Introducing Thomas

These are the first sentences from Las Vegas Circle, in which Thomas introduces himself; I always thought it had a touch of noir, or maybe even Kolchak 🙂

I prefer to work the night shift on the Strip.  This town is open 24/7, and that’s all right by me; there‘s enough light in this town to make it seem like daytime anytime.  There’s more than enough action to keep me busy.  I’m a senior homicide detective with the LVPD, and as high being on the totem pole (not racist coming from me), I can pick the shift I work.  That means the night shift. My name’s Thomas Walks The Night–

And I’m a vampire.

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This snippet is from my short Beautiful Lightning; Evan’s finally worked up the courage to make a written overture to the lady that delivers his mail–the only human contact he can tolerate with his fear of the outside.

“All the messages I see,

All the letters that I read.

You bring the whole wide world to me,

A rare and precious gift indeed.”


He stops, adding a simple postscript:

“May I please know your name?”


He puts it in its matching envelope and writes “To My Post Lady” on it, then seals it up. He wanted to write “lovely” on it, but he fears that is a little too much too soon. He opens the door a crack and lays it on the welcome mat that he never bothered to remove, thinking that is a little ironic in itself. He would have dropped it out of the mail slot in the door, but he couldn’t be sure that it would land right side up. He shuts the door and goes back inside, waiting by the window, trying to make himself small while he is spreading the curtain open in a tiny gap. It’s pretty hard, since he is a hair over six feet.

Here she comes in that small blue and white van. His house, isolated and high on the cliff is her last stop for the day. Suddenly much more nervous than before, he hurries to replace the curtain and waits behind the door. He knows there will be a small package. Usually, she just puts the mail in the slot and he barely gets a glimpse of her face as she turns around to leave, but today he should be getting the replacement computer parts he ordered.

He waits for the mail to plunk through the slot, then the soft brrrrr of the doorbell, but neither happens. Puzzled, he goes to the curtain and parts it oh so slightly.

She is standing there reading the note.

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Aiden’s Maker

Here’s a short passage from a past chapter (1871) in Chicago Circle;  Aiden is enjoying his “breakfast” under the watchful eye of his maker Cian, who has lured an unsuspecting stableboy to the feast:

Aiden was enjoying his meal, working his lips against that soft skin, coaxing more mouthfuls out, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He pulled his red-streaked mouth away, frustrated.


“Are you going to save me any at all then?”

Aiden rolled his eyes and pushed Fergus’ barely conscious body in Cian’s direction. The poor young man’s head lolled back on his shoulders, exposing the rather irregular holes that Aiden had made in his eagerness and Cian caught him with a grunt. He fastened his own mouth on the wounds and drank a few mouthfuls before pulling away, and they both watched as dear Fergus collaped in a heap at their feet.

“Well that’s that then,” Cian said. “He’s empty.”


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Aiden and Marco

Here’s a little of what happened before Aiden took Rory into the nurses’ lounge, when Marco came back to his hospital room:

“I’m just going to talk to Marco for a minute and we need privacy, all right, darlin?”

Rory nods and gives me a dreamy smile.


I turn back to Marco with a sheepish grin as I shut the door.

“He’s my next meal, ya see, I had to butter him up a tad.”

“How come you sound more Irish than before? You’re like some character from The Quiet Man.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a breathy chuckle.

“You can thank yer da fer that, Marco,” I tell him as I come back to the bedside. “He won’t be bashing ya any more, or anyone else fer that matter, and Rory’ll be helpin’ me with the brogue.” I lean over him closer. “I’d need too much for you ta help me, my boy.”

“What did you do to my dad?”

“I snapped his spine in half,” I told him. “A spine fer a spine, then, and for yer Ma as well; she’s in the care of doctors and yer aunt’s lookin’ out for her, Marco. Nothin’ ta worry about.” I look at him, and he’s downcast, almost on the edge of tears.

“What’s the matter now, lad?”

“I—I wish I could have been the one to help you, Aiden.”

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Aiden’s cure

Here’s a snippet of my WIP, Chicago Circle; Aiden has finished up with Mr. Ruiz, and he needs some decent blood after that mess. Marco is too weak from surgery, so–what to do? He does need to get rid of that old country Black Irish 🙂

“I’ll just—wait out here,” I mumble, not wantin’ commentary about my thickened accent. I hope to have it gone soon enough and go back to the soft Irish drone that I’m used to, but here at the nurse’s station it’ll hold me in good stead because, man or woman, a thick Irish brogue turns anyone’s kettle to whistlin’. If I’m lucky, I’ll keep hold of some of the wit and snark as well, because if truth be told, I’ve always thought I walked with a stick up my arse on occasion. And no, I’m a total top, thank you very much.

As luck would have it, the only person manning the desk (and I do say manning, because he’s perfect) is a sweet young thing who’s just my type, which is willin’. It won’t take much to get information out of him; I can tell he likes the cock crowin’ as much as I do.

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Thomas Finishing Dinner

Here’s Thomas finishing up his dinner from my Rainbow snippet of yesterday–poor Harold, at least he’s going out with a bang. Pun delightfully intended. this snippet has graphic language and situations, just a heads up 🙂

“Wha—what’s the matter with your eyes?” Harold stuttered. “They’re—all black.”

“None of your business,” Thomas said. He dropped to his knees, sticking his face into Harold’s crotch and listening as Harold moaned softly.

“Oh, that’s it, fuck—“

Thomas imagined Harold’s head thrown back in passion as he located the beating artery, gently running his tongue over it, feeling the blood rushing through it—-pure, oxygen-rich blood.

It lit his fever quite nicely.

With a low growl, he opened his mouth wide and sank his fangs into Harold’s groin, drinking, then gulping the lifegiving blood as it came out faster and faster. Harold, to his credit, didn’t feel anything different, he was so far gone. All Thomas noticed was a hitch in his breathing, and the beat in the artery becoming fainter and fainter as he fed.

GOD, this was so wonderful. He could stay like this forever—pun intended, but as his mouth worked at Harold’s groin, something akin to an alarm sounded in his head, almost a ceaseless beeping. He pulled away from Harold, watching him slide down the exterior wall of the shed, eyes half closed, mouth slack.

“No dead blood,” Thomas whispered to himself.

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Thomas Having Dinner

Here’s a Snippet from Las Vegas Circle, where Thomas is trolling for some liquid refreshment, still learning his vampire ways—-

“Hey, Injun—over here!” he heard from Harold, hissed so he wouldn’t be heard by anyone else but Thomas.

Thomas gritted his teeth at the epithet, thankful his fangs retracted until he needed them.

“I don’t see you with those trousers open, Harold,” Thomas said, grinning. “Open ’em up, or better yet, drop ‘em around your ankles.” When Harold hesitated, his hands fumbling at the fastenings, it made Thomas—-angry. He felt something go, and he knew that his eyes changed somehow, his fangs starting to erupt from his gums.

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