Black Bullet by L.D. Rose.
Book two in The Order of The Senary series, but can be read as a standalone novel.
On sale March 28th-31st, for ninety-nine cents.
He had everything under control until she
crashed into his afterlife.
Fledgling vampire Jonathan Kerr has just
met his match.
Not even his past life as a former marine and FBI agent could prepare him for
the battle against the monster inside him, struggling to take hold. After an
old nemesis of the Senary surfaces in Brooklyn, unleashing chaos and terror in
the battered borough, Jon sets out to take him down. Instead, he ends up with
far more than he bargained for when he clashes with the beautiful half-vampire
hybrid, Lawan Knight.
After escaping near death and suffering unspeakable horror at the hands of
vampires, Lawan trusts no one, regardless of species. In between bouts of
drunken stupor, her only goal is to exterminate all those who've wronged her,
including every member of Jon's vampire bloodline. But Jon’s soulful eyes and
quick smile crawls under her skin, transforming her black and white world into
a hazy shade of gray.
As the days rapidly grow darker, Jon and
Lawan turn to one another, but their inner demons threaten to tear them apart.
The only way either of them will survive is if they overcome their greatest
fear—love.
Interested? Find three excerpts below!
Jon only had time to take a single breath
before a dark boot materialized in front of his face, the heel aiming straight
for his throat. He snatched it before it made contact and twisted hard,
thrusting it away from him. The limb yielded beneath his grip as his attacker
collapsed beside him, metal clattering nearby. He levered to his feet, pulling
a KA-BAR from his boot as pain lit up his nerves, setting his teeth on edge.
His attacker was already standing, the blade of a gorgeous double-edged Kris
sword pointed at his throat.
Holy shit.
His opponent was female, wearing a
slim-fitting black battle uniform and carrying enough artillery to outfit a
small army. Her jet-black hair was tied in a long braid and a black mask
covered the lower half of her face. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes revealed her
Asian heritage, her skin the color of caramel. A scabbard stretched across her
back, strapped to her chest, along with the M16 she’d used to tear up the
warehouse.
Jon took a step back, but she didn’t
hesitate, launching at him with the blade. Metal clashed and sparks flew as he
parried the long sword’s quicksilver arcs with his dagger. Although she limped
from her injured leg, her strikes were hard, fast, and precise, each blow
intended to kill. He nearly tripped over the pirate’s body as she backed him
against the wall of the refinery, and he ducked as the blade screeched along
the brick.
Before Jon straightened, he jabbed the butt
of his KA-BAR into her knee and she yelped, stumbling backward. He slashed at
her and caught nothing but air as she lurched away from him. She swung the Kris
at his head and he raised the KA-BAR to engage and bind the sword. Both of
their weapons trembled as their eyes locked on one another across the tangle of
deadly metal.
And as her smoldering gaze drilled into
him, he smelled it.
Dama de Noche.
The Lady of the Night, a nocturnal blooming
flower he’d first smelled years ago in Nepal, when he was a human soldier. The
scent was unmistakable, underlying the incense of vampire. The stench of leech
didn’t belong to her, but the floral aroma was all her own.
She’s not a vampire.
Stunned by the revelation, Jon wavered, and
she quickly took advantage of him. She sidestepped and lunged at him, sinking
the blade in his shoulder. He shouted, dropping his KA-BAR as pain erupted from
his dominant limb. Moving lightning fast, she yanked the blade out and sliced
an arc across his chest. Luckily, she only scored his Kevlar, and as the sword
swooped around again, Jon caught it with his gloved hands, silver biting into
leather.
“You’re a hybrid,” he ground out. “I’m on
your side!”
She pushed hard against him, drawing blood.
“Bullshit.” Her voice was a rich contralto, edged with a growl. “You reek of
Temhota.”
The Dama drew back and chopped at his
belly, but Jon blocked her with his forearms, metal jarring against his bones.
Finally, he managed to kick the blade out of her grip and it spun away,
clattering to the ground. She somersaulted backward to retrieve it, but Jon
caught hold of her braid in mid-air and wrenched on it. She cried out and
landed face-first on the pavement, her breath audibly whooshing from her
throat.
Jon wound her braid around his hand like a
rope and straddled her, pinning her down. He tore the M16 off and tossed it as
she writhed beneath him, fighting hard. Yanking her head up, he leaned close to
her ear. “I’m not your enemy,” he hissed.
Her already shallow breath quickened and
her struggles intensified, her sweet scent pumping from her pores in cloying
waves. Panic. Fear. Restraining her like this completely terrified her.
Jon let up, knowing it was a mistake, but
the shred of humanity still left in him couldn’t resist. The Dama slammed the
crown of her head into his face and his retinas exploded in a staggering palette
of reds, whites, and grays. His nose caved in, but not so far as to bury the
bony shards into his brain. Blood poured out of him like a leaky faucet as he
fell back, propping himself up on the wall of the refinery.
She was on him in an instant, chopping the
edge of a flat hand into his trachea before smashing a fist in his ear. She
wobbled to her feet as he struggled desperately to breathe—remember Jon, you
don’t have to—and she gave him a vicious kick to his solar plexus, doubling him
over. The pain was terrific, a cacophony of agony echoing from every corner of
his body.
Jesus Christ, she was beating the shit out
of him.
The Dama stood there, shaking, the fabric
of her fallen mask fluttering to the ground. Jon blinked, trying to clear his
blurred vision as she picked up her sword. He stole a glimpse of her face as
she flung the mask up with the blade and caught it. A tattoo marked her cheek,
the black symbol unmistakable but jagged, as if she’d thrashed during the
process.
The same mark he’d painted on his chest lay
branded on her face—the emblem of the Temhota.
Jon yanked down the neckline of his shirt,
much like he had with the pirate, but this time he wiped at the mark, smearing
it. The Dama paused in front of him, eyes narrowed, a gash marring her
forehead. Even with the mark of his enemy on her face, she was breathtaking,
and he didn’t have much breath left to spare.
“Not real,” he said past swollen lips,
lifting trembling fingers stained with both paint and blood. “No mark.”
“But you are a leech.” She pointed the
serpentine blade at the hollow of his throat.
He nodded, swallowing iron. “I work with
the Senary. I used to . . . I used to be human. I’m not what you think I am.”
“You stink of them.” Her lip curled in a
snarl.
He nodded again, every muscle in his body
screaming. “Because I’m one of them. Yet I’m not.”
Brilliant. Maybe a few of those bony shards
made their way into his brain after all.
She flipped the sword deftly and held it in
a two-handed grip, the sin qua non of impending decapitation. Her dark eyes
didn’t have the cat-like gleam signature to vampires, but hate and anger bled
through them anyway.
“Makes no difference to me.”
Snapping into action, she sprinted as fast
as her legs would carry her, taking sharp turns and cutting across
debris-ridden alleyways. She leapt over dumpsters, scaled chain-link fences,
and stomped over the carcasses of long dead cars. The blood gave her an extra
boost as she blew past the library—bookless, thanks to her—and blazed a trail
through Coffey Park, heading straight for her church.
The presence faded as soon as she passed
the decrepit playground. Hope swelled in her chest. Maybe she lost them. Maybe
they kept going down Dwight Street instead.
Her blessed church came up fast and Lawan
didn’t slow down as she jumped the iron fence and burst into the side door. She
skidded to a halt on the crimson carpet, practically tumbling into the main
room in front of the ambry. Doubling over, she struggled to catch her breath
before she sat down hard on the floor. She slipped off her bag, pulled off her
mask, and flopped back, chest heaving as she stared up at the vaulted ceiling.
Oscar trotted over, purring loudly and
shoving his furry head into her hand. She couldn’t even speak, her breath
sawing in and out of her lungs as she closed her eyes with relief.
Yes. She made it.
For the second time that night, Lawan let
her body settle down as Oscar nuzzled her hand and licked her fingers, the same
fingers she’d lapped at earlier. Her bag rested beside her and she patted it,
feeling the cold blood through the nylon.
“That was a hell of a run for getting
nowhere.”
The all-too-familiar timbre stabbed Lawan’s
eardrums and wrapped around her throat, yanking her into a seated position. The
leech who wasn’t a leech, the hybrids’ vampire stood at the archway, leaning
against the jamb. He wasn’t fully geared up, wearing plain clothes and an
exposed shoulder holster beneath his open bomber jacket.
His obsidian eyes sparked with amusement as
she swiftly pulled her nine and aimed it at his forehead.
“Glad I wore my sneakers,” he added, not
the least bit perturbed.
Lawan gaped at him, slack-jawed and stupid.
Oscar leapt between them and hissed at him, black fur raised along the length
of his spine and claws digging into the carpet.
A vampire had just strolled into her
sanctuary, onto hallowed ground. Impossible. Unbelievable. Unreal.
Oh my God. He really isn’t a leech.
Her scent was the first thing that hit him.
Rich, floral, potent with desire. A weight
sat on him, very human and very female. Her lips suddenly seized his, her cold
hands cradling his face as she plunged her tongue deeply into his mouth.
Jon’s eyes snapped open, staring at a
close-up of the jagged tattoo on her face, her closed eyelids, her fanned out
black lashes against her tawny cheekbones. He must’ve fallen asleep after he’d
showered and dressed, still sitting up on the couch. And now here she was,
climbing on top of him, torturing him with her scorching hot mouth.
Jon groaned, returning her kiss with a
fervor that rivaled her own, his hands bunching in her silken hair. She tasted
like fruit and whiskey, alcohol and Dama de Noche pumping from her pores in
intoxicating waves, mesmerizing him like nothing else could. He ran his tongue
along the roof of her mouth, sliding against the backs of her fangs—her fully
extracted, razor-sharp fangs—and she bit down on him enough to make him
shudder.
Yes. Oh God, yes.
Every time she withdrew, she nipped at him,
dragging her teeth along the inside of his lower lip and driving him wild. He
tugged on her hair, pulling her head back as he kissed her throat, starting at
the angle of her jaw and working his way down. She gasped, quivering against
him as he scraped his teeth across her skin, his fangs throbbing in time to her
rapidly fluttering pulse.
Her hands clenched in his t-shirt as he
licked his way back up to her ear, nibbling her feather-soft lobe. She moaned,
grasping at him, and he lifted his arms, letting her yank the shirt off. Her
hands covered his skin hungrily, clutching, feeling, stroking. She grazed the
scar on his chest and his heart squeezed in response, his nerves firing beneath
her touch.
She caught hold of his dog tags and pulled
him closer, devouring him like she was starving, her breath in him, his breath
in her.
Holy shit. Was this for real?
Jon fumbled with the front of her battle
uniform before he finally ripped it open, the buttons snapping off in every
direction. She trembled against him as her breasts filled his palms, hidden
under her black sports bra, his thumbs feathering over their hardened peaks.
When her pelvis brushed the rock hard erection in his sweatpants, she gasped
and nearly jumped out of his lap, bracing her knees on the cushions at either
side of him.
Shit.
Easy. Take it slow.
Every last muscle in her lithe body was
wire-tight, her head bowed, her breath swift and uneven. With his chest heaving
and his blood roaring in his ears, he looked up. Her hair covered her gorgeous
face, her hand still gripping the chain around his neck. He waited, palming her
hips, before he slowly ran his hands down to her shaking knees. He swallowed
hard, his entire body aching for her, trying to fight back the instinct to drag
her against him and take what he needed.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” he
murmured, his voice thick with lust. He reached up to brush her hair back, but
she caught his hand and pressed it to her lips.
His chest tightened and his blood burned as
he traced her mouth blindly with his thumb. So soft, her lips were so goddamn
soft. She wouldn’t look at him, her eyes hidden behind the dark curtain of her
hair. He would do whatever she wanted, anything she needed, even if it killed
him.
Lawan held his hand and flattened it over
her heart, the muscle thumping against his palm. Then she slowly guided him
down, over the soft swell of her breast to the hard lines of her abs, then
beyond to the strap of her panties. His fingers slipped beneath the black
cotton but she squeezed his wrist and lifted him back out, her breath shallow
and her body quivering. It took every ounce of willpower for him not to beg as
he squirmed underneath her, needing something, anything, please.
She pressed his hand between her legs, over
the damp cloth. And whispered, “Touch me.”
About the Author:
L.D. Rose is a neurotic physician by day,
crazed writer by night, and all around wannabe superhero. She writes paranormal
romance and urban fantasy, but she's been known to delve into horror, sci-fi,
and medical suspense on occasion. L.D. Rose is a PAN member of the RWA,
FF&P, NEC-RWA and CoLoNY. She currently lives in Rhode Island with her
studly hubby, her hyperactive boxer, and her two devious cats.
