To celebrate, how about an excerpt from My Zombie Fiancé?
First, if you haven't read it yet, here's the blurb: Edward Grey is no stranger to the undead; since raising his cat as a zombie when he was a child, he and his mentor Mariel have explored and developed his power as a necromancer. Despite everything he’s learned, as a necromancer and a medical student, he’s never encountered a ghost.
While Mariel is unreachable in Haiti on mysterious business, a ghost wakes Edward in the middle of the night, claiming to be his grandfather. When the ghost offers to teach him about this different form of undeath, Edward has little choice but to trust the spirit.
After receiving a phone call from a young girl claiming her father is possessed, Edward and his Undead Canadian fiancé, Kit, must travel to an acreage in Kingston…Ontario.
The haunting proves far more complicated than Edward could ever have guessed, and he finds himself pitted against an ancient evil determined to engulf everyone on the farm.
Edward’s love and connection to Kit will be tested, and his necromancy stretched to his limits as he has to find—and destroy—a twisted spirit more powerful than anything he’s ever encountered.
I squirmed and thrashed, slapping at the hands that held me down and tried to stick a needle in my side, protesting that I didn’t need stitches.
I woke up, gasping with the intensity of my dream, and realized the pain in my side remained. I tried to roll, to see what was hurting me, but I couldn’t move. Kit’s arms were wrapped around me, holding me so tightly it was almost painful. It was his nails I’d felt, digging into my side just above my hip. He was making a soft keening sound that was no less horrible for being quiet.
“Kit.” I twitched my shoulders, trying to wake him, about all the movement his arms and body would allow me.
He shook, violently, almost pitching both of us off the bed. He was breathing, deep, panting sobs that shuddered through his chest and into mine. His teeth were grinding, clicking together as though he were biting something, his lips still closed.
“Kit!” I was shouting now, fighting to be heard over the sounds of his struggles and his nightmare.
He woke with a scream that went on for a few seconds before he realized where he was.
I lay still, not wanting to startle him.
He quieted, his hands unclenching, nails slowly withdrawing from my skin.
I winced, trying not to let him see it. He always felt guilty after these nightmares, even when he hadn’t unintentionally hurt me. He’d elbowed me in the face once, and I’d woken to a bloody nose and a black eye that lasted a week. He wouldn’t let me touch him, and he wouldn’t touch me, as though afraid any contact with him would damage me. He hadn’t slept that week, out of fear of the nightmares and being intimate with me. The nightmares were, gradually, becoming less frequent, but they were still intense.
“Edward,” he asked, voice harsh and raspy. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Edward?”
“I’m here, Kit.” I shifted so my head was on the pillow beside his, and my groping hand found his
“Did I...oh, God, Edward, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’m fine.” I surreptitiously felt my side with my other hand, and it came away dry. He hadn’t scratched me badly enough that I was bleeding, and I’d do my best to make sure he didn’t know he’d hurt me at all.
He grabbed my wrist, not making a sound when he dragged my hand loose from his hair, though it had to hurt, and pulled it down so I was cupping his jaw. He was shaking with silent, impotent sobs—the dead can’t weep.
“Kit....”
He gripped my wrist tighter, not hurting, just needing something solid to hold onto while he rode out the nightmare. He was saying something over and over, so softly that I couldn’t hear him even though our heads were right beside each other. I could feel his breath on my wrist.
“What?” I asked, gently.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” and he kept saying it. He didn’t seem able to stop.
I twisted until I could kiss him, pressing our lips together as though I could seal in the words. “It’s all right,” I murmured against his mouth, a spell to ward off his guilt. “Tell me?”
He shook his head, hard, tearing our lips apart.
“Was it the same as the others?” He would, occasionally, tell me about his dreams. They were all basically the same—blood, fear, rage—the night and day he’d avenged his own death. And the nightmares always held the guilt he hadn’t felt at the time.
He had scrunched down into a long-limbed ball, and I felt him nod against my sternum.
I gathered him up as best I could, trying to hold every part of him against some part of me. He bumped the fresh scratches on my side and I forced myself to stay still and silent, biting my lip.
He was perfectly still in my arms, limp and exhausted with the emotion and terror of his dreams.
Details here.
Day 4 ~~~ Day 2
Very sweet, intense teaser!
ReplyDeleteThanks so much! I'm glad you enjoyed it.
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