Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Skye Carter is as normal as normal can be. But when she chances upon a man in the basement of an abandoned Hollywood Hills house, she’s suddenly playing tour guide, and introducing a fifteen-hundred-year-old vampire to this century. And who even knows what’s going on with her teeth.
The truth is, immortality can get old—which is why Lucas Thorne went to sleep for seventy years. But he’s back and ready to take on undead enemies and friends alike. In a world where threatening creatures roam the night streets, he’s the most dangerous of them all
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
“Lullaby” by The Cure
“Blossom” by It’s Acrylic
“Hollywood’s Bleeding” by Post Malone
“Bloodletting” by Concrete Blonde
“bury a friend” by Billie Eilish
“I Get A Kick Out Of You” by Ella Fitzgerald
“If We Were Vampires” by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit
“Running Up That Hill” by Placebo
“Moonlight Sonata” by Beethoven
“Saturn” by SZA
“Dream A Little Dream” by Louis Armstrong
“The Hills” by The Weeknd
“Vampire” by Olivia Rodrigo
“I Am Not A Woman, I’m A God” by Halsey
“Cross Road Blues” by Robert Johnson
“Cry Little Sister” by Gerard McMahon
“Because The Night” by Patti Smith
The house is protected by a tall, stone fence and hidden by an overgrown garden. Given the way the hinges of the wrought-iron gate screech when I push it open, I doubt anyone has been here in years. Which is weird. This Spanish Revival in the Hollywood Hills must be worth a fortune. A weed-infested gravel path leads to the large, arched, wooden front door. Three stories of white walls and terracotta roof tiles tower above me.
My boss, Jen, said to go through the place from top to bottom and make a note of anything that needed to be fixed. Any water leaks or signs of animals, etcetera. The Thorn Group doesn’t normally provide this service. Guess the client is special.
Inside the house, the air is stale, and sheets cover much of the furniture. The place feels like a museum. It has all of the original features, wooden rafters on the high ceiling and French doors opening onto a courtyard. But the overall atmosphere is oppressive as fuck. When I sneeze from the dust, the sound echoes through the empty house. Same goes for my footsteps. The electricity works, but half of the bulbs are blown, and the other half are too dim to be useful. It all adds to the haunted house vibe.
I wander through room after room, carrying the set of heavy, old house keys, peering into corners and under shrouded chairs and tables. There’s no security system, and yet the place hasn’t been touched. It’s nothing less than a miracle. A grand piano and a wall full of leather- and clothbound books take pride of place in the living room. Art and photos and antique mirrors hang on the walls. And a bar cart stocked with half-empty bottles of liquor sits beside the ornate fireplace full of ash. It looks like the owner just up and left—walked out mid-cocktail party or something.
The view is spectacular on the third-level balcony. All of the glamor and grime of the Sunset Strip. Streetlights flicker down below as the sun sinks in the west. There’s an old saying about a red sunset. Some warning of the weather and things to come, but I can’t remember what it is. A cold autumn breeze has me wrapping my cardigan tighter around me. Time to get this job done. There’s a hot bath and a good book waiting for me at home. Though there’s no food, so a grocery stop will be required. A salad from Trader Joe’s sounds good, so does their sea salt brownie bites, because balance.
Taking notes on my cell, I move from room to room as night sets in. The house is in good condition for its age. And if I focus on my work, I can ignore its general spookiness—right up until a branch scrapes against a window, making me shriek.
Shit.
I rub the heel of my palm against my rib cage. My heart is hammering inside my chest. Jen not giving me urgent, last-minute jobs would be great. Exploring abandoned buildings with bad lighting is also officially not my thing. Something I might want to add to my contract moving forward. None of this situation should have happened. I entered Jen’s office to ask for a raise, only to have her forget I scheduled the meeting and send me here.
Having walked through the upper, main, and lower levels (the latter of which is partially set into the hill), only the basement remains. Another of those weak lightbulbs barely illuminates the staircase. I have to force my feet to keep taking the next step and go down there.
The basement is about what I expected: a boiler and storage in one vast room. But the sheer amount of stuff down here is awe inspiring. Furniture and paintings and wooden chests. Endless racks of dusty old bottles of wine. It’s like an antique store and a vineyard had a baby and that child chose chaos.
This is wild. Who owns all of this? How many generations did it take to collect it all?
I plod along, leaving footsteps in the dust. With the way the hairs on the back of my neck are standing at attention, it feels as if someone is watching me. Which is ridiculous. But then, I always did have an overactive imagination. If this were one of my true-crime podcasts, the psycho killer would absolutely be about to jump out and grab me. And each and every member of the audience would shake their heads and say what an idiot I was to enter the creepy basement. They would absolutely be right.