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  Title Page

  KILLING KISS

  BOOK ONE OF THE VAMPIRE GENE

  Sam Stone

  Publisher Information

  First published in slightly different form as Gabriele Caccini in 2007 by Authorhouse

  Published as Killing Kiss in 2008 by The House of Murky Depths (www.murkydepths.com)

  This digital edition published in 2010

  under licence to Andrews UK Ltd

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Killing Kiss © 2007, 2010 Sam Stone

  Cover by Martin Deep

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Praise for Sam Stone

  KILLING KISS:

  Silver Award Winner in ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year Awards 2007

  ‘A deceptively readable date with darkness watch your step! This book is lit for the much more discerning chick (and cock) who likes to walk in the shadows. Relax with it, but be prepared for sudden jewels and little masterpieces and the rug to be pulled from under your feet.’ - Tanith Lee

  ‘Read this book and change the way you feel about vampires for the rest of your so short life.’ - Geoff Nelder

  ‘Worth getting your fangs into.’ - Peter Mark May

  ‘Vampire fans who are drawn to the mysterious sexual lure that the immortals have over their “common” peers will love Stone’s seductive prose. She captures the passion and lust perfectly, without going overboard and making it a tawdry romance novel.’

  - Eddie Gresham

  ‘I was floored by Sam’s work. Really flat-out delighted to see such a level of style combined with narrative drive. I suppose one could use those terms in an overly technical sense, but Sam is at a level that simply shines. Soaking in her story even while seeing her powerful ability to make me feel and see what the narrator is experiencing - she’s not only got a gift, she clearly knows how to employ it to powerful effect.’ - Gard Goldsmith

  FUTILE FLAME:

  Finalist in ForeWord Magazine’s Book of the Year Awards 2009

  ‘This book has it all, sibling incest, lesbianism, male on male rape, and people getting their hearts ripped out of their chests.’

  - J R LeMar

  ‘Vibrant and colourful.’ - Peter Mark May

  ‘When you have a vampire, as sexually charged as Lucrezia, survive burning at the stake and living among the whores of an Italian dockland, you don’t want your reading flame to go out. The sensual show is rich, the characters three-dimensional, and the terror is real. The witch-burner’s flames were futile but the fire between the pages rages on.’ - Geoff Nelder

  ‘[Lucrezia’s] shocking tale: from the obsessions of a brother; her fall as his prey; her longing for freedom and normality; the strength of will she develops through mere survival ... [all] creates a power beyond the usual tale of vampire meets girl, vampire falls in love with girl, vampire loses girl ... or whatever the formula is for such things. You become a part of Lucrezia’s discoveries, much as you learn with Gabriele of the life he was thrust into, yet with the fresh eyes of a female, seeing the world of the late 1500s and early 1600s male domination being twisted and used to such great advantage. With the revelations of her story, the whole book opens up into a new, greater dimension, leaving me in total awe of the new world created in my mind. Yes I want, no, NEED more!’

  - Trudy Messingham - The Art of Randomology

  ‘With all the style and charisma of Anne Rice, but less indulgence and crazy, Futile Flame is a sensual, deadly tale of immortals, sins and the unknown wrapped up in a vivid take on the past ... Rich, enticing and utterly charming Stone’s vampires are ambrosia to horror fans hungry for the good old monstrous vampires who look, walk and sound like us, but hold our deaths in their gaze.’

  - Michele Lee - Booklove

  DEMON DANCE:

  ‘Enticing, shocking and delightful ... A fast-moving story that’s spell-binding, as thrilling as it is intelligent and thought-provoking ... Sam Stone writes with stylish panache.’ - Simon Clark

  ‘Sam Stone has done it again, her immersion into the vampire world is so extraordinarily well-crafted that I am wondering if she is really Lilly, the protagonist vampire with a heart. And Lilly is more than a vampire, she has learnt witchcraft and - rare in vampire literature - can manipulate ley lines, using them as a power. Unusual too in that this vampiric feast travels the corridors of Time, quite literally and in both directions ... If Futile Flame was a flambé of vampiric lust, Demon Dance is its force majeure.’ - Geoff Nelder

  Chapter 1

  Anticipation.

  I move with the crowd of new students, as they pour through the doors into the reception area, looking for the lecture room. The building is large and bland - I have no patience to describe it - except it contains several lecture halls that seat up to three hundred students at a time. I know the university well.

  I’ve been on this campus before, though not in this building which is relatively new despite the shabby and worn carpet. It is the new buildings that rip the essence from this place and reconfirm everything I have felt about the modern world. It has no heart. No soul. These buildings are just huge and unimaginative boxes.

  Anticipation. The movement of the crowd slows. We are filtered through a security post, that’s definitely new, and a team of three security guards, two male, and one female, look us over.

  A tall, thin man pushes past me and rushes on ahead. He is scruffy like all students, but slightly more unwashed.

  ‘Hey, Dan! Wait up.’

  I shudder as his pierced tongue muffles his words. As he nears the checkpoint one male security guard eyes him with disdain but doesn’t ask for his pass, and I am disappointed when the female security guard smiles and waves me through the barrier turnstile. My papers are in order, as always, but I love to show them, and the adrenaline buzz would have been fun. Dejected, I follow the dirty male student as he shoves open a door that says ‘Lecture Hall 3a’.

  A rush of incoherent chatter assaults my ears as the door to the hall swings open and closed with a high pitched whine as each new student enters. I wait, hoping for a dramatic late entrance, as a stream of sneaker-clad girls pass by. The corridors empty in a hurried hustle. I look up. There is no one around so I linger a little longer enjoying her scent, like an animal in heat, until I can’t bear it anymore. I touch a finger along the grain in the wood door; I smell her inside, but torture myself longer, continuing to look at the flimsy piece of paper, my timetable, gripped firmly in my hand. Carolyn was inside. Carolyn ... my new flame. Such a beautiful name - such a beautiful girl.

  Anticipation. Crinkling the timetable I step forward; begin to push the door, but a girl rushes around the corner and collides with me, dropping the books she is carrying and knocking the paper from my hand. I am angry with myself for languishing; I should have noticed her sooner.

  ‘Jeee-sus,’ she says.

  Instinctively we both kneel and begin to retrieve our property. My hand brushes against hers. Fire shoots through my veins in an uncontrolled burst of lust. I jerk back, burnt. Her eyes are fractured emeralds as she stares into mine for a paralysing instant.

  She is shocked into stillness by my touch alone because I know I look ‘normal’; I have done my research and I am wearing the
same type of clothes as the others, jeans, tee-shirt and trainers.

  The artificial light catches in her hair, which is a soft golden blonde, and reflects off the fine white streaks that give it depth. Her aura is like untamed energy, snapping and cracking around her head, vibrant and strong - unique. I have never seen anything like this before. I back away and she takes this as some form of male consideration as she continues to collect her books, but it is more that I am confused by her.

  ‘Thanks.’ Her voice is lyrical but there is an edge of sarcasm to it.

  Mmmm. I want to hear more.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  She looks back at me startled and confused by the musical inflection in my voice. I’ve had this effect on a few empathic souls in the past and they have always intrigued me, but - I have never felt like this before. We slide in the room together. I wait for her aura to lap me. This somewhat sad attempt at groping her psyche fails, as she quickly walks away and takes a seat near the front of the lecture hall. I know nothing about her still, except she’s - different. And very stimulating.

  The lust courses through my veins, strongly aroused from its forced rest. My heartbeat thumps in my ears until I need to take a deep, cooling breath. I force myself to look away from the upright back that seems too poised for any kind of ‘student’ I’ve seen before - and I’ve seen many. Who is she? There’s so much of her that’s ...but no. I force her image away from the back of my eyes, shake my head. The gushing in my ears slips away as the call of hot young blood subsides in response to my meditation. I breathe deeper. The feeling of unreality recedes. I mustn’t lose sight of my objective. I look around and down the tiers in the large sloping room. At the bottom is a podium, wired with a microphone. The lecturer, this must be Professor Francis, twiddles with his greying beard waiting impatiently while the students chatter noisily as they sit.

  Near the front I see the two male students from the corridor, Dan and his pierced khaki-clad friend, who takes off his filthy-looking jacket, then stuffs it under the seat in front.

  I divert myself further by looking around. I see Carolyn three rows from the back and quickly slide into a seat in the tier directly behind and above her but I am still distracted. Perhaps it was a mistake, being surrounded by so many vital young people? My eyes are drawn again to the blonde. She is voluptuous, striking, but so not my type. I look down at the back of Carolyn’s neck and watch the hairs bristle beneath her long pony tail. She rubs a hand over her throat and round her neck, invitingly, before pulling on a pale pink jacket.

  ‘It’s cold in here,’ Carolyn says.

  I smile. I always have that effect on women.

  ‘That’s the air conditioning. They keep it on full blast. Even in winter. I guess they think us students are all sweaty bodies and hormones,’ says the girl beside her. I assess her as she speaks; dark, skinny and plain with thin lips and watery eyes. She’s very well-spoken. Clearly privileged but trying to rebel. Only rebellion could possibly excuse her charity shop clothes and dreadful fashion sense.

  Carolyn laughs.

  ‘Everyone over thirty thinks that! You should have heard my dad. He gave me this long lecture on lusty males on campus.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  ‘So did mine,’ I say, leaning forward as the girls look up at me with interest and giggle. ‘I’m Jay.’

  ‘Carolyn. Caz for short, and this is Alice.’

  ‘Hi. So tell me, are the rumours true?’

  ‘What rumours?’ Alice asks.

  ‘Our lecturer, Professor Francis ... They say he’s obsessed with nineteenth century gothic literature because he’s really a descendant of Dracula.’

  Carolyn’s giggle pleases me. Alice waves her stubby eyelashes provocatively. I don’t discourage her; competition will be good for my future lover.

  ‘That’s a new one.’ Alice laughs. ‘I thought it was Doctor Frankenstein.’

  ‘Everyone knows he was only a fictional character invented by Mary Shelley.’

  ‘Don’t tell us you believe in vampires?’ Carolyn flirts.

  ‘The big question is - do you?’ I smile.

  I am gratified to note the slight flush that colours her fair cheeks. I can almost smell the blood as it rushes through her body. Mmmm. Just as I thought - she’s still a virgin. I sit back in my seat as the lecture begins and for a second I meet the eyes of the blonde from the corridor glancing back at me, her expression unreadable, and I wonder how long she has been watching. Her knowing eyes are hauntingly familiar. She turns her lovely head and focuses her attention on the speaker, flicking back her expansive hair with a smooth, long nailed hand. Her movement is seductive, inviting, but not to me. She is definitely not my type. Even though I find my eyes are drawn to her as much as the other male heads that frequently turn her way. I am as fascinated as every other male in the room it seems. Her sexuality is a flare in the middle of a sea of pheromones.

  To deflect myself I lean forward and whisper to Carolyn and Alice who snigger at my jokes.

  ‘You’ll notice that the course covers a range of literature from early Shakespearean Dramatic texts to the contemporary works of twentieth and twenty-first century gothic fiction writers such as Anne Rice, Stephen King, Dean R Koontz ...’

  ‘See ... I told you. He’s a closet Goth.’

  Alice laughs out loud as Professor Francis frowns over the turning heads of the other students. The attention of the Professor and students is too much for the girls who collapse in giggles, tears streaming from their eyes in this embarrassing frenzy. Francis ignores them, clearly used to the madness of freshers. The blonde grins, looking back at us; shaking her head as though she understands these adolescent hysterics. I return her smile until my jaw aches. When she turns away it is like I’ve been released from the glare of some powerful laser. Even so, she really isn’t my type.

  Chapter 2

  Looking out at the night from the roof of my apartment I feel the pressure of the lust. Carolyn will satisfy my sick urges soon enough. Until then I will weep for her predecessors: Sophia, Maggie, Anthea, Tonya, Amanda ... The list seems endless, yet none have been forgotten. Like all serial killers I keep my trophies; a small relic of each one, a lock of their shiny black hair stored in a unique gold locket. I have hundreds of them. The last remnants of my love for them are displayed in full view, in glass cases, even though my heart hurts to look at them.

  Carolyn’s locket rests against my breast waiting to be filled - like me. Although first, I need to know her. Though this increases my pain, the pleasure of loving her will also intensify the ecstasy of that final moment. Who knows, maybe this time I will be successful.

  The night is my time. When the moon is in full bloom and the stars blink down like a million watchful eyes, night is my strength and my weakness. For every night, but one a year, I have chosen to be alone. Anymore and I fear my secret may be exposed.

  Unlike most gothic stories the reality is far more sinister. I can go where I please, live how I wish. Nothing can destroy me. (How bizarre to think a stake through the heart could finish one of my kind.) I have so far been able to heal any injury, so why should I not believe I am invulnerable? I have lived for more than four hundred years, and since my turning I have searched for a companion, a soul mate; yet every joining has been a failure. Maybe the fault is mine, maybe I am infertile. I know deep down it is unlikely that this one - Carolyn - will survive, but I have to try. Even if my loneliness fits like a tailor-made suit, I wear it like armour, hoping that one day the war of loneliness will be over.

  Carolyn is exactly what I want; the dark hair, soft brown eyes, delicate bones and slender frame. Her youth is an advantage because the life spark is strong but there is another flame within her that drew me. It is the same flame that was in all the others, but is it strong enough?

  As always I wonder what drew Lucrezia to me. Did
I hold a glint? Or was it something more? Why did I live? Maybe I was lucky all of those years ago despite how I felt. Lucrezia was not my first love, nor was she my last. I can still remember the exquisite pain; the pain of loving intensely for the first time.

  I can still remember when my uncle, Giulio Caccini, brought his daughter Francesca to my home in Florence and we sang the beautiful songs from his Le Nuove Musiche in 1602.

  ‘Gabriele!’

  ‘Si. I am coming Madre!’

  ‘Be quick. Your uncle and cousin arrive!’

  I walked down the curving stone stairs of the tower that led to my room, full of expectancy. I was thirteen, my beautiful cousin Francesca was fifteen and I adored her. She was the epitome of sophistication in her Medici fashion with her long black hair swirled up in the latest coiffure, though her tall lithe frame was still boyish under the bulk of gown she wore for her court performances. Two years after her debut at the age of thirteen in her father’s musical drama Eurydice, Francesca was in demand as a singer and musician because she played the harpsichord as well as she sang.

  My uncle’s visits had become frequent of late. He was very interested in my voice, and took charge of my vocal development. He had wanted to send me to Rome to be made castrati for the sake of my young high voice, but my mother refused.

  ‘I would like grandchildren from my only child!’ she declared.

  ‘In future you see Gabriele in my home Giulio. I don’t trust you.’

  ‘Adriana! How can you suggest that I would harm Gabriele?’

  ‘You would sacrifice your own mother for your Nuove Musiche!’

  I was glad of my mother’s decision to protect my future manhood but my uncle still remained determined to train my voice.

  ‘Perhaps it will be possible to keep his high range, if he learns control.’

  From then on my uncle’s cries from the harpsichord demanded that I sing ‘Legato’ continuously. I was an experiment to him, just as Francesca’s young voice had been. I had no inkling that he, along with his intellectual Florentine friends the Camerata, would later be declared the inventors of melodrama in music and Opera would be born.