Dead on My Feet (The Halflife Chronicles) by Wm. Mark Simmons
By Wm. Mark Simmons
A 12 months in the past, Chris Csejthe (pronounced "Say-thee") was once thoroughly human-then a blood transfusion with the Lord of the Undead replaced every thing. Now he's a hunted guy, sought via human and vampire alike for the secrets and techniques he is aware and the powers that his mutated blood may well bestow. to this point he is dodged undead assassins, werewolves, a 6,000-year-old Egyptian necromancer, and Vlad Dracula himself. yet now he is particularly acquired difficulties. The lifeless are turning up on his doorstep after darkish to invite for justice and the police need to know the place all these corpses are coming from. Undead terrorists are checking out a doomsday virus on his new native land and he is stuck within the crossfire among a white supremacist military and the resurrected Civil battle useless. His werewolf lover, jealous of his lifeless wife's ghost, has left him. And the centuries-old and nonetheless very attractive (and very lethal) Countess Bathory is decided to have his uniquely remodeled blood for her personal darkish reasons. Now, greater than ever, lifestyles sucks!
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Additional info for Dead on My Feet (The Halflife Chronicles)
The creature stood at the entrance to the freeway, directing his attention to the oncoming traffic. He was obviously concentrating, using vampiric mind control to delete my image from the drivers’ consciousness. For all intents and purposes, I was invisible for the moment! He turned his face to the right as I vaulted the divider, clouding the minds of motorists in the eastbound lanes, now. I took my time as the traffic was heavier and he wasn’t moving for the moment. As I reached the far side I risked another glance back and saw him launch himself into midair, off of the hood of a sedan that had slowed on the ramp.
Technically, I didn’t require an invitation, yet, but the appointment set by telephone would have served at any rate. I looked around, my eyes still working in the range of normal, human vision. Now that I was inside, the rest was less impressive: a step below a Jaycee’s tour-the-haunted-mansion-and-your-donation-will-help-charity shtick. “Nice,” I said. ” “Atmosphere,” said Mama Samm, “is very important in opening de gates of belief. ” I sat. The chair was surprisingly comfortable. I sank down into its cushiony depths and discovered, belatedly, that it might be difficult to extricate myself in a hurry.
I was slammed against the wall—brick this time and not as forgiving. As I slid downward, the rough surface peeling my cheek like a cheese grater, I grasped a dim projection. A knoblike handle. It twisted in my hand and the tiny flicker of the pilot light erupted into multiple rings of flaming gas jets behind oven-tempered glass. As an icy claw closed around my throat, I looked at my assailant’s face in the flickering light. His lips were split and one eye was puffed shut. He grimaced and I was rewarded with the sight of one and a half fangs instead of two, now.