After ten years of political dirt-digging, Gabriel Hawthorne was accustomed to unearthing all the usual skeletons. But this time, the skeletons are covered in the inhuman flesh of vampires who have walked the earth for almost as long as man has. An ancient and secret society dedicated to the destruction of the vampires, and finally possessing the technology to realize that purpose, forces its own demands upon Gabriel: He can be a willing prisoner or unwilling sacrifice to their cause. And after the brutal murder of his friend and business associate, as well as the attempts on his own life by friend and foe, Gabriel learns there are fates far more worse than death.
Targeted Age Group:: 16 and up
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Our latest novel is entitled The Children of Cain: House of Dvanaesti. It’s the first book in a series. Scott and I are both horror fans in general and vampire fans in particular. After we’d finished our second novel, we were playing a game of pool while we discussed what our next project should be. We spent a couple of hours throwing out ideas which neither of us were excited about. I mentioned that I had always wanted to write a vampire novel to which Scott smiled and said he was just about to say the same thing. He then went on to say he didn’t want to write the stereotypical vampire story. He wanted to re-imagine the birth of vampires and their place in history to which I smiled because I was about to say the same thing. We had no idea the story we wanted to tell would lead to a series, but we’re excited about how well the first book is being received. People keep asking us, “When is the second book coming out?” or demanding, “Tell me you’re writing the next book!”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AN-StJNiBjk&feature=youtu.be
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Most of the characters in the book where developed, after we blocked out our basic story-line. This book is the first in a series. Several of the characters are actually real people that existed throughout history. We researched several sources and found people that had little or vague information about them past there moment of fame and from there we would fill in the blanks with our own explanations. It’s been very excitement to see the responses from the readers. Most feel it gives the story a since of plausibility.
Book Sample
Prologue
38 A.D., Vienne, Isère
Pontius pulled his cloak tighter about himself in protection from the sharp, icy wind coming off the river. He followed Gaius, his servant, down the main public road leading from the docks on the bank of the Gère to the town of Vienne proper.
In the quickly gathering dusk, he could see the lights of torches and small cooking fires ahead in the main square where vendors roasted and hawked lamb and rabbit, boar and badger. The odors of cooked meat were already wafting down the road to greet him. His stomach grumbled its lust loudly. He’d not eaten a thing all day.
Gaius must have heard it too, Pontius thought, or was listening to his own grumblings for Gaius’ already brisk pace quickened; his sandals now scuffing loudly across the polished stones of the Roman road.
This road, which, he hoped, would be renamed after him once he’d finished with the improvements (at local landowner expense of course) had occupied his every waking hour this past year. It would be his instrument for gaining the favor of the local people and, therefore, the Emperor. His exile would finally be over and he would be welcomed back to Rome–
“Make way for Curatore Pilatus!” Gaius shouted as he pushed through the main square now thick with people.
Curatore, Pontius thought to himself with a pang of bitterness. He bit down on a curse, silencing it in his throat. Not even twelve months ago, his title had been Prefect. The Chief Magistrate of Judea. Now it was Curatore. The Road Commissioner.
The people closest to Gaius and Pontius only sneered at the declamation. No one stepped, let alone rushed, out of Pontius’ way. It was clear the locals held as little regard for the Curatore as Pontius did. Perhaps even less.
Pontius put a hand on Gaius’ shoulder to silence him.
Gaius nodded his understanding and set his jaw. If verbal requests to make a path would not be heeded, Gaius would do so by force. Tall and powerfully built, his corded muscles moving like a den of snakes under his leathery skin, Gaius made an easy way…
…Pontius snickered. He remembered the first time he’d met Gaius and remarked he’d never seen such dead eyes. Gaius had asked what Pontius had meant. Pontius had replied, “Dead eyes. Eyes that tell the world, this is a man who’s killed. The man had considered Pontius’ words for a moment before responding, “Very dead eyes, My Lord.” …
…The day’s politicking was complete. Now it was time to relax. Wash his feet. And enjoy a goblet of wine. Perhaps two. Maybe even a third. And after a third, especially on an empty stomach, he might even enjoy the company of Claudia…
…He knew their marriage had been troubled since before the exile. No. That was not correct.
Their marriage had been wonderful, especially by Roman standards. He and Claudia had been in love. Truly in love….
…And they’d been the perfect political couple. Each party. Each event. They decided on who each other needed to get to know. Plotted how best to gain an audience either as individuals or as couples. They kept their ears and eyes open and worked together to further their place in the Roman hierarchy. He always listened to Claudia’s advice. Always followed it…
…Except for the time she’d come to him and told him she’d suffered because of this man, this King of the Jews, this Jesus of Nazareth. She’d begged him not to have anything to do with him. Find some way to be rid of him. But his arrogance had bested him and instead, he’d washed his hands of the affair and put Jesus to death.
What had flashed in her eyes when he’d told her what he’d done, it had almost made a believer of him in what the mystics had called demon possession…
…They shared the bedchamber that night, neither saying a word. Neither ever acknowledging what had happened. He never asked her forgiveness nor did she ever offer absolution. It stayed between them like some dank, festering chasm that slowly deepened.
It was why he’d been distracted, angry, he knew now, and slaughtered more than a thousand innocent souls. It was why he’d been banished. And even as Claudia had begun to show signs of sickness, a cough which ended in Claudia spitting blood, bed-drenching night sweats, they still did not speak of reconciliation…
…Pontius bounced off the stationary frame of Gaius. “Wha–?”
His words froze on his tongue as he looked past Gaius at his home. None of the torches were lit. The house was dark. Cold. There were no sounds of the servants preparing for their Master’s eminent return. No smell of meat roasting or bread baking…
…Gaius walked up to the front door, pulled down one of the torches, pulled flint from a small bag tied to his belt, lit it, and pushing the door to Pontius’ house open, stepped inside. And swore.
“Gaius!” Pontius reprimanded as he sprang to the door and stepped across the threshold. Hot bile burned the reprimand in his throat.
Shards of bone protruded from the blood spackled wall as if hammered there. Blood and bone and clumps of gray matter formed a trail down the wall to a body, the head of which was now flat and square. What gray matter left inside the skull oozed out the ears and eye sockets. The scent of metal floated on the air…
…Pontius stared at the skull of the servant, could hear Gaius retching in the main room, and found he couldn’t move. He wanted to run screaming from the house. Instead he found his feet moving him slowly toward the main room, his heart thrumming in his chest.
He entered the darkened main room, his left sandal slipping and his right sticking to the floor. The room was rank, as if the space were used as a slaughterhouse and a metal smith’s forge at the same time. His stomach lurched and he doubled over. Dropped to his knees. And dry heaved. Dry heaved again and again until his abdomen cramped. His brow slick with sweat, he panted heavily through his mouth; wanting to spit but finding his mouth too dry. Pontius rose shakily to his feet, his legs threatening to buckle and give…
…“Light the torch.” Pontius ordered.
“No.” Gaius’ voice sounded stronger.
Pontius felt a wave of irritation and nausea pass through him. The stench in the room was staggering. But Gaius was a warrior. A man who’d seen battle. Seen death. Smelled death. Dealt it. And he was a Roman! The Romans had perfected torture. Had perfected the elongation of death to its most beautifully agonizing and exquisitely painful end. Had dreamed up the most violent ways to watch a man die and then watched. Surely what this room looked like could not compare.
“Give me the torch. And some flint.” Pontius held out his hand to the shadow of Gaius’ prostrate figure.
A moment passed before the shadow handed over the torch and flint. Gaius gripped Pontius’ wrist with a hard yet trembling hand. “Please! My Lord! Leave this room! This house!” His voice quavered.
Pontius stared at the shadow of the man. “Let me go, Gaius.”
Gaius did as he was told.
Pontius relit the torch. And as its light illuminated the room, Pontius heard peals of screams echoing though the room. His own screams.
The walls, ceiling and floor looked as if buckets of blood had been splashed and poured. Bits of flesh stuck to the ceiling and walls. Fragments of bone lay scattered about like shards of a broken vase. Pieces of bodies, chunks of body parts, were thrown about the room.
Pontius looked back towards the entrance and saw what he’d slipped on; the entrails of one his servants. Nothing larger than the size of a dove remained of any human form…
…“What kind of evil did this?” Gaius’ voice whined…
…Pontius staggered towards the bed chamber. He felt drunk. Wished he felt drunk. It would explain how the floor seemed to lurch right then left, how the walls caught him hard in the shoulders to right him, how his legs trembled, his stomach roiled and his head swam. He finally reached the open doorway of Claudia’s bedchamber and froze.
Lying on the bed, still in her nightclothes, was the form of Claudia. She looked more waxen than human under the soft glow of the candles and harsh shadows created by the crackling torches. Unlike what he’d seen in the other rooms, the bed chamber was clean. Pristine. Unlike the others in the house, her olive skin was unmarred except for the lines of age and illness. Her hair, once the sheen of polished onyx, was now streaked with silver, but still attached to her head. And the bed…Showed no signs of the violence littering the rest of the house…
…“She no longer suffers, Roman.”
The voice was flavored with an accent Pontius had never heard before. He spun to find a man like no other man he’d ever seen before leaning against the jamb of the terrace entrance.
The man’s tunic, cloak, and sandals were as ordinary as any other peasant’s in the main square. His wavy black hair hung unkempt past his broad shoulders. His arms, skin the texture of oak and heavy muscle knotted from years working the land, hung lazily at his side. One muscular leg bent at the knee the foot pressing against the jamb. But what caused Pontius to slide to the other side of the bed, to place the bed between himself and this stranger, was the man’s eyes. His eyes were not the dead eyes of Gaius. They were beyond dead.
Gaius screamed a battle cry and, drawing a blade from his belt, advanced into the room.
Pontius watched the stranger disappear then reappear behind Gaius. Heard the sickening thwunk as he watched the stranger part Gaius’ head from his body. Watched the stranger drop the head which rolled across the floor, coming to a rest at his feet. Gaius’ body dropped to its knees as if ready to bow, and slumped to the floor.
“Why do you grieve for her, Roman?”
The voice came from behind Pontius. He turned and found the stranger sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room. Twenty years had slipped from the man’s hair and face and body. His wavy unkempt hair, looked brushed, its sheen reflecting the light from the candles and torches in the room. His skin no longer resembled oak, but cream. And his eyes… Pontius took several more steps backward…
…“She was in great pain. Dying little by agonizing little each day.” The stranger smiled. “Surely in your heart of hearts you’ve wished for this day. When she could no longer utter whimpers of agony or barbs of antagonism.” The stranger stood. “You are free, Roman.”
Pontius stared at the stranger. He’d been ready to grapple with this…this…whatever it was. It was by no means human. But he’d been ready to grab it by the throat and choke the condescension from it. But…It had been right. The stranger had been right. He’d watched his beloved Claudia slowly wasting away. Felt his heart rip open with each cry of pain. Wanting to rip her heart open with every accusation she uttered when she wasn’t crying…
…“Well, Roman,” The stranger said. “I’m waiting.”
Pontius stared at the stranger. And no longer felt fear. In that moment, that memory of a dare in her eyes, he’d realized Claudia had been right. She’d told him the gods would turn against them if he allowed the man accused of calling himself the King of the Jews to be harmed. And that’s what this stranger was; the executioner of the gods. He was here to dole out the gods’ wrath upon him and his family.
Well, Pontius thought to himself, that didn’t mean he was a rodent to be toyed with by its predator. He was still a man. If this “thing” wanted some satisfaction by playing games, Pontius would have none of that. And that small bit of defiance, not willing to be toyed with, straightened his back, squared his shoulders and set his jaw. “Do what you came here to do, Stranger.”…
…“I came here,” the stranger stood up, “to offer you that for which you are hungering.”
A long moment of silence passed between them before Pontius tried to process what he’d heard. “I…don’t understand.”
The stranger took a step towards Pontius. “Every part of you has lived for only one purpose: To gain more power. More prestige. To win the hearts and minds of Rome.
“Rome is the center of the universe,” Pontius retorted.
“Spare me the idle words, Roman. I’ve lived far too long.” The stranger’s skin rippled and suddenly looked as frail as aged parchment. His hair as brittle as straw. He took another step forward and his skin and hair gleamed again. “You see Rome as the greatest entity on earth. Unstoppable. Immovable. But I see Rome as morning mist in a meadow. It may be thick at first light. But by time the sun is high, the mist will have burned away.”
Pontius heard the tremor of excitement in his voice. “What’re you saying?”
“I’ve seen empires rise and fall. The Babylonians. Macedonians. Egyptians. They are gone. I am still here. As I will be when Rome falls.”
“What are you?” Pontius heard the question come out of his mouth and was surprised. That hadn’t been what he’d planned on saying.
For the first time since Pontius laid eyes on the stranger, the stranger’s confidence, poise, faltered. But only for the slightest of instants and the stranger recovered. His gaze fixed on something beyond this time. This place. “I am the Firstborn. The firstborn of Eve. The firstborn of Sin. The firstborn of the Fallen One. His blood courses through my veins. Willingly it was offered. Willingly it was received. I’ve made eleven like me before you. You will be my twelfth.
“I offer you, Roman, power like no other human can understand. You who’ve murdered, built a road, to curry favor. What I offer you is this. Before and after the Romans and all other empires, you are. You will write history. ” The stranger took another step forward. “So what say you, Roman?”
Pontius didn’t need to think about it. He nodded acceptance. He looked into the stranger’s eyes and shrieked. The eyes weren’t dead but dancing with fire.
Cain smiled wickedly, revealing sharp, gleaming fangs.
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