If You Were My Vampire
A Shades Below Novel
Book 2.5
L.J.K. Oliva
Genre: Paranormal romance
Word Count: approx. 100,000
Cover Artist: L.J.K. Oliva
Book Description:
Sometimes, your life begins the day you die…
Asher Evans is a man haunted by history. Turned vampire in the concentration camp that claimed his family, he has never recovered from the loss of his humanity. Removed from the mundane world and resigned to facing eternity alone, he’s completely unprepared when the unthinkable happens: he meets a girl.
As the youngest daughter of San Francisco’s most prestigious psychic family, Grace Alan has always known about the things that go bump in the night. She especially knows about monsters…including the fact that she is one. Grace has spent her entire life trying to be normal, and finally, things seem to be looking up. There’s only one problem.
She’s just been murdered.
When Asher stumbles upon a dying Grace, he knows he should leave her to her fate. But in a world that looks at him and sees only a monster, Grace reminds him what it feels like to be human. He can’t bring himself to let her die.
Unfortunately, rescuing her has consequences. Female vampires have been illegal for centuries. In saving Grace, Asher may have condemned them both.
Excerpt
1 -
He should have
left days ago.
Asher Evans
hesitated at the corner of Third and South Park. If he was even half-smart, he'd turn around
now. He'd go back to his shitty studio
rental, toss everything he could get his hands on into a duffel bag, and get
the hell out of town. San Francisco had
made it pretty clear it didn't want him anymore.
Asher jammed his
hands in the pockets of his battered leather jacket and started forward
again. Another half hour wouldn't make a
difference. In any case, he was already
here. He was already committed.
He was going to
a tea shop. At close to midnight. Looking for a girl.
It was
hands-down the most ridiculous thing he'd ever done.
Asher quickened
his pace. He couldn't even say what it
was that had made him notice Grace Alan in the first place. She wasn't overly attractive, hadn't spoken
more than two words to him each time he saw her. And she worked at a place called Cross Your
Teas. Cross Your Teas. That by itself should have sent him running
in the opposite direction.
In fact, he
might not have noticed her at all except for the single, fascinating thing
she'd done the first time they met.
She'd looked at
him. In the eyes.
People didn't
look him in the eyes. If they weren't
too afraid of him, they mostly weren't looking at him at all. But Grace Alan had looked, and she'd kept
looking. After the first few times, he'd
started to wonder what it was she saw.
He'd tried to
put it out of his mind, had told himself it probably meant nothing, but it was
no use. Lately, that one simple question
had grown from a simple prick of curiosity, to a gnawing fascination, to a
preoccupation bordering on obsession.
Tonight, he
would have his answer.
Cross Your Teas
came into view up ahead. Asher quickened
his pace. They would be closing soon,
and the last thing he wanted was to have come all this way for nothing. He drew closer. The lights were still on; a good sign. He came to the large front window with the
outline of a teapot on it, and peered inside.
Grace's older
sister, Lena Alan, was standing behind the front counter. The drawer of the register was open, and she
appeared to be counting out the cash.
Then she stopped, a wad of bills in one hand. She quickly swiped at her eyes. Her mouth trembled. Asher blinked.
She was crying.
Lena visibly
sighed, and started over. Asher scanned
the rest of the shop for Grace. There
was no sign of her. He took a deep
breath and listened for movement in the back kitchen. No use.
There wasn't so much as a mouse sneeze.
Asher ground his teeth together.
Grace wasn't
there.
Now he really
should leave. He didn't have time to be
trailing one girl all over the city. But
even as the thought passed through his mind, he was already turning his nose
into the air. He caught Grace's scent
almost immediately; the bitter-yet-oddly-comforting smell of patchouli. She hadn't been gone long. Asher followed it up the street and around
the next corner.
The darkness
grew thicker, despite the thin light of the streetlamp overhead. A stiff wind kicked up, buffeting him with
the sharp, briny aroma of the Bay. Asher
pulled his jacket a little tighter and fought to hold onto Grace's trail. Something cold and unsettling moved in his
stomach. A mere block or two over, there
were wider streets, streets with better light and plenty of traffic. What the hell was Grace thinking, coming this
way?
What the hell
was he doing, following her?
She wasn't even
his type. His type was blonde, smiling
and empty-eyed. Grace Alan was the
opposite of his type. Dark-haired,
pensive. And her eyes were anything but
empty. When she looked at him, he got
the distinct feeling she could see right through him. That alone was more than enough reason to
leave now.
He had almost
convinced himself to do it when he heard her scream.
Asher was
running before the sound even had time to register. Grace's scent grew stronger, and with it he
smelled something else: fear. Asher's
chest hardened. The unmistakable sounds
of a struggle pricked his ears. A second
scent mingled with Grace's: male, a few days unwashed. Sweat.
Arousal.
Asher snarled.
Suddenly,
something thick and fragrant flooded his nostrils. Reflex stopped Asher in his tracks. Blood.
His mouth started to water. His
fangs descended from his gums. He'd come
here well-fed, but fuck, whoever's blood that was, it smelled delicious. There was a subtle bitterness to it, a smell
like...
Patchouli.
Asher took off
again at a dead sprint. Grace was in
trouble. Grace was hurt. A small, snide voice in the back of his head
questioned why he gave a shit. Asher
ignored it. He slowed, ducked down a
narrow, graffiti-plastered alley and took in a deep breath. The male's scent had faded. Asher squinted. Near the end of the alley, a familiar figure
sat slumped against the wall.
He drew a little
closer. "Grace?"
She didn't
turn. In the semi-darkness, he could
vaguely see her lips move, but no sound came out. Asher closed the distance between them, his
footsteps unnaturally loud against the brick buildings on either side.
"Grace—oh,
fuck."
Asher sank to
his knees in front of her. She was more
than just hurt. He reached out to touch
her face, at the last minute thought better of it. His fingertips hovered over the crushed area
that had been her cheekbone. Blood
gushed from her obviously-broken nose.
Asher trailed his gaze lower, sucked in a breath.
Her throat had
been slashed wide open.
About the Author:
L.J.K Oliva writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance, with a heavy dash of suspense. She likes her whiskey strong, her chocolate dark, and her steak bloody. L.J.K. likes monsters… and knows the darkest ones don’t live in closets.
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