Books & Anthologies

In addition to a number of short stories, I have published four novels and appeared in two anthologies. You can view and (if you would be so kind) purchase any of them by clicking on the covers.

	DRAGON STONES The dragon tasted the corpses of her hatchlings. The bodies were cool, their internal fires stilled. She moved them aside, finding the carcass of a man beneath them. He lay face-down, arms spread wide. She rolled him over; his face had been smashed in, rendered concave and unrecognizable. She peered at the man for some time, considering. The damage had been done with a weapon. He must have come with companions, and they had crushed his head to keep her from taking it, showing it to other men, tracking him by his appearance. “Cursed man,” she hissed. She examined the body, turning it this way and that, but he bore nothing that spoke of origin or maker. He looked no different from any other thug who had come into her lair in search of booty; only the torn and broken remains of her young marked him as more remarkable than most. “I could swallow you whole,” she told the dead man, “but you are vermin and unworthy of such an honor.” She tossed him into the bone pit, hearing him clatter to the bottom and come to rest in the darkness below.
	LONG BEFORE DAWN They came within three feet of him, then stopped. He could see them better now. One was a man, the other a woman. His gaze was drawn to their faintly luminescent eyes, glowing with a sick green light. He tried to get up, to run, but he couldn’t. Something held him down. The weight of those eyes. The woman knelt down and took his head in her hands. Slowly, almost gently, she tipped it back, as if she wanted to avoid hurting him. Then she leaned forward and put her lips lightly to his neck, and he noticed two things as her teeth entered him. First, the fear was gone. And second, absurdly, he had a hard-on.
	A FLOCK OF CROWS IS CALLED A MURDER He plowed into her, bore her backwards onto the bed. He was trying to kiss her; his lips, dry and cold and leathery, brushed hers, then mashed against them. She squirmed beneath him, trying to break the contact, but his hands shot up and gripped her head like the edges of a vise. His mouth opened, forcing hers to open, too. She felt the first clammy, sticky bubbles of slime coming out of his throat, dribbling into hers. Salty mucous, gunk. She couldn’t breath; he had gummed up her nose with snot, her mouth was full of it. He wanted her to swallow, that was it. Swallow, and breathe, and be like him …
	NIGHT WATCHMAN Mrs. Barrett rises. “Be careful. Listen to me! Beware the power of Satan.” “Don’t worry, ma’am,” Nate says. “We’re pure of heart and noble of purpose. Right, Frank?” “Maybe you are,” Frank says. They go back into the hallway. Mrs. Barrett shuts the door behind them and locks it four different ways as they head for the stairs. “Do you think we need backup?” asks Nate as they ascend the last flight to the rooftop door. “Nah. For a bunch of kids? They got knives, we got guns.” “But what about the power of Satan?” Frank points to his groin. “I got the power of Satan right here. Now c’mon, or we’ll miss the Black Mass.”
	NEW TRADITIONS IN TERROR Featuring James Viscosi’s story “The 66th Vampire” He struggled to stand up, but the dogs were on him in seconds, gnashing and biting and howling in triumph. He wrestled with them, grabbing their slick, matted fur, squeezing, twisting. Bones snapped; flesh tore. Some of their howls turned to yelps. But there were a dozen hounds, chosen for size and ferocity, and they were ripping him to pieces. With the cross around his neck, he had no chance. Then their masters arrived, huffing, their flashlight beams searching Connor out beneath the wriggling pile of canine flesh. At a shouted command the dogs released him. The big man took their place, kneeling on Connor’s chest, a silver stake in one hand and a wooden mallet in the other. He positioned the stake above Connor’s heart. The top of it was shaped like a cross; it hurt Connor’s eyes to look at it. “When you get to hell,” the man said, “tell the others that Kestrel sends his regards.”
	CROSSINGS Featuring James Viscosi’s story “Draw” He trudged down the hill to the road. The dry scrub splintered as he bulled through it, scratched at his ankles and shins. His boots raised clouds of powdery earth with every step; these hung in the stillness, slowly settling back to the ground, waiting to coat the clothing of the next traveler. A dry wind kicked up, blowing down out of the mountains to Shill’s back, pushing the dust so it clung to him instead of falling back to the ground. He felt it on the bare skin of his neck and hands; he felt the wind suck the moisture out of him. The air smelled like lightning. He thought of lost hair and teeth and gangrenous body parts. Gloves. Next time he came to this miserable place, he would bring gloves. And a scarf. Hell, next time he’d make somebody else come.