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Author<\/h2>\nAuthor<\/h2>\nJaneen Ippolito<\/p>\n
Janeen Ippolito is an idea-charged teacher, reader, writer, book reviewer, and the Fearless Leader (president) of Uncommon Universes Press. She writes speculative fiction laced with everyday humor and cultural tension. Her co-written illustrated novella, Blood Mercy: Thicker Than Water, releases on October 29th. In her nonexistent spare time she reads, cooks, and sword-fights. Go to janeenippolito.com for world-building resources and off-the-wall insights from this sleep-deprived author.<\/p>\n
What would you do if the one you loved was turned into a monster?<\/p>\n
Melrose Durante brings order. As founder of the Houses of the Dead, he tirelessly opposes the vampires, and provides refuge for the Blood Kind, those like himself who fight against the blood curse that leads to vampirism. His medical breakthroughs have brought many back from the vampire path. After thousands of years, the Blood Kind finally has the upper hand.<\/p>\n
Until a vampire attacks Melrose\u2019s family, then begs for asylum. To his friends she\u2019s Lucy, a disturbed young woman prone to incoherent rants, warning of an imminent attack by vampire leader, Conan. But to Melrose she\u2019s something more.<\/p>\n
His lost wife, Jane.<\/p>\n
One thing is clear \u2013 time is running out. In five days Conan will attack Quebec City, killing or enslaving all in his way. If Melrose cannot unlock his wife\u2019s tormented mind, even his immortal wisdom may not be enough to save Quebec City, the Blood Kind, and the Houses of the Dead.<\/p>\n
Book excerpt<\/p>\n
Girard awoke in darkness. For a moment, the pitch black consumed his thoughts, leaving only the sound of his heart beating like a moth trapped in a jar.<\/p>\n
Breathe in, breathe out. Panic wouldn\u2019t help him escape.<\/p>\n
His fingers slid on the ground around him. Pockmarked cement beneath his fingers and behind him a rough metal wall. Some sort of cell? A cold, wispy echo of air above him proved there was enough room to sit up, so he did, his legs trembling. Beads of sweat trickled down his back beneath his traditional vestments of black trousers, black shirt, and round white collar.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s a chair behind you, priest.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man jumped, his arms flailing out. One of them connected with a hard surface. Pain shot through his palm. More careful inspection revealed a metal folding chair with a cushion on the seat. He eased himself up into the chair. If he was going to die soon, he might as well be comfortable.<\/p>\n
\u201cBetter, yeah?\u201d The voice was feminine, with a trace of a gravelly drawl. \u201cI wish I could say this would be a short visit, but that\u2019d be lying. But I get that you have a whole flock to oversee, so I promise it won\u2019t be more than a few hours.\u201d<\/p>\n
The priest gulped. \u201cA few hours? What do you\u2014what do you mean? What am I doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n
A soft chuckle from across the expanse. Or from right in front of him. It was too dark to tell. \u201cThink back, Father. What\u2019s the last moment you remember?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t see what that has to do with\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust. Think.\u201d A sigh. \u201cPlease.\u201d<\/p>\n
Something in the plaintive undertone pushed his mind into action. \u201cI had just received a call. A shut-in, new to our congregation, wanted to make a confession and couldn\u2019t come to the sanctuary. I was on my way to meet her\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd so you have.\u201d Now he could feel the woman in front of him, her warm breath blowing across his face in another, heavier sigh. \u201cI\u2019m Lucy. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been five years since my last confession.\u201d<\/p>\n
He blinked, but his mouth automatically formed an answer as his hands made the sign of the cross. \u201cGo on, my child.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve killed fifty. Seventeen men, twenty women, and three children.\u201d Her voice caught.\u201cThe children were the hardest.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWait!\u201d The woman\u2019s words sank into his mind, then rose to the surface once more, swirling in eddies of confusion. \u201cWhat you\u2019re saying is impossible. You\u2019re a murderer\u2014and to kill that many people\u2014why confess\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n
A pause. \u201cIt\u2019s complicated.\u201d<\/p>\n
While part of the priest recoiled in shock, another part numbly did the math. Leftover accountant skills from the time before his call to ministry. \u201cSeventeen men, twenty\u2014twenty women, three children\u2014that doesn\u2019t add up to fifty people.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey weren\u2019t all people.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat were the other ten?\u201d He braced his arms against the sides of the chair, not quite wanting to hear the answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cVampires.\u201d Eerily calm. Matter-of-fact. \u201cHuman, but badly twisted. Separated from everyday life.\u201d<\/p>\n
His heart froze for a moment. Then a laugh burst from his throat. \u201cYou can\u2019t be serious. Vampires are creatures from mythology and fiction. Urban legends. Metaphors for the decay of life and the isolation of sin.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, you did preach a homily on that a few Sundays ago. It was one of the reasons I chose you. You weren\u2019t afraid.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAfraid of what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTo speak about the unspeakable and treat it seriously. To engage the monsters around mankind, even in normal humans. I appreciate that.\u201d There was warm breath on his face once more. He feared that if he reached out, he might touch the mad woman. \u201cI can speak about it too, but for me it isn\u2019t a leap of faith.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I\u2019m a monster. I\u2019m a vampire.\u201d She inhaled. The tip of her shoe tapped on the floor. \u201cAnd I\u2019m about to do something very bad. Even for me.\u201d<\/p>\n
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