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  It had been a Friday in September when Vincent finally tracked the killer to a small town near the Mexican border. Two bodies had been found and the locals relayed in hushed tones that a European gentleman had arrived earlier in the week, a man of means and manners whose very presence could cloud the minds of every unfortunate soul he came in contact with. He seemed to cast a nearly supernatural spell over the fairer sex. The gentleman in question was staying at the Old Moses saloon and according to all accounts, had only been spotted outside his room past sundown. Rumors about the stranger were spreading.

  It hadn’t taken long for the first body to pop up. A young prostitute by the name of Clara was found with her blood drained. Vincent knew that his quarry was near, but never truly considered what he might be up against. How could he? Fear didn’t factor into his actions. He was far beyond that emotion at this point. He was a man on a mission. And he wouldn’t rest until he brought an end to this, one way or another.

  On that portentous September day, Vincent stepped through the swinging doors of the saloon with his hand firmly on the handle of his pistol. He almost expected to find the place deserted, his prey having eluded him once again.

  But this time would prove different.

  This time wouldn’t be a replay of the same old pattern. This time the elusive gentleman was waiting for him.

  Years later, Vincent asked Dracula why he had decided to put an end to their game that day, and the master remained silent on the matter. But deep down Vincent knew the answer. It was as simple as this: Dracula tired of the whole affair and was planning his return to Europe but wanted to leave something behind to commemorate his stay in Texas. Vincent, the vampire, would be his parting gift to the New World – a good man transformed into a bloodthirsty predator who could continue terrorizing the night after Dracula was gone. A once lawful man who wanted nothing more than to stop Dracula would inherit his bloody legacy.

  Pale moonlight had illuminated the rundown Wild West saloon as Vincent ventured inside. The shadow that the brim of his hat cast over his face masked his initial shock upon seeing what was waiting for him.

  He had stepped into a nightmare.

  The saloon now transformed into a place of death.

  Mauled patrons were sprawled everywhere, a wasteland of broken bodies, the floor slippery with their blood. Vincent’s trembling hand closed around his silver Ranger badge, knowing all too well that it held no authority over the beast that rose from the center of the carnage. The moment their eyes hooked into each other, Vincent was stricken with mortal awareness – staring back at him was death itself. The gentleman who smiled at him through a bloody mist was a thing outside of nature. Vincent remembered his gun leaving his holster, and he remembered cocking the hammer of his pistol and squeezing the trigger.

  Again and again.

  Bullets tore into the enigmatic figure in a mad volley, puncturing flesh and destroying the man’s elegant coat. When the firing chamber was empty and the hammer clicked impotently, click, click, a metronome of spent violence, the smoke clearing…

  Dracula rose.

  Vincent’s eyes distorted with a terrible realization as he saw the bullet holes sealing shut before his very eyes, inhuman tissue regenerating in the blink of an eye.

  Vincent was a tough man; he’d faced all kinds of human evil in his twenty-nine years on this earth but the crucial difference was that those degenerates were men, flesh-and-blood creatures who succumbed to the power of steel. But this monster, with its jet-black hair, ivory pallor and razor-sharp fangs, was unlike anything Vincent ever faced before.

  Vincent didn’t just lose his humanity the day he faced Dracula. He lost his soul. For he had not merely met his match but caught a glimpse of the Devil himself.

  Now Vincent cast these thoughts of the past aside as the hill grew steeper and he was forced to switch gears. According to the rental’s GPS system - they could’ve used one of these back in his Texas Rangers tracking days - the chateau should be coming into view any minute now. The forest was already thinning a bit and the vineyards now began to take over.

  A second later, Vincent spotted the chateau. His first thought was that the term ‘chateau’ didn’t quite do justice to the structure. The sprawling estate that loomed at the top of the vineyards was a stark silhouette projecting a sense of mystery and dark wonder. Like Dracula himself, the keep wove a nearly hypnotic spell over anyone who laid eyes upon it. Not quite a spooky castle but the next best thing, it was the type of place where one would expect a vampire to set up shop. While most of the vampires Dracula spawned did their best to blend in and be modern (some with greater success than others), Dracula had never chosen to adapt to a changing world. He didn’t need to. Dracula was the master, even if Vincent refused to call him that. The Count might hide in the shadows but he would never pretend to be something he was not.

  The throaty roar of a motorbike bashed the air, breaking the chateau’s spell. Vincent turned his head and spotted a Harley gaining behind him. For a split second, Vincent caught a glimpse of the massive, leather-clad figure poised behind the handlebars. The vampire biker wasn’t wearing a helmet, his long mane of blonde hair trailing in the wind.

  This Twenty-First Century Viking flashed Vincent a menacing rock ’n’ roll grin, making sure to reveal his fangs. Another one of Dracula’s lost children (or experiments, depending on how one wanted to look at it) returning to pay his respects to their fallen master.

  As the biker pulled ahead, he cranked the engine for good measure. The bike’s engine wailed.

  Vincent tensed. The incident confirmed one thing he had known all along - he wasn’t looking forward to this dysfunctional family get-together.

  Not in the slightest.

  ***

  Vincent's car rolled up a driveway that was surrounded by vineyards on both sides and led right up to the chateau’s main gate. A six-foot-tall crumbling wall, overgrown with ivy, encircled the chateau. The wrought-iron gate stood wide open. It appeared that Vincent wasn’t the first to arrive today.

  He maneuvered his vehicle through the open gate and made his way up a cobbled, circular driveway dominated by a highly adorned, centuries-old ornamental stone fountain. Streams of water bubbled and poured from the mouths of Gothic nymphs. The fountain’s water appeared dark and murky.

  The rental car slid to a stop, joining the other vehicles parked around the fountain.

  The Harley that had just passed Vincent's car.

  A black Hummer.

  A sleek Porsche.

  Vincent guessed that they were all rentals, just like his own vehicle, but the choices told their own story and revealed the personalities of their individual drivers. Dracula had made a pretty eclectic group of monsters over the years. Monsters Vincent was about to interact with for the first time in decades.

  Once again Vincent wished he could be anywhere but this place. But he didn’t really have a choice. He had never been friendly with the Count but he couldn’t deny the legacy that bound him to the creature and the other members of the clan. Dracula’s blood coursed through their veins. And if Vincent truly wanted to defy the Count, he’d have walked into the daylight long ago. Despite everything, Dracula was family. And one inevitable truth held true among all families – funerals brought everyone together. That’s what this would be. Dracula’s funeral.

  A fiery red Ferrari appeared in Vincent’s rear-view mirror as he killed the engine. Seconds later, a stunning blonde emerged from the sports car. She was wearing a sexy red dress that left little to the imagination. Vincent had met her once or twice over the last eighty years. Her name was Coraline and she’d been twenty-one when Dracula turned her, but she looked about five years older. According to Angelique - she was always up on clan gossip - Coraline was a failing starlet during the heyday of old Hollywood in the 1950s, a Marilyn Monroe wannabe riding the casting couch express toward a full-blown heroin addiction and the inevitable overdose. But Dracula took a shine to her and decided to add her to hi
s freak pack.

  Vincent killed the engine, got out of the car and made his way up the pebbled walkway that led to the chateau’s main entrance. Vines climbed the façade of the chateau and tall trees nestled against the surface. Dracula had acquired the property right after World War II, Eastern Europe having lost its appeal in the wake of the Red Menace. The chateau was actually more of a bastide, a country home, originally built by wealthy Seventeenth Century citizens who sought to trade their sweltering city mansions for the cooler countryside during the hot summer months. The structure held about twenty rooms and could accommodate a large family with a full staff of servants. The property was brooding and Gothic but a pale shadow to the dark glory of Dracula’s castle back in Romania, which was a tourist attraction today. Funny how the world turned.

  Vincent passed a series of giant, cracked flowerpots when Coraline sidled up to him. She moved with grace and nearly unearthly sensuality as she fell in step with Vincent – maybe he was beginning to understand why Dracula added her to the family.

  “Hello, Vincent.”

  She embraced Vincent and he could smell her cloying perfume. It was too sweet and way too overpowering but it summed up who Coraline was – a woman who demanded to be noticed. Men who ignored her did so at their own peril.

  “Hi Coraline.”

  “This place sure is something else,” Coraline said with a smile that could shatter hearts. “Only thing missing is a lightning storm.”

  Vincent nodded.

  “Dracula always had a flair for the dramatic.”

  A youthful voice chimed in.

  “A nice way of saying he was hopelessly stuck in the past.”

  Vincent and Coraline turned toward the new arrival, a young teenage boy who approached at an unhurried pace. The kid, who wasn’t really a kid and was far older than either Vincent or Coraline, cocked his head at them both. His name was Sebastian and he looked to be fourteen but had actually seen two centuries turn. He wore black slacks, a dress shirt and a tie of the same color. He looked like a teen pretending to be an adult.

  Sebastian was an orphan and a thief who began his pick-pocketing career back in Victorian England, just another victim of social upheaval brought upon by the Industrial Revolution. His life had taken a sharp turn the night he tried to lift the Count’s purse. But for some reason Dracula spared Sebastian (Dracula used to call him his own Oliver Twist, a nickname the teenage vampire detested but had stuck). Sebastian hadn’t physically changed a day since that distant night but his frosty, ancient eyes betrayed his true age.

  “Sebastian, it's been a long time.”

  Vincent smiled warmly. He’d always liked this little devil.

  “Too long. Vincent, it's good to see you after all these years. Funny how there comes a point when only death seems to bring people together.”

  Footfalls sounded behind them, steel-heeled boots clicking across the gravel courtyard. Vincent fired a sideways glance at the approaching biker who moments earlier had been showing off his steed. Clad in black and brown leather, tattooed and studded, sporting faded jeans and a sleek pair of Ray-Bans, he looked like the perfect candidate for a Hells Angels recruitment poster. He appeared to be in his late twenties but strutted his stuff like a teenage punk who needed to get his ass kicked.

  The biker ignored Vincent and regarded Sebastian with a sneer.

  “No one told me this was going to be an after-school party.”

  “I'm two-hundred-and-ninety years old, asshole.”

  “Tell that to the bouncer next time you want to cop a feel at a titty bar.”

  Coraline was the sole person to laugh at the joke. Angelique had mentioned to Vincent that the former starlet had a thing for assholes, and it appeared she wasn’t far off the mark.

  Vincent watched as Sebastian gave the biker a long, measured look.

  “Meet Zane. The master’s most recent addition to the family.”

  Vincent held the biker’s stare as he turned toward him.

  “So you must be Vincent,” Zane said. I thought you turned your back on the clan.”

  Vincent didn’t comment. Zane took his silence as encouragement to lean closer.

  “No offense, buddy, but you don't look so tough to me.”

  “Maybe I'm not,” Vincent said.

  “That's not what Angelique says.”

  “I wouldn’t believe everything that comes out of her mouth.”

  ”Angelique says she never hunted with anyone as merciless as you.”

  This made Coraline perk up and she appraised Vincent with renewed curiosity.

  “She’s been known to exaggerate,” Vincent said.

  Vincent disliked Zane pretty much on sight. And with each new confrontational word that came out of the biker’s pierced mouth, Vincent doubted that he’d change his mind on the matter any time soon.

  Zane stepped even closer. He had about five inches and sixty pounds on Vincent, but the former Texas Ranger wasn’t impressed.

  “I know you guys had a history,” Zane said. “But nowadays, she belongs to me.”

  “Last time I checked, Angelique didn't belong to anyone.”

  Zane smirked and turned toward the chateau. Coraline fell in step with him. The two vampires dipped through a series of arched columns supporting a large awning that bathed the main entrance in shadow.

  Vincent turned to Sebastian.

  “What’s his story?”

  “Drug-dealing biker asshole who crossed Dracula’s path in the 70s. Your ex seems to have taken a shine to him.”

  “Angelique likes to play with new toys. But she gets bored fast.”

  “She never got bored with you,” Sebastian noted.

  Vincent didn’t argue the point one way or another. Instead, he said, “You looking forward to this as much as I am?”

  Sebastian grinned.

  “You kidding? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  GARGOYLE KNIGHT

  When his kingdom is threatened by an ancient evil, a king is forced to make the ultimate sacrifice. If he is to defeat an army of monsters, he must become one himself! His victory carries a terrible price… An eternity frozen in stone.

  Fifteen centuries later, the Celtic warrior is awakened when the world needs him most. A stranger in a strange land with his only guide a beautiful archeology student, he must battle his old adversary once again, all while struggling with his own darkness. For he is by day a man, by night cursed to become… The GARGOYLE!

  “An Urban Fantasy Novel That Feels Fun and Alive.There's a cinematic feel in Gargoyle Knight...the experience is sweeping with entertaining action that builds to a satisfying climax"

  Fantascize.com

  Central Park was ablaze with the colors of late fall. In a few short weeks the trees would be stripped bare of their leaves in anticipation of the long winter months ahead. But on this day before Halloween, the American elms were vibrant yellow, the pin oaks scarlet and many a visitor thought they had stepped into a painting come to life. The sun was out and shined brightly, light refracting off Conservatory Water in a dazzling display of sparkling light.

  The snap in the air put a bounce in everyone’s step. Joggers and bikers cranked up their pace, couples huddled closer, and tourists gawked at the emerald island in the heart of the metropolis while taking pictures with their cellphones.

  In a more secluded area of the park, two teens clad in torn jeans, ragged black T-shirts and Converse sneakers were making their own artistic contribution to the city. The young artists believed that the park needed a little more color than nature could provide on its own. Their spray canisters hissed. Blue and green streaks bled across sculptures and call signs were tattooed across bronze and stone fairy-tale characters. The dense shrubbery added cover from prying passers-by and gave the two wannabe Picassos the privacy they needed to achieve their artistic ambitions.

  One of the punks finished giving Alice in Wonderland a punk rock makeover and looked around for his next canvas. He zeroed in on a maje
stic stone statue of a humanoid gargoyle. Monstrous but also imbued with a fierce nobility. The punk’s lips twisted in an enthusiastic grin – his muse had just kicked into overdrive.

  The artist brought up the can of spray paint when...

  The gargoyle's slitted eyes lit up with a dark fire.

  Muscles rippled.

  Wings flared open.

  Lungs bellowed out a bestial roar.

  The creature awoke from its long slumber.

  The graffiti artists backed away, freaked. One kid started running, tripped over a branch and went flying. He hit his head on a rock and the can of spray paint rolled across the grass. The second kid hightailed it out of there. Gargoyle statues coming to life could rattle the most hardened badasses.

  An eerie silence descended over the park, followed by a weak moan. This time it wasn’t the guttural utterance of a beast but a sound produced by human vocal cords. Where the gargoyle statue had stood there was now a naked man, his body a mass of scarred muscles.

  The downed graffiti artist stared wide-eyed. What the hell was happening here? How could this be possible? Had his painter’s mask failed and allowed toxic fumes to penetrate his lungs and brain?

  The naked man stirred and staggered to his feet. The sun hit his features, revealing him to be none other than Artan. The ancient king wearily absorbed his surroundings, taking in the lush vegetation around him. Artan tilted his head, spellbound by the magnificent steel towers of Manhattan's soaring skyline. His face flooded with an expression of breathless wonder that turned to unbridled joy. The sights were wondrous but could not compare to the sensation of the sun and wind against his naked skin. He was alive. A man again, flesh and blood, heart beating with the fury of someone granted a new lease on life.