Creature Feature 2 is a labor of love and fangs.
When I was
told I was doing the book—that’s a story in and of itself—Poppy and I got
together and decided how we were going to write it. A major part of it was us
having fun with the story and most of all, try to give an entertaining read.
So, that’s we both hope—you find in our new release Creature
Feature 2.
And now, a short excerpt from Poppy’s novella, Rise of the
Revenants.
“YOU HAVE reached your destination.”
Taz pulled to the curb and put his black Challenger into
park. The car rumbled beneath him, preferring the high speeds on the interstate
to the stop and go of city driving. And in this neighborhood? He’d be safer
going ninety on the highway than parked along this stretch of Detroit’s inner
city.
Nothing to do about it. With the vampyres seeking their prey
throughout the city, Taz’s only hope was to find the missing descendant and
pray the mystery man could put a stop to his ancestor’s machinations.
Taz turned off the engine and glared at the dilapidated
excuse for a house across the street. Only a couple blocks from the remains of
old Tiger Stadium, the property looked deserted. He climbed out of the car and
stretched. This was his fourth stop of the afternoon. Why the hell John
Chapman’s name was on over thirty properties in the city, Taz hadn’t figured
out. Time was critical here. He needed to find the man.
Task in mind, he ventured across the street just in time to
see a delicious excuse for a man staring at a map. Hottie glanced up at the
house, then back to the map, before frowning and shaking his head.
That wouldn’t do. Such a gorgeous face shouldn’t be
frowning. Sated and exhausted would be a much better look. Taz pretended
questioning the hottie about his interest in the same house he was interested
in would be critical to his search. In reality, not a single light shone in the
house, and from the looks of the place, no one had lived there for a very long
time. Taz predicted another dead end.
Hottie glanced up when Taz stepped onto the sidewalk in
front of him. He scurried back a couple paces, his hand going to his side.
In Detroit? No telling what that could mean. Taz might have
taken the opportunity to slip into his protective gear, but that didn’t mean a
bullet to the chest wouldn’t hurt.
He held up his hands and took a step back.
“Easy. Just wondering what you were doing here. I’m looking
for the owner of this place. Thought you might know him.”
While hottie glared suspiciously at him, Taz took a moment
to admire the view from a closer distance. A little shorter than Taz’s own six
foot, the guy had the broad shoulders and muscled arms of someone very familiar
with the gym. Dark hair slicked back over a pale, clean-shaven face, deep brown
eyes that looked almost black in the evening light. Mmm-mmm good. Just Taz’s
type.
“I don’t know who owns the place.”
But that was a lie. Taz recognized the signs from the slight
hitch of breath and downcast glance.
“Oh really? Hmm. ’Cause it looked to me like you were here
for a reason. Wonder what that reason could be?”
Hottie moved his hand away from his hip and let it dangle by
his side. He had a set of keys clenched in his fist and a familiar black tube.
Pepper spray. Taz hated pepper spray.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Huh. That’s funny, because I’m thinking it might be.” Taz
crossed his arms over his chest and glared. The look crumpled many a stoic
stance. At six feet tall, it wasn’t his height that was so intimidating, but
the broad stretch of his heavily muscled arms and shoulders. His dirty blond
hair brushed his collar, and with his beard full and thick, his leather jacket
black and heavy, Taz looked intimidating as hell. Not many people stood up to
him;
Hottie was the exception.
Hottie was the exception.
Poppy Dennison
A sassy southern lady, Poppy Dennison developed an obsession
with things that go bump in the night in her early years after a barn door flew
off its hinges and nearly squashed her. Convinced it was a ghost trying to get
her attention, she started looking for other strange and mysterious happenings
around her. Not satisfied with what she found, Poppy has traveled to Greece,
Malaysia and England to find inspiration for the burly bears and silver foxes
that melt her butter. Her love of paranormal continues to flourish nearly
thirty years later, and she writes steamy love stories about the very things
that used to keep her up all night. If her childhood ghost is lucky, maybe one
day she’ll give him his own happily ever after.
Rhys Ford
Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats of
varying degrees of black fur and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also
enslaved to the upkeep a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Toshiba laptop, and an
overworked red coffee maker.
She blogs regularly @ her Website.
And at the Starbucks down the street. No really, they’re
24/7. And a drive-thru. It’s like heaven. Her books can be purchased, folded and first chapters read
at Dreamspinner Press
