I have the utmost pleasure today of welcoming a dear friend of mine on the blog! Elizabeth Morgan is a young gal from England whom I met over crit loops and author networks a while back, and friendship blossomed between us, and I like to think trust, as well, because when it was time for her to dust off her series and self-pub them, she asked me to edit for her...and I thus had the honour of working on her books.
What can I say about the Blood Series? Let me sum it as this - it's like no other vampire and werewolf book you've read out there. I am not a fan of weres - they never click with me...but Elizabeth managed that feat because she made me care for her wolves, for the pack (and yes, for those hunky, gorgeous, drool-liscious men that turn into weres, starting with Owen then with Brendan. They might look like Ken dolls, but they're much, much more!)
Anywho, here's a bit more about the series and its books. Elizabeth also penned a guest post where she explains what a critical aspect in her mythology is all about.
Scottish Werewolves: freaky Vampires and a Slayer with a bad addiction and an insane legacy. Add a big dose of sarcasm, sizzling chemistry; a lot of silver and a ton of blood and . . . Welcome to the Blood Series.
They're back! The Blood Series has been revamped and repackaged and is available to buy now!
Note: She-Wolf and Cranberry Blood are both previously published titles, but have been polished, improved, and have even had scenes added for their re-release. Both books as well as all that will follow will be self-published.
Blood Series Prequel
Dealing with the Rogue Werewolves terrorizing his Pack? Simple.
Trying to convince his mate he does want to be with her? Bloody impossible.
Owen MacLaren is the Alpha's son and the Pack's second, and he has never been one to let anything get to him. So when a bunch of Rogues begin purposely dumping mutilated bodies around the Pack Keep, he is more than ready to deal with the Werewolves responsible.
But one night off and a trip to a local strip joint for a colleague's stag night changes things, and Owen soon discovers he isn't immune to everything . . . .
Being an independent Loup and travelling the world? Easy.
Having to come home and face the Werewolf who broke her young heart? Challenging.
After five years away, Clare Walker finds herself back home in Scotland, working in a strip club. The tips are decent, and she gets to dance, but it isn't a place she thought she would ever be, let alone Owen, her Pack second and the mate she has always desired.
Although Owen is determined to prove he wants to be with Clare, things can't go smoothly between them, not when they have past issues to sort out and a bunch of unusual 'Rogues' to deal with.
This title contains explicit language, violence, and graphic sex.
Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/She-Wolf-Prequel-Blood-Book-1-ebook/dp/B00MT091TK/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1408735068&sr=1-4&keywords=Elizabeth+Morgan
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/She-Wolf-Prequel-Blood-Book-1-ebook/dp/B00MT091TK/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1408734869&sr=1-2&keywords=Elizabeth+Morgan
And will soon be available in print!
“That’s what I’m fucking talking about.” Karl leaned forward and banged his fists on the table. He threw back his head and howled. Any other moment, I would have found such a reaction hilarious, but I couldn’t pull my focus from the woman on the stage; couldn’t move due to the heavy beat of my heart banging against my ribcage. I knew that scent, would know it anywhere.
She made a slow turn as she loosened her ponytail and shook her head. Her hair streamed down her back like a glossy black waterfall. She finished her spin, then her focus landed on me, and the air caught in my throat.
Her body went rigid. Her sultry gaze hardened as she stared at me.
Clare Walker. I’d know those moonlit eyes anywhere.
What in God’s name is she doing working in a fucking strip club?
Straightening, I tensed as my wolf skimmed the surface. My energy pulsed as his focus zoned in on her. A moment was all it took. My Wolf settled. Satisfaction hummed through me. Acceptance.
What the fuck?
Her jaw tensed, chin tilted up as she stared us both down for a single moment, before she ran and grabbed hold of the stage pole on the right. Her feet left the floor as she wrapped her legs around the brass and spun.
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, but the tension didn’t drain from my body.
Her feet hit the floor, the pole between her perfect thighs. She pulled herself upwards, rubbing herself against the warm metal.
Every drop of blood in my body headed south.
She swung round and pressed her back against the pole. Her hands traveled down her breasts, then her stomach, to stop at the waist of her hot pants.
My jeans suddenly felt too tight, and the sound of my heartbeat drowned out the loud music.
She slid her hot pants down her thighs and....
The neck of the beer bottle broke in my hands.
“You okay?” Robert looked at the bottle.
I let my gaze slip down to the broken glass and grunted. “Oops.”
Throwing the shards on the table, my attention turned back to Clare. She crouched before a group of men pushed up against the stage. Fire licked through me at the sight of them slipping notes into her cleavage and the band of her knickers, their fingers skimming her milky flesh. The sight caused a strangled snarl to break from my throat.
Easy boy, this is Clare. It’s just Clare.
My Wolf began to pace, hackles rising, the urge to beat the shit out of them and protect her overwhelming me. No man had any right to touch her. I didn’t want any other man to touch her, let alone look at her, and the sudden realization scared the hell out of me.
She stood and danced away from them. Every move she made was graceful; each step seemed to have a meaning. Touched by the fake moonlight, her body shimmered with sweat and sparkling body dust. She looked exotic, feral. She was Loup-garou. She was mine.
No. Not mine. She’s not mine. It’s fucking Clare, for Christ’s sake!
That simple fact didn’t stop the images filling my mind—images of her writhing across the damp earth of the forest floor, the light of the moon bathing her pale flesh. I’d explore every curve and crevice with my fingers and tongue until she begged me to mark her. Claim her.
Those wants alone had me hard as a rock, and on the border of having a panic attack.
Fuck, this is bad. Margaret Thatcher dancing naked in the rain. Margaret Thatcher dancing naked in the rain . . . .
Blood Series: Book One
Killing Vampires? Easy.
Tracking someone? Simple.
Helping, and protecting a Vampire slayer . . . . Bloody hard work!
Thirteen years ago, Brendan Daniels made a deal with a psychic. In exchange for information on the whereabouts of a Rogue Werewolf, he promised to help and protect Sofia's granddaughter.
Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was letting himself, or his Pack, in for.
Nothing about Heather is simple, from her weird dietary needs to her life’s mission. The girl can handle herself, but the promise to protect her soon becomes a need, and one he can't fully understand.
Addicted to blood . . . but not by choice.
Heather Ryan is the current Slayer in a long family line. Like all before her, she has spent her life searching for her ancestor, Marko Pavel, the Vampire her family has sworn to kill. If that isn't complicated enough, she is also a born "Infected", and to keep her from becoming insane or giving in to her darker side, she is on a very strict diet.
Now that her Grandmother Sofia has passed, it is up to Heather to take the family legacy into her own hands. Or at least, it would have been...if her Grandmother hadn't sent a Werewolf to help her.
What is the irritating Brendan supposed to help her with? Sofia never told either of them. Luckily, it doesn't take long for Heather and Brendan to find out that the Vampires have big plans, and that the Leeches have waited a long time for them both.
This title contains explicit language, violence, and some scenes of a sexual nature.
Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/Cranberry-Blood-Book-Elizabeth-Morgan-ebook/dp/B00MXDVWDQ/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1408735068&sr=1-5&keywords=Elizabeth+Morgan
Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Cranberry-Blood-Book-Elizabeth-Morgan-ebook/dp/B00MXDVWDQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1408734869&sr=1-1&keywords=Elizabeth+Morgan
And will soon be available in print!
I’m finally going crazy. Somehow, I got myself home; it doesn’t really matter how. Maybe I came in, sorted myself out, and then passed out in bed? I must have. What other explanation could there be?
With a sigh, I walked across the landing to the bathroom door. The throb in my temples increased. My muscles felt tighter than a bowstring. A shower and something to eat and drink; these should do the trick. Then maybe my brain would decide to start working, and I could fill in the blanks.
The scent of wet dog flew into my face once across the bathroom threshold. My clothes from last night sat in a shredded pile on the black marble floor, along with my set of daggers. The first aid kit lay open in the sink.
A deep inhale revealed more; combined with the smell of dog, the bathroom held traces of blood. My blood.
I stepped into the room and peered into the waste-bin to see a large amount of dried, red cotton wool.
“I don’t remember doing this.” My eyes bugged at the mess.
Surely, I would remember doing this? Why the hell do I smell dog? Another inhale. And pine?
Something really didn’t feel right. I had never been so bad that I couldn’t remember what had happened on a hunt, and by the looks of things, I’d been in real bad shape.
Back into the hall and to creep quietly down the stairs. The odour of dog grew with each step, the smell of coffee and bacon gradually joining in. My stomach clenched at the familiarity of walking down these stairs every morning to find my grandmother happily cooking breakfast in our kitchen. Minus the smell of animal, though.
I couldn’t believe she’d died almost six weeks ago. God, I miss her.
As I stepped into the lower hall, a glance out of the side window showed my black Range Rover sitting in front of the house, between the front door/porch and the closed, wrought iron security gate. A long, silver scratch marred the paintwork on the bonnet. Antonio’s face flashed through my mind.
I remembered stumbling back to the car to find him there, waiting for me. The bastard had dragged his filthy claw along my Rover. That son-of-a-bitch!
I killed him, though. I think. He lunged and . . . . I looked down at my left arm. Two pale lines slashed across my skin. He’d stumbled and caught me on the arm, but I got him in the neck . . . .
The sudden sound of rustling paper snapped me from my thoughts. Tension grabbed me, the awareness crackling beneath the surface of my skin.
Someone is in my house.
Stepping through the open living room door, a new scent invaded my nostrils. Tangy, manufactured, like expensive cologne. An unfamiliar, black travel bag sat tucked away between the red leather sofa and the TV stand. The papers rustled again. I moved lightly toward the archway that lead into the dining room, my sword still gripped comfortably in my right hand.
“Your breakfast is getting cold, Heather. I suggest you stop trying to sneak in here and just come in so that we can get this over and done with,” said the deep male voice of whoever was in my kitchen.
What the hell is going on? Who is he? Why is he in my house? How does he know my name? And why the hell has he cooked me breakfast?
I took a deep breath, and then exhaled before slowly walking through the archway into the empty dining room. When I turned my head to the left, I saw a strange man seated at my kitchen breakfast bar. He sat casually, in jeans and a forest green T-shirt that clung to his broad, sculpted back and defined biceps. The sun flooded into the kitchen through the side window and glinted off his copper-blond hair, which brushed his shoulders.
“Are you going to come into the room or stand there drooling all day?” He turned a page of his newspaper. I couldn't place his accent, nor the sleepy twang that couldn't quite form at the edge of his words.
I inhaled again; nothing new amongst the scent of dog, pine, bacon, and coffee, which meant he wasn’t a Vampire. Leeches smelled like mouldy, wet earth; not an overpowering smell, but hidden underneath the products they wore. Not that a Vampire could get in here, anyway. They could only come in with a personal invite, and since they all wanted me dead . . . . No matter what state I’d been in last night, I wouldn’t have invited one in. So, who the hell is this guy?
What is Cranberry Blood?
By Elizabeth Morgan
Like the title says, “What is Cranberry Blood?”
Apart from the title of the book it is a disgusting mixture of cranberry juice and blood. I know, very gross, and not something I would personally choose on a night out, but what exactly is the point of this concoction? Why cranberries? Does it play a part in the story?
When I was piecing together the events of Cranberry Blood (Blood Series: Book One) I wanted very much to give my heroine – Heather – a problem; an odd sort of problem that was very inappropriate for her line of work. I wanted a problem that would make her insane life even more complicated and crazy than it already was. I wanted her to be a part of what she had to fight.
I wanted her to be a vampire slayer who was half way to being a vampire herself, and therefore she craves blood.
It’s been done? Perhaps. As much as I love the paranormal genre, and I do have quite a few series on my shelf, I haven’t read every vampire/slayer book that has been written. In fact, none of the books I have read so far have been based around a slayer fighting just vampires.
My aim for this book – and the series – has and continues to be to write an adventure that I would love to read; one that would drive me crazy, keep me intrigued, get me hot under the collar, and make me laugh. I wanted a dark serious comedy of sorts with lots of tension, sarcasm, and scary vampires and werewolves – oh yes, there be a whole lot of werewolves in this series as well. I basically wanted to create a series from my own warped little imagination, which I have done, and I hope, successfully.
So, I wanted to basically give my heroine a hard time and see how she dealt with it, which I quickly found was indeed with sarcasm, humour, and a sword. But despite her thick skin and fighting skills, she needs to drink blood to keep going, if she doesn’t she will go insane; literally. She will fall into bloodlust and just drain everyone who crosses her path.
What exactly is the point of this concoction?
Thankfully Heather had a smart grandmother who figures that if she waters the animal blood down in a way that dulls the taste, she can still keep her granddaughter strong, healthy, and sane. Yup, you guessed right, Cranberry juice was what Granny dearest used to water down blood for her granddaughter.
Cranberry Blood is the fix to Heather’s unwanted cravings. It is a way for her to sustain herself without needing to drink pureblood and over pollute her system.
Honestly, because they are bitter, overpowering, and they leave a sharp after taste in your mouth – or at least, I feel they do. All in all, a good form of fruit juice to water down blood. No, I haven’t tested that theory. It would be totally gross. Also, I kinda hate cranberry juice. :-P
Does it play a part in the story?
As you can imagine from reading the above, it does indeed play a big part in the story. This is the way Heather has coped all her life. It keeps her going. It keeps her from giving in to the part of herself she hates.
So, what is Cranberry Blood? Honestly, it’s Heather’s medicine and her life line to humanity.
About the Author:
Elizabeth Morgan is a multi-published author of urban fantasy, paranormal, erotic horror, f/f, and contemporary; all with a degree of romance, a dose of action and a hit of sarcasm, sizzle or blood, but you can be sure that no matter what the genre, Elizabeth always manages to give a unique and often humorous spin to her stories.
Like her tagline says; A pick ‘n’ mix genre author. “I’m not greedy. I just like variety.”
And that she does, author of erotic ménage horror, Creak, paranormal erotic horror and UK, US & Australian Amazon best seller (Gay/Lesbian, Fiction, Lesbian), On the Rocks, erotic romance, US, UK & Spanish Amazon bestseller (Erotica Short Story) Truth or Dare? And sweet contemporary romance, UK & US Amazon bestseller (British/Drama & Plays) Stepping Stones.
She also has her hand in self-publishing. Look out for more information on her upcoming releases at her website: www.e-morgan.com
Away from the computer, Elizabeth can be found in the garden trying hard not to kill her plants, dancing around her little cottage with the radio on while she cleans, watching movies or good television programmes – Dr Who? Atlantis? The Musketeers? Heck, yes! – Or curled up with her two cats reading a book.
For more information on Elizabeth's work, published and upcoming, head on over to her site:Website: www.e-morgan.com
Blog: (Shared with Dianna Hardy): http://notjustastiffupperlip.blogspot.co.uk/
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From Mauritius with love,