A FAST-PACED URBAN FANTASY THAT WILL LEAVE YOU HUNGRY FOR MORE!
This is NOT Twilight! Not Vampire Girl! Not another YA read. Definitely not Sookie!
This is the short-story prequel that introduces Maxim, the scruffy, antisocial vampire extraordinaire of Angel’s Guardian.
From the heights of NYC tenements, the vampire Maxim hunts for prey below. His quarry of choice: murderers, rapists, drug dealers, child molesters, the worst of the worst. On a sultry summer night, he witnesses a senseless murder, and the chase is on for a cold, merciless killer. But as the hunt intensifies, Maxim finds so much more than he expected.
Homeless fourteen-year-old Jonathan Lee Travers hunkers down on a bed of cardboard and newspapers with his loyal dog Whistler. He feels safer in the dark alley than he ever did at home with his pedophile stepfather. But tonight, something evil lurks in the dark, and it’s heading his way. Tonight, Jonathan will need a guardian angel, and those are scarce in the dark alleys of NYC.
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EXCERPT:
The shots rang sharp and too near, thought Jonathan as Whistler sat up, ears perked like radar antennas, nose twitching, eyes trained into the dark. The teenager hushed the dog and ran his hands over his back in a calming gesture. The last thing he wanted was for the dog to take off in a wild chase. He’d have to follow, and only God knew what was out there.
Whistler whined, and the boy pulled him closer. “Hush, boy. It’s none of our business, whatever it is. Stay.” For long minutes Jonathan sat in his bedding nest, looking into the lighter mouth of the alley, holding and soothing his canine companion.
The crunch of a plastic wrapper and a soft, cautious footfall gave the skulking figure away. Whistler, with his superior hearing, suddenly stood and growled a deep, ominous sound that signaled he would not be soothed. Jonathan’s hand dashed out to grab and hold him, but he missed. The dog was off in full protective fury. In rising panic, the boy scrambled after the dog.
Aaron heard the dog’s angry growl long before he saw him. He turned to the sound in an involuntary, reflex action. The animal stopped not three feet away from him, head down, neck fur standing. The dog’s white canines showed bare and pale in the dark around him. The beast was signaling “do not move, asshole,” and Aaron knew that if he moved just a step, the dog would attack.
The sound of pounding feet drew his attention. Someone was coming behind the dog, and the gunman was sure he’d found his stalker. His eyes seeking the figure in the alley, he took a shot, but only one, before Whistler jumped him and clamped down on his thigh.
