Check out this preview and excerpt of The Starblood Trilogy. If you read the excerpt below you’ll see it’s brutally good!
Amazon UK – http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01ERYJ4LK
Amazon US – https://amzn.com/B01ERYJ4LK
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
Satori, an adept Chaos Magician, casts a spell to try and win back his lost love, Star. Lilith, mother of demons, has other ideas. Summoned by Satori’s magic, she makes it her mission to manipulate and separate the doomed lovers.
Satori knows he and Star are meant to be together. He battles demons, travels worlds and even transcends death for her but, however much she begs, he can’t grant her the freedom she craves.
The Starblood Trilogy is a tale of sorcery, demonology, murder, sexual obsession and Gothic subculture. In the words of Jef Rouner (Houston Press) “You don’t read [Carmilla Voiez’s] books. You survive them.” and Starblood may be the most brutal female-centred horror of them all. Winner of numerous indie awards, The Starblood Trilogy is being adapted into a series of graphic novels with art by Anna Dmitrieva.
“Carmilla Voiez is more of a singer than a writer. She tells her compelling story in a hypnotic, distinctive voice that brings her eerie world vividly to life.” Graham Masterton.
Satori stands in the centre of his bedroom. His fingers and the lace cuffs of his shirt are stained from the charcoal he uses to scribble symbols. Markings cover every surface: the bare floorboards, ceiling and walls. Even his wardrobe and door are covered in intricate black sigils.
He unbuttons his shirt, swearing as he leaves fingerprints on the cotton. After tossing the garment on to his bed, he unzips his jeans, and forces the denim over his legs and to the floor. Standing naked, he smells himself. There is no trace of her scent on his body. Realising this feels like losing her all over again.
His fragile-looking, angular body is lost in the forest of writing. It expands around him, a web of ancient knowledge. The tips of his fingers prickle with energy.
He pulls silver rings from his fingers. Pushing back his shoulder-length hair, he removes the hoops from his left ear, and finally the silver stud from his sharply pointed nose. His jewellery jingles like tiny bells as he lets it fall, scattering like distant stars across the midnight duvet. On his pillow, dozens of photographs lie like fallen leaves. Some are intact but most are torn or defaced. Her face holds his thoughts for a moment: pale, perfect and framed by a mass of ebony curls. He shakes his head to clear her image. After this is over he will make her love him again. Maybe she will beg for his forgiveness. A wolfish grin grows across his face at the thought of Star on her knees, begging him to take her back. He licks his lips. His face feels hot, his body cold. In spite of his impatience to start the ritual, he waits. Sucking deep breaths in through his nostrils, he collects his thoughts—he mustn’t rush. He must be in control of himself and his desires.
Whispering, he draws the same glyphs on his body. He starts with his toes and the soles of his feet, moving upwards and over his skin with practised dexterity. Charcoal drags against his skin, which blossoms pink below each mark. The growing tattoo obscures his features.
Although he knows the words he needs to say, he reads the passage again, to be certain. He draws two circles on the floor and steps into one of them. With the fingers of his right hand he traces a pentagram in the air before him. Then he recites the words, his voice slow and clear, pronouncing each syllable with care.
‘ … This is my will,’ he says finally.
Lifting a silver dagger above his head, he concentrates. An excited grin spreads across his graffiti covered face and with tremendous force he plunges the knife downwards, severing the air in front of him. Through the tear he can see swirls of darkness: Chaos. He calls to Furfur, creator of love between man and woman, to share with him his demon’s power so he can win Star back.
A long, slender leg steps through the gap, followed by a lily-white body. The interloper is female, naked and hairless.
‘I am Satori,’ he says. His voice quivers with fear and excitement. He coughs and tries to speak with more authority. ‘I have brought you—’
‘Brought me? I think not. I saw the door and came to see the fool who caused it to open.’ Her emerald eyes are full of contempt.
Satori’s confidence withers. Malice thickens the air like gelatine and the demon’s aura chills the room. Although he suspects it is fear rather than the cold that makes his body shake so violently. Staring at her in silence, he realises he has made an error. Through all his planning and preparation, he did not see this coming. What went wrong? Instead of Furfur, contained and compelled to do his bidding, ready to elevate him back into the arms of his beloved, he is faced with something else, something threatening. He raises his dagger above him again, ready to expel her before it’s too late, but before he can open his mouth she knocks the dagger away with the back of her hand.
‘I am your guest not your minion, and you will not dismiss me,’ she says.
Satori falls to the floor, nursing his wrist and looks at the thousands of drawings that swim before his eyes. She steps into view, her pale feet smudging the glyphs.
‘I need clothes,’ she says.
Satori vaguely wonders whether she is making the demand of him and watches, transfixed, as her white toes sharpen into a point and black ectoplasm spreads over them and the sides of her feet until they meet at the back, forming a shiny slipper. The back of her foot is raised higher and higher, making her feet arch as stiletto heels stretch beneath the soles. He looks up at her, spellbound, and sees the same process in action. Over her breasts and stomach a leather corset is growing and moment by moment the material becomes more defined, like the fast rewinding of decomposition. From the black leather rise five red trimmed straps that decorate the front, each with a silver buckle in the centre. From her crotch, lace panties spread and a shock of red hair can be seen beneath them, over those a shiny black mini skirt, so short it barely touches her thighs. Her face is now painted. Her lips red, as is the mass of long hair which grows from her scalp. Across the seam of her closed eyes thick, black lashes sprout and above these two perfect eyebrows arch downwards toward her delicate nose. When she opens her eyes again Satori’s body responds to her beauty. She laughs.
‘I am not yours, magician,’ she says.
Those cold, green eyes sweep around the room, and her body flexes and tightens. Satori watches as a frown creases her forehead and chin.
‘Open the door,’ she demands.
‘Who are you?’ he asks at last.
‘Lilith,’ she answers then she seems to forget he is there at all and walks past him towards the door.
‘No,’ he whispers. ‘I have to send you back.’
She turns to him. Crouched on the floor, he feels her judging him. He tries to stand, but under the power of her scorn his limbs feel like liquid. She steps towards him, her movements like quicksilver. Holding his breath, he watches. He has never seen anyone, human or feline, move as gracefully or effortlessly. Fear strengthens his body; he takes a deep breath and tries to rise. The mocking smile on her face makes his stomach twist and tighten. He feels anger at her dismissal of his power, yet his penis still aches for her. His body rebels against his will. She turns away.
‘These symbols,’ she says, ‘will not hold me.’
She opens her hand and raises her palm towards the door. The charcoal shapes move and twist across the painted wood. They detach themselves with a final tug and swirl and dance through the air before racing across to Satori, buzzing around his face like mosquitoes. Confused, he bats them away with his arms, then calms himself, clears his mind and wills the airborne glyphs away. When he opens his eyes again the swarm and Lilith are gone.
Heels click against stone. Lilith strides along the city street. She has no coat, but does not feel chilled by the autumn air. Long legs carry her swiftly past vacated office buildings and busy eateries. The smells of burnt cooking oil and chicken invade her nostrils. A few of the customers stare as she rushes past the windows. Let them look, she doesn’t blame them. Her voluptuous pout is drawn in scarlet and the trace of a sneer tugs the corners of her lips downwards. Her pillar-box red hair and beautiful face lend her the look of a comic book super hero, while her near nudity suggests high-class prostitute.
Cars crawl past her as she heads out of town. Glazed eyes stare through half open windows. She keeps walking, head held high, returning no more than the briefest glance. Each car keeps moving, matching her pace for a while then accelerating away.
She quickens her steps, eager to leave the dark room and weeping boy far behind. The evening has left a strange hollowness inside her chest. He had acted as though she was not what he wanted. His whispered pleas for forgiveness still burrow through her mind, and that name repeated over and over again – Star.
The busy city is behind her now. Darkened factories and warehouses line the street: remnants of Victorian wealth. The only light comes from the full moon above that stares down in silence. She is almost there.
At first she doesn’t register the heavy footsteps keeping time with her own. She is lost in dreams of adventure and freedom. Then, as she rounds a corner she sees a dark shape dart into shadow. Listening now, she hears the slap of leather on tarmac as the stranger speeds up. She varies speed, but her pursuer keeps pace. She turns again and heads along a narrow alleyway, shoes crushing glass as they fall. The stranger is closer now. She can smell him. His odour of fresh and stale sweat mixes with the scent of his sex. He is excited. The closeness of him fills her head. Her pulse quickens, and her saliva tastes metallic. It is hard to formulate a plan while picking her way between broken concrete blocks and steel girders. Her heels slip over the uneven ground. The pain of her ankle twisting makes her swear. She looks behind, into the darkness.
The footsteps have stopped trying to keep pace with her and are beginning to gain ground then he is so close she can feel his breath in her hair.
He whispers insults as though they are terms of endearment. ‘You’re so beautiful, bitch. Fucking whore, worthless slut, we’re gonna have some fun.’
Her legs and arms feel heavy, as though they belong to someone else. She pushes forward in spite of her aching limb.
His menace taints the air. ‘I know you want me. I can smell your filthy cunt from here, my love. I’ll make you scream for more then I’ll gut you like a fish.’
Breathing deeply, she sucks strength from dust-filled oxygen. The flat edge of a cold blade presses against her throat. She freezes. The hunter pushes himself against her back, and she feels the rough denim of his jeans scratch against her. His left hand fumbles between her thighs, pawing at the underwear beneath her skirt. The metal of his watch scratches between her legs. Her pulse hammers against the tooth of the knife. He growls in her ear and reverses his hold. The thumb and forefinger of his left hand now squeeze her throat as his knife tears at her panties. The lace tangles itself around the knife, falling away like broken cobwebs. He lifts the knife and holds it, almost tenderly, against her breast then plunges the fingers of his left hand inside her.
The shock of the sudden invasion makes her gasp. She can feel his rough fingers searching within her. Her eyes close and she imagines tearing his hand from his body. Metal pierces her skin as she struggles. A thread of crimson trickles down her chest, and she sees the cold blade flash inside her mind. She lifts her face towards the moon and smiles.
The fingers no longer squirm inside her. The man withdraws them, lifting them to his face. Snorting the scent of her, he trembles then sighs. With a slurp, he sucks his fingers like a hungry baby. His ragged breath in her ears, she raises her left arm and touches the fist in which his knife is clasped. He seems frightened by her icy fingers and pulls away. She spins around on her stiletto heels to face him – a small man, with greasy, greying hair, smoothed over his misshapen skull. His arms and legs are brittle twigs, his blue eyes weak and moist.
‘You’re going to die. I’m going to fuck you in every hole I gouge out of you,’ he stammers.
He sees her smile and shrinks away. Clutching his knife in his right hand and still holding the fingers of the other to his nose, he watches her. Taking a step towards him, she towers above his pock marked face. She lifts her arms and places a hand on either side of his jaw, lifting his feet from the ground. He lets his left hand fall back to his side and stares at her in terrified silence. Holding his clammy face between her palms, she thrusts her tongue into his mouth, squeezing his skull just enough to let him taste her strength without losing consciousness then she releases him and grabs the knife from his hand.
Watching him, she toys with the knife. It is a good knife, a heavy knife. Lunging, she slices the air between them. Realising how frightened he is, her smile broadens. She reaches for the sweat-soaked cotton of his shirt and slashes through it, revealing his chest. She places her fingers over his stammering heart.
Watching tears flow freely down the man’s cheeks, she places the knife handle between her thighs and squeezes with her powerful muscles. Her steel phallus bobs eagerly.
‘Suck my cock,’ she orders.
He resists and Lilith has to force him onto his knees amongst the rubble and glass. She wraps her fingers around his hair and pushes his face into position. He gurgles as blood coats the blade.
Falling backwards, he pleads with her to show mercy. His broken tongue spits promises he will not keep. She ignores his words and roughly spreads his legs then plunges through the denim sheath around his crotch. Exquisite screams of agony echo through the alleyway, as she makes her virgin hole and fucks him until he stops twitching.