Title: The
Prophecy (The Children of Lilith Volume 3)
Author: C.
David Belt
Genre: LDS,
Horror, Vampire
~Synopsis~
Volume 3, The Prophecy:
For 6,000
years, Lilith and her Children have walked the earth, hunting, preying,
seducing, corrupting, ruling from the shadows...until now.
An ancient
prophecy, spoken by Adam, Lilith's grandfather, foretells her doom. She will do
anything, corrupt any innocent, murder countless mortals to save herself.
To survive, she knows she must destroy Carl and Moira Morgan. The war has
begun. And Carl and Moira know, win or lose, it all ends here.
Volume 2, The Penitent:
In 6,000
years, no vampire has ever defied Lilith, Queen of the vampires...until
now.
Moira and
Carl Morgan have saved the city from the horror of Michael and his evil wives,
but victory has come at terrible cost. And there are consequences to
every choice, every victory. Word has spread that someone has broken
Lilith's power, that someone has defied the ancient Queen of the
vampires. And she's not happy about it.
Volume 1, The Unwilling:
In all the
6,000 years that the Children of Lilith have walked among us, there has never
been an unwilling vampire...until now.
The Unwilling
is the story of the world’s first and only unwilling vampire. Set in
present-day Utah,
it’s the story of Carl Morgan, a decent LDS man who loses his wife and children
in an automobile accident. Then he witnesses the murder of his wayward
sister at the hands of the beautiful and mysterious Rebecca. When the
police can’t find the killer, he goes searching for her. He finds
Rebecca, but she takes away everything. She transforms him into the
world’s FIRST and ONLY unwilling vampire. Vampirism is a choice, and
you’re choosing to become a serial killer, because you can only survive on
HUMAN blood, not animal blood. Carl is unwilling to murder to survive and
he really doesn’t understand what has happened to him. He’s found and
mentored by Moira MacDonald, a two-hundred and seventy year-old Penitent
(repentant vampire). She teaches him how to survive without killing, how
to stay true to his temple covenants (in spite of his condition), and how to
get justice for his murdered sister. But to Moira? Carl’s very
existence as an unwilling vampire turns her world upside-down, because Carl is
an impossibility. In the 6,000 years that the Children of Lilith have
walked the earth, there has never been an unwilling vampire, because eternal
damnation cannot be forced on someone: they must choose it, just as Moira
did. And yet, there’s Carl. If he can exist somehow, there must be
something about Moira’s condition that she doesn’t know. Is it possible
that, after two and a half centuries of searching for redemption and repentance
with no hope, perhaps there might somehow be a way back? Meanwhile,
Rebecca’s vampire Master, Michael, plans to unleash a wave of new vampires on
the city. Carl and Moira must stop him before countless innocents are
slaughtered.
~About the Author~
C. David Belt was born in Evanston, WY.
As a child, he lived and traveled extensively around the Far
East. He served as an LDS missionary in South
Korea and southern California
(Korean-speaking). He graduated from Brigham
Young University
with a Bachelor of Science in Computer Science and a minor in Aerospace
Studies. He served as a B-52 pilot in the US Air Force and as an Air Weapons
Controller in the Washington Air National Guard. When he is not writing, he
sings in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and works as a software engineer. He
collects swords (mostly Scottish), axes, spears, and other medieval weapons and
armor. He and his wife have six children and live in Utah with an eclectus parrot named Mork (who
likes to jump on the keyboard when David is writing).
Author
Links
Buy
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The
Unwilling:
The Penitent:
The Prophecy:
~Excerpts~
The Unwilling:
“Where
am I?” I ask.
She
hesitates a moment and then replies, “Ye are in my home. Do ye know how ye got
here?”
Now
I’m getting worried. “My memory’s a bit fuzzy. Sorry.”
“Ye
carried a young woman into the emergency room at the LDS Hospital.
She was unconscious and covered in blood. Ye were stag-gerin’ about and yellin’
incoherently. Ye frightened everyone. We took the young woman and attended to
her, but ye collapsed. I thought it best nae to let the staff examine ye. So, I
brought ye here and tended to ye myself.”
The
girl. Yes, I remember the girl. “Is she OK?” I ask.
Moira
nods slowly. “Aye, she’s fine. Some blood loss, but she’ll live. Ye did nae
kill her.”
Kill
her? What?
“W
. . . why would I kill her?” I stammer. “What’re you talking about?”
She
stares at me again. She seems to be holding some kind of internal debate. Her
eyes narrow as she comes to a decision.
“Blood,”
she says simply.
“What?”
“Blood.
Human blood.”
I
look at her without understanding, blinking stupidly.
“The
drink,” she says. “’Twas human blood.”
In
an instant, it all comes back to me.
Michael.
Rebecca. Chikah. Benjamin. The Cult. The Ritual. Every-thing.
I
think I’m going to throw up.
I
lurch to my feet and look around frantically for a bathroom, a sink.
Moira
is at my side in an instant. She pulls me toward the kitchen. “Dinnae ruin my
carpet, laddie!”
Wow!
Her grip is strong!
By
the time I reach the sink, the nausea has passed. I lean against the sink all
the same. The room is still spinning.
Moira
gave me blood to drink. I drank human blood.
And
I liked it.
The Penitent:
There’s
something seriously wrong with me.
I
cannae Sleep.
Or,
to be more precise, I dinnae want to Sleep. And since I can catch a full
day’s rest only once each week, abstaining could have . . .
consequences. It makes me irritable. It affects my judgment. It in-creases the
ever-present likelihood that I might . . . slip up.
And
if I slip up, people die.
Ach!
I’m so hungry!
’Tis
another thing that’s worrying me. I should nae be hungry! Nae even a wee bit! I
Fed just after sunrise! We both did. Carl, my husband, and I consumed two
quarts each just before we went to bed. ’Twas a bit of a luxury, those
two quarts. One should’ve been sufficient, enough for a week in a pinch.
But here I am, lying in bed beside my Sleeping husband, and all I can think of
is how hungry I am, how tired I am, and how much I dread
going to Sleep!
’Tis
nae use.
I
rise from bed. Carl does nae notice. To all appearances he could be dead. I
slip into my dressing gown and make my way to the living room. I take several
turns about the room as I try desperately to think of something else, anything
other than my hunger, my weariness, and my fear.
A
scratching sound! Aye,
lassie, focus on that. Someone’s at my flow-er bed again, digging it up. And
I’m nigh certain I know who ’tis. That’s twice this year. I should peek out and
catch . . . but, nae, ’tis the side facing the Sun.
My
stomach growls.
Perhaps
just a wee pint more.
I
walk into the kitchen. Though nobody’s watching me, I try to keep my pace
casual, walking, strolling as if I’m nae in a hurry, as if I’m nae desperate to
get there. Why do I bother? There’s nary a soul to see me. Who am I trying
to deceive? Myself?
I
open the refrigerator, and the cold air transports the sweet fra-grance to my
nostrils. To be sure, ’tis tainted by the odor of the preservative, but that
cannae mask the nectar of . . .
There!
Outside! Something far sweeter than the contents of my icebox!
Evil.
Though
I cannae smell it just yet, I can feel the general direction.
Quickly
I close the refrigerator and head to the window. A cau-tious glance, while I
carefully stay in the shadows, reveals nothing about the source of the evil,
but it does show an overcast sky.
I
shudder with relief, and my mouth begins to water. In a trice, I rush to the
door and throw open the chest beside it. This is my emergency kit. I retrieve
all the things I need: the bottle of heavy-duty spray-on sunscreen, the
sweatpants, sweatshirt, gloves, boots, sun-glasses, cloak, and hood. In just a
few seconds, I’ve applied every bit of protection. Only at this point, when I’m
prepared, do I pause for a wee tick to be sure there’s still a reason to
venture outside.
Aye,
the evil’s still there. Sweet corruption.
I
open the front door quietly so as not to alert anyone to my pre-sence. Aye,
but I want to throw it open!
And
the scent of pure evil washes over me. The honeyed fragrance engulfs my senses.
Drool spills from my eager lips.
So
close!
The
familiar rage builds like a smithy furnace stoked by a bellows within me. Here!
In my very neighborhood, practically on my front lawn!
Through
the red haze of my wrath, I barely notice that my flower beds are indeed torn
up, the destroyer having fled. I dinnae care for that. The one I Hunt now has
done far worse than petty vandalism. Nae, the evil I smell can be caused only
by murder and violence.
The
scent turns my head to the southwest. I cannae see the source, but the
direction is certain. I follow the airborne spoor across the street and to the
right toward . . . Aye! That open garage! ’Tis the Mur-phys’
home. I can see two cars, neither one of them running. Now I can hear
voices—hushed but emphatic voices.
“. . .
my money, cabrón?”
I
dinnae recognize the voice.
“Tomorrow! I’ll have it tomorrow!”
That
voice I recognize. ’Tis Aaron Murphy. I dinnae know the the family well since
they are nae in my ward, but Aaron’s the oldest boy in the family. He’s plays
football or baseball or some other sport at the high school. I do hope he’s nae
the source of the evil.
I
approach the garage with all stealth, fighting hard to contain the mounting
rage and the ravenous hunger.
“You
said that yesterday, man. And the day before that. You been hiding from me!”
“I
swear, Manny! Tomorrow!”
“You
don’t get it, muchacho. I give you product. You sell it to your
little friends at school. You give me my money. I give you more product.
You sell it. You give me money. You get to go on making everyone think you just
a good little Mormon boy. That’s how it works.”
“Please,
Manny!”
“Not
this time, cabrón! I gotta teach you a lesson. Today, I’m just gonna
break your fingers.”
I
round a corner of the garage and take in the whole scene. In the confined space between a compact car on the left
and the Murphy fam-ily’s minivan on the right, Aaron, the all-American
boy, is pinned a-gainst the larger vehicle, held there by a big Hispanic man
complete with bandana, gold chains, tattoos, multiple piercings, and a
nasty-looking switchblade. Manny, the thug, has one hand at Aaron’s throat. The
other hand holds the knife an inch away from the lad’s eye.
“Next
time I cut off one of your fingers, muchacho. Just try catching a
football like . . .”
A
snarl rips from my throat.
Manny
releases the boy and spins to face me. He looks startled, but nae frightened.
Aaron’s head snaps in my direction, but he remains rooted to the spot. He
looks horrified.
The
thug’s face twists in an evil leer. “Beat it, chica. This is none of
your business.”
I
laugh low and menacingly. “Ach, nae, rat. Ye are my business.”
I
step into the shade of the garage, safely out of the muted sun-light. I throw
back my hood and pull off my sunglasses, setting them on the trunk of the
sedan. I fix Aaron’s eyes with my own and say with Persuasion, “Lad, go stand
over there and wait for me while I deal with this.” Aaron’s expression goes
slack, and he turns obediently and walks to the far wall of the garage.
I
return my gaze to the gangster, who’s staring at Aaron in amaze-ment. “Now,
rat,” I say, “face me. Look into my eyes and see the hellfire that awaits ye.”
Manny
looks at me, his face a mask of fury. “Listen, puta . . .”
I
open my mouth wide, revealing my dripping fangs.
His
brown eyes go wide, and the color drains from his face. “Madre de
. . . ! ”
I
advance toward him, savoring his terror as I will the honeyed sweetness of his
evil blood. I want to tear this vermin to shreds . . . after I
consume his life.
Still
brandishing the knife in one hand, he fumbles at his breast with the other and
lifts a rather large and ornate gold cross on its chain. He holds it toward me
as a talisman.
I
cower back, shielding my face from the crucifix.
Through
my fingers, I can see Manny’s face split in a leer of tri-umph. “That’s right, zorra.
Now you know who’s . . .”
I straighten up, no longer feigning
fear. I shake my head slowly from side to side, laughing softly. “Ooh, did I
give ye a wee moment of hope, ratty? That bonnie bit of jewelry cannae protect
ye from me.”
The Prophecy:
“‘Sons
of God! Brood of Light-Bearer who fell!’ That is how I would render the first
half.”
The
message is in plain text. The email address looks like a random mix of letters
and numbers, and the email provider is one that supports anonymous accounts.
I’ve
been collaborating with colleagues across the country and in the U.K., Israel,
and Egypt
for more than a week. We’ve been trying to decipher the twenty-four syllables
of Adamic (at least I assume it’s Adamic) that Lilith uttered at the
battle at the farm. My colleagues are experts in Hebrew, Arabic, Egyptian,
Greek, and Latin. We’ve been exchanging emails ever since I asked for their
help.
Of
course, I’ve told them I’m not at liberty to reveal the source just yet,
but I’m certain it’s a language that predated all others, a protolanguage. In
the beginning, some refused to collaborate on the project because I wouldn’t
reveal my source, because I was being cryptic. But eventually, most couldn’t
resist the lure of the puzzle. That’s something we all share in common,
my colleagues and I: we can’t resist the potential, the lure of hidden
knowledge.
And
of course, I can’t tell my academic friends that the source is a native
speaker. I also can’t tell them that the text is an outburst from a
six-thousand-year-old vampire after she’d been impaled by the very spear that
once pierced Christ’s side, a spear being wielded by a former Nazi assassin who
is now a repentant vampire.
In
other words, I can’t betray my friends.
Although she grew up
in Arizona, S. L. Dearing was born and raised in California and considers the
Golden State her home. Shannon attended Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, studying
biology, then moved to Los Angeles where she spent several years studying at
Los Angeles City College’s renowned Television/ Film program. She learned the
art of storytelling from her father when she was very young and has been
writing since the tender age of five. As an author of many genres, she is
always hoping to learn more by exploring the world of story. She has written her
first novel The Gathering: Book One of the Lia Fail Chronicles. She also has short stories in several
anthologies: Apocalypse: An Anthology by Readers & Authors, Paranormal
Anthology with a Twist and the soon to be released Stalkers: A Collection of
Thriller Stories. Shannon currently resides in Los Angeles.
