For the last three days I've been haunting BookBob to find a book that might be worth reading and critiquing its first page. But the thrillers all seem to be gruesome serial killer stories that I'm not in the mood for, or the writing is so, well, less than professional I don't want to go there.
A week or so I finished the second draft of a novel that is now out with beta readers, so there's some down time. To give you something to chew on, here's the first chapter from The Hollywood Unmurders, The Vampire Kitty-cat Chronicles. I appreciate your feedback. There will be a poll, of course, and the rest of the chapter follows the break.
I'll admit that this genre-bending story isn't right for some folks, but that's okay.
Ray
Chapter 1: Patch mixes it up with coyotes and cops
I hate to admit this, but there are times when my natural tomcat modus operandi—you know, I-am-an-independent-entity-who-doesn’t-give-a-meow-what-you-think—is, shall we say, less than fruitful. Like tonight, when Meg let me out for a late-night prowl after we finished her delivery route. She ruffled my fur as I stood at the front door of our apartment and said, “Be careful, Patch. They say a coyote never met a cat it didn’t like.”
What did I do? Roll my eyes.
So now I’m hunkered down behind the H in the HOLLYWOOD sign, straining to hear movement from the giant hunchback coyote over by the W.
Yes, a giant hunchback coyote, at least twice the size of any coyote I’ve ever seen. That serene full moon up above has turned into a spotlight aimed at me, and there’s new meaning to “snack attack.”
While cats are not inclined to admit a mistake—ever—well, I was wrong, Meg.
I wouldn’t be worried if it were a dog—who worries about a creature that has devoted eons of evolution to tail-wagging and drooling?
But this is a sharp-fanged carnivore with an appetite for fillet of cat. Oh, I’ll have my revenge—noshing on a vampire kitty-cat will give him a terminal case of indigestion. Unfortunately, by then I won’t be in any condition to say gotcha.
For what it's worth.
Flogging the Quill © 2018 Ray Rhamey.
My books. You can read sample chapters and learn more about the books here.
Writing Craft Mastering the Craft of Compelling Storytelling
Fantasy (satire) The Vampire Kitty-cat Chronicles
Mystery (coming of age) The Summer Boy
Science Fiction Hiding Magic
Science Fiction Gundown Free ebooks.
Continued:
For sure, being undead isn’t much of a life, but I’d like to hold onto what little I have.
I slink low, belly to the ground, and peer around a post at the W.
Uh-oh.
He isn’t there.
Wishing a climbable tree has sprung up within the last few minutes, I scan the rocky slope below, a holdout of the old desert in the middle of L.A.’s artificial lushness. Nope, no new trees. But no giant coyote, either. Maybe my orange-white-black colors are as good a camouflage as I hope they are and I’m safe.
Something cracks behind me, like a dry twig snapping. I whip around and there the coyote stands, gazing at me from four feet away.
So much for camouflage.
He’s huge, all right, but not a hunchback—he’s wearing a brown knapsack that just about matches his fur. Weird.
Hoping to look too big and dangerous to mess with, I arch my back and puff up the fur on my spine and tail.
He sits and licks his chops, no doubt considering which part of me to dine on first.
So much for puffery.
Maybe the old slow-motion trick will work, moving ve-e-e-e-ry slo-o-o-owly awa-a-a-y so as not to provoke an attack. Might as well give it a try. I would shrug, but cats don’t really have shruggable shoulders.
Before I can slow-move, though, he leans forward and sniffs. I brace for a run, although it will be hopeless against his long legs. I might win a short sprint but, with no nearby tree to climb, he’ll catch me before I get to those scrawny oaks way too far down the slope.
He stands and takes a step closer. I’m beyond tense, mere seconds from incoherent screeching and utterly losing it to uncatlike panic. I take a deep breath and focus on looking cool and indifferent, thinking that thinking that will calm me down.
He sniffs me again.
I am not calming down.
Another lick of his chops, languid this time, as if relishing the fine dining experience to come. He tastes my scent once more with a deep inhale.
I begin to understand what food feels like.
Will I end up an immortal lump in his belly after my vee virus turns him into a vampire, thereby giving me a whole new perspective on “hairball?” Creepy. Really, really creepy.
Good-bye, Meg.
Then his blue eyes twinkle, he winks, and he turns and walks away.
Blue?
Winks?
Walks away?
The wink brings on a massive case of jitters as I scram for home. Is he toying with me? Is he skulking up ahead, ready to spring? I flinch at every sound and shy from every shadow.
The rustle of paws in dirt comes from nearby—he’s ten feet away, pacing me. I speed up, he stays with me but comes no closer all the way back home.
When I get to the apartment house, he follows me right into the courtyard, firing up a bark storm from the yappy little doggy in the window that lives across from us. I head past the swimming pool, darned glad that Meg leaves our door open a crack when I go out so I can nose my back way in. I’m also a little proud that I haven’t panicked and run like mad.
Well, I do hurry, just a little, right at the last.
Okay. So I run like mad.
After I’m safely inside, I peer out. Standing right on our doorstep, the coyote eyes me, and then his ears focus forward—Meg is humming somewhere inside our apartment. He lifts his gaze and peers in, searching. I check behind me, and she’s not in sight. Facing the coyote, I crouch and brace myself, poised to spring, claws blazing. I take a deep breath and give him a hiss. Despite those gleaming fangs of his, if he tries to mess with my associate I will rip his—
He shifts his contemplation back to me and then turns and trots away, going around the pool to the stairs going to the second floor. He doesn’t trot up the steps, he leaps and clears a good eight feet to the landing. He gives me a last look, licks his chops, and then ambles out of sight around a corner. The varmint knows no fear.
I, however, know great relief.
“Patch!” Meg scoops me up and pushes the door shut with her hip. She strokes my head and says, “You’ve been gone a long time, and I was worried that you’d run into a coyote.”
As if on cue, a coyote howl echoes through the room. Meg says, “See? That sounds like it’s right outside the door.”
Tell me about it.
The burn of bloodlust ignites in my belly—all that exercise and stress, no doubt. I wriggle and Meg sets me down. I trot into the kitchen and aim myself at the refrigerator.
Meg says, “Good idea, we’ve got our Disney meeting in a little while.” She’s still wearing her uniform from her V1 Juice delivery gig, a crimson jumpsuit with “Meg” stitched in gold above one pocket and the V1 logo on the other. I’m pleased by the trim appearance of my petite associate, a young woman who will never change because vampires stay the same. It’s good to have a partner that compliments one’s own lithe feline physique, and her fair blonde coloring sets off my calico coat quite nicely.
She turns on the kitchen light and its fluorescent glare swamps the place, creating an unpleasant tension where it reaches my light-sensitive skin. Meg takes out a bottle of V1, the type A negative with the nicely meaty aftertaste. Filling a mug and then pouring the rest into a bowl, she pops them into the microwave. Soon the metallic aroma of warm blood makes my mouth want to water even though it can’t.
Meg sets my bowl on the floor and then takes a deep swallow from her mug. I can’t tell you how envious I am of the human ability to drink stuff right down. When bloodlust is sending jagged spears of the Pain through your body, lapping with your tongue is entirely inadequate.
But I get the job done. My tongue comes alive as blood washes over it. It brings a tingle and the heat of life all the way down my throat to my belly, a peristalsis of warmth and bliss. It pools in my stomach and seeps out into my system. Soon it starts my heart to pumping and, for the next few hours, I’ll have a temporary bloodstream that circulates new life to my body. For a little while, I have my self back.
It’s never long enough.
When we finish, she douses the kitchen light and we head for the living room, soothingly dim with only the lamp on. Meg sits on our Goodwill couch and, of course, creates a lap into which I, of course, immediately curl up. I’m fairly sure that laps are the reason cats first decided to hook up with human beings way back when, you being the only place we can get them.
Soon we sink into the deep lassitude that comes with taking in blood. We’re pretty much spaced out, with all the get-up-and-go of pudding. It’s like melting into a pool of pleasure as the blood trickles through my body.
Before long we come out of our stupors and the blood enlivens us, waking up our sense of touch. She scratches behind my ears and under my chin. Ahhh. My purr kicks in and a teensy smile curls the corners of her mouth up. Me, too. If you think a purr sounds good, inside it feels like what you hear only ten times stronger.
Meg reads an e-book as she pets me, and I settle into contented mindfulness. As time ticks away, the warmth in her fingers fades until they are back to room temperature. I do the same, and my skin returns to numb. I still feel her stroking me, but it’s as if from a distance. I’m back to no pleasure, no pain.
Her little smile flatlines, her face becomes chill and still. My purr dies out and we are back to being forever undead. You might think that immortality would be compensation for this tepid existence, but even if we were able to fly (we can’t) or could turn into bats (we can’t, but who would want to?), there isn’t a day goes by without wanting my life back. I’m sure that’s the same reason Meg sometimes sobs into her pillow. When that happens, I curl up beside her to offer what comfort I can, but what respite can you get from a furry sack of lukewarm meat that will never spoil?
I shake my head—I’m on the verge of self-pity, an emotion alien to cats. I mean, we’ve been hailed as gods, and rightly so. Maybe a good tongue bath will take my mind off woe-is-me; I’m a bit dusty from my outing. My gaze slips over to the front door and that coyote comes to mind, licking his chops—and winking. As I contemplate his mysterious behavior, the doorbell rings.
Meg dumps me from her lap and calls, “Just a minute.” She hurries into the kitchen, snatches up the bowl and mug, and rinses them at the kitchen sink. Even though the caller is probably one of the vampires we’ve met at the American Vampire Association, it’s good to be careful. Even though the A.V.A. is here in Los Angeles, vees are still underground, thanks to constant pursuit by DVL, the Death to Vampires League—the Devils, we call ‘em.
Their name is, to my way of thinking, an oxymoron, with heavy emphasis on moron. Death to vampires? Give me a break. On the other hand, they do carry wooden stakes and mallets, and it’s true that a well-placed stake can end what little existence we have. So nobody here knows about us, although the way actors talk about blood-sucking agents makes me wonder if all L.A. vampires are in the closet.
When she opens the door, a sandy-haired, lanky and lean man wearing a rumpled brown suit looks down at her—he appears to be twentysomething, about what Meg is. He smiles, and I wonder if he would do that if he knew he stands just outside a vampire den. Lucky for him we’ve recently had our V1—there’s no stopping an attack when the bloodlust frenzy takes over.
The man holds out a badge and says, “Los Angeles police, ma’am, homicide. I’m Detective Nick Silver.” Thinking that maybe he could be here about the coyote, who is undoubtedly a killer, I join Meg at the door and check the cop’s scent for the coppery smell of blood we vees emanate. It’s a subtle perfume, but I can spot a vee with my nose in an instant. Nope, he’s a breather, a person with a pulse, but with something else mixed in that I can’t place.
He glances at Meg’s name on her uniform and then says, “You are Megan Murrow?”
Meg’s voice is a little bit tight when she says, “Yes.” How does he know her name? We’ve only been in L.A. for a little while, living a very quiet life, not doing much more than working and being bored in this apartment.
He glances at me and then smiles at Meg. “Can I have a minute of your time?”
My hackles rise. Ever since I was tried for murder back in Illinois, I tense up whenever the police come calling. But I stifle a hiss. It wouldn’t be smart to draw attention to myself. Besides, I was found not guilty, so what do I have to worry about?
Meg says, “Homicide?” She gazes down at me and arches an eyebrow. “As in murder?”
Give me a break, Meg. Will you never let that go? It was self-defense, the judge said so.
Nick the cop turns his gaze back to me—with twinkly blue eyes that seem to have a knowing smile behind them.
If he winks at me—
He winks at me.
The only thing that comes to mind is this: holy shit.
I have to tell you, the human invention of levels of expletives is pretty cool. Cats had only variations of meow until we hooked up with people. As I’m sure you know, life offers many occasions that call for the use of expletives.
Nick turns his twinkly blues back to Meg. “Murder most weird. And I can use your help.”
Meg is always nervous around live people, as I suspect you would be too if you’d had them try to drive a stake through your heart. I think she would have paled if she had any circulation. Her eyes widen. “My help? Why me?”
He smiles and says, “It’ll only take a minute to explain. May I come in?”
Good luck with that, dude. I look forward to a quick departure for the cop. A good thing, too, because deep in my gut I know this guy means trouble.
Meg is silent a beat longer than she usually takes to say no, so I look up at her face to see what’s going on. Her expression is soft, her eyelids flutter a couple of times, and that teensy grin is back at the corners of her mouth. It widens into a smile and she says, “Sure, Detective Silver, I’d like to help.”
Uh-oh.