Annalice, a single mother and physician, is ready to immerse herself in the mundane chores of her farm as a diversion from her hectic professional life. But she becomes the victim of a home invasion, the supernatural kind. Vindictive and cruel, Asa, a century old vampire, takes brutal control of her life and home.
Forcing her to strike a bargain in exchange for her daughter's life, Annalice must not only accept his presence but also bow to his depravity. Facing threats to her only child, she relies on her skills as a physician to unravel the clues to the vampire's existence, attempting to beat him at his own game.
Caught in a race against a genetic timeline, Annalice struggles to survive the Blood Reaction.
How far was Tamara willing to go for the sake of revenge? And who would pay the price? She didn’t know as she tipped the bottle of vampire blood up to her lips but she was about to find out.
Stepping off the ferry in Sitka, Alaska was bittersweet for Tamara Semenov. A decade earlier she had abandoned her mother and high school sweetheart, Peter, to marry a man she hardly knew only to find herself in an abusive relationship. Now ten years later, she had escaped with her life but at what cost. Her mother was dead.
Although the police had ruled her mother’s death an accident, Tamara was convinced her estranged husband was to blame and to make matters worse, she knows she is his next target.
While putting her mother’s affairs in order, Tamara finds the blood of a vampire named Adrik, who as a human was falsely accused of raping a wealthy Russian heiress and excommunicated from the Church. For the sake of revenge, he willing condemned himself to vampirism.
Learning that the blood could tie the living to the undead, Tamara seeks out a connection with the long buried vampire in hopes of striking a deal, his freedom for her revenge. Will he be the edge she needs to out maneuver her estranged husband or will she become entangled in a two century old web of revenge?
For The Sake If Revenge Excerpt:
“Uppyr.” I breathed the word out between sips of steaming hot tea as I squinted down at the aged label clinging to the ancient bottle I held in my other hand.
Have I read that right? I questioned myself. It had been a few years since I’d read any Russian writings, but as I studied the word again, I was certain of its meaning.
“Vampire,” I spoke aloud this time, translating from Russian to English, hoping it sounded less insane.
I gave it a few seconds to let the syllables sink in, saying it over a few times in my head.
No, it still sounded insane.
A second word was elegantly scrawled onto the label, but in the dim lighting, I couldn’t make it out. Casting a sideways look at the cold fire burning in the hearth, I scooted as far forward on the couch as I could without leaving the coziness of the blanket I’d wrapped up in and focused all my efforts on reading the label; my face screwed up with the effort.
“Krov,” I sounded it out, searching my mind for the meaning.
Blood. Grandmother had used the word from time to time, usually in some ancient reference to a curse—or when hunting. Occasionally, these two strangely different subjects had collided in her world.
“Uppyr krov. Vampire blood,” I spoke aloud to the empty house. Then I laughed, but only a little. I am of Russian descent after all, and we don’t limit ourselves to the normal thoughts of traditional Americans; hence always keeping a broom visible in the corner of the living room and the horseshoe over the doorway. The horseshoe isn’t an Alaskan custom. Mom had just borrowed the idea from her southern friend Gloria, but in her world, you could never be too careful.
With the exception of a date on the label—January 26, 1808—there were no other markings on the bottle. No serial numbers or expiration dates stamped into the glass to suggest it was modern; the vial was slightly misshapen with an old and withered cork stuffed deep into the neck of the glass.
Despite the date written on the bottle, the contents flowed freely. No dried remnants clung to the sides of the vial; no clots stuck to the bottom.
It looks very fresh for two-hundred-year-old blood,
Guest Post by D.L. Atha ( A Must Read for both Authors & Readers)
I became a doctor because I loved science and wanted to save the world. Not because I enjoyed dressing up, was good at public speaking or even had nominal social graces.
I was the geek girl at the front of the class in elementary school, the charter member of the band club in high school, and as nerdy in college as I was in high school. I’m sure you’ve seen my type and so can understand how I loathed this yearly night of torture.
The other ladies at the table were all in their evening gown regalia. I had been very careful to not wear the same dress by accident or repeat a dress from a few years before. Such an accident could lead to months of embarrassment. My heels were right and reasonably comfortable and I’d even managed to stay upright as I walked in. My hair was still decent after a long day of call and for once, even my make-up fit in with the evening’s format. And to make the night even smoother, I’d as of yet to make a Star trek joke or snort when I laughed. I was feeling optimistic. And that’s when it happened.
Dr. Stiff, the cardiologist, (the names have been changed for the sake of privacy) leaned slightly in my direction and said. “Dr. Atha, I’ve been told you dabble in writing.” He smiled politely and waited for my response.
I could feel the corners of my mouth lift at his remark. I smiled nervously and excitedly at the same time. I couldn’t help it. The mere mention of writing makes me giddy! But then I realized the inevitable. I started to sweat. I gripped the stem of my wine glass tightly in my fingers. I became mildly tachycardic. My breathing picked up.
“Yes. I write a little in my free time,” I answered but then I broke eye contact and studied the band. I looked over his head and waved to someone I didn’t even know at the back of the room. They raised their eyebrows and smiled hesitantly but politely waved back. The room was loud and I desperately hoped Dr. Stiff would drop it and not disturb the rest of the conversation going on at our table. I signaled the waiter for another glass of the bubbly.
“What you do you write about? Do you have a pen name?” He asked as I cursed the innate curiosity of cardiologists around the world.
The waiter didn’t come and my glass remained empty. I reached for my husband’s glass. After all, he didn’t need it as bad as I did. The CEO of the hospital was looking at me now and two of the wives were waiting expectantly as well. The nun had leaned forward to listen better. The pit of my stomach dropped to my knees.
Avoidance wasn’t possible. I was trapped.
I took one more sip of the champagne and cleared my throat. “Vampires,” I say. And then my cheeks flamed and all the air conditioning in the world wouldn’t have lessened the deep red that colored my face.
‘Doctors do not write about vampires,’ my mother had told me. ‘This is not a good career decision.’ Her words burned in my ears.
I was mentally pleading with the band to play louder. I was beseeching the Good Lord for help. Knock the electricity out! I begged. Let some drunken dancer fall! I prayed internally. Desperately, I glanced towards my husband but his mouth was full of salad and he’s a firm believer in the ‘chew each bite 32 times club.’ I could expect no help from him.
My best friend, another vampire lover and doctor but with far more suave than myself, was seated next to the CEO. He had strategically set by her with the hopes of recruiting her to our group. I glanced desperately her way, mentally wishing her to fake a seizure, but her expression looked more like the proverbial deer in the headlights. I was on my own.
“What was that?” Dr. Stiff repeated, his hand to his ear.
I leaned forward and whispered it again. “Vampires.”
The middle-aged cardiologist raised his eyebrows and shook his head at me. He still hadn’t gotten it. Perhaps he was in denial.
“Vampires,” I speak louder this time. “I write vampire novels.”
Just my luck, the band ended their riff at that exact moment and my voice broadcasted across our entire section. Dr. Stiff stared at me wordlessly, shocked clear down to his plaid underpants. I could almost see his brain spinning as he wondered if he’d heard me correctly. Looking quizzically at his wife, she nodded in affirmation and turned her back to the table, finding a sudden and new interest in the band but not before I could see the smirk on her face.
“Like Twilight?” the neurosurgeon next to me questioned. “My twelve year old daughter loved Twilight. I guess there’s probably a lot of that stuff out there right now.”
“Not exactly like Twilight,” I said. “More Stephen King-ish or Anne Rice-ish,” I offered.
“Maybe I’ll buy a copy for my daughter. She loves all this vampire stuff,” he answered back obviously not hearing what I was saying.
The entire table froze, their forks and spoons held eerily in midair. The nun’s hand grazed her Crucifix.“Oh. No. Um. My stuff isn’t really appropriate for twelve year olds.” I choked out a little too loudly.
“You mean it’s for adults?” he questioned.
Now I really had their attention. Even the next table over was listening in. Everyone including Dr. Stiff’s wife, Ima Stiff, was looking at me incredulously. The band was only a distant buzzing in the background. My head was spinning. My blood pressure was at stroke level and my husband was consuming his salad at a rate of 5 chews per mouthful. His face was crimson with the effort.
“Yeah,” I stammered. “I was looking for realism. What I was really trying to do was to convey the sheer terror of meeting a vampire face to face...”
“Is there a lot of violence?” the good doctor interrupted.
“It’s a horror story, so yeah,” I answered.
“And a LOT of sex,” my progressively inebriated friend across the table piped up. The stress had finally gotten to her. I forgave her instantly knowing she was trying to help.
The occupants of the table were still staring at me as if I had sprouted black wings from my back and was about to begin levitating when my husband pulled me to my feet and motioned to the dance floor. He just had to dance the cha-cha, he explained to the table. “We love the cha-cha,” he said again as I, red-faced and sweaty, smiled nervously to the table. And then we escaped onto the dance floor and put the entire experience to our backs.
I’d like to say we went back to the table after our awkward dance interpretation ended but I’d be lying. Instead, we cha-cha’ed to the other end of the dance floor and escaped out a side entrance. We didn’t even bother to stop and get my wrap. Instead, I texted my friend to grab it for me.
Well okay, I embellished the story a little. We really didn’t cha-cha. It was more like a drunken two step mixed with a waltz that got us out the door but I’m sure you get the picture.
That was a year ago and luckily, I still have a job at the ultra-conservative Catholic hospital where I’m employed. The nuns look awry when I pass them in the hospital but otherwise, I’ve suffered only the occasional laughter behind closing doors and the too large smiles when someone mentions my writing career like its really funny joke.
The point, you ask?
If you’re a struggling writer (like me) and haven’t, as of yet, managed to land a major publishing deal (like me), you are probably still working. And even more likely, you are working in an environment where being a little different (such as being a writer at all) sticks out like a sore thumb. Write paranormal romance or horror? Odds are you might even be considered strange!
And I can nearly promise you that somewhere and at some time, someone is going to bring up your writing when you least expect it.
So you’ve got to learn to coexist in the real world and the writing world. This co-existing is very difficult for emerging authors in part because he or she is dependent at first on the local support that they receive from family and friends. Their first sales are usually from people they know and it is those sales that begin to boost you up in the ratings on sites like Amazon and other e-book sites. So how do you maintain some type of professional distance at work and still manage to engage the people you know?
Here are a few pointers from my own experiences:
- Get a pen name.
The point of a pen name in today’s world is so that it cannot be traced back to you and in the age of Google that can be very difficult. I’ve relaxed my standards a little these days as I’ve grown accustomed to being connected at work to my writing but if you choose your name correctly, it can be done. Set down at the computer when you’ve chosen a suitable name and Google the name every way you can think of. Google it with the full pen name and then with just the initials. Then try it with the pen name and half of your real name. Type in every combination you can think of and see if you are able to trace it back to yourself.
- Don’t ask your co-workers to be your beta readers.
- Find some friends apart from your work environment who can appreciate your outside interests.
- Join some writing groups or a book club in your area.
Writing clubs are a great place to find beta readers who have an interest in your genre. They know what works in that genre and what doesn’t. A few authors are able to cross genres but it’s truly hard to do, especially when you are first starting out.
- Don’t pimp your books out to your co-workers.
And when all of the above fail to keep your writing career and the career that actually pays the bills separate and it will fail at times, try the following:
Be confident in what you wrote and take pride in your accomplishments! Nearly everyone thinks to write a book at some point in their life but most people never take the time to do so.
If someone makes a snarky remark or laughs at your attempts at writing (and they will), just smile politely and walk away. It will only add to your air of mystery! Grow a really thick skin. Remember, you’re a writer. You’re supposed to be a little odd!
She earned her MD in 1999, and currently enjoys the practice of hospital medicine and wound care which she performs full time in a nearby town.
She is currently working on the sequel to Blood Reaction.
For the Sake of Revenge was her first venture into non-medical fiction.
A few of her favorite things are chocolate, anything old but especially old houses, gardening, and horses. Her least favorite things are getting up early, anything that happens before nine a.m. and constricting clothing.
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