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Becoming the Spoils by JL Merrow

Description:

Frank’s a rising star in the world of journalism and he’ll do anything for the next big scoop. Getting locked in a cellar with a starving vampire wasn’t exactly on his career plan, though. It’s then that Frank realizes there are some things more important than a story—like staying alive, for instance. Luckily, his cellmate Victor turns out to be more than just a pretty face and a sharp set of fangs…

 

 

A part of the 2010 Daily Dose Set, Midsummer's Nightmare, which includes 30 M/M stories of supernatural romance that may feature an edge of suspense and heart-pounding fear; a taste of the paranormal worlds of ghosts, vampires, and werewolves; and even the stuff of nightmares and dreamscapes.

ISBN-13978-1-61581-481-7
Pages34
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Becoming the Spoils by JL Merrow eBook
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Read an Excerpt:

Be careful what you wish for. That’s what they always say, isn’t it? Shame I never listened.


Look, it’s the story of the decade, right? Of the century, even. Vampires Are Real. Name a single journalist who wouldn’t give the body part of your choosing to scoop that one. Bit of a pity, then, that it looks like I’m going to have to go all the way. I mean, an arm, a leg—you can learn to live with that, can’t you? Or, rather, without it.


Every single drop of blood in your body? Not so much.


So it’s understandable that I’m just a little scared as they push me into the cellar. To meet Victor. Victor the Vampire. Who is, apparently, feeling a bit peckish tonight. And will, therefore, be extremely pleased to see me.


Lucky me.


 


 


It seemed like such a good idea at the time when Art told me about the club. Said he reckoned I’d find what I was looking for there. Well, viewed objectively, he wasn’t wrong, was he? Good old Art. Must remember to thank him. Of course, I’ll have to go and haunt a friendly medium first.


So anyway, earlier this evening I put on my tight black jeans and My Chemical Romance T-shirt, added a touch of eyeliner and spiked my hair just so, and swaggered into the nightclub looking like every gay Goth’s wet dream. Not that I’m one to brag but hey, I’m a journalist. I tell it how I see it. But instead of a bunch of vampire wannabes and maybe, just maybe, someone who knew someone who had a lead on where the real deal hung out, I walked in on Bloodsucker Central. Just like Little Red Riding Hood tripping gaily through the forest with a basket of goodies for Grandma. And we all know who’s the Fortnum and Mason’s hamper in this little fairy tale. Not that any of the big bad wolves out there have sampled the merchandise. No, they’ve been remarkably restrained. Apart from the whole throwing me in the cellar bit, obviously.


I feel a little put out, actually. So my O negative’s not good enough for them? Bloody snobs.


But apparently, dear old Victor isn’t in a position to be picky about his food. On account of not having had a bite (ha!) for a month or three. How long can a vamp go without feeding? Don’t ask me, I only just met one. I’m more concerned about how long a starving vamp can go without feeding on me. Hence the minor apprehension as I stagger into the cellar and the door slams shut with loud finality.


Doesn’t look like the total detox diet is exactly a picnic for the vamp concerned. And yeah, the pun was intended. Hey, lots of people make jokes when they’re nervous of impending death. Relax, you’re not going to have to deal with it for much longer. At least if you can go by the bundle of bones and rags that levers itself up off the floor in front of me. Victor.


I wonder if I should introduce myself, but seeing as he’s going to be eating me in a second, it’s probably not worth the bother.


He looks like hell, and in any other situation I’d feel sorry for him. I think he’d be good-looking if he wasn’t such a mess, but it’s hard to tell, the state he’s in right now. Skin like paper stretches over bones that gleam whitely in the thin light trickling in through the bottle-glass skylight. Long dark hair. Overlong, in fact. No stubble. Do vampires need to shave? Do they wake up every morning—sorry, night—in the exact same physical state they died in? Does that mean if you died in the eighties you’d be stuck with a mullet hairdo for all eternity? Stake me now.


There’s something cold at my back, and I realize I’ve backed into the wall. No luck in getting through it, however. Victor’s still moving toward me, eerily slow and silent, like an early horror movie playing at the wrong speed. His mouth’s open, but no sound comes out. There’s nothing human in those pale eyes that are getting darker by the second. Nothing alive in there at all. I can’t move.


He can.


There’s a sudden blur of speed, or maybe I black out for a moment from sheer terror, as one minute he’s still a foot away from me and the next, those teeth—those fangs—are sheathing themselves in my neck. Slowly. So I can feel every millimeter as they slice through my flesh.


It burns.


And then he starts to suck, and I explode.


 

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