About The Young Vampire's Survival Guide:
Student Robert James never asked to be bitten. He didn't want to be the leader of a new breed of vampires. Thing is: he wasn't offered a choice.
Survival and destiny combine when Robert finds himself under threat from a mysterious cult known as the Dawn Warriors. Within months, many of those he cares about are dead and he vows to fight back without mercy. Robert unearths terrible truths and confronts eternal evils that threaten to break him. He may not succeed in defeating the Dawn Warriors, but he has no choice but to try.
'The Young Vampire's Survival Guide' is the first book in the 'New Breed Vampires' book series. Described as "Anne Rice meets Kelley Armstrong", it is set in London and Manchester and written in British English. It's gruesome, compelling, horrifying and uplifting vampire fiction.
I recall turning up at Banshee, a rabbit warren nightclub packed to the rafters with willing Goths of both sexes whose sense of propriety worked in inverse proportion to the amount of rum and cokes they consumed. Even the watered-down rum and cokes for which the Banshee was rightfully infamous.
The evening got a little blurry around 3 a.m. There was a taxi or, maybe, some other kind of black vehicle. I recall two girls. One of whom may have been called Leticia or Delicia or something. Damn it. She might have been called Delicatessen for all I could remember the next morning.
As it turned out, Delicatessen would have been the perfect name for this particular individual. Note to my twenty year old self and others: beware the super hot, curvy Goth chick who seems unnaturally interested in you despite the presence of a couple of minor rock stars salivating in the vague direction of her cleavage. Her 'unnatural' interest may well turn out to be exactly that.
When I awoke the next day, I discovered myself naked, and covered in blood.
I wasn't an expert in blood - not then - but it was mine. There was a weeping wound in my neck. Strangely, it didn't hurt much. I presumed the anaesthetic properties of Jaegermeister were working their magic. I said a prayer to Curt Mast, thanking him for his invention.
Then, and only then, I took the trouble to look around me. At that point I started to get scared. Terrified, in fact.
Next to me was a woman; also naked, also covered in blood. But very, very dead. Her stomach had been torn apart and her entrails stuffed between her legs.
She was missing half an arm, and the bottom part of her left leg was twisted so badly, her foot pointed in the wrong direction.
Even now, countless years later, I still pictured her ruined face, so fresh in my mind. All her teeth had been removed but the gaping, bloodied maw of her mouth was smiling. Smiling and, there's no other way to put it, happy.
Worse still was the note. Impaled on some kind of stake driven through the woman's heart, it had 'Rob James' - my name - written on it. The handwriting was that of an old, old woman. Like someone who had suffered a stroke.
My first thought was 'I've got to get the hell out of here'. Curiosity overcame me though, so, hands shaking, I opened the note. Things were never the same again. Within one month, it cost the life of my best friend. Within a year, hundreds had died. All because of me.
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About Lucy Eldritch:
Also remaining un-mentioned is my love for synonyms involving Châteauneuf-du-Pape (I suspect it's the red wine thing). Oh, and my equal love for really terrible horror B-movies. And I don't mean in a suitably ironic post-modern way. I do genuinely love those movies. Nope, I'm far too professional to mention either of these things. Thank God: I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression of me.