QSFer Roan Rosser has a new queer urban fantasy out, Changing Bodies book 1: Ritual of the Ancients.
Waking up undead was just the start of my bad night.
This night is going from bad to worse. My roommate is dead. My sexy neighbor, who I’ve never worked up the guts to talk to before, is standing in my living room. I have a gold amulet I just stole from the museum hidden in my pocket. Oh, and I’m dead… or undead?
All the myths about vampires, were-wolves, and the like? Turns out, all true. My sexy neighbor claims I’m a vampire now. I don’t quite believe him, but then again, he turned into a coyote in front of me. Jackal, whatever. Plus, you know, my new fangs.
Oh, did I mention my sexy neighbor is an ex-cop? And his cop buddies just knocked down my door. I’m pretty sure this night can’t get any worse… I’m probably wrong.
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Excerpt
The locked door to my apartment building stared at me mockingly. I rattled the door in frustration, then rested my forehead against the glass.
This was the capstone to a truly terrible evening.
“Fuck,” I muttered to myself, but my words came out at less than a hoarse whisper. I coughed and massaged my neck, trying to clear my throat so I could buzz my roommate and ask her to let me in.
I hated to do it, given it was the middle of the night. Sleep deprived Lindsay was scary. But, as much as I dreaded her inevitable lecture on responsibility, I’d been mugged on my way home from work and the thief had made off with my keys—and almost everything else, including my museum employee badge.
At least, I assumed that’s what had happened, since I had no memory of the time between leaving work and waking up in a dumpster covered in blood. I didn’t even know whose blood it was, since I was unharmed except for a pounding headache and a sore throat. But it didn’t really matter.
The important thing, the thing that would save this awful day, was that the mugger hadn’t found the hidden pocket in my jacket that contained the golden amulet that I’d stolen as I left work.
With it in hand, I could finally pay off my debt to the mobsters. And maybe even have enough left over for top surgery. Everything else could be replaced.
However, this also meant I couldn’t exactly walk over to the police station to report the mugging, and instead had to trudge home on foot, head pounding with each step. I probably had a concussion.
Steeling myself for Lindsay’s yelling, I entered our apartment number into the keypad. The phone rang for a long time before Lindsay’s voicemail picked up. She had probably turned off her phone. Not the first time I hadn’t been able to reach her late at night.
I rattled the door again and then kicked it. I was exhausted and thirsty. So thirsty. All I wanted to do was drink a gallon of water and then crawl into bed.
I lingered by the front door while I debated what to do. If I got lucky, someone would come by and I could just follow them inside. But given it was the middle of the night, if I got unlucky I’d have to sleep outside.
I caught sight of my reflection in the glass and was horrified by the sight the greeted me. Nobody was going to believe I lived here looking like this. I scrubbed the worst of the dumpster’s grime from my face with my jacket sleeve and then smoothed my short black hair down. Nothing I could do about the blood stains down the front of my jacket.
After about ten minutes, another resident of the apartments came up the walk and unlocked the front door. I tried to follow him in, but the man turned to glare at me, blocking the doorway.
“Do you live here?” he asked me, planting his feet and crossing his arms as he glared at me.
My reply caught in my dry throat. My tongue felt like sandpaper. I tried to sidle around him to the elevators, but the man threw out an arm to stop me.
“I don’t think so,” he said, moving closer and lifting his hand to shake his finger at my face.
I scowled and took a breath to try again to reply when the most delicious scent hit my nose—like all my favorite foods had combined into one delightful potpourri. Two sharp objects pricked my bottom lip. Without thinking, I lunged forward and bit down on the man’s hand.
Liquid warmth hit my tongue. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever had in my life, yet the taste was totally indescribable. As I greedily sucked down the blood, warmth spread through me, chasing away the chill. I hadn’t realized how cold I’d been until then.
My neighbor screamed and pushed me away. I stumbled backwards, but with my mouth clamped on the man’s hand, I dragged him with me. We spun out onto the walk, the man beating at my head with his free hand. But between the taste and the warm feeling, he might as well have been on the moon for all I heard or felt his cries.
“Get off him!”
I was only dimly aware of the voice until someone punched my jaw, and although it didn’t hurt, the shock of it made me open my mouth and let go.
“He bit me!” my neighbor slurred angrily.
I fell back a few steps before getting my feet under me. A second man, dark-skinned and wearing jeans and a leather jacket, stood in a protective stance between me and the neighbor, who was clutching his bleeding hand to his chest and beating a hasty retreat toward the apartment doors. I recognized leather jacket man as another resident of the apartments.
“What the hell were you thinking?” leather jacket growled. I narrowed my eyes at my prey getting away behind him.
There was a lump in my throat, and I was having trouble swallowing. “Thirsty,” I managed to get out. The unfamiliar shape of something against my lips made it hard to talk.
I met his eyes, and then my gaze traveled lower, to his neck. To the way the vein there seemed to jump to some silent beat. I wanted it.
Author Bio
My urban fantasy novels mainly feature the trans and queer protagonists grappling with things like identity and found families that I wished I could have read about growing up.
I escaped from the bowels of Utah (namely Provo) and now live in the sunny Pacific Northwest of the United States.
When not writing, you can probably find me beating up pixel baddies or in front of one of my sewing machines adding to my overstuffed closet or my army of homemade plush dolls.
If you find yourself blinded by the vivid colors and loud patterns of my homemade shirts, know that I’m only trying to warn you that I may be poisonous. Or venomous? Or both? Probably both.