Welcome to the Blood Series by Elizabeth Morgan

EM_Blood Series_FB

Scottish Werewolves: freaky Vampires and a Slayer with a bad addiction and an insane legacy. Add a big dose of sarcasm, sizzling chemistry; a lot of silver and a ton of blood and . . . Welcome to the Blood Series.

They’re back! The Blood Series has been revamped and repackaged and is available to buy now!

Note: She-Wolf and Cranberry Blood are both previously published titles, but have been polished, improved, and have even had scenes added for their re-release. Both books as well as all that will follow will be self-published.

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She-WolfShe-Wolf

Blood Series Prequel

Blurb:

Dealing with the Rogue Werewolves terrorizing his Pack? Simple.

Trying to convince his mate he does want to be with her? Bloody impossible.

Owen MacLaren is the Alpha’s son and the Pack’s second, and he has never been one to let anything get to him. So when a bunch of Rogues begin purposely dumping mutilated bodies around the Pack Keep, he is more than ready to deal with the Werewolves responsible.

But one night off and a trip to a local strip joint for a colleague’s stag night changes things, and Owen soon discovers he isn’t immune to everything . . . .

Being an independent Loup and travelling the world? Easy.

Having to come home and face the Werewolf who broke her young heart? Challenging.

After five years away, Clare Walker finds herself back home in Scotland, working in a strip club. The tips are decent, and she gets to dance, but it isn’t a place she thought she would ever be, let alone Owen, her Pack second and the mate she has always desired.

Although Owen is determined to prove he wants to be with Clare, things can’t go smoothly between them, not when they have past issues to sort out and a bunch of unusual ‘Rogues’ to deal with.

This title contains explicit language, violence, and graphic sex.

Buy Links:

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/463701
Barnes&Noble:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/she-wolf-elizabeth-morgan/1120057363?ean=2940046079852
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00MT091TK/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B00MT091TK&linkCode=as2&tag=lucyfelthouse-21
Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00MT091TK/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00MT091TK&linkCode=as2&tag=lucyfelt-20&linkId=SZ2B27QAEB3Q54AN

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Excerpt:

The music ended. The two women grabbed their clothes and headed backstage, hips swinging, as one and five pound notes hung out over the edge of their thongs.

“Give it up for Jenny and Jean, our tantalizing duo,” said an invisible male, his gruff voice echoing throughout the club.

“Christ, they’ve got a voice-over.”

“Oh aye, this is a real classy joint.” Luke knocked back his beer.

“Better than some places,” Karl said.

“And now, gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I introduce you to the newest Lollypop.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.” I stifled my amusement with another swig of beer.

“The feral goddess with the wildest moves…. The one, the only, She-Wolf.”

“This should be interesting.” Martin grinned, slinging his right arm over the back of his chair and making himself comfortable.
A familiar guitar riff began leaking through the speakers as the stage lights turned from hot white to dusky blue. The guitar riff kicked in.

“Follow You Home” a song by my favourite band, Nickleback.

“At least she’s got good taste in music,” I murmured to no one in particular while rolling the neck of my beer bottle between my hands.

The red velvet curtains parted and the verse started. A black iron chair slid along the stage and then stopped, perfectly in the middle. The female strolled out of the shadows, one long leg in front of the other, smoking her cigarette. She wore a large black hoodie, dark denim hot pants, and black leather knee-high boots.

The prickling sensation sharpened along my spine, causing me to shiver.

“Weird fucking costume for a stripper,” Martin said.

Her long black hair hung back in a high ponytail. Black and silver eye shadow framed her eyes, the blended shades bold against her smooth, pale skin.

Smoke rolled along the stage as she stopped before the chair. At the sound of the singer’s voice, she flicked her cigarette to the side and stretched both her arms above her head. She then bent forward until she pressed her hands flat on the stage.

“What is this shit? Bloody keep fit?” Martin grunted.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” Karl shouted.

She pulled herself up slowly, and as the bass guitar kicked in, her body swayed to the right and she fell straight into a spin, which seemed to last forever.

“Looks like the stripper knows ballet,” Robert said.

“Fuck the stripper.” Luke laughed. “How d’ya know that’s ballet she’s doing?”

“My little sister has studied it for years,” Robert said, his focus glued to the stage.

The woman dropped into splits. After a moment, she brought around her right leg from behind to join her left, and then fell backward. She pushed herself off the floor, then jumped up and landed on her feet. A wicked grin curled the corners of her mouth as she rolled down the zip of her hoodie, exposing inch by inch of creamy, pale flesh.

The familiar sweet scent touched my nose once more, growing more potent with each second, battling against the other smells to stand apart.  With a deep breath, I dragged the stuffy air of the club deep into my lungs, cancelling out each odour until all that remained was the aroma of . . . flowers? Not the sickly fragrance of floral perfume, but actual flowers.

Her hips began to sway as she shrugged off the hoodie and let it fall. The curve of her waist, and the sight of her supple breasts in her black lace bra, made my mouth dry. I knocked back the rest of my beer, hoping like hell it would help my sudden thirst.

The pale blue light caught the shimmer of her glitter-dusted skin as she brought up her right arm and then placed her hand behind her head.

Sizzling heat spread through my entire body as the distinct taste of wild flowers and sea salt exploded on my tongue. The bittersweet mixture filled me, conjuring images of the meadows bordering my father’s manor; of a young girl laughing as I chased her across the grounds, the scent of the sea wafting from her blonde hair.

My Wolf groaned. My blood heated.

“Great breasts,” Luke said.

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about.” Karl leaned forward and banged his fists on the table. He threw back his head and howled. Any other moment, I would have found such a reaction hilarious, but I couldn’t pull my focus from the woman on the stage; couldn’t move due to the heavy beat of my heart banging against my ribcage. I knew that scent, would know it anywhere.
She made a slow turn as she loosened her ponytail and shook her head. Her hair streamed down her back like a glossy black waterfall. She finished her spin, then her focus landed on me, and the air caught in my throat.

Clare.

Her body went rigid. Her sultry gaze hardened as she stared at me.

Clare Walker. I’d know those moonlit eyes anywhere.

What in God’s name is she doing working in a fucking strip club?

Straightening, I tensed as my wolf skimmed the surface. My energy pulsed as his focus zoned in on her. A moment was all it took. My Wolf settled. Satisfaction hummed through me. Acceptance.

What the fuck?

Her jaw tensed, chin tilted up as she stared us both down for a single moment, before she ran and grabbed hold of the stage pole on the right. Her feet left the floor as she wrapped her legs around the brass and spun.

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, but the tension didn’t drain from my body.

Her feet hit the floor, the pole between her perfect thighs. She pulled herself upwards, rubbing herself against the warm metal.
Every drop of blood in my body headed south.

She swung round and pressed her back against the pole. Her hands traveled down her breasts, then her stomach, to stop at the waist of her hot pants.

My jeans suddenly felt too tight, and the sound of my heartbeat drowned out the loud music.

She slid her hot pants down her thighs and….

The neck of the beer bottle broke in my hands.

“You okay?” Robert looked at the bottle.

I let my gaze slip down to the broken glass and grunted. “Oops.”

Throwing the shards on the table, my attention turned back to Clare. She crouched before a group of men pushed up against the stage. Fire licked through me at the sight of them slipping notes into her cleavage and the band of her knickers, their fingers skimming her milky flesh. The sight caused a strangled snarl to break from my throat.

Easy boy, this is Clare. It’s just Clare.

My Wolf began to pace, hackles rising, the urge to beat the shit out of them and protect her overwhelming me. No man had any right to touch her. I didn’t want any other man to touch her, let alone look at her, and the sudden realization scared the hell out of me.

She stood and danced away from them. Every move she made was graceful; each step seemed to have a meaning. Touched by the fake moonlight, her body shimmered with sweat and sparkling body dust. She looked exotic, feral. She was Loup-garou. She was mine.

No. Not mine. She’s not mine. It’s fucking Clare, for Christ’s sake!

That simple fact didn’t stop the images filling my mind—images of her writhing across the damp earth of the forest floor, the light of the moon bathing her pale flesh. I’d explore every curve and crevice with my fingers and tongue until she begged me to mark her. Claim her.

Those wants alone had me hard as a rock, and on the border of having a panic attack.

Fuck, this is bad. Margaret Thatcher dancing naked in the rain. Margaret Thatcher dancing naked in the rain . . . .

Hiding my hands under the table, I pulled the small shard of glass from my right palm, ignoring the tingle of my flesh pulling together and closing the small wound.

Five years since I had last seen her. She’d been nineteen and preparing to go to London to live with her mother while she studied dance at university. By the look of her body, she had studied damn hard.

My fingers sank into my thighs as she curled around the left brass pole.

Last time I had seen her, she wore dungarees she could hardly fill. Now, her body looked athletic, but she had more curves than a damn racetrack.

She turned her back to the audience. My focus slipped to the four, tattooed paw prints climbing up her right hip. I couldn’t stop the smile forming on my lips, nor stop the thought of tracing those delicate designs with my tongue.

She stepped up on the chair and spun again.

“I think I’ve found my lap dancer.” Karl’s words came out slurred.

The urge to punch his head through the wall rushed through me.

Clare dropped onto the chair. Her knees spread wide, showing the audience the soft junction of her milky thighs.

I swallowed the groan lodged in my throat. The zip of my jeans was two seconds away from splitting.

Applause roared throughout the room as she struck her final pose and the music ended. Tension wound through my entire body, and I had to fight to stay in my chair as a string of crude comments left the mouths of the majority of men around me.

She grabbed her clothes and made her way off stage. The hypnotic sway of her hips, and the sight of her perky arse sitting in those lace panties, struck as painfully uncomfortable. The blood in my veins burned; the tension in my muscles pulsed.

She disappeared from view.

What was this insane, ecstatic joy that she hadn’t removed her underwear in front of these perverted bastards about? All I knew was that if she had, I would have had to kill everyone.

Not good, Owen.

The sweet smell of her sweat had mixed with her natural aroma which now seemed to cling to my nostrils, teasing me. I wanted to find her, rip those knickers off her with my teeth, and bury my head between her thighs until she came apart on my tongue.

Not fucking good at all.

Deep breath. What I needed to do was calm the fuck down and then talk to her. And I really needed to talk to her. This was Clare, for fuck’s sake. I had watched her grow up. This was wrong. So fucking wrong.

The metal frame of the chair dented under the pressure of my fingertips as the others continued to talk about her.

What the fuck was she doing here, anyway? Taking her clothes off and dancing in a shitty strip joint?

She was supposed to be performing on cruise ships. In clothing.

Her life is not my business. It’s not my business. At least it wasn’t, until now.

“So, Owen, you having a lap dance or-or not?” Karl burped, then knocked down the rest of his beer “Going to be a bit fuck-king boring sitting ’ere on your own. Maybe we can find you a nice blonde.”

Fuck it! I needed to speak to her.

~ * ~

Cranberry BloodCranberry Blood
Blood Series: Book One

Blurb:

Killing Vampires? Easy.

Tracking someone? Simple.

Helping, and protecting a Vampire slayer . . . . Bloody hard work!

Thirteen years ago, Brendan Daniels made a deal with a psychic. In exchange for information on the whereabouts of a Rogue Werewolf, he promised to help and protect Sofia’s granddaughter. Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was letting himself, or his Pack, in for.

Nothing about Heather is simple, from her weird dietary needs to her life’s mission. The girl can handle herself, but the promise to protect her soon becomes a need, and one he can’t fully understand.

Vampire Slayer.
Born Infected.
Addicted to blood . . . but not by choice.

Heather Ryan is the current Slayer in a long family line. Like all before her, she has spent her life searching for her ancestor, Marko Pavel, the Vampire her family has sworn to kill. If that isn’t complicated enough, she is also a born “Infected”, and to keep her from becoming insane or giving in to her darker side, she is on a very strict diet.

Now that her Grandmother Sofia has passed, it is up to Heather to take the family legacy into her own hands. Or at least, it would have been…if her Grandmother hadn’t sent a Werewolf to help her.

What is the irritating Brendan supposed to help her with? Sofia never told either of them. Luckily, it doesn’t take long for Heather and Brendan to find out that the Vampires have big plans, and that the Leeches have waited a long time for them both.

This title contains explicit language, violence, and some scenes of a sexual nature.

Buy Links:

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/463706
Barnes&Noble:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/cranberry-blood-elizabeth-morgan/1112119033?ean=2940046079869
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00MXDVWDQ/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1634&creative=19450&creativeASIN=B00MXDVWDQ&linkCode=as2&tag=lucyfelthouse-21
Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00MXDVWDQ/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00MXDVWDQ&linkCode=as2&tag=lucyfelt-20&linkId=CQDU4R7DSSLXHE64

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Excerpt:

Lights spluttered above me, fighting with some relentless attempt to come back on, even though the battle appeared hopeless.
It is hopeless.
I’m trapped.

Fresh waves of pain rippled around my skull and down my spine as I fought to see everything around me, but thick grey smoke flooded the corridors. It crawled down my throat; the taste and feel of ash coated my tongue, making me gag. The need to cough kept grabbing me while ash blocked my nose and stung my watering eyes. My head throbbed, pressure in my skull tightened, as I fought hard to keep my eyes open.

There has to be a way out.

My eyesight had clouded from the smoke; my nostrils burned with it.

The awareness under my skin blazed as hot as the fire that currently threatened to bring the entire structure down on my head, but I had to walk down here; every impulse in my body forced me forward. I had no idea what I hoped to find, but I knew in my gut that I could get out.

My right hand hit the uneven wall before me; my heart sank as I stood before the dead end.

My lungs burned as the smoke continued to consume my body.

I wasn’t supposed to die down here.
Chapter One

~ Heather ~

Air scorched my throat as my body jerked into consciousness. Eyes wide and unfocused, I shot into a sitting position, fisting my hands against my chest as I fought to breathe. My heart hammered, each beat loud and clear as it thumped in my ears. My gaze darted around the room. Relief settled over me like a gentle summer’s breeze as each small familiarity of my bedroom filtered into my jumbled mind: the tall, old mahogany wardrobe to the right side; the window, where light desperately tried to seep through the blinds; and lastly, across from the foot of my bed, the vanity table in the same dark shade of wood. Everything exactly where it should be, including me, in my bed, exactly where I should be.

I inhaled, the simple motion causing a stitch to run up my sides, but I ignored it. Sinking against my pillows, I rested my head against the wooden bed frame and closed my eyes. One breath, two, three; my heart steadied back into its usual rhythm. I rubbed my hands across my face, wiping away the sheen of sweat that had broken over my skin. On my exhale, the quietness of the room embraced me. The usual knots in my stomach started to tighten as the confusion of the recurring dream faded. I forced my mind to reach out and grab the escaping images, but, as always, reality quickly settled in and made my vision nothing more than a blank canvas.

Dull throbbing picked up at my temples. Shit. A sigh escaped me. Not again.

I threw back the covers and stumbled out of bed, suddenly aware of something gripping the skin of my stomach and back.

“What the—?” The raised hem of my black vest allowed a glimpse at the white bandage strapped around my torso. “How the hell did that get there?”

Shuffling steps took me over to the mirror on the vanity table where I studied the clean dressing that clung to my washed-out skin.
Brow furrowed, I stared at the white patch. “Okay. I really don’t remember hurting myself, let alone bandaging myself up.” My focus snapped to a smaller bandage, taped on the left side of my forehead. I studied my half-naked reflection with confusion. My already pale, peach skin looked pasty white, my golden curls nothing more than flat frizz. The throb in my temples increased as I forced my mind to conjure some memory of what had happened last night.

Blurred snippets of my most recent trip to London skipped through my brain. Standing on the roof across the way from some club . . . . Then nothing but blank.

I grabbed my comb and sat down on the edge of the bed, a hiss escaping my lips as pain shot up my left side. I took a deep breath and began to pull the comb through my matted hair, clenching my teeth as agony bit at my skull with each sharp tug. My mind continued to sift through snips of the night: going out to look for Carlson, finding him with Antonio. They had followed three drunken women from a club and dragged them into a loading bay behind one of the larger shops. Me following them and helping the three women get away . . . . At least, I think I did.

But what happened after that? More blankness. Damn.

Hair pulled over one shoulder; I plaited the limp mass and then placed the comb on the vanity table. My forehead began to tighten, and the painful awareness of the familiar thirst that started to crawl up my dry throat assailed my system. My stomach gurgled.
God, I feel rough. I needed food and my mixture, followed by a long, hot shower.

Rolling my head in a circle, I listened to the small pops of tense muscles as I walked to the head of the bed and reached behind the pillows for my sword. My hand met the mattress. My heart stopped. I threw the pillow aside.

Where the hell is my sword?

A strange reckoning tickled below the surface of my skin as my gaze tripped over the room. Something isn’t right.

I walked around my bed to my wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black jogging pants. My focus landed on my sheathed sword, which leant against the white wall behind the bedside table. I slipped into the garment and grabbed my sword, unsheathing the blade as I tiptoed to my bedroom door.

The leather sheath got tossed on my messy bed and the door eased open. Daylight flooded through the slim stairwell window, lighting up the narrow, cream-coloured hallway.

I walked over to the next door and opened it gently; the familiar smell of my Grandmother’s musky perfume hit me as I stepped into the room. I lowered my sword since no one stood there, but my feet refused to move. Her furniture sat where the pieces always had been. The purple bedding laid neatly, not a crease in sight. A layer of dust covered her bedside table. The faintest trace of her scent still lingered. A ball of grief swelled in my chest, lodging tightly between my throat and heart.

I hadn’t taken a single step in here for over a month. She would have wanted me to clean, to open the window and air out the room, but I honestly couldn’t bear the thought of dusting her away just yet.

I backed out of the room and shut the door, letting out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.

I’m finally going crazy. Somehow, I got myself home; it doesn’t really matter how. Maybe I came in, sorted myself out, and then passed out in bed? I must have. What other explanation could there be?

With a sigh, I walked across the landing to the bathroom door. The throb in my temples increased. My muscles felt tighter than a bowstring. A shower and something to eat and drink; these should do the trick. Then maybe my brain would decide to start working, and I could fill in the blanks.

The scent of wet dog flew into my face once across the bathroom threshold. My clothes from last night sat in a shredded pile on the black marble floor, along with my set of daggers. The first aid kit lay open in the sink.

A deep inhale revealed more; combined with the smell of dog, the bathroom held traces of blood. My blood.

I stepped into the room and peered into the waste-bin to see a large amount of dried, red cotton wool.

“I don’t remember doing this.” My eyes bugged at the mess.

Surely, I would remember doing this? Why the hell do I smell dog? Another inhale. And pine?

Something really didn’t feel right. I had never been so bad that I couldn’t remember what had happened on a hunt, and by the looks of things, I’d been in real bad shape.

Back into the hall and to creep quietly down the stairs. The odour of dog grew with each step, the smell of coffee and bacon gradually joining in. My stomach clenched at the familiarity of walking down these stairs every morning to find my grandmother happily cooking breakfast in our kitchen. Minus the smell of animal, though.

I couldn’t believe she’d died almost six weeks ago. God, I miss her.

As I stepped into the lower hall, a glance out of the side window showed my black Range Rover sitting in front of the house, between the front door/porch and the closed, wrought iron security gate. A long, silver scratch marred the paintwork on the bonnet. Antonio’s face flashed through my mind.

I remembered stumbling back to the car to find him there, waiting for me. The bastard had dragged his filthy claw along my Rover. That son-of-a-bitch!

I killed him, though. I think. He lunged and . . . . I looked down at my left arm. Two pale lines slashed across my skin. He’d stumbled and caught me on the arm, but I got him in the neck . . . .

The sudden sound of rustling paper snapped me from my thoughts. Tension grabbed me, the awareness crackling beneath the surface of my skin.

Someone is in my house.

Stepping through the open living room door, a new scent invaded my nostrils. Tangy, manufactured, like expensive cologne. An unfamiliar, black travel bag sat tucked away between the red leather sofa and the TV stand. The papers rustled again. I moved lightly toward the archway that lead into the dining room, my sword still gripped comfortably in my right hand.

“Your breakfast is getting cold, Heather. I suggest you stop trying to sneak in here and just come in so that we can get this over and done with,” said the deep male voice of whoever was in my kitchen.

What the hell is going on? Who is he? Why is he in my house? How does he know my name? And why the hell has he cooked me breakfast?

I took a deep breath, and then exhaled before slowly walking through the archway into the empty dining room. When I turned my head to the left, I saw a strange man seated at my kitchen breakfast bar. He sat casually, in jeans and a forest green T-shirt that clung to his broad, sculpted back and defined biceps. The sun flooded into the kitchen through the side window and glinted off his copper-blond hair, which brushed his shoulders.

“Are you going to come into the room or stand there drooling all day?” He turned a page of his newspaper. I couldn’t place his accent, nor the sleepy twang that couldn’t quite form at the edge of his words.

I inhaled again; nothing new amongst the scent of dog, pine, bacon, and coffee, which meant he wasn’t a Vampire. Leeches smelled like mouldy, wet earth; not an overpowering smell, but hidden underneath the products they wore. Not that a Vampire could get in here, anyway. They could only come in with a personal invite, and since they all wanted me dead . . . . No matter what state I’d been in last night, I wouldn’t have invited one in. So, who the hell is this guy?

I walked toward him, my sword glinting in the sunlight, the hilt gripped firmly in both hands. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?” I stopped three feet behind him.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Wrong answer.” The tip of my sword found the firm space between his shoulder blades. “I said, who the hell are you and what—”

“Killing me isn’t going to help.” He turned another page of his paper.

“I disagree. I think killing the stranger who broke into my house is a very good idea.”

“I did not break in,” he replied calmly. “My name is Brendan Daniels and I’m actually here to help you.”

I snorted. “Like I believe that.”

“It’s the truth. Besides, if I really wanted to hurt you, I would have. I also wouldn’t have left your weapons with you.”

“Well, you’re obviously an eejit.”

He laughed. “You have serious trust issues.”

“Trust issues? Says the complete stranger who broke into my house and—”

“I used your house keys. They were in your jacket pocket,” he said. “And yes, trust issues, says the stranger. The stranger who promises he isn’t here to hurt you.”

“Just because you say you’re not here to hurt me doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”

“True. But why go to the trouble of killing you when I could have left you lying in the car park the other night and let the seven greedy Leeches looking for you find you and bleed you dry?”

My stomach turned as memories of my outing slammed clearly into my brain. I had walked into a trap, so set on finding Carlson that the need to kill the bastard once and for all had blocked all sense and reason. Twelve lower generation Vampires had been waiting on the rooftops surrounding the loading bay. Carlson and Antonio wouldn’t stop talking, so I backed out of the area, and that’s when I saw them all. Their blood-red eyes watched my every move as their mouths hung wide, displaying their fangs.

“I have waited so long for this moment,” Carlson had said.

So had I.

My grandmother never told me where to find him. She wouldn’t let me kill him even though he deserved my sword through his neck more than any other Vampire.

They obviously found out Gran had died and simply waited for me to come out and play. I went, and they had been waiting for me, and like some amateur, I walked right into their trap. I killed two Vampires in order to get out of the loading bay, and then I had the other ten, along with Carlson and Antonio, chasing me through the dark and empty back streets of London. I tried to lead them somewhere humans wouldn’t find us; much good it did me.

But none of that explained who this guy was or why the hell he’d made himself at home in my kitchen.

“So you were there?”

“That much is obvious. Who do you think brought you home?”

“How did you even know where I live?”

“You have sat-nav in your Rover. And, like I said, I’m here to help.” He slid off the stool; the tip of my sword grazed his green T-shirt.

I clenched my teeth. “Why help me? You don’t even know me.”

He finally turned to face me. He’d pulled back his copper-blond hair, allowing me to see his face fully. A broad nose accompanied by high cheekbones and a tall forehead set off the deepest green eyes I’d ever seen. A fine layer of copper stubble outlined his square jaw and surrounded thick, peach lips.

His emerald eyes sparkled as I met his gaze.

“True, but I helped you because I thought it would be in your best interest to get you back to the safety of your own house.”
He thought it would be in my best interest? Who the hell does this guy think he is, a knight in shining armour? He looks like a friggin’ Ken doll, for Christ’s sake, and . . . . Wait a damn minute. “Seven Vampires?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Before, you said seven Vampires? There were twelve left.”

“Well, you eventually killed the Italian one before collapsing in front of your car, leaving eleven. The blond one who couldn’t decide whether he wanted to eat you or screw you—”

“Carlson.” I shuddered at the memory of him pinning my body to the rough concrete road. His thighs clamped my legs shut as he lapped at the blood trickling down my forehead . . . .

“Well, turns out he, as well as three of the others, actually needed their heads to fight back, but the rest of them ran off, and since my priority is you—”

“You’re the one who knocked Carlson off me?”

Memories exploded and rolled around my mind like storm clouds. Carlson had slid his talons into my waist, knocking me to the pavement and causing me to cut my forehead. He had pinned me between the ground and his growing erection while he demanded I beg him to change me. A few cheap insults and shoving some silver in his ribcage was enough to piss him off—as if I would want to be blood-bonded to the bastard who’d helped destroy my mother and father. On my refusal, he’d bared his fangs; about to feed from me…then the next thing I knew, he was gone. Once I got to my feet, I saw four decomposing bodies on the ground, only yards away from where I, myself, had almost bled to death.

“Yes.” He picked up a glass of orange juice and took a mouthful.

“Carlson is dead?”

He gulped. “Well, last time I checked, decapitation usually does the trick. So, yeah.”

A strange relief flooded me. My hands began to tremble. I tightened my grip, trying to keep a firm hold on my sword. “Are you a hundred and ten percent sure he’s dead?”

“A hundred and forty-six percent sure.”

I couldn’t believe it. Carlson, dead. Well, in the sense that he wouldn’t be prowling the streets or feeding ever again. He was actually gone. I suddenly didn’t know whether to hug this strange man, or kill him for taking away my opportunity to kill the monster that’d infected my mother. “Why did you kill him?”

He laughed. “Well, I was considering letting him and the rest of his friends eat you, but then that wouldn’t have made me a very good guardian, now, would it?”

~ * ~

Author Bio:

Elizabeth Morgan is a multi-published author of urban fantasy, paranormal, erotic horror, f/f, and contemporary; all with a degree of romance, a dose of action and a hit of sarcasm, sizzle or blood, but you can be sure that no matter what the genre, Elizabeth always manages to give a unique and often humorous spin to her stories.

Like her tagline says; A pick ‘n’ mix genre author. “I’m not greedy. I just like variety.”

And that she does, author of erotic ménage horror, Creak, paranormal erotic horror and UK, US & Australian Amazon best seller (Gay/Lesbian, Fiction, Lesbian), On the Rocks, erotic romance, US, UK & Spanish Amazon bestseller (Erotica Short Story) Truth or Dare? And sweet contemporary romance, UK & US Amazon bestseller (British/Drama & Plays) Stepping Stones.

She also has her hand in self-publishing. Look out for more information on her upcoming releases at her website: www.e-morgan.com

Away from the computer, Elizabeth can be found in the garden trying hard not to kill her plants, dancing around her little cottage with the radio on while she cleans, watching movies or good television programmes – Dr Who? Atlantis? The Musketeers? Heck, yes! – Or curled up with her two cats reading a book.

For more information on Elizabeth’s work, published and upcoming, head on over to her site:

Website:www.e-morgan.com
Blog:
www.xxxxmyworldxxxx.blogspot.com
Twitter: @
EMorgan2010
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/ElizabethMorgan
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.morgan.944
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/elizabethm2012/boards/
Blog: (Shared with Dianna Hardy):
http://notjustastiffupperlip.blogspot.co.uk/

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a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Blood Series Blog Tour

August
18th – Bex ‘n’ Books:-
http://bexnbooks.blogspot.com
19th – All Things Romance: http://lynnareynolds.wordpress.com
20th – Dianna Hardy: http://www.diannahardy.com
21st – Mina Carter: http://mina-carter.com/blog/
22nd – Jens Reading Obsession: http://jensreadingobsession.wordpress.com/
23rd – Kiru Taye: http://kirutayewrites.blogspot.co.uk/
24th – Book Reviews by Lynn: http://bookreviewsbylynn.blogspot.co.uk/
25th – Release Day:
My World: http://www.xxxxmyworldxxxx.blogspot.co.uk/
NJASUL: http://www.notjustastiffupperlip.blogspot.co.uk/
Love Bites & Silk: http://www.lovebitesandsilk.co.uk/
26th – Krista Ames: http://www.apassionforromance.blogspot.co.uk/
27th – Zee Monodee: http://zeemonodee.blogspot.co.uk/p/welcome.html
28th – Doris O’Connor: http://thetardisscribbles.blogspot.co.uk/
29th – Evocative Book Reviews: http://evocativebookreviews.com
30th – Lucy Felthouse: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/
31st – Ms. ME28 Reviews: http://msme28reviews.blogspot.com

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One Response to "Welcome to the Blood Series by Elizabeth Morgan"

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  1. Elizabeth Morgan

    August 31, 2014 at 10:19 am

    Thanks for hosting me, Lucy. :)