over.” She rummaged through a pile of paperwork on the nightstand. “I hope.”

“Need coffee.” Jett flapped his bright blue wings. “Storytime!”

“I have to deliver this stuff to the office before they close. Are you going to be quiet?”

“No, hell, no.”

Stori’s shoulders slumped. “Then get in the cage.” She opened a miniature bamboo door. “Now, bird.”

“Parakeet, please.”

Stori held papers in her teeth and hauled Jett’s bulky cage to the car.

“I’m in jail.”

“You deserve it.” She wrestled the antique into the passenger seat and climbed in next to it. Ten minutes of majestic curves on gravels roads brought them to a rolling stop under the shade of a massive tree. “I wish you wouldn’t yell bonjour at every person you see.”

“Perfect manners.” Jett preened himself in the side view mirror. “Junky car.”

“It was a gift from my uncle.”

“Stuffy in here.”

“Quit complaining.” Stori gathered up her documents and jumped out. “I’ll be right back.”

“Storytime!”

“You little demon.” Stori pointed at Jett’s beak. “Who taught you to say that? Never mind.” She crossed her arms. “I’ll take it up with Uncle Steven tomorrow night. Why couldn’t he teach you to sing like all the other birds?”

“Parakeet, pretty please.” Jett leaned back and screeched. “Ha, ha!”

Stori walked backward and held up two fingers in the shape of a V.

“No peace. Ha, ha!”

She spun, drew a cleansing breath and smoothed her skirt before stepping into the oldest building on campus.

The receptionist peered over her glasses and broke into a wide grin. “Miss Stori, is your ear-piercing bird in the parking lot?”

“Unfortunately,” She rubbed her forehead. “That’s Jett, howling like he’s escaped from an asylum.”

“With the door shut, I almost can’t hear him and I do believe congratulations are in order. I always knew you’d graduate…but at the top of your class?”

“Sister Gilda, four years ago, you didn’t think I’d last a week.”

“Well, you were just so young even for a legacy student, but I didn’t mean…”

“No, no.” Stori waved both hands in front of her face. “You were right. I was so young, wasn’t I?”

“We all were, once upon a time.” Gilda sighed and pointed to the papers. “Are those for me?”

“My name change.” Stori tried to flatten the documents and gave up. “All legal and finalized.”

“And you’re positive about giving up your father’s name?”

“I am. His side of the family is in ashes…he started the fire.” Stori swiped a tear with the back of her hand. “But my mother and grandfather will be at the ceremony. They’re both Aldens and they’ll be thrilled, so I want to make sure it’s correct—”

“Don’t you worry, dear. Tomorrow night, the Medical College of Georgia’s president will announce you as Doctor Stori B Alden.”

“And then I walk across the stage?”

“That’s how it works, dear. Give me a moment to put this in order.”

Stori pressed her trembling hands into her skirt and wandered to the soaring wall of pictures. She read the name of each honored alumni, from the most recent years on lowest row, all the way to the top. She tipped her head back to read the plaque below the highest centered photograph and waved at a familiar face in the ornate silver frame.

“Wish I’d had the chance to meet him.”

Stori jumped and grabbed her chest. “I’m sorry, my nerves.”

“I’ll say.” Gilda shook her head and pointed to the picture. “I just meant, a very distinguished gentleman.”

“He’s my legacy connection here. The B in my name is in his honor.”

“Wait.” Gilda craned her neck to look in Stori’s face. “You’re related to him…the legendary battlefield surgeon?”

Stori nodded. “Raimond Baniterre.”

“Honestly, I don’t say this often. Or ever.” Gilda flopped on a bench in front of the pictures. “You’ve knocked me off my feet.”

Stori settled down next to her. “I’ve never said it out loud.”

“The secret is safe with me.” Gilda tapped her chin. “The residency you accepted? That’s the busiest Emergency Room in the country.”

“It’s New Orleans, so…probably destiny. This time next week, I’ll be in St. Louis Cathedral, lighting candles for the all the souls we’ve lost.”

“That’s your dream job…Emergency Medicine?”

“I’ll tell you another secret. My true passion has become defeating Alzheimer’s Disease. I won’t be a bystander while an invisible monster steals life and dignity from my patients.”

“Chasing the cruelest enemy.” Gilda smiled and stared at Dr. Banitierre’s picture. “You’ll make him and all of us proud.”

Minutes passed in heavy silence until Jett’s distant voice broke the trance.

“I hear bonjour and coffee.” Gilda covered her mouth to hide a laugh. “What else is he saying?”

“Storytime.” Stori tossed her hands up. “What am I going to do with that fool during graduation?”

“Drop him off in my office. He’ll be safe and far enough away that nobody will hear him—much.”

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Give the poor bird credit though, he’s got a stroke of genius.” Gilda squeezed her hand. “It’s Stori time.”

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A Strange Request at a Piano Bar

A STRANGE REQUEST at a PIANO BAR

a short story by Elizabeth Lemons

 

~Introduction~

Good Evening. I’m Lorraine. I moonlight on weekend nights at a world-famous restaurant and piano bar that is found on the corner of St. Peter Street in New Orleans. It is a heady, two-centuries-old location, surrounded by ivy-covered brick walls with fountains kissed in patina of verdigris oxidation. Verdant fronds of fern drape lazily year-round over cast ironwork. Intricate, black lace designs twirl abundantly, dressing the galleries and gateways here and all over the French Quarter with elegance rarely seen in modern day construction. At this little meeting and eating house amidst tourist bombardment, I have determinedly shared my talents and heartbreak, laughter and tears by taking song requests from others for what seems like a hundred years.

Pungent gaslights flicker overhead as endless stories and scandalous rumors continue to be born here in this very courtyard. My favorite in-house tale is the true retelling about my fellow showman friend Eddie, another musician who worked and played here for over 67 years. Gumption hitched a ride in Eddie’s back pocket on the day he entered this bar, sat down and began to play at the corner piano. He was hired just a few hours later when the boss man saw him pick up a tray and begin to clear tables, all on his own merit. Eddie needed a job. So, impressing the owner with his ingenuity, Eddie was hired, and he played music and filled in when the help was scarce on late nights for almost 7 decades, until he drowned in the flooding of Katrina at the age of 95. I felt a close kinship to him and befriended his gentle spirit. I miss Eddie and his quick wit when we together played piano duets. His perseverance still encourages me to carry on when the noise and vulgarity of entertainment in a riverboat city overloads my gentle music- loving heart.

Over the many years, I have seen all types of folks walk through the red-bricked archway of this establishment for dinner or drinks. Always around are the raucous college party-kids, attracted to the larger-than-life Hurricane rum drinks. These juveniles with cash who push and shove their way in to sit near the flaming fountain possess large amounts of laughter and little good sense. When only pirated rum was plentiful in the time of Prohibition, our establishment made a living serving this same unique passion fruit cocktail, in single servings. Now it can be bought in an obnoxious oversized Hurricane glass that comes with a multitude of straws and mixed with 2 bottles of rum. These good-time kids would find a better spot for their “getting-plastered” intentions over at the Apple Barrel Bar on Frenchman Street with its cheap drinks and loud bands rather than hanging here in this laid-back piano bar.

More about finding an eating place that fulfills their desire for New Orleans cuisine but still able to supply the kids with burgers, are the “tourist” families, who’ve come out with their small kiddos after inhaling the online reviews on Trip Advisor before their arrival. They want everything to be conveniently located to the “must-see” attractions so they can hurry and get back to their hotels and put the kids to bed.

Of course, locals have always been the ones drawn here time and time again throughout the years by the sweet sassafras aroma of Gumbo simmering in our back kitchen which always fills the courtyard, and its beckoning siren aroma filters out into the street with whiffs of shrimp, chicken, and the sautéed holy trinity. Despite this heaven in a pot, and endless over-the-top hospitality that has been afforded to regulars in recent years, the locals have sadly trickled away as the growing tourist business has overpowered the sumptuous leather hunter green booths and chairs that line our dining rooms. These long-timers live amidst great controversy as wealthy outsiders slither in to gentrify the French Quarter, they annihilate the old while insisting on bringing in the new. Like oil in the gulf stream, the two just don’t mix. Locals despise this gentrification and loss of the music and culture as well as raised exorbitant rents. Thankfully, some of the locals are just creatures of habit, despite their legitimate gripes and thus, a few regulars continue to support us at the bar. Simply put, they ignore the out-oftowners as much as they can but certainly not their money. This is where I come in.

∼Play Me a Song∼

Tickling the eighty-eights each Saturday and Sunday evening, I take requests and play from 9 pm until 2 am for the generous tips that grow in a brandy snifter atop my made-here-in-New-Orleans Werlein piano. Over time, it has become a game with me to guess by appearances only who I think will request a certain kind of song. Believe me, my repertoire includes hits from Fats, Professor Longhair, Irma Thomas then makes its way through Buddy Bolden, Jellyroll Morton, Louis Armstrong, and further through the years to Allen Toussaint, Dee Dee Bridgewater, Dr. John, the Meters, and brother Aaron Neville. Occasionally, I even share the mike with Grandpa Elliot on rare nights when he is up for a song or two. When it comes to sizing up people and their song requests, I am a good guesser.

So, I was not at all surprised about a month ago, (it was Epiphany night, January 6, the official end of the Christmas season, the night that kicks off Carnival Season in New Orleans), when a tall, mysterious man wearing a sumptuous cobalt blue suit and ornate feathered mask proceeded to make himself comfortable at the bar right next to my piano. That night, (and every other Sunday leading up to Mardi Gras), he always sat beside me and ordered a Sazerac. His credit card told me that his name was Remy Mikhael. From first appearances, he looked like a jazz man to me, so I waited for him to request a song which reflected his persona. But no. This time I didn’t win at my own internal guessing game. Remy brought with him quite the veiled illusion. Even after he had removed the mask and laid it atop the bar, he maintained an intriguing otherworldly aura. Each time he visited me, he wanted one song, one drink. Tonight, he had arrived 10 minutes before closing time.

I had recently severely sprained my left ankle as I took a harsh twist on the winding back staircase that leads upstairs to a sumptuous lady’s lounge. Being so richly appointed, I love to spend quite a bit of time there in between sets. Unfortunately, the twist to my foot had me bandaged on this evening and I was gingerly using my awkward right foot as I pumped the pedal beneath my instrument.

After settling in after his subtle arrival, Remy spoke up in his powerful but quiet voice, “play me something,12-bar, please play “Dead Man’s Blues”, chere? He had requested this song, and ONLY this song every Sunday night for the past 4 weeks. I thought it was a bit strange that he always asked for the same tune but, whatever…he was a good tipper. As I wound down the final arpeggios from an old Beatles tune, I changed my tempo and demeanor as I completely altered the mood of the bar with the first few somber notes. He closed his eyes and reached for his glass, and took a comforting sip of his nightcap, seeming to be reminiscing as the song unfolded. I did my best to please him with my musical rendition. Across the bar from me, on this cold February night, Remy had a secret plan.

~Walking me Home~

New Orleans is a dark city, with its pungent nuances, unique culture and unsolved mysteries. People come here to lose themselves or lose their past. There are hidden doors, secret rooms, and forever unsolved sinister crimes with no clues on each and every corner. Sinners and Saints abide side by side. And, of course, I hear these stories as I nightly sit behind my piano in this rowdy river town, tales that give my arms gooseflesh shivers as I later recall them while walking cautiously to my own rooms in the early dawn hours after work.

My set tonight ended with Remy’s chosen mournful tune, and so I bid he and 2 other late-night patrons a good evening. I watched him as he tossed a $20 bill into my tip jar.

“Thank you, kind sir”, I acknowledged his appreciation. He rose from his bar stool, leaving his feathered mask behind, as I emptied the brandy snifter’s contents into my across-the-shoulder bag. I began to hobble walk on my damaged foot back through the restaurant section, towards the exit of our bar on St. Peter Street, saying goodnight to the few co-workers who remained.

“Catch you next week”, I said to Jerry, who maintained the inner courtyard bar. He was drying and putting away glasses. “G’night, Lorraine,” he answered. It was then I realized that Remy was right behind me, a dark shadow in mimic of every step I took.

“Sweet Lorraine, please let me offer you a gentleman’s arm as you head home. New Orleans is not the place for a beautiful woman such as yourself to be walking alone so late at night, please allow me to protect you”. Remy’s polite offer rolled off his charismatic tongue.

I hesitated, for I didn’t know anything of this man, other than his peculiar taste in music, but he was dressed so nicely, and had such genteel manners that I thought, well, what could it hurt? I don’t want to be rude. I was not picking up on negative vibes about this man, so I replied, “Thank you, Remy, I appreciate your kindness.” With a glance down towards my injured foot, I acquiesced, “I AM moving a bit more slowly these days”. We began to stroll together towards my upstairs apartment that was just a bit further than a block away. It was two nights before Mardi Gras so it was no surprise when a small group of costumed revelers, still out and about, (probably also heading home themselves), passed us by on the opposite side of the street. We arrived in front of my home in just a few minutes, when Remy spoke.

“Are you familiar with Voodoo, Child?”, his unexpected question made me giggle.

“Stevie Ray Vaughn song, right?” Of course, I love Stevie Ray Vaughn!”

“No, chere. I am referring to the religion brought here to your fair city with the slaves hundreds of years ago from Haiti” he explained.

“Well, no, not really. I have read a few things about how Lwa (pronounced Low-ah) represent Catholic Saints. The correlation to Catholic saints was the way the Voodoo religion here in New Orleans was acknowledged, presented publicly, with each saint representing an ancient Lwa before the average citizen, with none being the wiser. Practitioners could display, for example, a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, when all the while possessing actual intentions that the revered figure represented Erzulie. I have read a couple of books”, I said, and “I went to the Voodoo museum with some friends a while back but no, I can’t say that I really am all that knowledgeable when it comes to Voodoo”. It was a strange conversation to hold at 2:30 in the morning down on St. Peter Street and I was tired and ready to say goodnight.

“I can see you are exhausted, Lorraine Laurent”, he continued with an eerie understanding in his voice.

How does he know my last name? I frantically searched my silent brain to figure out where he could have learned this information. As a single woman, it was something I rarely revealed to anyone.

“Yes, I am”, was my curt reply as I turned the key into the cast iron door lock. I suddenly felt a need to free myself from Remy and this suddenly chilling night.

“There is no need for angst, chere. I know you are afraid. Let’s end this game of pretend. It is time for you to come with me, as you do nightly, and have been doing so for the past 93 years. My dear, you must be ready to come home and leave New Orleans forever behind. Eternal stagnation is not advisable. Submit to me. I am here to guide and protect you until you let go of the life you knew and loved. I am known as Agarou Toume, your intermediator. Do you remember how you died, Chere?”

“What? No!!!” You are not! Stop this now! You are Remy Mikhael! Please do not speak to me this way, I can’t be dead!!!,” I shivered beneath the light of a gas street lamp as it flickered in the dark, foggy night.

“Hush, child, and try to remember. You died suddenly without warning, it was 1926 when a fire brigade wagon ran you over in this very street on a night just like this one as you returned home from your performance at the piano bar. Your leg was severely cut, an artery was sliced, and your ankle was crushed. I held you in my arms as you stopped breathing. I am only sorry that I could not prevent this tragedy, but it was, as they say, it was your destiny. And this I could not change. And now, please recognize for once and for all that I have come to take you home, Lorraine, your true spiritual home, not this weekly farce of a life that you have chosen to relive, over and over. Let me guide you.”, he spoke firmly.

“Get away from me, Remy Mikhael! I don’t know you, I won’t go with you!”, I practically shouted as I looked left and right for rescue. No one was near now, no one celebrating Mardi Gras came to my aid. What could I do? I felt trapped, I felt betrayed. I just didn’t understand.

But it was then that I saw for the first time ever great silver wings manifest behind his cobalt blue suit. From out of nowhere, there appeared a mighty sword in his hand and I immediately knew fear like I had never known, because he was…. he was…Mikhael. Oh, my god. Archangel Michael. In the world of Voodoo I knew that he is also called Agarou.

He had visited me for weeks at the bar, making friends with me, having a drink, allowing me to gain some semblance of trust. Why had he delivered such a strange request at a piano bar. My piano bar? It must be that he came for this one final moment, for me, to at last bring me home, to let me know…I am no longer alive, and I am no longer destined to play away, consuming endless hours and endless years without rest.

This time, somehow different than ever before, held me captive. I whispered inwardly to myself. “I hear you, Remy, Michael, my fierce warrior guardian angel” …. For I am done now, with Remy’s final request, his very strange request. He had asked one final time for me to play and to finally truly hear… the Dead Man Blues.

 

Stay tuned for more short stories from writers you need to know!

 

Happy December!!

Happy December

Monsters & Angels

Fans!

I’m just starting to look back at 2018 and…

Wow!

What a year!

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Excavation Murder!

 

From the #1 Best-Selling Horror Anthology, Dark Visions, comes Excavation Murder from award-winning author, Victoria Clapton!

 

Without a word we followed Eugene down into the darkness as the cellar doors closed behind us. We were forced to creep in the silent oppression, listening only to the sounds of our racing hearts and ragged breaths while smelling what surely was the awful, unmistakable scent of death. Along the way, I had begun to beat myself up for not having the foresight to put a stop to this charade earlier. We should never have followed him down to this pit. I’d had a bad feeling from the beginning, and now, we were underground in the middle of nowhere, walking into what I imagined would be a horrific death. I opened my mouth to shut this mission down. For the first time ever, I did not care what waited in the unknown. I did not even care if my suspicions were unfounded. “It’s time we…”

“We’re here.” Eugene’s excitement filled the cold space. “This isn’t the way I’d hope you’d discover my treasure trove, but, Ally, I’m so glad it is you. I’d always hoped your parents could come here. But alas, they were the ones who got away. Not you, Ally. I knew I could depend on you.”

Darkness thickened around us, and I fought an urge to tell my crew that I was sorry, though I didn’t know for what, when Eugene struck a match and lit a couple of old oil lanterns, casting an eerie, dull light around a large chamber illuminating an unimaginable sight…

♦♦♦

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Foundations

Why did I write a prequel to

Monsters & Angels, 

instead of a sequel?

I spent the last few days before the release Raimond, reflecting on how the Monsters & Angels Series was born.

In January of 2013, the winter after Superstorm Sandy, I was desperately searching for an escape. Though the season was tremendously bleak and depressing, it held an unexpected gift—a story.

Monsters & Angels is the tale of Sorcha Alden’s life and death, her tragedy, rebirth and epic love. I released that novel as my debut in October of 2017 and immediately got to work writing the sequel…then a funny thing happened.

I realized that a step back was necessary in order to move forward. My readers also pointed out that, while I was writing Sorcha’s story, Raimond was the real leading man of this saga.

Raimond is more than a prequel, it’s the foundation for Monsters & Angels…and now we can truly waltz into the future.

Raimond

Monsters & Angels