Thirsting For Blood by Sue Dent Book Tour and Giveaway :)
struggling with. He took a step toward her and spoke to her back. "It's
no wonder we are what we are."
She whirled around to face him. "It's no wonder you are what you are! No
wonder you would count yourself a casualty of your curse. Well, I'm not
a casualty. Perhaps I can't presently feel love as I used to. But I can
promptly at eight o’clock. Sister Betty Marshall liked to be on time. In
fact, she liked to be early. Stuffed inside her floral print
going-to-church dress, Sister Betty bustled along the sidewalk. Worn
leather sandals, stretched beyond their original shape, accommodated
wide brown feet and slapped the concrete as she went.
Sister Betty clutched her Bible close. She had to make it to the revival
center before Luella Thompson. Theirs was a
friendly competition but a competition nonetheless. When she didn’t make
it before Luella, Luella never let her forget it.
The walk light turned amber and then red just as she reached the busy
intersection. Sister Betty slowed down, resigned to her fate. She
wouldn’t make it on time. Luella would get bragging rights for this
evening. “Unless—” She strained her eyes to see. Was that a homeless man
in the alley? “Yes, Lord!” She headed over. Sister Luella might beat her
to services but what were the odds that she’d bring along a potential
When Henderson first noticed the lone Sister Betty, his fangs pushed
down and out. He’d intended to wait until she got closer, and then pull
her into the alley. He wasn’t prepared for her to approach him.
Her Bible captured his attention first. He drew back, hissing. The cross
around her neck added to his torture. His ears burned from the sacred
words she now quoted. Searing pain shot through eye sockets each time he
looked at the cross on her necklace. He threw his hands over his ears,
closed his eyes against the pain, and ran.
windshield like a tightly wrapped blanket. He gripped the steering wheel
with both hands. Another pothole like that one could cost him an axle,
and he had no desire to be stranded on this God-forsaken stretch of road
where dead and bloodless livestock turned up in pastures where they
grazed. At least that’s what a recent copy of the Sunday Sports
reported, a tabloid he regularly read.
“Vampires killed ‘em and drank their blood,” the paper quoted one
victimized goat-herder as saying, and though the words read like
crazy-talk, each dead animal did have a set of identical puncture wounds
on the neck. “They live in that castle.” A photograph accompanied the
article. “I’ve seen ‘em. Nothing like this happened before they moved
in.” The goat herder’s words stuck with the courier like a festering
splinter in his mind. It didn’t help that his route would take him to
the very castle mentioned in the article.