Tara’s take on the paranormal genre — specifically vampires and were-humans — is entirely refreshing and very, VERY erotic. Enjoy the guest post below, and tell us what you think!
The Thin Red Line Part 4: Immortal Desire
Part of the vampire’s allure in fiction is immortality: that inability to age. Along with youth, the creature of darkness retains his zest for life and love. He is a creature of desire and wanton cravings. We want him to want us forever. And because he will live forever, we think that he can.
Normal love goes through several stages. According to http://www.ericrobersonmusic.com/2013/02/14/9-stages-of-love-all-couples-go-through/, there are 9: infatuation, understanding differences, disturbance over differences, opinion-making based on knowledge, molding one another into personal ideals, being content, doubt, sexual exploration, and complete trust. These are pretty self-explanatory, and I believe that any long-term relationship that is successful does go through these stages. Looking back in the ten years of my married life, I can remember each one.
There is an argument that most vampiric love in novels stops at stage 6, if it ever gets that far. To be fair, most romances and romantic novels end with a couple marrying or committing in some way, which makes this logical. And the whole point of reading something romantic is to enjoy the romance of it. Who wants to hear the terrible word “doubt” when that tall handsome stranger is whispering that he’ll love you forever? The real question here is the wrong assumption that a vampire’s ability to look the same extends to all facets of his personality, including emotion. He will not change in appearance, not if the legends are true. But inside, the vampire will change with the passage of time. He didn’t always love you, right? So if he can fall in love, he can fall out of love as well. So why wouldn’t a long successful relationship with a vampire lead to all 9 stages of love? My reasoning says it would.
Part of the allure is that we want the vampire to remain just as he is that first moment he loved us; to lock that mindset forever in place and have it remain as unchanging as he is. We want the intensity of infatuation, the adventure of new romance, the life-and-death feeling of living moment-to-moment waiting for the next encounter. We want immortal desire, literally. But the truth is that if we could manage to stay in that exciting, romantic stage by some magic, we will never get beyond to the stage of happiness, or better yet, the stage of complete trust. Is that what we really want…forever?
Author Bio: Tara Fox Hall’s writing credits include nonfiction, horror, suspense, action-adventure, erotica, and contemporary and historical paranormal romance. She is the author of the paranormal action-adventure Lash series and the vampire romantic suspense Promise Me series. Tara divides her free time unequally between writing novels and short stories, chainsawing firewood, caring for stray animals, sewing cat and dog beds for donation to animal shelters, and target practice.
Taken For His Own is Book #4 of the Promise Me Series.
Blurb: After learning Theo is alive, Sar immediately embarks on a mission to find him. Reunited, the lovers return to New York; Danial, Terian and Theo uneasily combining forces to protect Sar from Al’s assassins still seeking her. But when Sar is taken prisoner in an all-out attack, only one man can save her: her old adversary, Devlin.
I cried a few tears, turned out the light and let my mind drift. Just as I was falling asleep, I remembered the potion. Terian had said the potion would recreate the dream with Theo, but that when it ended, the dream would fade from memory.
I needed to put my feelings for Theo to rest and let him get on with his life. It was time to be done with dreams and get back to reality.
I turned the light back on and got up, rummaging around in my duffel bag. I found it and spent a few minutes removing the vial from the bubble wrap I’d taped around it for safekeeping. I uncorked the top and drank. The taste was bitter. This was it, the end of him and me. I packed the empty potion vial for Terian for reuse, then lay down. I drifted in a sleep-sort of fog and finally begin to dream.
It was my home, my farm. Again, I stood there, calling out to Theo to wait, not to leave.
Again, he stood motionless at the door for a second and then he turned to me, riding me to the floor. Kissing me roughly, as we tore off our clothes as fast as we could.
Every memory came back in full force, sweeping me away in a storm of emotion. It washed away the years with Danial, even everything I felt for Elle and Theoron. There was only Theo and I. We were one.
Theo made love to me again and again. I relished his body next to mine, his muscles holding me, moving me, pleasuring me. Soreness set in as night fell, but I renewed my efforts, knowing that the end was near. As Theo finished and reached for me, I pushed him away.
“Sar?” he said questioningly, his eyes worried, his hand outstretched.
In a few seconds, Danial’s voice would sound. This was it, the end.
In desperation, I shouted, “Theo, I love you, I love you more than anything or anyone. I’ll love you the rest of my life!”
As my words tore out of me, Theo’s body flickered. Suddenly thin scars appeared on his shoulders from a whip, the edges raised and red, then similar scars on his chest. A mass of scar tissue bloomed whitely on his hip.
I lunged for his outstretched hand as he faded before me.
I fell out of the motel room bed, landing on the floor. The room reeked with the odor of lovemaking, the odor of sex.
“God damn it, no!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.
I’d fucked up badly. I’d forgotten Terian’s words to me the night he’d given me the potion, telling me about the dream it would create for me one last time.
“And he’s not here to renew it with you…”
Terian had said it, thinking as I did that Theo was dead. But Theo wasn’t dead, he was alive. I’d reached out and touched him again with another dream. Moreover, this time, he’d know immediately that what had happened was no regular dream. He’d come looking for me, remembering the scent he’d caught wind of a week ago.
God, I had to get gone as fast as I could!
I threw on some clothes and frantically gathered up my things. There was no time for a shower or food. We had to get moving!
I grabbed up my duffel and ran for the door, my keys in my hand. A footstep sounded outside my door and then the door was kicked open, flying back hard to slam the outer wall.
Theo stood there breathing hard, his eyes dark as a storm.
Freedom to speak is right and a privilege that is greatly taken for granted in North America. We protect it fiercely, encourage it in other parts of the world where voices are silenced to protect greater agendas, and embrace it as a birthright fought for and won by our foreparents. And yet…there are still certain topics that are universally considered taboo, some issues that are difficult to discuss, ground where we fear to tread in our social talk.
That’s where Forbidden Conversations comes in.
We’re invited to listen in as a few ordinary Americans discuss some very hot-button issues, outside of academia and television, and encouraged to consider all sides of relevant issues. It’s not without risks, which the characters appreciate and accept, eventually riling up other eavesdroppers to their peril. It very well might inflame the reader as well.
Dare to read Forbidden Conversations, and you are challenging yourself to rethink the world you know with fresh eyes.
Welcome, everyone, and most especially, welcome Tara Fox Hall to Romance and Other Dangers! Today, I’m informally interviewing and chatting with my good friend and fellow author on the men and women who inspire our visions of heroes and heroines, random inquiries concerning personality and creative traits, deeply insightful discussions on the meaning of life, and so on and so forth.
Follow along throughout the day and leave a comment, and you could win a free e-copy of Spellbound, the anthology from Melange Books which includes my own short story, “Telltale Signs”, and “The Origin of Fear”, by Tara Fox Hall.
To begin, I want to compliment you, Tara; your writing pulls me into mystery and suspense immediately; it’s a highly enjoyable read. For those who haven’t yet delved into Tara’s imagination, excerpts from her work are posted below (with the survey — did you do the survey, yet, readers?).
The way “Origin of Fear” plays out reminds me of the master of horror himself, Stephen King. I won’t spoil it for you, but if you like twists and unexpected endings, you have to get your own copy of Spellbound to see how it ends! It’s just a taste of her storytelling gift. “Just Shadows” is bound to be even more chilling.
First Question O’ The Day: Tara, would you please describe your (favourite) writing place? I’d love a visual — where are you when you are splicing ideas and crafting words into novel form?
Summer writing is never better than lakeside!
Who wouldn’t love to kick back in this porch and become immersed in a story?
Wouldn’t you like to relax on this bed and write the next great novel?
Tara Fox Hall, you have now made me hungry for fresh bread.
This is near Tara’s place…absolutely breathtaking!
Tara, at the park — lovely!
The view from Tara’s front porch, after the first snow of the season — beautiful!
“Spellbound at Midnight” by Isabelle Kane & Audrey Tremaine — In the sultry Big Easy, Viole Godin is hired to restore Magnolia Place, an antebellum mansion which is crumbling under a mysterious curse. Marie Verret and her dangerously attractive grandson, Lucien, believe Viole is the key to ending the curse one magical Halloween night.
“Room 1309.5” by John M. Mecom — Inspired by the works of Poe and Stephen King, Room 1309.5 is a story of revenge and despair. It is the author’s first story to be published and received honorable mention in the Fifth Annual Writer’s Digest Popular Fiction Awards.
“Mansion of Nightmares” by Walt Trizna — A mysterious mansion, long abandoned, harbors a past that claims those who enter. Then one day, by a stroke of luck, an intruder survives and uncovers its secret.
“Ghost Taxi” by Joanna Foreman — A man drowns heading for freedom in America, but his ghost is trapped. Washed up on the beach, the ghost is an illegal alien, not allowed to cross the street into Miami. A homeless man and a vacationing tourist search for his wife so the ghost can possess her.
“Uncle Vernon” by Jenny Twist — There’s something very peculiar about Uncle Vernon. Nobody knows what he does in the cellar. But he’s quite harmless, really. Isn’t he?
“Half Seen, Half Hidden” by John Steiner — Nine dead. One missing. No suspects and no leads. What happened in the cabin outside Wilson Wyoming? Where and who is Mason Oliver? Deep within ourselves rests a greater mystery. Half Seen, Half Hidden traces the last three days of Mason Oliver and nine hitchhikers. Offering them shelter, Mason takes them to a secluded cabin. There they all sense the others aren’t quite the strangers they seemed, and that they hold something extraordinary in common.
“Telltale Signs” by Tori L Ridgewood — Don’t stay in the Dark Lake Museum after sunset! But Kate Elliot has a deadline to meet. Working overtime, she realizes she’s not alone in the creepy old mansion…
“The Origin of Fear” by Tara Fox Hall — Four college friends mount an expedition to Latham’s Landing — an abandoned island estate infamous for mysterious deaths — to gather pictures and inspiration for a thesis on the origin of fear.
Excerpt from “The Origin of Fear” by Tara Fox Hall:
“You’ll have fun, I promise,” Nikki said, her eyes sparkling.
“This isn’t a trip to an amusement park,” Daryl replied curtly, leaning back in his chair. “We aren’t a bunch of teenagers out for a thrill. When I say no alcohol, I mean it.”
“Speak for yourself,” Sam said, laughing. “Sure, you’re going for some kind of research for your thesis, but the rest of us are going because we think it’s exciting.” He signaled the waitress. “Check, please.”
“I’m not sure,” Marie said uneasily, rooting in her purse. “Breaking into a house sounds like a bad idea to me.”
“If they’d let us go there legally, we wouldn’t need to break in,” Daryl said irritably.
“Like you told us, there have been some deaths out there,” Sam said with a shrug of his shoulders. “It makes sense the owners don’t want to risk any trouble for a little cash.”
Daryl scowled. “Even that damn old man who runs the docks refuses to cooperate. I offered him a hundred dollars. He turned me down cold.”
“You shouldn’t blame him,” Marie said defensively. “He’s just doing his job.”
Daryl grumbled something, then took the bill from the waitress.
“We’re going to have a blast,” Nikki said excitedly, throwing her money down. “The best part is that it’ll be close to Halloween.”
“We can’t do it that night,” Daryl warned. “They’ve got extra security on Halloween, because of past pranks. Police patrol in a boat on weekends regularly, or so the dock man informed me. It has to be a weeknight.”
Nikki laughed. “Everyone wants to visit a haunted house on Halloween, especially a real one.”
“Police have no sense of humor,” Sam muttered. “We can’t get caught, kids. If we do, we’re not going to get off with a warning.”
“I told you, I can get a boat,” Marie interjected. “My brother’s got one he’ll loan me. It’s small, but it has a motor and can fit four. The bigger problem is the currents around Cairn Isle. We have to be careful—”
“Cairn Isle?” Nikki laughed again. “Is that its real name?”
“That’s what the locals call it, because of all the deaths,” Marie said defensively. “But that’s not its real name.”
“What is its real name?” Nikki asked.
“Latham’s Landing,” Daryl said with relish, letting the name roll over his tongue. “It’s going to be crucial to my paper on the origin of fear for my psychology of mind class. With luck, I’m hoping to turn it into a dissertation.”
“How did you ever hear of it?” Sam asked. “I never have.”
“It’s not something the locals advertise,” Daryl replied. “They’re closemouthed about it, these farmers, and they don’t like strangers. Even the historical society that owns the house doesn’t promote it. Their website had almost nothing—”
“What did it have?” Sam asked, interested.
“Just that a man named Hans Latham got rich in the ship business, and that he built this home when he retired.”
“So why go there?” Sam persisted.
“Because it’s a focal point for so much intense fear,” Daryl explained. “Though the local sites didn’t have much to say, the haunted house sites had a ton on this place. Compared to the factories and monasteries those ghost hunters visit, this is the mother lode in term of attributed deaths—”
“Attributed deaths?” Marie said, arching her brows. “Real people have died out there. I know one personally: my cousins’ first girlfriend and her brother. They just wanted to have a look by boat before joining up with some friends on the beach to the west. Instead they capsized and drowned.”
“I didn’t mean that the fear wasn’t warranted, or that the deaths weren’t real,” Daryl replied hastily. “I’m almost out of money, Marie, and I’ve got to graduate this spring. I need a thrilling and controversial paper if I’m going to get a good job offer. I don’t want to have to go back in the Army for another tour. Latham’s Landing is also relatively close by, which is good for my limited funds.”
“I guess we’re not going to stay at the bed and breakfast,” Nikki interjected.
“We can’t,” Daryl replied. “We can’t question any of the locals, or go to the exhibit the bed and breakfast has, not yet. If we stay there, we’ll arouse suspicion.”
“Then what’s the plan?” Sam said.
Daryl looked at each of them in turn. “First, we’re going to the island, to take pictures of everything, and gather data relative to the deaths for which I have documentation. Marie will get us a boat, and we’ll meet two weeks from now on the shore of the nature preserve. That’s October twenty-seventh, at dusk.” He got to his feet. “We can question the locals and do the dry research later.” Daryl strode out, the others following.
“So long as there’s no wet research,” Marie mumbled worriedly, as she hurried after them.
And… Her latest! (At one time, we’d say “Hot off the presses…”)
JUST SHADOWS Anthology Post
From the murky depths of a summer lake to the echoing halls of an insane asylum, evil lies in wait for victims. Innocents might escape by a hair’s breath, if they’re lucky. Then again, they might not. The shadows are waiting. Dare you step into the darkness and be judged?
Dawn was just breaking, fog rising off the small stream in misty tendrils that wafted through the forest glade The forest was dark and deep, still mostly silent, inky blackness. From time to time, rustling sounds issued from thickets, but it was the small rustling of rabbits and grouse, not the prey most men were after today. Suddenly, there came a sharp shriek of a scream owl, startling the man crouched waiting in the tree stand high above.
“They’re just shadows,” Lenny said under his breath to himself, shifting his weight. “How long you been huntin’ these woods? You know better.”
He looked down the barrel, checking the sight one more time. You couldn’t be too careful. It was easy to knock the sight off getting up into the tree stand. God knew, he wasn’t getting any younger. Still, for a man his age, Lenny was pretty limber. Smiling, he settled back, scanning the forest floor. The first day of hunting season was the best day of his year.
“Fucking amateurs,” Lenny said angrily hours later. “Assholes!”
The morning had been beautiful, the day creeping in quickly, illuminating the shadows. Like clockwork, a beautiful buck had come right to the stream to drink. Lenny had been squeezing the trigger when a rifle crack had shattered the moment, the buck bolting out of his sights, its flank bloodied. Lenny had cursed, then climbed down the wooden ladder quickly. The crackling of dead limbs coming his way was testament that the stupid ass who’d shot his buck was giving chase. Lenny reached the forest floor in time to stop the young punk in his tracks
“What are you, an idiot?” he’s shouted at the boy. “You can’t use a rifle on deer.”
“Who’s going to stop me, old man?” the punk said with a sneer. “There’s no DEC anywhere around here today. They’re all up there on the state land. It’s party time—”
“You get out of here before I drill your ass where you stand,” Lenny growled harshly. “This is my land. I pay the taxes on it, not you. Get out of here now.”
The punk glared back, but when Lenny’s eyes remained hard and unwavering, the punk’s gaze slid away, then lowered. “I know I hit the animal. I need to track it—”
“You winged him, is all,” Lenny interrupted, gripping his shotgun. “He’ll be fine. But you won’t be if you don’t shut up and get gone. Now.”
The kid turned and walked away, muttering under his breath. Lenny watched him until the boy was gone, then let his shoulders slump in relief. You could never tell these days if a kid was going to snap and start shooting, or if he’d been taught to respect his elders. A lot of men Lenny’s age had found the former true in recent years. It was a relief he’d been right this time.
But that hadn’t been the worst part; that had come later. Lenny had climbed back up into the stand, had lunch, then waited the rest of the afternoon without seeing a goddamned thing. Just as dark was falling, another deer came up, again a buck. Trailing him was a doe. Lenny got into position, and then suddenly, the bark of a dog shattered the stillness, making the two deer turn as one and flee.
Lenny cursed again. That damn neighbor of his, out walking her dogs. Didn’t she know today was the first day of hunting season? Yes, she did—there was her bright orange hat and vest. Christ, she even had orange vests on the dogs. He stayed silent, waiting for her to pass.
He’d waited until the shadows were thick, hoping for another chance, but no deer had come. Pissed off and dejected, Lenny began to reluctantly climb down. This was his first opening day in years that he had noting to show for his efforts. Now dusk was closing on full dark. Damn it, I should have left earlier…
There was a snap as the ladder rung he was holding onto gave way. The ground rushed up to meet him before he could yell.
Blinking his eyes, Lenny sat up, trying to ignore his throbbing head. Damn ladder. He was lucky the gun hadn’t gone off; he’d forgotten to safety it before starting to descend the ladder. At least there was a shiver of moon, just enough to illuminate the woods around him weakly. But the thickets and bushes were black as pitch, just shadows with no form.
He hadn’t fallen far, but he’d cracked his head good. The rest of him was just fine. With a groan, he got to his feet, feeling in his pockets for a flashlight. His wife Hera would be worried about him. She’d been telling him for years to get himself one of those new cell phones, complaining that when he was out hunting she had no way to contact him. He hadn’t listened, of course. The last thing he wanted was to have his hunting disturbed. Now she was going to bend his ear every chance she got, after hearing about this. Grumbling, he clicked the safety on, switched on the flashlight, and began walking slowly back to where his truck was parked.
There was a rustling in the thicket ahead. Lenny turned, curious. Maybe it was a deer? Wouldn’t that be funny, he thought sarcastically; a deer coming in so close now, when it was too late to shoot. He aimed his flashlight beam into the thicket, but the weak light wouldn’t penetrate the shadows. All it did was illuminate two eyes shining back at him.
There was a deer in there staring at him. Had to be. Well, there was no point in scaring it. Lenny began to back away slowly.
The eyes held on him, motionless, then very slowly rose in the shadow, until they were level with his height. Then they kept rising up, until they were near eight feet in the air. Again they held still, staring back at him.
Lenny’s skin crawled as he stared back, frozen in his tracks. Even a deer rearing on its hind legs wouldn’t be that tall. This had to be a bear, and the biggest goddamn one he’d ever seen.
The eyes moved in the darkness toward him, leaves rustling with each deliberate footstep.
A bear wouldn’t do that, Lenny thought, backing away. A bear couldn’t walk that far on its hind legs.
The eyes suddenly darted forward, twigs and branches in the thing’s path snapping. Lenny turned and ran, the fast crackling of broken branches coming right behind him.
With every step, he expected to be clubbed by a huge paw, or hear an enraged roar. Instead, the crackling noises just kept pace right behind him. Terrified, he refused to turn, unwilling to face those tall eyes again. But as his breathing turned ragged and his strength failed, Lenny knew he had to. He’d never outrun the thing. He had only one shot, and he’d better make it a hell of a good one.
Panting, Lenny swung around to face the thing, bringing the gun barrel up level as he clicked off the safety. He gaped, then lowered the weapon. The eyes were gone.
He stood still for a moment, fighting to control his breathing, to hear any close noises over the sound of his own racing heart.
There was the hoot of an owl. Nothing else broke the silent night.
Lenny retreated to his car, nervously scanning his surroundings all the way, his gun at the ready. He was badly startled by a raccoon en route, and just managed not to pull the trigger in reflex. When Lenny reached the edge of the woods and his car, he climbed in and shut the door as fast as he could, breathing a huge sigh of relief as he hit the lock button.
God, what had that thing been? Did I imagine seeing it? Maybe the eyes being that tall had been a trick of the light, a raccoon or some other animal climbing up a tree…
He could figure that out later. All he wanted to do was go home.
Lenny started the car, relieved all over again when the engine turned over easily. He put it in gear, then glanced up, letting out an instant yell.
There in his headlights was the punk from this morning. He was staring at Lenny with dead eyes. Part of his neck was missing, blackish dried blood and tissue clumped at the raw edges of the gaping wound.
This couldn’t be happening!
The kid smiled, baring human teeth coated with more of that blackish-red blood. Then he began to raise the gun still held in his hands.
Lenny put the car in gear, then stomped on the gas. The car shot forward, knocking the kid off his feet, the car lurching as it rolled over him. Lenny gunned the engine again, cursing at the slow passage of the car through the high grass of the field.
Damn it, why is this taking so long?
The car made it to the bottom of the steep incline that led up to the main road. Suddenly, the back tires spun, and the car shuddered.
Lenny eased off the gas, then tried again, gunning the engine. The wheels spun, the engine loud in his ears.
Damn it! Lenny thought. The underside of the car had to be stuck on something sticking up out of the ground, maybe the remnant of a fence, or some barbwire, maybe even a stump. He was just digging a hole, giving the car more gas. He’d have to get out and see if he could lever it off.
Lenny grabbed the flashlight, opened the car door, and got out, scanning around for eyes with the beam. Nothing gleamed back in the darkness. Relieved, he shone the flashlight at the car, gaped, and then swore as he inspected his vehicle from all sides.
All four tires were flat. That asshole kid had done it, before that thing in the woods had killed him. There was no way he would get up that incline with one flat tire, much less four.
A rustling sounded in the darkness. Lenny brought his flashlight up, aiming it at the approaching noises. Two familiar eyes gleamed back at him from high in the darkness at the forest’s edge. More horrifying, two more pairs suddenly sprang to life on either side of the eyes, all of them staring at him.
This is very exciting, I’ve never done one of these before… A live blog chat with a fellow writer! Woot! Please, mark it on your calendar or stick it in your phone to stop by and check out our chat on JANUARY 7!