Sadly and Happily

This author blog has moved to a new, prettier location. You can find me at http://www.carmendominiquetaxer.com 🙂

Bluebeard is an abusive lover

I’ve been MIA for a while because I have been blindingly focused on The Key, which I am now proud to announce has been completed up to first draft status.

The Key is 52, 000 words long at present and going strong. But I do believe that this work and I will be attempting a trial separation for a few short weeks. We may need to see other manuscripts until I feel less inclined to delete the entire thing in a fit of ‘Aaaargh”.

I must admit though that it has veered somewhat from its path of a simple story of domination to one of domination and lust leading to romance, love and then tragedy… Although at this point I feel it’s awful.

Hence the desire to end it all. But I’ll let you be the judge of that:

An excerpt from The Key can be found at www.vampirebibliographica.com…

Happy reading!

Free Copies of Bought in Blood!

On the 5 October 2012 from 12:00am to 11:59pm (Pacific Standard Time) Bought in Blood, the first novel in the Sanguinem Emere vampire trilogy, will be available for free at amazon.com! If you have not already ordered yourself a copy, please do so at no cost on this date, it is worth the read. We would also be eternally in the debt of those who take the time to give us a few honest reviews so that we can start to rate a bit more clearly on Amazon and know where to improve for the two novels to follow.

This is your opportunity to engage your mind in a new and darkly thrilling vampire universe, complete with the humanity of monsters and the monstrousness of humans. Bought in Blood is a story of curious love, burning loss and deep cruelty, but also of the coupling of souls and of finding comfort in the darkness. We hope you will enjoy every word of every page and we would love your input for further works.

A synopsis

Bought in Blood is the first gripping novel in the Sanguinem Emere trilogy, written and published by Richard T. Wheeler and Carmen Dominique Taxer via Amazon’s affiliate CreateSpace.

The Sanguinem Emere Universe – as the authors have fondly dubbed it – is a vampire-ruled world which maintains secrecy and mutual protection for those of the vampire persuasion through severe punishment meted out against vampires (and vampire servants) who commit wrongs. In this deadly, paper-thin ice environment, the anti-hero, Seth opts for a scheme that will release him from the clutches of his vampire father – the strange and reclusive Ashur, who passes his nights in the unnatural attic of their dilapidated mansion.

In the midst of this subtle, quiet power war, two simple humans fight for their lives and freedom.

Devika Templeton is the daughter of a nation-wide empire – The Templeton family. She has always thought that her dreams of a protector, a vampire stalker, were delusions. Early signs of impending insanity. But she is sorely mistaken. In the midst of a bloody family gathering, the memories of what occurred there unclear to her, Devika flees her home and the stifling abnormalities she is forced to endure while under her father’s watchful gaze. But she simply exchanges one form of captivity for another as she meets the man who has haunted her childhood – Seth – from her earliest memories, a vampire who has ominous intentions for her, though she cannot identify what those are.

Erwin Montgomery, a detective with the local police force was once a beacon of Justice within the force, the type of cop young ones look up to and dream of being like. However, his demeanour has been sourly altered ever since he failed to find a missing girl 14 years ago. The case of Lillian Voss and the triple homicide which coincided with the incident has driven him to the brink of complete loss – the loss of his wife, his sobriety, and his hard-earned respect within the Force. Until he sees the kidnapping of a small, red-haired woman with scared eyes and no shoes on her feet. So like the case that has dogged him all these years, so like Lillian, slipping between his fingers.

With the assistance of Devika’s grandfather – an oddly attractive, well-aged man of sixty five – Griffin, her equally preserved, albeit alcoholic, uncle and a strange couple comprising of an Arian military officer and his cat-like companion, Monty sets out to locate his quarry. But the presence of the Mid-City Butcher, a serial killer with sickening strength and a predetermined destination, leaving massacred corpses in his path, bars Monty’s progress at almost every turn.

Now Devika must decide between a love she suffers for, giving herself over to the depravities of temptation, and the loyalty of family – a family where machinations have sought to tie her to a life of slavery. Monty must choose between his corroding career which is corroding his health as he delves ever deeper into the truth behind his lost cases, and the love of a devoted wife, children and a white picket fence.

Richard and I have been delving ever further into the construction of the Templeton family, almost a civilisation – a society – of their own. Our heroine, Devika, is the youngest of the Templetons and is the product of decades of effort to perfect the genes within the family. The family tree below shows the extent of intermarriage that the Templetons are prone to in order to strengthen their line.

With the release of Book2 (currently untitled), which we hope to see in January 2013, we will be looking ever further into this mesh of incest and confusion. We will focus particularly on the lines of such families as the Campbells, the Ramseys, and the Lindorffs.

Bought in Blood extract

The hallway is dark and dingy. More so than I remember.

There’s a light fitting, but no bulb or cover, above me and further down the hall it’s more of the same. The paintings I can make out along the diminishing walls with the slight orange glow from behind me bear little resemblance to those in the rest of the house. Their regal setting and refined postings are missing. Instead they sag lopsidedly as haughty faces seem twisted into grimacing haunts.

It’s like some sort of night-vision tunnel and it reeks of neglect.

There must be other showers. Or even a bath-tub. One easily located and lit with actual lights.

I suspect he would rather watch me stumble over my own feet. Undoubtedly, this serves as some form of punishment in his mind.

I had asked Seth if I could get cleaned up and he had directed me down this hallway. I’d been traumatised to see unblemished skin upon my chest as I undressed in the room I am assigned to. Not a single mark, not even any blood to prove my story sane. I can’t explain it. I want to, but I can’t. Seth’s refusal to agree with me that there is an unnaturally unsettling red-haired man tormenting me within and without of this building only stresses me further. What if he isn’t toying with me this time? What if I really am unravelling? Seeing ghosts in a house filled with vampires.

Visions of my mother prance through my skull as I prepare myself to get cleaned up.

Focus on the task at hand, Devika.

Mild trepidation ensues as I pull the towel – fluffy to the brink of opulence – tighter around my chest and leave the comfort of distant music, warmth and voices floating up from downstairs, wading with bare-footed stealth in the direction Seth steered me.

As my filthy fingers (sliding along the wall for stability) brush the edge of an unseen portrait I pull it straight without question before the cellar swims to mind at the graze of wooden framework. A Technicolor memory in swathes of red and brown inspires me to rip my hand away. My fingers itch where they touched the darkened canvas.

The air here is not musty as one would expect from such a claustrophobic cube. A cold breeze ripples along the flesh of my shoulders and I can smell roses and jasmine from the garden. But still I can’t locate a window with my shadow-drenched eyes though there must be one. My pupils strain, aching against the sides of my skull to find a way out. Any escape at all. But all I can see is night as it gnaws at the courage that would have allowed me the liberty of searching further, reminding me of how such a traitorous act could end in a display of brutal authority. My cheek still stings from his slap. It could have been so much worse.

The paintings flood my thoughts again and I balk at the memory as a familiar giggle riddles my thoughts with fear.

My fingers finally slip into air as I reach the bathroom door which stands open and I fumble until I find a light switch. White spots buzz across my vision as the fluorescence flares to life.

Correction.

There is no door to stand open. Just two uneven empty brackets speckled with rust, and one lonely nail poking out of the door’s frame like the snapped arm of a rambunctious child.

I would sigh. But to be honest, this is to be expected.

The dilapidation within challenges me with its obnoxious insistence on being less than extraordinary.

The shower door is covered in some kind of dusty, dry substance, making its transparence an opaque white decorated with unintentional art, and the floor’s tiles bear dirt-smeared cracks. Near the sink, an entire tile is missing, exposing the concrete beneath. The basin seems clean enough, but the mirror above it has been sliced in two and the surface is in desperate need of a polish. Some kind of moss has begun to make itself at home along the edges of the glass – creeping in from the tiles – clearly considering the musty condensation to be an invitation. The toilet seems clean from this angle, but I would rather not find out and I tiptoe over the cracks towards the shower, trying to avoid uncomfortable travel lacerations (one of those lesser-known ailments).

I peer over the edge of the shower to find that the drain has no covering.

Fantastic.

With warranted cynicism at whether or not the shower will even work, I remove the towel and gingerly drape it over the sink; a splash of violet against the stark off-white. If it touches the floor I think I may have to walk back to the room sopping wet and naked.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that my reflection has faded away to a degree sharp enough to make me seem gaunt and I turn back to the shower without stopping to inspect my new anorexia-chique. It’s bad enough knowing that my distaste for food has turned to incessant waves of nausea and a chronic loss of balance without having to stare the outcome thereof in the hollowed-out face. Even the small meal provided to me over the last few days made me sick to the point of pain. My stomach responded near violently at the smell.

The water shudders in the pipes as I turn the handle and step back, expecting to be drenched, but no semi-arctic stream erupts to drown me, despite my suspicions.

I lean in to poke at the nozzle and fling myself out of the way as hairy, black sticks creep out to clutch at the sides. They are followed by the rest of the spider’s undulating body as a steaming spray is released from the pipes in its wake.

The little monster, now perched on top of the pipe attaching the shower-head to the wall – none too perturbed as it glances at me with its myriad of glassy eyes – seems to hunker down for a second and then scurries up the tiles and through a crack in the ceiling.

Sanguinem Emere

Edward Cullen

Does his expression ever change?

Some people have said he is a fairy. And true, things that sparkle can very seldom be attributed to vampirism, however, the author is always right, and if Stephenie Meyer says Edward Cullen is a vampire, then we must assume she knows best. Irrespective of public opinion, the success of the character of Edward Cullen deserves attention. Thousands of screaming teenage (and middle aged) fans, I suppose he earned his spot on the Vampire Exposé.

Even in the movie posters, I feel a sense of desolation as far as character growth is concerned

I will be the first to admit that in recent years I have come to hate Twilight, feeling that the movies were lacking in inspiration and originality with gaping holes in human logic and terribad (to coin a phrase from my partner in crime, Richard) acting. The casting felt all wrong and, personally, I am adamant that the director was high when he directed the acting. The movies feel emotionless, devoid of feeling in a story which should have evinced so much from the audience. But, despite all this, when a friend of mine first gave me a copy of Twilight to read, months before the movie was released, I loved it. I found it sweet and endearing. Maybe not the horrific combination of blood and romance I have come to expect from the vampire genre, but cute nonetheless.

An enticing cover

So trust me, Twilight fans, I don’t comment lightly here.

A cute picture, so why couldn’t this emotion have come out in the movies?

In the novels, Edward was funny and suave with a hint of self-deprecation to colour him. His character had an element of depth that he thoroughly lacks in the movies. Where book Edward swaggers, Pattinson’s Edward is awkward and walks like a shy dinosaur. Where the former grants Bella a combination of love and mockery, the latter combines fawning and irritation – something we would not have expected from the character in Meyer’s books. I simply disliked Robert Pattinson’s portrayal of a character that I really pictured – at the time – as not entirely god-awful. Unfortunately, the prolific nature of the movies soured the books for me. So badly, in fact, that I went back and reread them with an editor’s eye (something I had avoided at the onset), discovering tense errors, horrible grammar and staid, boring syntax. Not to mention the sheer dullness of the most of the characters. All stereotyped and all too simplistic for my approval. Except for Edward.

Many Twilight haters attribute their loathing of the story to the “sparkly” vampire phenomenon… And, yes… It seems somewhat daft. But I understand what Meyer was trying to achieve with it and I applaud her on her approach. It just would not have been my choice. In Anne Rice novels we come to see vampires as being statuesque in both beauty and make-up. They quite literally strike us as being marble or solid, unlike pliable humanity. All Meyer has done is take that one step further to create of them something near indestructible. If something shimmers in the sun we imagine diamonds (for some ungodly reason). Hence the invulnerable factor. It just seems a pity to me that she made such a build-up of it for such a great portion of the first book. I was imagining bat wings, or horns, or green, toad-like skin… When he started sparkling, I had to put the book down and step outside to stifle my laughter.

As I said, not the route I would have opted for.

What I do want to explore is Bella’s strange attraction to Edward. Love at first sight does not exist. Lust maybe, but I don’t think Bella has the emotional maturity to give in to such behaviour (all evidence to the contrary in the last two books aside). In fact, all vampire literature displays some evidence of supernatural attraction. The hint that vampires exude a pheromone or aura which draws people to them. And maybe this is what we are seeing in this very broken, stalker-esque relationship.

The poor friend-zoned sucker

Perhaps vampires have a survival mechanism built into their systems? The hungrier they become, through lack of access to blood or their own martyrdom (viz Edward), the more likely their body is to override their mind and find food. Vampires are, traditionally, sexual predators. They feed through romance and lust – when I imagine traditional vampires, I see the Count rallying hordes of heaving-bosomed women around him. So, perhaps in all this, if a vampire decides to be a hero, his body resigns itself to the fact that the mind is being obstinate and starts emitting attraction waves to any eligible blood bag nearby… It would certainly explain how Bella seems all the more drawn to Edward despite his insistence on them not seeing one another.

In the Sanguinem Emere universe, we explored this notion to some extent. The level of which will become more apparent in book2, where we will see Devika struggling to come to terms with her (un)natural attraction.

Sigh… I find the image of Edward Cullen sad, to be honest. He was a likeable, if unmemorable, character when I first flipped casually though the pages of Twilight. Now, however, the sight of his tortured expression causes one’s ears to be assaulted by not just the screaming of teenagers, but the screaming of their mothers as well (creepy much?). I can understand the animosity so many intellectuals feel when confronted with Twilight paraphernalia and images.

I feel quite the same.

And is it just me, or does Pattinson’s Edward always have the same expression on his face?

This expression makes me want to punch things

 

The publication of Bought in Blood

After approximately 13 full edits, nine rewrites, countless proofread-throughs and far too many arguments to count, we have finally published the first book of the Sanguinem Emere trilogy, Bought in Blood on Amazon.com.

The novel is available in both e-book (Kindle version) and paperback formats and is 96, 096 words long, estimated at approximately 370 pages.

We will keep you updated as to the sequel which is already underway… Here’s to many more rewrites, edits and arguments over artistic differences!

Lives of the Mayfair Witches

“And Carlotta, Carlotta who was stronger than Stella – Carlotta wouldn’t help. She lay on her bed upstairs during the seance, staring at the ceiling, and she was saying her rosary aloud, and after every Hail Mary, she said, ‘Send him back to hell, send him back to hell!’ – and then went on to the next Hail Mary.”

I am an avid Anne Rice fan. I know that it isn’t essential for me to say so, all one has to do is follow my obsession with vampires for it to become apparent. But what some may not know is that I am as much a fan of the rest of her work as I am of the Vampire Chronicles. One series in particular which I am rereading my way through is the three novels under the collective title of the Lives of the Mayfair Witches. Currently I find myself traipsing through the loved and worn pages of my copy of Taltos, purely an accidental rediscovery, finding it lost in a drawer and having nothing else to draw inspiration from. The last time I picked up a Mayfair novel was over eight years ago. And after only fifty pages, I find myself falling into the mire of intrigue and mystery that this novel is founded upon once more.

I recall feeling deliciously enticing thrills when I first devoured The Witching Hour with its sensual descriptions of the house on First and Chestnut, the one with the keyhole door. I especially found the strange isolation of First street Mayfairs to be unnerving. A tightly knit family wherein few understand the inner occurrences of those that reside in that house. But those simple opening descriptions of the witches and there somewhat estranged family simultaneously set the reader’s skin crawling and their fingers itching to turn the page.

Even when she chose to abolish the mysterious darkness surrounding the character of Lasher, she immediately injected into the tale a new element of intrigue with the otherworldly Taltos. A species of creature so alien to humans and yet incredibly beautiful, regardless, that enticed a hidden terror in men and a forbidden lust in women. But also a race that drove a mother to shoot her own child when Rowan came to understand the threat her daughter Emaleth would pose for the human race.

The series in itself is a sticky pool of incest and love between familiars and strangers. However it also subtly broaches intrinsic elements of humanity, as all of her novels do. Subliminally provoking the reader to ponder thoughts readers are seldom subjected to.

Alma Katsu – The Reckoning

This post contains spoilers…

He gave her immortality.
She tried to destroy him.
Now he is searching for her.
They must not meet.

One of my greatest failings of late, I must admit to myself, is that I do not read nearly enough. As a result, I feel certain that my grasp of English is suffering, at least to a small degree , and that my ability to switch out simple words with more eloquent vocabulary is at a low, compared to what it was when I had the time to read. Now, whenever I pick up a book to read as a leisure activity, my work-ethic gland begins to play cruel tricks on me, I constantly feel the buzzing sensation that I should be writing instead of reading. The better the novel in my hands, the more I suffer from this phenomenon.

However, this I simply must have:

Ever since I finished reading The Taker, I have been anxiously pining away for the follow up. Those that scanned through my review of the aforementioned Alma Katsu masterpiece (The Taker), will note that I quickly became enamoured with the story’s villain (What can I say?), Adair, the body-snatching magician, bent on making the Lanore McIlvrae both love and obey him. As the tale reaches its apex, much to my dismay, Lanny and the love of her life, Jonathan, ensure that Adair and his cruelty will never haunt them again. Or so they believe.

Until a letter is sent to Lanore’s home.

And here is where I absolutely ‘Eeeeeeked!’ with a thrill of anticipation. Even though the event read as miniscule, even though it seemed that Adair would never escape his walled prison, even though it appeared Katsu had brushed over the incident… Therein lay the barest threat that this delightfully wicked literary creation would resurface for a sequel!

And, for once, I do not feel like the odd reader out for my unhealthy infatuation. It would seem that a large number of Katsu’s fans are as excited as I am for the return of a debonair and terrifying antagonist. Adair seems an enticing promise of intrigue, in comparison with Lanore’s usual taste in men (Jonathan who wanted every woman but her, and Luke who seems a poor fool dragged into her mess without warning). Not only, as we read The Taker, we are reminded constantly by our heroine’s refusal to see the truth, that love is blind. Jonathan consistently mistreats his best friend, repeatedly dashing her dreams, wrecking her heart, acting unforgivably selfish in a manner that makes us feel simultaneously angry at and pitying of him. He claims to be a victim of society, of being unable to act against the wishes of his mother, and his father, and his town as a whole. But eventually his words seem feeble and self-centred. And when we finally reach this point where we know longer believe that he cares enough for Lanny to protect her as she does him, our opinion of him is soured beyond repair.

Adair, opposingly, brings vast pain upon Lanore, being the only one that can injure her once he makes her immortal, but his damage of her is physical in nature, and feels transient in light of her immortality. Yes, we know he can murder her, if he so wishes, being that he created her in her current form, but this does not faze us. His actions tell us he will not. Even when she betrays him completely, irrevocably, creating of Jonathan an immortal, without her master’s consent, he stays his hand and punishes rather than resorting to killing his wayward lover.

He also professes great love for Lanore. And funnily enough, I believe him. Another credit to Alma Katsu on a series of well-chosen words and excellent character portrayal.

In The Reckoning, however, I am certain we can expect dire repercussions for Lanore’s actions.

Eeeeeeeeeeek! Cannot wait.

I yearn for this book as I have never ached for a release date before.

June 19^th cannot arrive soon enough!

The Taker – Alma Katsu

This post does contain spoilers…

I recently read the first book of The Taker trilogy by Alma Katsu (http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7766064-the-taker) and I found my masochistic tendencies running away with me. Despite my horror at the story which unfolded, my distaste for (what felt like) unnecessary violence, and my severe anathema towards weak-willed, obstinate heroines, I was so deeply moved and entrenched that I found my fingers curled white and rigid across the pages, unable to let go. Frequently between pages one and 436 I discovered the unbidden tear attempting to breach my eyes and display my feeling for the story and I was forced to prevent myself from flinging the prettily designed creature at a wall in my temper. Yet regardless of all of this discomfort, regardless of what felt like a torture of pages, I continued reading. Because for all the pain wrought in me by this strangely eloquent novel, the pleasure it evoked was made that much more satisfying. The deeper the bruising, the more stringent the punishment, the more sublime the ecstasy becomes.

Now I would love to put it down to a natural human instinct to revel in the torment of others (fictional characters being easier of course) or the instinct that most people feel to stare for painstaking minutes on end at car accidents as they are passed on the roads. But this experience I put down to an appreciation of the author’s ability to create characters so inherently complex that one becomes confused on a fundamental moral level as to where the antagonist fits into the entire plot. Now perhaps it is just me (though I am disinclined to agree with this hasty assumption) but the clear antagonist of the tale, the obvious “bad guy” as it were, the gentleman proudly walking through page after page sporting his massive black top-hat, was my personal favoured character by page 250, and had my deepest sympathies and affection as his part in the story drew to a close and our beloved heroine, Lanny, bricked him up in a wall in favour of a man who would never truly love her. Despite his glaring inadequacies as a trustworthy individual (okay, perhaps I am downplaying the sheer wickedness of the character to an extent), Adair expressed love toward Lanore. A possessive love certainly. Perhaps some might even call it a display of ownership rather than love itself. But really, isn’t that what most people in love feel?

The title of the novel revolves around the notion that all lovers fall into two categories – Givers and Takers:

“And it´s so different for a lot of people I´ve known. One partner doesn´t love the other enough to stop drinking, or gambling, or running around with other women. One is the giver and one is the taker. The giver wishes the taker would stop.” 
“But the taker never changes,” Luke says, though he wonders if this is always the case. 
“Sometimes the giver has to let go, but sometimes you don´t. You can´t. I couldn´t give up on Jonathan. I seemed to be able to forgive him anything.” 
― Alma Katsu, The Taker

The story unfolds as Lanore McIlvrae nurses a deep, unwavering love for her childhood friend, Jonathan St. Andrew. But any relationship between them is doomed due to social status discrepancies. Lanny is the daughter of a poor man next to the wealth and prestige of Jonathan’s family. Through a series of painful sub-plots, Lanore is forced to watch the man she has sworn herself to (and sworn belongs to her, claiming she will marry him) screw his way through the entire town of women. When he eventually allows her close to him and the metaphysical climax between the two is reached, Lanore falls pregnant; an unfortunate young girl with no luck on her side. Naturally, Jonathan, being a selfish sort of character despite his bright personality – like sunshine on one’s skin – informs Lanny that he will not marry her. He cannot marry her. She is beneath his station. His father would never allow it. He has already been promised to another. It seems there is no end to the excuses that roll out of this boy’s mouth.

Lanore is forced to tell her family who send her away to Boston to have the baby, away from the prying eyes of those that will spread gossip and rumours about her misfortune; effectively ruining her for any chance of marriage in future. The tale would be too simple and plain if our dear heroine were to safely follow her father’s instructions, have the baby, and travel home, back to her Jonathan. No, she decides to attempt to make it on her own, and is picked up a troupe of strange Europeans, including one Count Adair cel Rau.

Adair proceeds to get sweet, unbridled Lanore involved in a number of heinous acts: rape, kidnapping, as well as physical, emotional and sexual torture. And finally, he makes her immortal, bound to him as his own creation and kept lover forever. It somehow does not seem possible then that this man, this evil monster who snatches beautiful things off the streets of wherever he finds himself at the time, and uses them for his own pleasure with hardly a thought for theirs, can be seen as the lesser evil next to sunny, dispassionate, yet somehow ruthlessly self-involved Jonathan. But it is so. I have found it so.

And so I must applaud Alma Katsu on a novel so intricate that I find myself once more (for the first time since the days of early Anne Rice vampire chronicles) captivated and romanced by a fictional man that, for the most part, is little more than a villain parading himself about in a terribly unconvincing sheep costume.

The novel perplexed me and enthralled me. What I have written here is but a small chiselling of my own into what this novel means on a deeper scale, in the very marrow of our bones where we attempt to break apart our own psyche like a puzzle, trying to formulate a pattern where a myriad of differing options seem apparent.

A beautiful accomplishment and a vivid display of the power a Master can exert over his/her pet. Whether one chooses to see Adair as or Jonathan as the Master, however, is entirely a matter of conjecture.