Shadow Players PDF
Vampire Marek Strigoi has been freed from the torments of Hell…and unceremoniously dropped into the 20th Century.
1968 Paris, to be exact.
Torn forever from his wife, the Marquise Celine, Marek tries to find meaning in a century where the word vampire merely means horror movies, and a pretty girl or two offers new love as he reunites with his brothers in London. What he doesn’t know is that his old enemy is also enjoying the British city, with a trail of blood-drained bodies creating a wave of terror equaling Jack the Ripper’s reign.
Without their knowledge, both men are on a collision course. Journeys end in lovers' meetings but they also allow two old enemies to confront each other.
Revenge is a dish best served cold and Marek’s waited one hundred and fifty-five years to savor this particular meal.
Are the Fates finally going to allow him and his father’s murderer to meet?
Dark Urban Fantasy/Horror
Sensuality rating: 4
Cover Art by James Robinson
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He was falling.
In bloody respite from the Furies’ hourly attack, Marek was unaware of his manacles flying open or the stone dissolving behind his back. Body hurtling downward, he revived as the icy wind buffeted his face like the slap of a frigid hand.
He had to get his wings out...otherwise when he finally reached bottom, he’d be killed by the impact. He couldn’t right himself, his body wouldn’t straighten. Arms flailing, he kept spinning...continuing to fall...striking the ground with a crash knocking the breath from him and sending snowy billows spiraling into the air.
Marek lay stunned in a smothering blizzard of white flakes. They floated to the ground, sliding off his naked flesh.
He began to shiver, shuddering tremors visibly shaking his entire body.
Staggering to his feet, he caught handfuls of hair, draping the long tangled locks, now dusted with a frigid white powder, over his shoulders. During his imprisonment, his hair had continued to grow. It was now so long it brushed the backs of his knees.
He steadied himself against a nearby upright shape. Cold metal under his fingertips.
A lamp post?
There was light coming from the octagonal glass at its top. Not a flickering torch, rather a glowing globe of some kind, giving off a bright steady beam.
What the Hell?
Maybe it was still Hell, just another part of it. Legend said the center of the aventurieri Inferno was frozen solid. This certainly fit that description.
Releasing the post, he lurched several steps forward, clutching his hair about his body as a woman might a shawl.
A high-pitched squeal made him jerk around as the beast bore down on him out of the snow, blaring a loud, trumpeting cry. Its wide yellow eyes held him in its stare.
Marek watched it slide toward him. When it butted him with its oddly-horned head, the impact flung him nearly two dozen feet away.
He landed in an unmoving heap.
The Citroën skidded to a halt, flinging snow into the gutters. A door slung open, its driver scrambling out. He was young, dressed in a wool overcoat with a silk scarf tucked into the neck. At the moment, he appeared in shock and close to hysterics, staring in dismay at the body lying in the headlights’ yellow glow.
“I couldn’t help it!” He ran a gloved hand through his hair.
“I-is she dead?” His passenger, a girl wearing knee-high yellow patent boots and a coat barely touching the hem of her pleated mini-skirt, got out of her side of the car and seized his arm, huddling against him.
Drawn by the sound of the collision, people poured out the doors of a nearby café gathering on the sidewalk to gawk.
“I’ll call the police. And an ambulance.” The owner of the café darted back inside. The others crowded each other, muttering among themselves while the young couple continued standing in the street.