Here’s a little holiday cheer at the start of summer–a little snippet from my WIP about Arthur, a certain snarky being who just can’t stop complaining–
This is my favorite season—Christmas.
I know what you’re thinking, though; I think it every night myself, too. How can a vampire love Christmas, it being a religious holiday and all? Well, the truth is that I’ve never been religious, so it doesn’t bother me in the least. I’ve loved this holiday since Victorian times, when I lived in London, and take it from me, they know how to do Christmas. Not like here in modern America, where one is subjected to shouting displays of BUY BUY BUY, and SPEND SPEND SPEND every time one turns on the telly.
I do watch too much telly, I suppose. I’m alone, so what else is there to do at night but watch the endless streams of soppy shows that drift across the airways? It got a tad bit better when I got BBC 1, but not much.
And the dining situation? Hopeless. I wish someone of my undead status could just ring for takeaway, but no. What would I do with the food? I could sample the delivery person, I suppose, but the logistics of that situation would be horrifying. I only have to bleed my victims once a month, but bleed them I do, until they’re as empty as Honey BooBoo’s head. Then, I live on the leftovers. I don’t kill where I eat.
Here’s a snippet of my secondary WIP–a gay vampire Christmas story that I’m working on in between my main project sessions. In this snippet, Arthur, a proper Victorian nightwalker, is sniping at his assistant. She’s only trying to help, Arthur–
As she rises to get my drink for me, I mumble under my breath “Be thankful I’m not a Nosferatu.”
“I heard that.”
I sniff as she comes back with my brunch. “You’re just waiting for the time when I get tired of your attitude and snack on you instead, aren’t you?” I ask.
She shrugs as she sits down. “You already take your now and then nips, Arthur, but you’ll never drain me, not even close,” she answers. “I don’t have the proper equipment.”
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This is a particularly romantic interlude between Bruce and Jeffrey, in which Jeffrey is helping his hunky man take a bath–and yes, I use a vulgarity, as in a slang term for donkey 🙂
Bruce grinned as he put his arms around Jeffrey’s neck.
“How romantic,” he said, nestling his cheek against Jeffrey’s shoulder.
Jeffrey nodded his head.
“I’m going to carry you over the bathroom threshold, my beautiful man, and put you in that sexy chair. Then I’ll turn the water on, crawl right in there beside you, then put you on my lap while I French kiss your ass right between both cheeks while we wait for it to fill.”
Bruce looked at him, his face flushed.
Jeffrey laughed as he carried Bruce into the bathroom.
“Christ, you’re easy,” he said.
Here’s a snippet continuing the spirit from last week–the first time Bruce and Jeffrey saw each other after five years apart–it takes place in Jeffrey’s office. Jeffrey, once again, is thinking about their past together–
Bruce. His lover, his soulmate, his best friend–seeing him after missing him all day. Standing there holding him, those dark curls sifting through his fingers, his nose buried in them as he whispered his name, over and over. His hands roaming over that delicious body. Those eyes, glazed with need for him, love for him. Lying in bed together while they held each other, listening to the nighttime rain falling like liquid diamonds in a soft patter–
Then laughing at the spongy, rhythmic drip-drip in the saucepan under the leaky spot in the roof.
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Here’s a snippet from The Ancient where Jeffrey is wondering what might have been as he looks through Bruce’s medical file–
He missed Bruce, pure and simple. He loved him so much it hurt, hurt every day. He would give everything he had for another chance, he would prove himself to him, he wouldn’t make the same mistakes.
He shook his head. What a pipe dream. The man was married, so dreams were all he had. It wasn’t as if he had stayed celibate when he had gone to Christchurch, then back home to Brisbane, but it had never been the same. He had rescued himself from a cliff, and he had really tried to get lost in a new life. He dated, tried to develop relationships with other people. He had even gone out with quite a few ladies, but he had always held them up to a Bruce standard.
They had all failed miserably. He had himself tested, and then he had remained celibate indeed. Clean and virginal.
He wondered if Bruce thought about him. He looked at the small photo of him clipped to the inside cover, tracing the lines of his face–a face that still had the power to make his heart race. He closed his eyes.
“Oh Lord, Bruce, I was so clueless.”
My snippet for this weekend is from my WIP–the followup to Talk Of The Town. In this, Carl realizes that Craig needs to feed, and he creates a temporary bond between his bondmate and Oz, his closest friend and the third member of their vampire triad. He just hopes they don’t get TOO close–
(I apologize for slightly more than six sentences, but I couldn’t cut off the thought, and some of them ARE short 🙂
“Go stand by Oz, caro, and both of you strip to the waist, please.” As he helped Craig stand, he watched Oz’s eyes get wide, and something else was there also—
–a flicker of rising heat. Oz banked it right away, but Carl had caught it. He would have to deal with it later, and he definitely would. He was the sire here. He peeled off his own shirt, then stepped up to both of them, standing so close he could feel them.
He raised his hands to his chest, then gently punctured each muscled pectoral with a sharp fingernail. He raised his arms to Craig and Oz, inviting them in.
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Here we have a snippet of Alasdair putting his plans in motion. He’s already seen to Bruce’s wife Jules, and now it’s Bruce’s turn–
“You were just–thinking, picturing thoughts from your past. It was very enjoyable to me, and I want to thank you.” Alasdair stood and held out his hand.
Incredulous, Bruce took it. He closed his eyes again for a brief moment, smelling him. God, it was intoxicating, the odor of old herbs, and a whiff of–what was that? Frankincense? It smelled like the inside of a Catholic church, just like he remembered. There was another smell, a masculine smell that made Bruce excited and aroused. He felt himself getting hard again underneath his clothes.
But there was another smell underneath them all, one of great age, decay, and corruption. It reminded Bruce of the wet rotten smell that appeared when you lifted up a crumbling log in a forest to see all the creatures scurrying away from the light, or perhaps the sweet decaying stench of a mouse that had died trapped in a wall only to leave a lingering odor when its corpse had finally dried and decomposed. Bruce shivered as if he were chilled or scared, or a child anticipating something both wonderful and terrible.
Alasdair smiled, gently squeezing his hand.
“Let’s go sit in front of the fire. You can have a glass of wine, then a little something if you are hungry.” Bruce nodded.