moonlite_tryst: (vampire kiss)
I have discovered another gem of a book to recommend to all you original slash h0rs.

Vaughn R. Demont ([livejournal.com profile] vaughn_r_demont on LJ) is the author of The Vampire Fred: Wicked Game, a superb and interesting tale told with humour and intelligence.

Author's blurb:

Being a vampire sucks, especially when you’ve got to deal with things like a dead-end job as an office drone, avoiding vigilante vampire slayers on the subway, and being price-gouged on blood from the slaughterhouse. Add in a crush on your annoyingly charismatic sire, and unraveling a little conspiracy to upset the balance of power among the vampires of the City, and it’s all in a night’s work though for fledgling vampire Fred Tompkins, as long as he doesn’t miss out on any overtime.

The Vampire Fred introduces new aspects to vampirism that make this book a refeshing change from the more traditional tomes out there and had me engrossed from the first line.

Fred is an average guy who lives alone in his small apartment and works in a dead end job, almost a living death if you will. He certainly had no ambition to die a virgin, find himself flat sharing with an undead dreamboat, fighting off Lycans and becoming involved in a vampire turf war. Maybe he should've stayed home that fateful day.

Here's a snippet:

Imagine, if you will, a cool April night, about an hour after sundown. The clouds are breaking above; there's a waxing crescent moon that looks like a big banana; there's still a light mist in the air since it only stopped raining a half hour before. Imagine this in Victory Square, with all the lights and buildings, and that great Italian restaurant on the corner where they shot that movie scene that one time.

Take that scene and insert a car. Not just any car, though. We're talking upper tier. A car worth more than a house in Destry Bay -- with sleek, clean lines and a loud engine. Imagine this scene as a still, a snapshot, if you would. Keep the car in that freeze-frame but let it rumble around in your mind that at the moment that car is doing about one-twenty.

Now imagine a man, about five nine in height, maybe a buck fifty. He’s wearing an off-the-rack suit from a store that sells TVs, clothing, and produce, his body suspended just above the hood of that car, upended, his legs contorted into a position yoga instructors would wince at, one shoe on, the other knocked off by the impact. His arms are outstretched, his black hair blown away from his face by the rush of wind, his brown eyes registering shock, and his monitor-tanned face showing vague surprise.

That guy? That's me.


Join Fred on his journey of death, rebirth, lust, love and more plot than you can shake a hairy bat at. You won't regret it. Oh, and there will be a sequel.

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moonlite_tryst

November 2012

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