Title: “Maid Churning Butter.” The drawing showed a female vampire astride a mortal man. Her feet were on top of his face and her hands on his hips. She pumped herself by flicking her wrists. Obviously, she needed either exceptionally strong wrists or the power of levitation to make this position work.
The eroticism escaped me. I didn’t see two lovers flailing in passion. I instead saw Carmen taking notes and trying to fathom the spiritual undertow as would a hydrographer studying the ocean currents.
I slipped the page back and thumbed the manuscript. The drawings flashed by in a shifting kaleidoscope of carnal contortions.
Carmen was on to something, something deep and spiritual beyond the ken of the undead.
Where was she? How could I find her? What were they-whoever, or whatever, they were-doing to her? I fought to keep my imagination from running amok with gruesome images.
I blamed myself for what happened to Carmen. She was a victim of my hubris. We should’ve been more careful. It wasn’t the alien gangster Clayborn who had captured her, it had been his human accomplices. Fortunately, if there was an untarnished spot anywhere in this fiasco, it was that Clayborn and the humans remained convinced that we vampires were a rival alien species. For now, the secrets of the undead realm remained safe.
I could keep Gilbert Odin’s money (the original fake Odin) in good conscience. Good conscience. There I go again. What kind of a vampire was I?
As for any hope of rescuing Carmen, I could only wait until the improbable happened again.
My desk phone rang. I set the manuscript down and picked up the phone’s receiver. “Felix Gomez speaking.”
A man replied, his voice husky and eager. “Mr. Gomez, private detective?”
The timing of the call seemed too coincidental. My kundalini noir stirred. My fingertips tingled. I clumsily sketched a UFO on my desk blotter. “Yes.”
“Good. I’d like an appointment. I have uh…a delicate situation to discuss.”
It’s always a delicate situation. “Your name, sir?”
“Charles Mancinelli.”
“Does this situation involve extraterrestrials, Mr. Mancinelli?”
“Extraterrestrials? You mean like aliens? Hell, no. This is something legitimate.”
“Sorry, I had to ask.” My kundalini noir calmed. My fingertips stilled. I drew a line through the UFO, crossing it out. “Please continue.”
“Yeah, I imagine a man in your line of work gets a lot of nut jobs. Extraterrestrials. Aliens.” Mancinelli laughed. “Little green men. Go figure.”
I didn’t feel like laughing. “Let’s get to your case.”
“You’re a serious guy, aren’t you?”
“You want to hire a clown, check the Yellow Pages.”
“Okay, let me tell you about my case. Hold on. It’ll astound you.”
I doubted it.
Thanks to the crew at HarperCollins. At Eos: my publisher, Lisa Gallagher, my editor, Diana Gill, her assistant, Emily Krump, marketing manager, Michael Barrs, and publicist, Jack Womack. For their great support at Rayo: publisher, Rene Alegria, and publicist, Gretchen Crary. A special appreciation to my agent, Scott Hoffman, at Folio Literary Management, LLC, and to the Peter Miller Literary and Film Management, Inc. Thanks to CJ Lyons for the tour of Hilton Head Island and not feeding me to the alligators. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without the huzzahs from my critique group: Jeanne Stein, Sandy Maren, Jeff Shelby, and Tom and Margie Lawson. Special props to the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, the Lighthouse Writers Workshop, LaBloga, Mystery Writers of America, and El Centro Su Teatro. I owe much to the friendship and advice of Erika Paterson and Eric Matelski. Lastly, where would I be without the crank comments from my family: Tia Angelica, Sylvia, Armando, Janet, my sons, Alex and Emil, and Uncle Sam and Tia Alma. Happy fanging everyone.
Aformer infantry and aviation officer, Mario Acevedo lives and writes in Denver, Colorado. The bestselling author of The Nymphos of Rocky Flats and X-Rated Bloodsuckers, he has worked as a military helicopter pilot, engineer, and art teacher.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.