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Bitten Confessions Series
Kristen's fiancé Rick turns into Houdini and pulls a disappearing act. Now years later her husband deserts her for a younger woman. Disgusted with life itself, menopausal to boot, she doesn't know what to do when Rick turns up—still young and handsome. Against her better judgment, but with her hormones going haywire, she accepts a date, and finds herself waking up in the morgue as an illegally made vampire.
Rick must hide his mistake or everyone dies. But Kristen refuses to go quietly undead into the dark, because her age, lack of estrogen and other physical and mental anomalies make her a very unusual powerful vampire with none of the limitations. And she has a bucket list a mile long of people who have done her wrong, and an eternity for payback.
Page Count: 276
Word Count: 69672
“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?”
~The Hatter, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
by Lewis Carroll
Waking up alone was no surprise.
I cracked an eye open and swiveled my face away from the blinding radiance. Indistinct forms hovered in the darkness beyond the circle of white light. I sat up, shielding my eyes with my hand, and peered around the large room.
Beige tile floor. Institutional green walls. A bank of overlarge stainless file drawers lined the wall opposite me. Each held a white card inserted into a metal frame with a name printed in bold capital letters: PETERSON, ALAN T.; JARVIS, DENTON F.; SANCHEZ, MARIA DELGADO.
My gaze fell upon a similar white card tied to my own freshly pedicured big toe that leaned longingly toward its neighbor.
“DOE, JANE?” I reached forward and snatched off the tag. And stopped dead.
There, right next to my newly shorn crotch, two round holes pierced the inside of my thigh on a pasty white leg that looked like it belonged to a mannequin. My index finger gingerly touched the twin groin punctures that were neither painful nor bleeding.
Yet, the serial pessimist part of my brain cautioned.
My stare drifted as my mind tried to reconcile the weird place with my lack of clothing and memory. After waiting for something to happen or to wake up from the nightmare, I swung my legs off what I discovered was a metal table.
Flat-footed on the hard floor, I still couldn’t get a feel for where I was. Like gears clocking around, my body began to turn. A metal cart was stationed at the head of the stainless table I’d been lying on. I moved to the cart with a clipboard holding official-looking paperwork beside a wrinkled lump of cloth.
I’d always been a voracious reader who compulsively read any and everything, including road signs and billboards aloud to everyone in the car. So, I scanned only the paper’s top line: Seattle Bayside Medical Center Morgue.
I turned thready attention on the clothes lump that proved to be my vintage Scutum raincoat, soft and shapeless after many hard years of wearing through life’s storms. Probing the pockets produced nothing, not even a wadded tissue. My purse wasn’t on the cart, either. Nor were the new outfit, peep-toe pumps, and underwear I’d bought especially for tonight.
I couldn’t quite put together the fuzzy impressions forming between my ears other than a long-awaited reunion date hadn’t gone as expected.
“Figures,” I sighed and got into my beloved Scutum. Without a backward glance, I padded barefoot out of the electric double doors swooshing closed behind me.
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