Heather's Blog

Azrael stood still in the men’s restroom of the portable guest- and bathhouse that had been erected outside of Slains Castle for his brother’s wedding. He was alone, and the air was filled with the hollow sound of foreboding. There was a storm brewing. It was a hurricane, hot and windy and destructive, and it was ripping through Azrael’s insides, begging to be released. He exhaled a shaky breath and pressed his forehead to the mirror in front of him, glancing up at his reflection as he did so.
Another human myth gone horribly awry. Vampires did indeed have reflections. It was the wraiths that didn’t. Azrael bared his teeth and laughed a cold, hard laugh at the thought. The most asinine things were going through his head at that moment. The thoughts were like fireflies on a pitch-black night, chaotic and useless and utterly distracting.
Sophie’s whispered thoughts echoed through his mind, taunting him. I would do anything. She’d been thinking about Juliette’s wings and wishing she could fly. If she’d had any idea how dangerously tempting her thoughts were . . . To say nothing of her reaction to the image he had so carelessly planted in her mind of the wedding ring sliding onto her finger. He hadn’t even meant to do it; he’d simply imagined it. However, he’d been in her head at the time, thoroughly rapt in all that she was, and she’d caught the impression clear as a bell.
Her heart had skipped, her cheeks had flushed, and her lips had actually grown fuller as blood rushed into them. Her eyes had become glassy and unfocused. Her breath had hitched. And Azrael lost a little of his sanity then and there at his brother’s wedding.
He’d never felt like this before. Not in his two thousand years on Earth—nor in the thousands upon thousands of years before that in the realm of angels. Never had he lost focus in this manner. He felt like he had the flu. But vampires didn’t get the flu. Archangels didn’t get the flu. The Angel of Death most certainly did not get the flu.
Azrael swore under his breath—and the mirror in front of him cracked beneath his palm, slicing into the skin of his hand. He blinked and slowly pulled away, straightening as he turned his hand over and gazed down at the welling red line across his palm. Even as he watched, it began to heal.
Azrael looked back up at the mirror and glared at the evidence of his rage. Lightning had indeed carved itself across the glass, a reflection of the storm that raged within him and was now breaking free. Get control, he told himself sternly. He was the most powerful vampire on Earth. If he couldn’t control his emotions, they would leak out in an incredibly destructive manner. Broken mirrors would be only the beginning.
He needed to think. He needed to plan. But Sophie Bryce was two hundred yards away, a walking, talking piece of the sun, and Azrael was losing it.
The lights in the men’s restroom began to flicker, and the shadows in the corners grew longer. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Thunder rolled in the distance. Again Azrael swore. He was fighting a losing battle. The image in the broken mirror reflected a tall, broad-shouldered man draped in stygian black, his sable hair framing a strikingly handsome face that was entirely too pale. Eyes that were entirely too bright.
And fangs that were entirely too long.
With a great amount of effort, Azrael forced his fangs to recede. He couldn’t get rid of them completely; his incisors would always be noticeably sharp and a touch longer than human canines. But with a good deal of concentration, he was able to make them look passable. This was a learned vampire ability; new vampires had to practice at it, and it could sometimes take years.
Azrael would know. When he had left his realm and traveled to Earth with his brothers two thousand years ago, something had happened to him. Michael’s theory was that what Azrael had done up until then as the Angel of Death somehow negatively influenced his material form on Earth. Unlike his brothers, Az had been transformed into some kind of supernatural monster.
At the time there was no name for what he was. The fangs, the nearly unquenchable hunger for blood, the new and horrid deadly aversion to the sun—these symptoms had never existed in a being until Azrael came along. He was the first vampire. He gave himself the name because it sounded right.
It took him months to learn to control the hunger inside. It had been a very painful period of time, and in the years since then, he had never forgotten the way it tore him up inside, shredding his soul like tissue paper. Now, every night as he awoke with the stars, he thanked fate that he no longer suffered. He still had to feed. It was necessary for the survival of a vampire that he ingest human blood every night. But his need had become a simple understanding of his physiology—and an acceptance of the same. He considered himself immensely fortunate and never took for granted the fact that he no longer craved and hungered the way he had in those horrid moments of vampiric inception.
But tonight . . .
Now, as Azrael stood in the men’s restroom outside of the castle, he was gripped by acidic, mind-numbing fear. Because he felt it again. It was the same driving kind of need—one that shoved every other thought or desire or inclination ruthlessly out of the way and threatened absolute subjugation. Only this time, it was focused. Directed.
He hungered. He craved like a madman. But what he craved and hungered for was Sophie Bryce.
His archess.

From Death’s Angel, by Heather Killough-Walden
Coming December, 2012

The coolest thing happened yesterday here in Lubbock. This homeless and crippled man with a cane was holding up a sign on the street corner on a service road just south of 289. I was on my way to an appointment. I hadn’t noticed him at first because of cars between us. He was three lanes over and by the time I spotted him, I was worried about the stoplight changing, but traffic in the other direction seemed to be coming pretty quick and steady, so I figured I had time. I ripped open my purse and took out everything I had, maybe a ten, some fives, and a bunch of ones. I honked my horn to draw his attention and waved him over. He hobbled over to me as quickly as he could, took my money, and thanked me. Suddenly the car beside me was doing the same thing, honking its horn and waving him over. And then the car behind me did the same. And then the one in front of me. It was this awesome, incredible cascade of kindness. The light changed, but the cars stayed put, handing out money to this homeless man.
It touched me so deeply.

Normally when this day rolls around every year, I sort of roll my eyes. I mean, shouldn’t we be thankful for what we have EVERY day? And only in the US could we have a day made JUST for being thankful for what we already have – right before we race to shove each other out of line the next day in order to buy things we DON’T already have. It’s just another day.

But this time… well, this time it’s different. And if you can spare a few minutes, I’ll tell you why.

My mother graduated from Saint Mary of the Woods College in Indiana. Her graduation ring always fascinated me. It had a black face, onyx or obsidian – I didn’t know which – and into that large rectangle was carved the letters, “SMW.” I loved that ring. I would see it on her and just identify it as a part of her. That ring WAS my mother. I told her – some day – I wanted it.

She would shake her head and say, “This is mine. You’ll have to pry it off of my dead finger.”

Fast-forward thirty years.
My parents, now in their fifties, began to get sick. They were running a dry cleaning business in New Mexico, working seventy hours a week, barely bringing in enough to pay the bills. My father’s back, which looks like a calcified map of the Grand Canyon, became so bad he was in agony twenty-four-seven. He also has a muscle disease that acts like arthritis and means chronic pain as well.

My mother, the physical rock in our family, broke her leg. She tried to work anyway; they pushed and pushed, ever honest, good people who wanted to earn a living and pay their way. It wasn’t until my mother finally began fainting from exhaustion at work and my father landed in the hospital with a heart attack that they realized (even though their kids had told them much, much earlier) that they had no choice. They had to sell the business.

Fast forward two loooong years. Every attempt at selling the business had failed. Every deal made with the bank, every concession they’d granted, every single bow and scrape they had performed had mattered not at all. They’d only managed to sell half of the dry cleaner’s, and they had a decision to make. Work until the ambulance dragged their carcasses out of the cleaner’s one night – or declare bankruptcy.

They decided on choice “b.” But they did so only under the promise by the bank that they would not lose their home.

Fast-forward several very stressful months. The bank lied. They are going to lose their home. My father became more ill, my sister began to go through horrible problems of her own, I began to help them pay bills, and my mother became depressed enough that she started giving away everything she had. She didn’t have much, mind you, but what little she possessed, she suddenly wanted her children to own. When questioned, she would just say, “Well I don’t need it anymore.” As if she were waiting to die.

This was depressing…. But I had to ask. “What about the ring?”
“Oh….” she said. “I gave it to Holly.”

Holly is my sister. I was devastated. My mother had honestly forgotten that I wanted the ring. You know – thirty years, four children, stressful job after stressful job, and a brain tumor will do that to a woman. She was so sorry that she’d forgotten, and I forgave her. But I was crushed.

Not long after that, my mother – for some unknown reason to us all – began to, of all things, substitute teach.

Now this really threw us. We figured she just wanted to feel useful. She used to be a teacher, after all, way back in the day. She was such a good teacher, she won an award for being one of the best teachers in New Mexico. NASA had her come up to their holy-secret-never-breathe-a-word offices in California and gave her top priority access to things the rest of us could only dream of – all so that she could share the wonder of science with her students. She’s that kind of woman. So, we finally shrugged and let her do the substitute teaching even though she was making an absolute pittance and she was so, so tired.

Fast forward to this week.
A few days ago, I opened the front door of the house to find a note from Fed Ex. I’d missed a package delivery that required a signature at the door. A few hours later, I got a call from my mother. She told me that I needed to be at the house in the afternoon the following day. She seemed very adamant, so I agreed despite the fact that I’m busier than f@#k. I stayed at the house all day and worked on editing A Sinister Game, which was almost due to release.

The next morning, I found out my mother was in the hospital. She’d suffered equilibrium, nausea, vomiting, and a massive headache. These were things that meant “migraine” to me, but because she’d had a brain tumor in the past, they wanted to be certain. So they did some scans…. More money, but at least we knew she was okay.
The migraine persisted. I gave her advice: caffeine, Tylenol and aspirin combined, no lights or sounds, etc.

The next day, I had a shot in my back that went awry and was bed ridden. Somewhere in that mess, the Fed Ex guy came and apparently didn’t knock loud enough – I don’t know. I missed the package again.
My mother calls me up. “You have to be there tomorrow. I’ve called them. I’ve told them to knock until their hand falls off. I told them to ring the doorbell until its battery dies. You have to have that package.” I asked her where it was coming from – but she wouldn’t tell me. She had sworn everyone to secrecy on the threat of death.

Fast-forward to today. In fact, a few hours ago.
Jarred by the sound of a man knocking as if there were no tomorrow and ringing the doorbell as if someone in China needed to hear it, I ran to the front door. The Fed Ex guy gave me this wide-eyed look, held out a tiny little package, and said, “Thank God.”

I signed his little mechanical device and took the padded envelope from him. It had what felt like a box inside. Small. I looked up in the top left-hand corner to see where it had come from: “Saint Mary of the Woods.”

My heart skipped a beat. I stared at it for half a second longer before suddenly ripping the envelope in half and allowing the box to tumble out into my hand. It was a ring box. I said, “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. She couldn’t have!”

But she did. I opened the box to reveal a replica of my mother’s ring – down to every last detail. The date was the same, the design was the same, it was heavy and wonderful and instantly reminded me of her face, her smile, her rolling eyes as she would tease, “You’ll have to pry it off of my dead finger.”

I called her up, crying, laughing. I couldn’t believe it. And then she finally – finally – told me everything. She’d taken the substitute teaching job so that she could save every last penny she earned to buy me this ring. She’d felt so horrible about giving hers to my sister; she just wanted to make up for it. She just… wanted me to have this ring. Every time the Fed Ex man failed to put the package in my hands, it killed her a little more. That was where the migraine came from. She was stressed to her limits.

Then she said, “Look inside of the ring. Do you see the inscription?”

I didn’t want to take it off – it fit perfectly. But I slipped it off and turned it over and read aloud, “PGK-HKW.”

Pilar Gonzelez de Killough to Heather Killough-Walden.

Everything in my world turned around in that moment. My life, my troubles, my worries, our hardships, our fears – they all flipped over onto their heads. I saw the stars. I could have been in that NASA office myself just then and I would have known more about the heavens than any of the geeks sitting at those super high-tech consoles. I’d touched heaven personally. It was there – in the silver and black ring that rested in the palm of my hand.

Today, this year on Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my mother. I am thankful for my mother like you wouldn’t believe. And then some.

And I just wanted you to know.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
Love,
– Heather

Release date for A Sinister Game, by Heather Killough-Walden:

November 22, 2012

Happy Thanksgiving! 🙂

In a world ruled by Game Leaders, a dark and dangerous man proposes a wager….

 “If you can escape me for seven rounds, Victoria – if you can keep from being taken off of the board for that long, I will admit defeat and step down as Gray leader. But if I find you,” he let the words sink in. “And if I capture you….” His voice trailed off just as his gaze trailed over her lips, her throat, her breasts.

His green eyes locked on hers again and she felt she would die right there at that table.

“Then you’ll join me. You’ll give yourself to me for one night.” His smile was the devil’s promise. “This is the wager.”

 But this is a game far more complicated and far more deadly than either of them anticipated. As the real world unfolds around them, what they thought they knew becomes obsolete, and the rules are ruthlessly changed… in this SINister game.

As I was reading the news this morning, I had this sudden “vision:”

Fifty big kids were on a playground. They’d divided themselves into two teams. The ball went back and forth and the rules were basically followed. One team lost a few times in a row and pouted a bit, but again the rules were rules and fair was fair. And the game continued.
Then the other team lost a few times. Rules were rules and fair was fair, but this second team didn’t really seem to care. Someone in the team began a bluster. Others followed suit.
Finally, one of kids on the second team bent down, stole the ball, and shouted, “I’m going home!”
The other team watched, mystified, as half of the players left the field in a huff. They looked at each other, shrugging. The teams had been dissolved and playtime was ruined.
A once happy place of growth and civility was filled with the hollow echoes of the wins and losses of the past.

Some kids never grow up.

Azrael smiled, flashing perfect white teeth that sported incisors slightly longer than the norm. Some people naturally looked like that, he knew, but on him it looked different enough that he didn’t smile often. On him, it seemed to fit too perfectly and only served to reinforce the otherworldly impressions people often had when looking at him.

He was a starkly charismatic individual. He was taller than anyone he knew, save perhaps Samael. His voice could literally mesmerize. He was also uncommonly, almost painfully handsome. He wasn’t certain why the Old Man had seen fit to bother with such a thing while simultaneously making him a vampire. It was like the curse of Beethoven, who created the most beautiful music in the world and couldn’t hear it. What good was a beautiful face when placed on a monster?

But Sophie didn’t seem to mind the hint of fang he exposed. In fact, as he brushed her mind, unable to help himself from drawing nearer to her in any way possible, he was surprised to find that she found it attractive. My God, she thought. He really does look like a vampire.

This was the second time she had thought such a thing. If he’d been capable of choking, he would have done so the first time her mind had muttered the impression. Hearing it now had nearly as strong an effect on Azrael. Sophie wasn’t repulsed by vampires. And the idea that he resembled one was appealing to her.

Of course, Azrael was no fool. A lot of girls believed they would enjoy the company of a vampire – if vampires existed. In reality, he knew they would cower or scream or run, or most likely all three. Still… he found himself hoping.

“Sophie Bryce, right? The maid of honor?” he asked, his smile utterly disarming. He’d had millennia to practice.

Sophie blinked and he read her thoughts. She was desperately trying to find her head in the wake of his sudden presence. She’d been torturing herself over the last few days, and he knew it. He’d watched her every night. Listened to her. He knew damn well that she was drawn to him – and that she hated herself for it.

He sensed it when a slight pain twinged up her arm and Sophie realized that her friend was holding her tight. Taylor’s fingers curled into Sophie’s forearm in utter distraction, her hazel eyes glued to Azrael. He knew she couldn’t help it and wasn’t aware of what she was doing, but the fact that she’d brought his archess even the slightest discomfort was difficult for Az to ignore. It upset him.

And with practiced control, he tamped down the anger.

Sophie, on the other hand, appeared to be glad for the pain. It shot through the dazed fog that Az’s appearance had caused. It also cleared her senses enough to allow her to pull her arm out of Taylor’s grip, clear her throat, and say, “Yes.” He tried not to smile when her voice cracked halfway through the single syllable. She cleared her throat some more and forced a smile to her lips. “That’s me.” She was so fucking cute with half of her glorious golden locks tucked up underneath that Penguins cap. Wisps of it fell about her face, framing it and caressing it the way he wanted to.

He chuckled softly, watching her carefully to gauge the effect his laugh had on her.

Sophie’s gold eyes brightened, her lips parted, and her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. Az’s monster reared its head and he felt his vision begin to heat up. If he wasn’t careful, his eyes would begin to glow. “We never got the chance to actually meet the other night,” he told her, forcing himself to continue with the charade.

“No,” she agreed, relieved that she was finally finding her voice. “We didn’t.”

He cocked his head to one side and slid his gaze from hers to regard her friends. He needed to look away – just for a moment. Long enough to get himself under control once more. His gold eyes slowly scanned the faces of her companions – and then stopped on the pair of men who sat behind them.

A quick scan of their minds told him they were recent graduates from Carnegie Mellon University. The one on the right was the son of a wealthy factory owner here in the city. His name was Richard. And he’d been thinking all sorts of biblical things about Sophie that night.

Azrael grew very still and something dark flickered across his face. He knew it was there; he knew he was failing to hide his sudden fury. But he barely cared.

Richard fell back into the curve of his seat and swallowed hard as the blood drained from his face. Below him, Sophie cleared her throat, at once drawing Azrael’s attention. Sophie slowly stood and turned to face him. “Az, these are my friends, Taylor and Emily.” She gestured toward them and they smiled nervously, but politely, nodding in his direction.
Emily and Taylor’s eyes were still a little glazed over at his presence, so, Az allowed some of his vampiric influence to snake around and through the girls, easing them into a more comfortable state of relaxation.

It worked like a charm. Within seconds, Taylor was smiling easily and standing to greet him properly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.

“Likewise,” Az agreed, and with a slight bow, accepted the offered hands of both Taylor and then Emily, who quickly followed suit.

While he shook hands, Sophie’s thoughts echoed through Az’s mind. She couldn’t believe that her friends weren’t guessing he was the Masked One. It seemed so obvious to her now that she knew his secret. Everything about him screamed of the kind of rock star charisma that it took to hold millions of fans in sway.

Meanwhile, Sophie’s gaze traveled over Azrael’s form, and he tried not to visibly crow with the triumph he felt when she shamelessly took in the way the black button-up shirt under his sports coat stretched taut across the muscles of his chest. She was particularly fond of the curve of his neck where it met his shoulder.

Azrael released Emily’s hand, straightened again, and heard Sophie’s heart rate speed up.

He looked up to see that her sunshine eyes were glassy with unabashed desire. And, as if it would hide the way her mouth watered for him, she had pressed her bottom lip between two perfect, white teeth. Azrael’s gaze locked on the plump lip. He quickly slipped his hands into the pockets of his trench coat as they tightened into fists at his sides, and his nails began to cut into his palms. He imagined her pressing hard enough with her teeth to draw blood.

If she did… it would all be over.

“Juliette mentioned you live in Pittsburgh,” he said, trying to break through not only his tension, but hers. “I’d forgotten.” His tone was gentle, personal. He knew that to her, it was as if they were the only two in the arena.

“For now,” she told him flat-out. She didn’t want to bore him with the fact that she would only be there for two more days, but he was well aware. “But what are you doing here?” she asked, honestly curious. It was quite a coincidence to her that she had never seen him before in her life – and then, suddenly, she’d seen him twice in the space of a week. She wasn’t stupid; she was wary.

That was okay with him. He had a story and he would use it, but even this lie was too much of a secret for him to share with her friends. Az glanced at Taylor and Emily and smiled an easy, even somewhat shy smile. “It’s a personal matter actually,” he said. “However…” he paused, turned, and glanced up toward the private booths up above them.

His band awaited him in one of them; they had a bird’s eye view of the entire arena from their vantage point. He knew because he’d been watching Sophie from it all night.

He also knew that Sophie had never been in one of those suites herself, and he was hoping she’d be tempted enough by what he was about to offer that he could pull her away from her companions at least for a little while. “Second period will begin in a few minutes,” he said, looking back down at her and scorching her once more with stark eyes. “And there is plenty of room in our suite for another guest.” He chanced another glance at the men seated behind Sophie – especially Richard – and was smugly satisfied when the young man looked as though he wanted to piss himself. “Perhaps you would care to join me?” he asked, turning his gaze back on his archess.

He could hear her blood rushing through her veins. He was scaring her and thrilling her at the same time. She was finding it hard to think.

He wasn’t opposed to working with that; he had no desire to stand here and play the good guy much longer anyway.

A gentle push of his power, and it surrounded Sophie. In a few moments, she not only found it difficult to think, she found it impossible. Seconds ago, she’d had a thousand reasons why she should keep away from Azrael. And the fact that he belonged to – was destined to be with – another, was the most powerful.
But just then, every reason she’d had, and in fact, reason itself, fled from her consciousness and she found herself saying, “Yes.”

She’d barely whispered it, but it was enough.

Azrael’s smile broadened.

– Death’s Angel, by Heather Killough-Walden (coming Dec. 31st)

A Sinister Game
by Heather Killough-Walden

In a world ruled by Game Leaders, a dark and dangerous man proposes a wager….

“If you can escape me for seven rounds, Victoria – if you can keep from being taken off of the board for that long, I will admit defeat and step down as Gray leader. But if I find you,” he let the words sink in. “And if I capture you….” His voice trailed off just as his gaze trailed over her lips, her throat, her breasts.
His green eyes locked on hers again and she felt she would die right there at that table.
“Then you’ll join me. You’ll give yourself to me for one night.” His smile was the devil’s promise. “This is the wager.”

But this is a game far more complicated and far more deadly than either of them anticipated. As the real world unfolds around them, what they thought they knew becomes obsolete, and the rules are ruthlessly changed… in this SINister game.

Coming November, 2012
Yes, November, 2012. 😉

A Halloween Treat for my readers

Angel in the Elevator
Urban Legend – as “told” by the characters of
The Lost Angels series, by Heather Killough-Walden

“You ought to put an elevator in here,” said Ellie as she tossed her long black hair over her shoulder and leaned back in the cushions of the couch, taking her steaming mug of hot chocolate with her. “It’s a workout to get from one wing to another.”

“That’s because there are no ‘wings’, per se,” said Max, glancing up as if to take in the floors and levels beyond the ceiling over their heads. “The mansion simply transforms to accommodate us as we see fit.”

“An’ that means it’s bloody big,” said Gabriel, flashing her a shit-eating grin and then swigging down half the bottle of beer he held in one hand.

Lightning zigzagged outside the dark windows that ran along two walls. The curtains framing them on either side billowed slightly, as the windows had been left open a crack.

Thunder beckoned and Uriel’s brow rose. “Is that you?” he asked, turning to his newlywed bride.

Eleanore Granger, or Ellie, smiled and shook her head, shrugging her innocence. “Not this time.” As an archess, one of her abilities was to control the weather – but the gale building outside had nothing to do with her.

“It’s Halloween,” said Michael, who leaned casually against the mantle above the roaring fireplace. “A storm like this is par for the course.” His smile was a hell of a lot darker than normal for him. Michael was the goody-two-shoes of the four favored archangels. A wry and wicked tilt of his lips was rare. Perhaps it was for that reason that Eleanore found herself caught up in it now.

Uriel noticed, but he didn’t have a chance to say anything before a deeper, nearly painfully melodious voice cut in.

“I would have to agree,” said Azrael.

The inhabitants of the room – Uriel, Gabriel, Michael, Ellie, and Max, their guardian – turned to regard the enigmatic fourth archangel as he came down a long dark hall. The hall led to a winding stone staircase that, in turn, led to his sleeping chamber below ground. Azrael was the former Angel of Death. He was also a vampire – the first and king of the vampires, in fact – and every ounce of his exceedingly tall, broodingly handsome visage oozed the proof.

Azrael entered the living room and gracefully took a seat. The space filled with a pregnant quiet. Az’s presence did that sometimes.

“This weather and your mention of the elevator reminds me of something,” Uriel finally said, turning back to Ellie and breaking the silence.

“Shoot,” said Ellie, her dark blue eyes glittering in the firelight.

“Have you ever heard the story of the angel and the elevator?”

“You mean the urban legend,” corrected Michael, his tone back to its serious self once more.

“Whatever,” said Uriel, glancing sharply in his brother’s direction.

“Nope,” said Ellie. She leaned forward in the seat she occupied across from him, put down her mug, and rested her elbows on her knees. “Tell me.”

Uriel felt his emerald green eyes darken. Ellie’s shirt dipped slightly over one arm as she leaned toward him. The creamy expanse of her neck and shoulder beckoned. He slowly straightened, at once missing the fangs he’d been cursed with and then had lost not too long ago.

Eleanore must have seen the sudden spike of hunger in his expression, because her own pupils expanded, her lips parted, and her breathing hitched. Uriel’s smile turned as dark as his eyes.

“Well,” he said softly as he too leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “It goes like this. Once upon a time, in a world light-years away, a young woman worked in a high-rise building in a very busy city-“

“Leave it to the actor to embellish,” mumbled Gabriel under his breath.

“I heard it was a woman living in a high-rise apartment,” said Max, frowning in confusion from behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

“No, I’m pretty sure it was a woman who lived in a ranch house but sometimes cleaned high-rise offices,” said Michael.

“What-ever,” Uriel repeated, an edge finding its way into his deep voice. “As I was saying,” he went on, returning his gaze to Ellie, who was now hiding a laugh in her twinkling eyes. “A woman who had some sort of reason to spend some inordinate amount of time in a high-rise accommodation, for some unknown purpose one night went to sleep and had a bizarre dream.” He paused, as if expecting to be interrupted. When he wasn’t, he relaxed.

“In the dream, she was waiting for an elevator” he said, applying all of his attention to his bride. She listened intently. “She pressed the ‘down’ button and the elevator dinged on her floor. The doors slid open – and there stood a tall man in a white suit. The suit was so white, in fact, that it was glowing.”

“Sounds familiar,” muttered Gabriel. “The blooming glowy suit thing.”

“Except that Samael is not known to wear white,” said Azrael. Everyone looked at him. The change in subject was so abrupt, Uriel couldn’t help but wonder whether the vampire king had just read Michael’s mind.

Samael, he thought to himself. Sam was their arch-nemesis. The Fallen One. The tall, charismatic, devastatingly handsome and powerful archangel who had once been the Old Man’s favorite but was passed up for Michael was a thorn in the four favored’s sides.

Uriel had to admit that he could see Samael wearing a shining suit. All of his suits were tailored, incredibly expensive, and impeccably clean. But Az was right too. Sam didn’t wear white.

“Getting back to the story,” Uriel said by way of returning to the subject at hand.

“Except you’re telling it wrong again,” said Max, who sat up a little straighter and adjusted the vest in his own three-piece suit. His was brown. His suits were always brown. They matched his eyes and hair. “She didn’t have a dream because she never fell asleep. She was kept up by a light shining under her door, if I’m not mistaken. When she opened the door and looked out into the hall to find the light’s source, she saw the man in the white suit standing at the end of it. He was smiling at her.”

Uriel rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to fist his hand in his hair.

Max went on. “She watched for a while and eventually he turned away from her and disappeared around the corner.”

Uriel pursed his lips, took a deep breath through his nose, and thought fast. “Okay, dream or happenstance, she sees the man in white. Can we agree on that much?”

Max nodded. No one objected.

So Uriel went on. “Day two of our story sees our young lady entering the before-mentioned high-rise building. Somehow, she finds herself on the seventh floor.”

“Thirteenth,” corrected Michael.

“No, I think he’s right. I’m fairly certain it’s the seventh,” said Max.

“Christ,” muttered Uriel.

From where he sat on one of the sofas, Azrael spoke up. “She’s an executive assistant,” he said calmly. Everyone froze and turned to face him, their ears pricked at the sound of his deep, otherworldly voice. “At the end of the day, she is behind on her work. She has to stay late. The hours tick by one after another and soon,” he said, pulling them along with the suspenseful lilt of his hypnotic tone, “she is alone on her floor. Everyone else is long gone.”

There was a pause – one that Uriel was a tad flummoxed to find no one wanted to fill – and then Azrael continued. “When she could work no more, she gathered her belongings and headed to the floor’s elevator. There, she pressed the ‘down’ button and waited.”

More silence.

“When the elevator doors opened, the woman was shocked to feel another body press rudely and quickly past her and enter the car. At first, she was simply dismayed that she was not as alone as she’d previously believed. However, when she regained her composure and looked up to see who had moved by her, she was amazed to find herself staring at no one other than the man in the white suit.”

“From her dream!” exclaimed Eleanore.

“No, from the hall the night before,” insisted Max.

Uriel blew out a sigh.

Azrael, however, seemed unperturbed by the interruption or disagreement. “Her surprise at seeing the man left her stunned and motionless until the elevator doors once more slid shut. Before she fully realized that she’d just missed her ride down, the elevator began to descend. A moment later, however, an odd popping sound reverberated through the floor beneath her feet. A second after that came the thunder of a crash.”

Real thunder rolled across the night sky outside, causing everyone but Azrael to jump.

“The elevator fell!” guessed Ellie breathlessly. She’d moved to the very edge of her couch cushion by this point and her hot chocolate was growing cold.

Michael pushed off of his station by the fireplace and moved to join them at the sofas. “When she took the stairs down,” he said, “it was to find the police were already on the scene because an alarm had sounded and the cops were nearby at the time.”

He would tell this part, thought Uriel. Michael worked as a cop in New York City, so this was his territory.

Michael went on. “She told the police what had happened to her and one of the officers took her statement. When he’d finished, he told her that she was lucky, that the elevator plummeted thirteen floors -”

“Seven,” interrupted both Max and Uriel. Michael shot them a reprimanding look, and Azrael actually chuckled. Everyone looked at him. The Angel of Death shrugged.

Michael narrowed his gaze. “And that if anyone had been in the elevator when it had fallen, they would have been dead on impact. The woman insisted that there had been someone on the elevator – she’d seen the man in white board it herself. But when they pried the doors open, it was to find the elevator empty.”

“So that’s why they call it the angel in the elevator story,” Ellie said.

“Urban legend,” Michael corrected.

“The man in white was supposed to be an angel who kept her from dying by stopping her from getting onto the elevator herself,” Ellie finished as if Michael hadn’t spoken.

“Yep,” came the general agreement from everyone in the room.

A brief silence followed, and then, “Can’t see Sam doin’ that either,” said Gabriel.

“Nope,” everyone agreed.

Max raised his brow and cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. “But I can see him holding the doors open and asking, ‘Going down?’”

The End.

Happy Halloween. 🙂 XOXO

The temperature is dropping, the leaves are turning, and the smell of wood smoke is carried on a breeze. Fog lingers now, and cemeteries seem a little less unoccupied than they did before. The nights are longer. Shadows are deeper. The moon appears like a Cheshire cat on a stage of velvet black.
Spooky is in the air.
And everywhere people smile, rub their hands together, and begin browsing online for stick-on fangs, gargoyle wings, stuffed ravens, and Styrofoam grave stones they can place in their yards. They get a strange and wonderful chill as they ponder the Haunted Houses going up, pumpkin carving, the orange and black candy, and the global masquerade that is about to take place.
Why? Why does Halloween give us such a thrill?
As a romance writer, I’ve often pondered the infatuation humanity has with, for lack of a better term, fear. “Why would a romance writer be interested in such a thing?” you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. Fear is titillating. It’s exciting. Just the right amount of it gets our blood pumping to certain body parts, releases certain chemicals, and even has the potential to enhance – other – experiences.
Fear is a primal response and it engenders primal side effects. And there’s nothing more primal than sex.
Through years of observation and research, I’ve come to realize that this is one of the reasons vampires are so popular amongst paranormal romance readers. The vampire is to romance as Halloween is to holidays. It is that special and different and dangerous-to-a-certain-degree aspect of romance that gets readers’ heart rate up just a little higher than the bodice-rippers of old.
A vampire is dark, he is strong and deadly. He is immortal, so chances are he’s lived long enough to acquire a scary amount of knowledge. He’s powerful. He can control your bloody mind, for crying out loud. That’s seriously scary.
It’s also so very, very wonderful.
For if a man this powerful, this dark and dangerous, this knowledgeable and this out-and-out scary has chosen you as the woman he loves, that means you must be special too. That means something about you appeals to the forbidden in the same way that the forbidden appeals to you. And that scary, forbidden thing will bring you frightening amounts of pleasure-close-to-pain and can protect the hell out of you to boot. There’s also the added bonus that he will never grow old and fat – and by turning you, he can make sure that you don’t either! Talk about an added bonus. The vampire is virtually the tall, dark and befanged fountain of youth.
As All Hallows Eve draws near and the world shifts into blacks, reds, purples and oranges, ponder the spookiness of it all. Slip on your fake fangs, bat wings and silken capes and think about the mists and the unknown and the lurking unnamables. Be grateful for the night and the mystery.
Happy Halloween. ☺
Now go celebrate the tantalizing, titillating bit o’ fear that brings that much more pleasure to our otherwise boringly breathe-easy lives. Trick-or-treat with the best of them and pick up your copy of Halloween’s quintessential paranormal treat: The October Trilogy. There’s literally no better time than now.

The October Trilogy
By Heather Killough-Walden

Book One: Sam I Am
Seventeen year-old Logan Wright has always turned to the make-believe world of her written words to escape the pain of her real life. Through her writing, she lives vicariously, creating gorgeous but dangerous male characters who hunt down, and fight for, their chosen mates. For a vice, it’s a safe one. Normally.
However, this is October.

The moon is full, the cemetery is filled with mists, and the misspoken words of an ages-old spell have released an ancient force. It is shapeless – nameless. Until it happens upon the words of a beautiful young bard and takes the wickedly handsome form of one of her creations.

Now Logan finds herself the object of desire for a boy who appears to be everything she ever dreamed of. Sam Hain is tall, strong, and gorgeous. He wants her; there’s no denying that. So, what’s the problem?

Sam’s kisses come with sharp teeth – and a dark promise.

Logan, her friends, and her long-time crush must band together in order to save her from the force they unwittingly awakened. They have one month. And it’s going to be a rough one.

Book Two: Secretly Sam
It’s been a week since Logan Wright and her friends managed to defeat Samhain, the Lord of the Dead, and put an end to the death and destruction he caused in his relentless pursuit of her.

All has been quiet.

But it’s always quiet before a storm, and as the October wind picks up once more and red eyes peer from the darkness, it becomes clear that “Sam Hain” is far from finished. He’s after something precious, something that can only be found here, and he isn’t going to go away without it.

In this second installment of the pulse-pounding young adult series The October Trilogy, Logan and her companions face an enemy that has grown more powerful, more determined, and more dangerous in spades. Samhain, who has once more become Sam Hain the indomitable god-turned-vampire, has his mesmerizing sights set on Logan Wright, body and soul.

Nothing is going to sway him this time. He’s learned his lessons and adapted. Time is running out. And nothing is more deadly than a Death God on a schedule.

Both Sam I Am and Secretly Sam are currently available as eBooks through Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Sam I Am is temporarily on promotional sale for $1.00.

I’ve got a lot of friends and acquaintances who claim they are… “unlucky” in love. They are the products of failed marriages, or they are people who have never been married nor even had lasting relationships. They look at me, and at the man I’ve been with since I was seventeen, and they shoot me with a, “You don’t know how lucky you are to have someone who cares about you that much.”

Hmm.

Well, the subject came up again just recently and it made me realize that it’s been bugging me for a while. I want to address this attitude that I’m “lucky” and that they’re “not.”

My husband is a wonderful, wonderful man. I won’t deny that. I’m fortunate to have him by my side. But then again, I was smart enough to recognize his potential when I saw it and cling to it through thick and thin, through objections from all around me, and through obstacles the world couldn’t seem to stop hurling at us.

And I contribute to the marriage too.

A marriage takes work on both sides, and this is something that too many people don’t understand. They hit me with the “You’re so lucky” routine, and that’s that. As if I won the lottery or opened a good fortune cookie. As if I didn’t put any effort into making certain my husband and I would remain together.

So I’m gonna give it to you straight up. Here it is – the truth of why I’m “lucky” in love.
I take care of myself. I eat right. I spend some time on my hair. I use sunblock and anti-wrinkle lotion. I hold in my farts. I don’t breathe bad breath on him. I don’t let him see me naked if I’m having an off and pudgy day. I make sure my clothes fit well and are flattering. I never smile at him if I’m afraid there is food in my teeth. I support him in his work, edit his papers, give him ideas for his research, talk him up to his peers and bosses. I drive him to the doctor’s when he needs it, take care of him when he’s sick, ask him how his day was. I worked my very poor way through college, earned a few degrees, and continue to learn about the things around me.

I never stop trying.

And if I think HE has stopped trying, I call him on it. I never settle. In the long run, he respects me more for it and appreciates that I love him for all of the wonderful things he IS, and not the wonderful things he could be.

It’s not easy. It’s got nothing to do with luck.

For a marriage to succeed, you have to push through the muck and pull out of the sludge and give each other lifts-up to climb the cliffs. And in the end, you can collapse at the bottom of the mountain together and momentarily rest in the knowledge that you’ve made it this far. You’ll probably make the next mountain too.