Tag: nocturne

The countdown is on for FURY CALLS, the next full length book in THE CALLING Vampire novels, but if you need a fix in the meantime, check out HONOR CALLS, my e-novella Nocturne Bite that’s available now at eharlequin.com.

In HONOR CALLS I’ve brought back a character who may be familiar to some readers – FBI Assistant Director in Charge Jesus Hernandez.

Since DARKNESS CALLS, Jesus has been in the periphery of the stories, advising Diana and her partner during their assignments. Always calm and reserved and functioning by the letter of the law. Honorably discharging his duties until the day he runs into Michaela, a vampire slayer who’s now challenging what Jesus knows to be the right thing to do. What will win out — honor or Michaela’s need for vengeance against the vampires who killed her mother and forever changed Michaela’s existence?

I loved writing about these two and hope to write a full length book in the future. In the meantime, here’s a snippet from HONOR CALLS. This scene happens shortly after Jesus has run into Michaela while she is slaying a vampire.

His physical presence was difficult to ignore. As he shot a glance at her, his dark brown eyes seeming fathomless in the dim light, she hoped he would not prove to be as fascinating as he appeared and tried to dampen her initial interest.

“So you expect me to believe the bouncer was a vampire and that there are other ones here as well?” he said, returning to their earlier conversation. He leaned toward her as he said it and examined the interior of the club.

There were definitely vampires present, she thought, sensing the push of their undead force, but before she got into proving it, she wanted him to buy her a drink. She was low on cash and most men disappeared once they discovered the truth around them.

The truth about her.

Raising her hand, she signaled to a waitress.

As the young woman arrived, Michaela said, “Cuervo shooter.”

Slipping a glance at her companion, she realized he was checking out the waitress, but not in that way. In a vamp way, not that she expected him to pick up on the signs so quickly. She shook her head and he understood, ordered a shooter as well.

The waitress hesitated and Michaela explained. ”You’re new. You’ve got to pay up front.”

He snorted in disbelief, but quickly dug into his pocket, peeled off a twenty from a moderate wad of cash, and tossed the bill on the scarred top of the table, which had obviously seen a great deal of abuse judging from the gouges and scratches in its cheap black formica surface. The waitress immediately scooped up the money and walked away to place their orders.

“Must get nice clientele in here,” he said as he tucked his money away into his pocket. The motion pulled his suit jacket back, exposing the butt of his gun. At an adjacent table, one of the patrons noticed the weapon also and quickly scurried away.

Jesus followed his flight and wondered why the man felt compelled to run. In his line of business, it was an obvious sign of guilt, but in here . . .

He once again peered through the dim interior of the club, checking out the various patrons within and found it amusing that for all their Goth rebelliousness, they were quite uniform in their manner of dress. Lots of black, from the leather and jeans to their hair. Pale faces which made him turn his attention back to his companion.

“You said you’d make me believe,” he reminded just as the waitress came to the table with their drinks.

He watched as the waitress placed the lime, salt shaker and shot of Cuervo on the table. His companion bit into the lime, skipped the salt and then downed the tequila in one gulp before ordering another.

“Thirsty?” he asked as he paid in advance once again.

“Once guys see how things are, most of my dates don’t last beyond the first drink,” she admitted, a self-deprecating tone in her voice as she fidgeted with the empty shot glass, twirling and spinning it on the table top.

“Didn’t realize that buying you a drink made this a date,” he said, perplexed by the self-assurance on the surface that seemed to hide a well of vulnerability beneath.

“Not your usual type, I suspect,” she said and fully faced him.

Not his type? He wondered about that as he sipped at his shot of tequila and studied her. Her dark, nearly black hair fell in choppy layers against her roundish face. Cerulean blue eyes bore an exotic slant and hinted at extreme intelligence while pale, creamy skin appeared to be as soft as satin sheets.

The black leather jacket she wore fit tight against her body, accentuating both her slimness and slightness of stature, but the tank top beneath the jacket exposed the lushness of her curves.

He imagined exploring those curves. Raising that lean strong body up against his and slipping within.

Maybe his type, he thought, fighting back his body’s response especially since now that they were up close, he guessed her to be over a decade younger than his thirty-eight years of age.

“Don’t have a type and I’m not the kind to drink and run,” he offered, taking another sip of the Cuervo to quell the desire awakening within him.

She laughed, the tone of her merriment rich and uninhibited. It occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had allowed himself that kind of freedom, but she clearly was not one to hold back.

It only intrigued him even more, especially as she challenged with, “You may be the kind to run after you see what goes on in here.”

Elegantly raising her hand, she gestured in the direction of the farthest edges of the club close to where they sat. He could make out the shadows of people engaged in various activities in those nearly dark areas.

Leaning close to him, she said in hushed tones, “Look carefully if you dare.”

Her warm breath against the skin at the base of his neck was sweet. He imagined the kiss of that breath elsewhere and decided that it warranted the risk just so she would continue talking to him.

So that he might experience that sweetness elsewhere.

“I dare.”