LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE…..
Finals: Fighting for DFT – Malkolm Bourreau
Malkolm Bourreau vs. Heyou
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Book Series: Blood Rights, House of Comarré series
Job: Staying alive
Height: Six something.
Weight: Not entirely sure, but well muscled from years of hefting a headsman’s ax.
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Black. Silver if you bring out the vampire in him.
From (Location): Paradise City, New Florida
Significant Other: Chrysabelle Lapointe
Signature Move: Has the noble power of persuasion
Kill Highlights: Number of kills cannot be counted. Unless you want to make a list of every name tattooed onto his skin, but most people don’t get that close to him and live very long.
Enemies: The entire vampire nobility. Possibly the rest of humanity.
Favorite Pastime: Drinking blood and avoiding humans
Other Facts: In his human life, he was an executioner
My reluctant hero, Malkolm Bourreau, is not the kind of guy you want to run into in a dark alley. Or anywhere, really. He’s been a vampire for over five hundred years and since the moment he was turned, he’s lived under a curse. A curse he earned by drinking to death his sire, the vampire who made him. This act also caused him to be deemed “anathema” by the nobility. He is an outcast and as such was forced to subsist as best he could, much as he did when he was human and worked in the unsavory profession of professional executioner.
Can he win this supernatural smack down? Without a doubt. Especially if he unleashes the dark beast inside him which is the manifestation of every soul he’s ever destroyed. The souls of his victims also inhabit his head as voices, constantly tearing him down, nagging him and urging him to more wicked deeds. Fighting them is an ongoing battle.
After escaping an imprisonment meant to hold him for the rest of his days, he came to Paradise City. In order to earn enough money to buy blood from the butcher, he fought gladiator style in the Pits at the vampire-run nightclub Seven. There were a few fights he lost, due to the lack of strength from only consuming animal blood.
Now that Mal has the comarré, Chrysabelle, to provide him with blood, he’s virtually unstoppable. Too bad the voices in his head want him to kill her, too.
Here’s a little excerpt that shows Mal out in the mortal world:
Malkolm hated Puncture with every undead fiber of his being. If it weren’t for the bloodlust crazing his brain—which kicked the ever-present voices into a frenzy—he’d be home, sipping the single malt he could no longer afford, maybe listening to Fauré or Tchaikovsky while searching his books for a way to empty his head of all thoughts but his own.
Damn Jonas for disappearing without setting up another reliable source. Mal cracked his knuckles, thinking about the beating that idiot was in for when he showed up again. It wasn’t like the local Quik-E-Mart carried pints of fresh, clean, human blood. Unfortunately.
The warm, delicious scent of the very thing he craved hit full force as he pushed through the heavy velvet drapes curtaining the VIP section. In here, his real face, the face of the monster he’d been turned into, made him the very best of their pretenders and got him access to any area of the nightclub he wanted. Ironic, considering how showing his real face anywhere else would probably get him locked up as a mental patient. He shuddered and inhaled without thinking. His body tensed with the seductive aroma of thriving, vibrating life. The voices went mad, pounding against his skull. A multitude of heartbeats filled his ears, pulses around him calling out like siren songs. Bite me, drink me, swallow me whole.
A petite redhead with a jeweled cross dangling between her breasts stopped dead in front of him. Like an actual vampire could ever tolerate the touch of that sacred symbol. Dumb git. But then how was she to know the origins of creatures she only hoped were real? She appraised him from head to toe, running her tongue over a set of resin fangs. “You’re new here, huh? I love your look. Are those contacts? I haven’t seen any metallic ones like that. Kinda different, but totally hot.”
She reached out to touch the hard ridge of his cheekbone and he snapped back, baring his teeth and growling softly. Eat her. She scowled. “Chill, dude.” Pouting, she skulked away, muttering “freak” under her breath.
Fine. Let her think what she wanted. A human’s touch might push him over the edge. No, he reassured himself, it wouldn’t. Yes. He wouldn’t let it. Do. He wouldn’t get that far gone. Go. But in truth, he balanced on the edge. Fall. He needed to feed. To kill. To shut the voices up.
With that thought he shoved his way to the bar, disgusted things had gotten this dire. He got the bartender’s attention, then pushed some persuasion into his voice. “Hey.” It was one of the few powers that hadn’t blinked out on him yet. Good old family genes.
His head turned in Mal’s direction, eyes slightly glazed. Mal eased off. Humans were so suggestible. “What’ll it be?”
“Give me a Vlad.” Inwardly, he died a little. Metaphorically speaking. The whole idea of doing this here, in full view of a human audience, made him sick. But not as sick as going without. How fortunate that humans wanted to mimic his kind to the full extent.
The bartender’s brows lifted. “Looking to get laid, huh? A pint should keep you busy all night. These chicks get seriously damp over that action. Not that anyone’s managed to drink the pint and keep it down.” He hesitated. “You gotta puke, you head for the john, you got me?”
“Not going to happen.”
“Yeah, right.” The bartender opened a small black fridge and took out a plastic bag fat with red liquid.
Mal swallowed the saliva coating his tongue, unable to focus his gaze elsewhere, despite the fact he preferred his sustenance body temperature and not chilled. A few of the voices wept softly. “That’s human, right? And fresh?”
The bartender laughed. “Chickening out?”
“No. Just making sure.”
“Yeah, it’s fresh and it’s human. That’s why it’s $250 a pop.” He squirted the liquid into a pilsner. It oozed down the glass thick and viscous, sending a bittersweet aroma into the air. Even here in the VIP lounge, heads turned. Several women and at least one man radiated hard lust in his direction. The scent of human desire was like dying roses, and right now, Puncture’s VIP lounge smelled like a funeral parlor. He hadn’t anticipated such a rapt audience, but the ache in his gut stuck up a big middle finger to caring what the humans around him thought. At least there weren’t any fringe vamps here tonight. Despite his status as an outcast anathema, the lesser-class vampires only saw him as nobility. He wasn’t in the mood to be sucked up to. Ever.
The bartender slid the glass his way. “There you go. Will that be cash?”
“Start a tab.”
“I don’t think so, buddy.”
Mal refocused his power. “I’ve already paid you.”
The man’s jaw loosened and the tension lines in his forehead disappeared. “You’ve already paid.”
“That’s a good little human,” Mal muttered. He grabbed the pilsner and walked toward an empty stretch of railing for a little privacy. The air behind him heated up. He glanced over his shoulder. A set of twins with blue-black hair, jet lips, and matching leather corsets stood waiting.
“Hi,” they said in unison.
Eat them. Drain them.
“No.” He filled his voice with power, hoping that would be enough.
They stepped forward. Behind them, the bartender watched with obvious interest.
The blood warmed in his grasp, its tang filling his nose, but feeding would have to wait a moment longer. Using charm this time, he spoke. “I am not the one you seek. Pleasure awaits you elsewhere. Leave me now.”
They nodded sleepily and moved away.
A little about me: I’m a former college English teacher, but I’ve held a crazy mix of other jobs including maitre’d for Wolfgang Puck, personal trainer, and sales for Christian Dior Bijoux. On the writing side of things, I’m a two-time Golden Heart finalist and have been on the board of three different RWA chapters. What can I say? I like getting involved. I’m not adverse to bossing people around either.
My forays into writing have been as varied as the jobs I’ve held. I’ve written poetry, articles for magazines, short stories, paranormal romances (that include fantasy, contemporary and steampunk genres) and now I’ve found a home with urban fantasy. I love worldbuilding and few genres give you the kind of license urban fantasy does.
I live in FL with my retired Air Force husband and a horde of feline dependents. I’m represented by The Knight Agency.
Want to read more from Kristen Painter?
This giveaway is provided by Dark Faerie Tales
One winner will receive a copy of Blood Rights by Kristen Painter
Available on October 1, 2011 from Orbit Books
About the Book:
The lacy gold mapped her entire body. A finely-wrought filigree of stars, vines, flowers, butterflies, ancient symbols and words ran from her feet, up her legs, over her narrow waist, spanned her chest and finished down her arms to the tips of her fingers.
Born into a life of secrets and service, Chrysabelle’s body bears the telltale marks of a comarré—a special race of humans bred to feed vampire nobility. When her patron is murdered, she becomes the prime suspect, which sends her running into the mortal world…and into the arms of Malkolm, an outcast vampire cursed to kill every being from whom he drinks.
Now Chrysabelle and Malkolm must work together to stop a plot to merge the mortal and supernatural worlds. If they fail, a chaos unlike anything anyone has ever seen will threaten to reign.
Click HERE to read an excerpt
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