No Little Thing by S.C. Dane
sensual paranormal romance
Lily Fain’s life as a horror novelist isn’t perfect, but it suits her, even if she has written off true love in exchange for her fictional world of monsters. Then her imagined world comes to life when she discovers she has a stalker who isn’t the average fan, but a real vampire who wants her dead.
Griffyd Fychan is a vampire-killer who is seven feet of lithe muscles, quick reflexes, and an explosion of ferocity that strikes terror in those he hunts, even those he rescues. But when the slayer steps between Lily and her vampire stalker, Griffyd’s instincts not only compel him to protect her from their mutual enemy, but to bond with her, as well.
The problem? Griffyd isn’t human–he belongs within the pages of Lily’s horror novels.
Faced with the menacing vampire-killer’s affections, will Lily retreat in fear to her author’s life? Or will she surrender to her dark passion for Griffyd, whose bonding to her could alter her in ways neither one could have ever foreseen?
Griffyd squatted low in the darkness, his muscled haunches bunching as he spread his clawed feet to grip the pavement. He felt the steady bump-thump of his heart as the decay of the creature he hunted wafted through his nose, across his tongue.
An ambulatory corpse that resembled humans only in that they had legs, arms and a head. The similarities ended there. Griffyd had seen them up close as he had slain them, so he knew. Knew that they sported needle fangs and razor claws with which to extract blood from their victims.
He would kill it before it could even near its intended prey. He had to. Slaying the thing without witnesses kept the vampire-killer’s identity hidden, and beyond the recesses of human imaginations and darker fears.
Griffyd bit down on the growl that churned within him. His quarry had no such hindrance; instead it acted on the humans’ inability to comprehend what they were seeing as they had their life’s blood sucked from them, their eyes stretched wide with disbelief. As popular as vampires were in this era’s society, they still incited fear in their prey once the morbid curiosity wore off.
Not so this night.
Griffyd watched the offensive creature creep along the shadows of the brick wall of the grocery store, silent in its pursuit for the opportune moment the woman would step from the ring of light illuminating the store’s entrance and into the night that swallowed her car.
The vampire, blood lusting, never turned its fanged face backward to see if anything hunted the hunter; nor did it sniff the air, which meant the thing had not been stalking the earth for long and knew nothing of Griffyd.
Who knew from his centuries of hunting vampires that the elder bloodsuckers stalked their victims with a wariness he appreciated.
They honored him with their observant fear.
The woman shifted her bags, the jangle of her keys tinkling like a starter bell in Griffyd’s ears. He leapt from his crouch, springing the distance between himself and the vampire like a rock flung from a slingshot.
In a single, graceful motion, his clawed fingers gripped the vampire’s nape as he coiled his arm to draw the loathsome creature toward him, crushing his fanged jaws to its cold neck, shredding its head from its shoulders before it could even hiss. With another quick swipe, he snatched his fingers into the hair of the dropping head, then bolted backward into the deeper shadows, hauling his kill along with him.
The woman halted, peered back into the florescent light of the storefront, then turned on her heels to quicken her pace toward her car. She might have sensed something, but she would never know how close to death she had come. Instead, she would drive home, pop her corn in the microwave, and watch her TV until she grew sleepy. She had been spared a painful death, and would never be the wiser.
Griffyd scraped a muscled forearm across his mouth to rid his lips of the residue left by the vampire. There had been no blood; the damned thing had needed sustenance desperately, yet the vampire-killer felt no pangs of sympathy in his beating heart. The creature he had slain had been dead already, its hunger for blood an abhorrent postponing of the decomposition nature had intended.
Things should not crawl the earth that weren’t alive. That concept coursed through the vampire-killer’s blood, an undeniable genetic component as unalterable as the lengthening of his weapons from his body. Griffyd existed to slay vampires. His entire physique, like all of Nature’s creatures, had been adapted to perfection to do just that.
Even the ancient vampires feared Griffyd and his brothers.
He let his own fangs flash in the moonlight as a grin elated his heart. Another dead vampire, numbered among the thousands he had killed during his long life. The conquest filled him with a muted joy, and Griffyd gave a quick shudder as if to shake off any remaining smut from his demolished quarry, then slipped into the darkness of the surrounding woods with an ease born of innate talent and practiced skill.