If you like Stephen King's vampire novels, then you might like this!
This cross-genre thriller is set in present-day Malta and has echoes from pre-history and also the eighteenth century Knights of Malta.
Malta may be an island of sun and sand, but there’s a dark side to it too. It all started when some fishermen pulled a corpse out of the sea... Or maybe it was five years ago, in the cave of Ghar Dalam?
Spellman, an American black magician, has designs on a handpicked bunch of Maltese politicians, bending their will to his master’s. A few sacrifices, that’s all it takes. And he’s helped by Zondadari, a rather nasty vampire.
Maltese-American investigative journalist Maria Caruana’s in denial. She can’t believe Count Zondadari is a vampire. She won’t admit it. Such creatures don’t exist, surely? She won’t admit she’s in love with him, either...
Detective Sergeant Attard doesn’t like caves or anything remotely supernatural. Now he teams up with Maria to unravel the mysterious disappearance of young pregnant women. They’re also helped by the priest, Father Joseph.
And there are caves, supernatural deaths and a haunting exorcism.
Just what every holiday island needs, really.
Where there is light, there is shadow…
Paperback and e-book on Amazon:
Amazon
UK: https://tinyurl.com/3crnaxfn
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US: https://tinyurl.com/ymb8sn45
Excerpts:
His body aching
in every bone, Zondadari straightened in the front pew and rubbed his strained
eyes. Recovery from each transformation was the same: excruciating.
He
remembered his pains with a shiver; then gulped the revitalizing warm blood
from the church’s golden chalice and licked red dribbles from fleshy lips.
Ever
so slowly, the draught would do its arcane work and heal the agonizing ache and
give him new life. Not for the first time, Zondadari cursed Theresa. Still,
there were compensations: and blood-lusting Desiree was just one of many.
He
turned in the high-backed wooden seat to eye Father Pont, sprawled lifeless at
the base of the choir stalls. The fool’s vacant eyes reflected no beatitude at
abruptly and prematurely meeting his Maker and perhaps because of this they
stared at him accusingly. And with good reason. The poor man’s heart must have
stopped for a fleeting second as he saw a cloud of bats swoop down from the
belfry. Father Pont’s eyes were almost extended on stalks as he viewed the
creatures in front of him clustering together, as if purposefully forming into a
seemingly pain-racked leather-clad man. Suffused with agonizing pain, the man
glared and then smiled, grabbing the nearest piece of silver to hand. The
priest stayed rooted to the stone flags, an easy target. No wonder his eyes
stared accusingly.
Zondadari
shrugged. Even after all these years, he wondered how he could have been taken
in by such an empty religion. Of course, in those distant days, superstition
reigned supreme.
Standing,
he hung the plastic crucifix round his neck.
In a
moment he would drag the dead priest down to the catacombs to join his ancient
brethren. With great will-power, Zondadari refrained from draining the blood
from the priest; he would return for the rest later, a cool libation, after
which the body would molder and become sacred dust.
Taking
his time – of which he had plenty – he donned the dead priest’s round-brimmed
hat. He paused to check his reflection in the shining silver ciborium, its rim
smeared with blood and hair where he had clubbed the kappillan.
He
lifted his head, accentuating the line of his aquiline nose. His steely grey
eyes shone mischievously. Quite the local vicar, he mused, but he still
preferred to see himself in his ancient knight’s helmet.
Licking
the silver clean, he smiled. Today, he would have a little amusement.
***
Zondadari swore.
Despite his efforts, he had succumbed to the hunger. As if viewing through a
gauze screen, he pictured the events of the last hour – inviting the attractive
tourist to the villa, plying her with rich food and wine. She was pretty in a
simple way, awed by the decorations and furnishings – material signifiers of
wealth, of no consequence to him. He sought power, in all its forms, not
possessions. She was intrigued by the scar on his cheek: like so many of her
age, there was a morbid fascination with gore and death; they dressed in black,
the Gothic fashion, draping themselves in funereal leather, silk and chiffon.
Perhaps they fancied they were immortal? The young often did, until they grew
older or became diseased. He laughed at the thought and his pulse raced again
as he remembered her gauche invitation for him to seduce her.
She
was only partially mesmerized as his teeth chewed and tore at her supple and
elastic neck and into the meaty sterno-mastoid muscle. He found the shock of
comprehension on her face most pleasurable. The carotid artery gushed
forcefully into the roof of his mouth and he almost choked on the girl’s
life-blood. Applying skillful pressure, he stemmed the cascade and savoured the
taste. It was exquisite.
Even
half-asleep, she had tried to fight, to scream away the living – or rather,
dying – nightmare, but to no avail. The anticoagulant in his saliva kept the blood
flowing until he was sated.
Soon,
she slithered into that warm darkness between life and death. It was so long
since Therese had sucked him down into those beauteous shadowy depths; the
difference was, she then fed him her own blood and made him like her. Normally,
victims were used simply to supply blood to re-energize his body. It was a long
time since he had brought his own woman back from the dead, to serve him and
feed her own blood-lust. At one time it might have been tempting to have a
harem of female vampires, but their excessive need for continual sustenance –
human blood – would have meant their discovery and ultimate hounding to death.
He’d managed to survive simply because over the years he was able to curb his
hunger and find substitutes that still gave him the vitality of undead life.
It
was weak moments like this when he hated himself. He didn’t like giving in to
the hunger. He had promised David Bugeja, after all. Still, it was too late
now. He eyed the naked woman sprawled on the moonlit parquet floor. He might as
well drain her. It would be a shame to let all that good blood go to waste –
especially as it was still warm.
***
Selena was halfway down the stairs, whip held
threateningly. “Being flayed alive isn’t a nice way to end your journalistic
career, but it’s probably what you deserve!”
Biting her lip,
her heart hammering, Maria thundered, “How dare you attack me and break into my
home!”
“Maybe I don’t
like your writing style?” Laughing, Selena lashed out with the whip.
The vicious strip
of leather cut Maria’s left wrist, ripped her jacket and sliced into her shoulder;
the sudden pain made her drop the damned phone on the hard tiles, where it
shattered. She winced, a hand covering her bloody wrist, and staggered to one
side, against the wall. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the fallen
coat-stand, coat and umbrella. Repressing the fear of more pain from the whip,
she lunged and snatched the umbrella’s wooden handle.
Again Selena’s
whip snapped but Maria pressed the umbrella’s button and it opened, deflecting
the leather thong. Through a rent in the umbrella’s fabric she saw Selena
scream and stamp her foot.
Grimly, Maria
charged forward, the umbrella’s metal skeleton deflecting the next whiplash as
she approached.
Selena started to
back off up the stairs, onto the landing.
Maria heard police
sirens outside, getting nearer.
Clearly, Selena
heard them as well and moved more hurriedly up the stairs.
With a swift lucky
flourish, Maria closed the umbrella and trapped the whip in its folds. She
quickly grabbed the length of leather and yanked, pulling the whip from the
woman’s hand.
“Oh, hell!” Selena
snapped.
“You’ve got some
explaining to do!” Maria said but she was ignored and Selena turned and ran up
the stairs.
Maria was
exultant; she had the madwoman on the run! She discarded both whip and umbrella
and followed, her bare feet slapping on the marble steps.
There was a door
at the top and it was swinging open as Maria got there. She emerged on the roof
solarium, its concrete surface glaring, reflecting the intense sunlight. Shielding
her eyes, she noticed Selena was crossing over a low dividing wall to next door
where two lines of washing fluttered in the strong breeze.
Below, police car
sirens sounded, and then stopped as cars screeched to a halt in the narrow
street.
Selena glanced
back at Maria.
“You can’t get away,
Selena – give yourself up!” Maria called, still chasing her. “The police are
here now!”
Scowling, Selena
turned and stumbled straight into a fluttering still-damp sheet.
Maria saw her
chance and leapt for the pole and untied the washing line. Working on instinct
and the adrenalin rush of unfamiliar fear, in an instant she had encircled the
sheet-covered madwoman with the clothesline.
Her words muffled
and defiant, Selena shouted, “Rot in Hell!” Then, struggling to get free, she
stumbled backwards and toppled over the roof balustrade.
Maria grabbed for
the line, shrieking, “Selena!” But she was too late…
Below, Attard
pulled up his car behind a stationary karozzin. He got out and looked up at the
sound of Maria’s voice. He saw the sheet-enshrouded figure fall headfirst, the
washing line twisted around the torso and legs.
Selena swung once,
and then bashed against the building’s whitewashed wall.
He winced on
hearing the cracking of her skull-bone, the sound not unlike a melon bursting.
The black horse
whinnied, as if smelling blood and death, and reared up between the shafts of
the karozzin.
Swiftly, the white
sheet enveloping the woman’s head turned red, while her corpse continued to
swing like some grotesque pendulum from Poe’s fevered imagination.
***
Part amused,
part amazed, Maria said, “Why so many mirrors?”
“Every
fifty years or so, I go through a collecting phase. In the 1820s, it was
mirrors...”
She
started. “Your reflection–”
“Yes,
what about it?”
“You
have one!”
Zondadari
laughed, the sound echoing. “A myth. Some laws of physics can’t be broken by
the supernatural.”
She
hugged him close. “Garlic – does it repel you?”
“Only
if I hadn’t eaten it at the same meal as you.”
“Your
skin – you mentioned barrier creams. Does that mean–?”
“No,
sunlight won’t turn me into a pile of dust. It will age my skin, though.” He stroked his chin and grinned. “And as
this skin has to last me quite a few centuries, I’d rather it didn’t suffer too
much. I’m more fortunate than those sufferers of porphyria, who are confined to
a life of darkness; anything stronger than a 40-watt lamp and the skin will
shrink under scalding blisters. Necrosis of the skin is not uncommon. Acute
varieties of the ailment can be very painful.”
“That
rings a bell. I think it’s treated with blood. In fact, wasn’t porphyria used
as a scientific explanation to support the existence of vampires?”
He
nodded. “A pint or two of haeme can ease the symptoms. Yes, haeme as in haemoglobin.”
He smiled. “Of course, there’s no basis in fact that porphyria is in any way
related to vampirism.”
She
couldn’t resist an exasperated, “Are any
of the stories true about vampires?”
“Some.”
