Spirit Breaker (14 page)

William Massa is a screenwriter (
Return to House on Haunted Hil
l) and script consultant. He has lived in New York, Florida, Europe and now calls Los Angeles his home. William writes horror, science fiction and dark fantasy. Directing a movie one day is on William’s bucket list. More books are on the way.

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Writing can be a solitary pursuit but rewriting can be a group effort. I strive to make each book better than the last and feedback is incredibly helpful. If you have notes, thoughts or comments about this book or want to contact me, feel free to email me at
 

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EDITING

Erin Elizabeth Long

COVER ART/CREDITS

Cover design by Jun Ares & William Massa

FEAR THE LIGHT: WHO MURDERED DRACULA?

Over the centuries, many had tried to kill the Count. All had failed. Until now... 

Eight vampires gather at Dracula's castle to solve his murder. But as the sun rises outside the chateau, a voice cries out and another creature of the night is slain. Trapped, the sun burning bright outside, the vampires realize they have met their match — a killer who plans on picking them off one by one!
As the daylight reigns and their numbers dwindle, a dark suspicion grows — could Dracula's murderer be hiding in plain sight?

A THRILLER WHERE THE MONSTERS ARE THE VICTIMS!

"All in all this was an easy read that flew by. The pacing was tight and kept the story interesting up until the last page. A satisfying ending made this a worthy read.
" - Nikki Howard, Ravenous Reads
"...it is fun to see vampires switch from being predator to prey. The story is essentially ten little Indians"
- Taliesin meets the Vampires
"...If you loved and read Agatha Christie's - And Then There Were None/Ten Little Indians then you will love this novel..." -
Gadget Girl Reviews
"It is nothing like the other vampire books I have read..." -
Jenny, Fabulous and Fun Blog

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PLEASE ENJOY A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF FEAR THE LIGHT

VINCENT DROVE HIS Mercedes Bentz rental car down a two-lane country road that carved its way through endless rolling hills. Towering trees and vast vineyards stood silhouetted in the milky moonlight. There was an air of remoteness and isolation about the place even though the nearest town was only half an hour away. This was Bordeaux wine country, where monks had first embraced viticulture during the reign of Charlemagne.
 

Vincent eased his foot off the gas as the road began to turn. The flight had been uneventful and for the most part painless. He left Los Angeles around two in the morning and arrived in Paris after 8 o’clock in the evening, a nine-hour time difference allowing him to avoid daylight all together. He traveled first class and made sure to book a whole row. He opted for the aisle seat and kept a safe distance from his window, the shade drawn of course. Most of the legends surrounding his kind were Hollywood bullshit. Vampires couldn’t turn into bats, wolves or mist and they were immune to crosses but sunlight could destroy them. A different vampire might’ve decided to sit out the flight in the cargo hold, secure inside a steel sarcophagus with two human servants along for the ride to assure that the coffin arrived at the right address, the promise of immortality assuring their loyal assistance. But that was way too dramatic for Vincent and not his style.
 

That was Dracula’s style.

The bucolic forest landscape continued to unfold before Vincent. Strange to think that Dracula had chosen this area as his home for the better half of the last century. Then again, Vincent never did understand how Dracula’s mind worked. He was a legend and an enigma. Vincent wondered often what had driven the Count to choose a Texas Ranger to be one of his children of the night.
 

Vincent had promised himself not to dredge up the old days, but he had also known it was a promise he’d break. Much of the past seemed like a blur, but that fateful moment when everything changed was etched into his memory and still held its dark sway over him.
 

The year was 1876 and he’d been tracking a vicious murderer across the state of Texas. The fiend had left ten bodies in his deadly wake, all of them female, their blood completely drained, albino corpses lined with twin puncture marks. The killer seemed to be always just one step ahead. Toying with him. Pushing him to the edge. The pursuit had become a game of cat and mouse, and it was consuming Vincent’s every waking moment.
 

He finally tracked his quarry to a small town near the Mexican border. Two more bodies had been found and the locals relayed in hushed tones that a European gentleman had arrived earlier in the week, a man of means and manners whose very presence could cloud the minds of every unfortunate soul he came in contact with. He seemed to cast a nearly supernatural spell over the fairer sex. The gentleman in question was staying at the
Old Moses
saloon and according to all accounts, had only been spotted outside his room past sundown. Rumors about the stranger were spreading.

Pale moonlight illuminated the rundown Wild West saloon as Vincent stepped through the swinging doors of the establishment. The shadow that the brim of his hat cast over his face masked his initial shock upon seeing what was waiting for him. He had walked into a nightmare. The saloon now transformed into a place of death. Mauled patrons were sprawled everywhere, a wasteland of broken bodies, the floor slippery with their blood. Vincent’s trembling hand closed around his silver Ranger badge, knowing all too well that it held no authority over the beast that rose from the center of the carnage. The moment their eyes hooked into each other, Vincent was stricken with mortal awareness – staring back at him was death itself. The gentleman who smiled at him through a bloody mist was a thing outside of nature. Vincent remembered his gun leaving his holster, and he remembered cocking the hammer of his pistol and squeezing the trigger.
 

Again and again.
 

Bullets tore into the enigmatic figure in a mad volley, puncturing flesh and destroying the man’s elegant coat. When the firing chamber was empty and the hammer clicked impotently,
click, click
, a metronome of spent violence, Dracula rose. Vincent was gripped with terror as he saw the bullet holes sealing shut before his very eyes, inhuman tissue regenerating in the blink of an eye. Vincent was a tough man; he’d confronted all kinds of human evil in his twenty-nine years on this earth but the crucial difference was that those degenerates were men, flesh-and-blood creatures who could succumb to the power of steel. This monster was unlike anything Vincent had ever faced before. Vincent didn’t just lose his humanity the day he went up against Dracula. He lost his soul. For he had not merely met his match but caught a glimpse of the Devil himself.

Now Vincent cast these thoughts of the past aside as the hill grew steeper and he was forced to switch gears. According to the rental’s GPS system -
they could’ve used one of these back in his Texas Rangers tracking days
- the chateau should be coming into view any minute now. The forest was already thinning a bit and the vineyards now began to take over.
 

A moment later, Vincent spotted the chateau. His first thought was that the term ‘chateau’ didn’t quite do justice to the structure. The sprawling estate that loomed at the top of the vineyards was a stark silhouette projecting a sense of mystery and dark wonder. Like Dracula himself, the keep wove a nearly hypnotic spell over anyone who laid eyes upon it. Not quite a spooky castle but the next best thing, it was the type of place where one would expect a vampire to set up shop. While most of the vampires Dracula spawned did their best to blend in and be modern (some with greater success than others), Dracula had never chosen to adapt to a changing world. He didn’t need to. Dracula was the master, even if Vincent refused to call him that. The Count might hide in the shadows but he would never pretend to be something he was not.
 

The throaty roar of a motorbike bashed the air, breaking the chateau’s spell. Vincent turned his head and spotted a Harley gaining behind him. For a split second, Vincent caught a glimpse of the massive, leather-clad figure poised behind the handlebars. The vampire biker wasn’t wearing a helmet, his long mane of blonde hair trailing in the wind. This Twenty-First Century Viking flashed Vincent a menacing rock ’n’ roll grin, making sure to reveal his fangs. Another one of Dracula’s lost children (or experiments, depending on how one wanted to look at it) returning to pay his respects to their fallen master. As the biker pulled ahead, he cranked the engine for good measure. The bike’s engine wailed.
 

Vincent tensed. The incident confirmed one thing he had known all along - he wasn’t looking forward to this dysfunctional family get-together.
 

Not in the slightest.
 

***

Vincent's car rolled up a driveway that was surrounded by vineyards on both sides and led right up to the chateau’s main gate. A six-foot-tall crumbling wall, overgrown with ivy, encircled the chateau. The wrought-iron gate stood wide open. It appeared that Vincent wasn’t the first to arrive today. He maneuvered his vehicle through the open gate and made his way up a cobbled, circular driveway dominated by a highly adorned, centuries-old ornamental stone fountain. Streams of water bubbled and poured from the mouths of Gothic nymphs. The fountain’s water appeared dark and murky.

The rental car slid to a stop, joining the other vehicles parked around the fountain. The Harley that had just passed Vincent's car. A black Hummer. A sleek Porsche. Vincent guessed that they were all rentals, just like his own vehicle, but the choices told their own story and revealed the personalities of their individual drivers. Dracula had made a pretty eclectic group of monsters over the years. Monsters Vincent was about to interact with for the first time in decades.
 

Once again Vincent wished he could be anywhere but this place but he didn’t really have a choice. He had never been friendly with the Count but he couldn’t deny the legacy that bound him to the creature and the other members of the clan. Dracula’s blood coursed through their veins. If Vincent had truly wanted to defy the Count, he’d have walked into the daylight long ago. Despite everything, Dracula was family. And one inevitable truth held true among all families – funerals brought everyone together. That’s what this would be. Dracula’s funeral.
 

A fiery red Ferrari appeared in Vincent’s rear-view mirror as he killed the engine. Seconds later, a stunning blonde emerged from the sports car. She was wearing a sexy red dress that left little to the imagination. Vincent had met her once or twice over the last eighty years. Her name was Coraline and she’d been twenty-one when Dracula turned her, but she looked about five years older. According to Angelique - she was always up on clan gossip - Coraline was a failing starlet during the heyday of old Hollywood in the 1950s, a Marilyn Monroe wannabe riding the casting couch express toward a full-blown heroin addiction and the inevitable overdose. But Dracula took a shine to her and decided to add her to his freak pack.

Vincent killed the engine, got out of the car and made his way up the pebbled walkway that led to the chateau’s main entrance. Vines climbed the façade of the chateau and tall trees nestled against the surface. Dracula had acquired the property right after World War II, Eastern Europe having lost its appeal in the wake of the Red Menace. The chateau was actually more of a
bastide
, a country home, originally built by wealthy Seventeenth Century citizens who sought to trade their sweltering city mansions for the cooler countryside during the hot summer months. The structure held about twenty rooms and could accommodate a large family with a full staff of servants. The property was brooding and Gothic but a pale shadow to the dark glory of Dracula’s castle back in Romania, which was a tourist attraction today. Funny how the world turned.