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Urban Fantasy

Born in Blood: A Heart-Pumping Urban Fantasy. Read an Exclusive Excerpt Now!

March 25, 2023 By Rachel Stedman

Born in Blood - an exclusive excerpt of a heart-pumping adventure

 

Exclusive Excerpt – Born in Blood

To celebrate the upcoming release of Rising in Blood, second and final (so far anyway) in the Vampire Queens series, I’ve popped an excerpt from Book No1, Born in Blood, below.

The inspiration for this scene was a very cold day spent wandering the streets of Den Haag (The Hague), Holland. The Hague is home to the International Court of Justice and the fabulous Mauritshuis Art Museum, where you can see amazing art-work, up close and personal.

The tulips as described in this scene were exactly as I saw them, as was the café where the story opens. BUT I never saw any vampires … (that I know of, anyway 🙂 ).

Enjoy!

P.S. You can find Born in Blood on Amazon.


Chapter One – In The Hague

Outside the café, three young men leaned against a concrete wall. From their baggy, poorly made clothes, they looked like day laborers, waiting for their morning hire. Then one of them said something and shifted slightly, and the light caught his darkly delicate features, and I saw them for what they really were. My breath caught just as I was sipping my coffee. By the time I stopped coughing, they had disappeared.

“Those three men?” I asked the server. “The ones that were outside? Do you know them?”

She glanced out the window. “Did they look about twenty? And wearing old clothes?” She had a Spanish accent. When I nodded, she added, “Those men, si. They follow the tourists about, especially the girls. I tell police: ‘those men, they are bad’. But they say I am racist. Me, I am not a racist. I am Spanish. You like more coffee, Señora?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks.”

The white-walled café had wide glass windows, comfortable soft seats, and the coffee was fresh and hot. I might visit again. Except for those men. I glanced out the window. There was no-one outside, and the spring sunlight was bright. Perhaps I’d imagined it, and those men were completely normal. I shouldn’t be so suspicious all the time.

But at the counter, I paused. “Those men? The ones outside? Don’t go near them, okay?” Especially, I thought, at night.

“They are dangerous?” asked the Spanish server, wide-eyed.

But before I could answer, my phone rang. It was Shara, from the Court. “The Judge is ready for you. Can you be here in ten minutes?”

“On my way,” I said, and pushed the door open. The girl nodded a farewell. “Just don’t go near them,” I said again.

Outside, the wind was icy. It was early spring, just before Easter, and around the base of bare-branched trees, pink and yellow tulips were in flower. I huddled into my coat collar, trying to keep warm. If I took a shortcut through the castle, the palace courtyard would shelter me from the wind.

I should explain: the center of the city of The Hague (the Dutch call it Den Haag), is occupied by an ancient castle, surrounded by a moat. (A moat! In the middle of a city! How crazy is that?) The castle, built of dark stone with pennant-topped towers and deep-set windows, looks like something from a fairytale, but it’s grimmer than Disney: this was a castle for a beast, not a beauty. Walking through its gates always gave me a thrill.

I wasn’t here for sightseeing, though. Today, I was bound for the International Court of Justice and in honor of the occasion, I’d worn a pair of dress pants instead of my usual jeans. Boots don’t look great with suit pants, so reluctantly, I’d left my Doc Martins at home and wore black flats of patent leather. No way was Lottie (Lottie is my grandmother aka my boss), getting me into heels. I didn’t want to look any taller than my six feet – it’s hard enough getting a date as it is.

As I crossed the cobblestoned city square, I probably looked like just another professional; a solicitor, perhaps, carrying an over-large tote bag over one shoulder. Although I doubted that a solicitor would have a Glock or carbon-fiber knives in their bag. Most lawyers prefer to pay someone else to do their killing.

There were more tulips near the castle gate, like a false promise of sunny spring, and behind them stood the butter-yellow Mauritshuis art gallery. Once a rich man’s palace, the building now houses a small-but-perfect art collection. I’d always wanted to visit. If my meeting with the Judge finished early, perhaps I could squeeze it in later today.

The water of the moat splashed against the Mauritshuis walls. Swans glided past, like they didn’t feel the cold. Lucky swans. My hands were freezing. I should have brought gloves.

And that’s when I saw the three men from the café, leaning against the castle walls. They had their hoods pulled up, as though hiding their skin from the watery Dutch sunlight. One of them glanced my way. Not unusual – a six-foot woman stands out – but the set of his shoulders, and his look of casual expectation, made me pause. They were waiting for something, or someone. But who?

A troop of Japanese schoolgirls, laughing and talking, came toward me. The girls looked like something from an anime: identically dressed in short navy pleated skirts and carrying Hello Kitty backpacks. I arched, stretching my back – it had been aching all day – as the girls turned through the iron gates of the gallery. Their high-pitched voices faded as they vanished down the ramp that led to the gallery’s underground entrance.

As one, the men peeled themselves from the wall and followed, passing through the gates with fluid grace. I knew that intensity of stance. They were hunting! In daylight! No, that can’t be. I slid behind the side of the building and watched. The men didn’t talk, made no sound, as they disappeared down the ramp. Yes, they were hunting.

I should follow. But I hesitated, because it seemed so unlikely. I mean, who ever heard of a vamp attack in daylight? Besides, I was due at court, and it was never wise to keep a judge waiting. But I couldn’t just let an attack happen. How could I call myself a Hunter if I refused to hunt? So I followed the men down the ramp, into the gallery lobby.

Through windows, high in the wood-paneled wall, I could see the gently lapping waves of the moat. The men were nowhere to be seen, but the girls were clustered around a ticket dispenser and giggling.

I dialed Shara. “I might be late.”

“You’re joking.”

“No. This is important, Shara.”

“But the Judge …”

“He’ll have to wait,” I said. “Shara, this is to do with my work.”

Shara knew about my work: about Ravensfell. She knew something about Lottie and our secret, hidden world. After a pause, she asked, “How long will you be?”

“Not long.” For surely, I was mistaken. Vamps would never normally hunt in public places during daylight hours. Unless they were hungry, perhaps. Then, who knew what they might do?

I turned, trying to locate the men. My back was still aching. It was my tattoo’s fault. Ever since I’d bought tickets to The Hague, it had been waking me at odd hours and keeping me restless in the airplane. I should have taken painkillers, but now it was too late. Hopefully, it wouldn’t slow me down.

The gallery’s entrance hall was almost empty. To the left was a bookstore, just opening for the morning, and to the right, beneath signs to the bathrooms, lay a bank of lockers. The entrance to the art gallery was behind me, up a set of stairs, past ticket turnstiles and a security station. The lobby was quiet, and the guards at the turnstiles looked bored.

“Madison, where are you?” Shara asked.

“An art gallery. You know, the yellow one, the Mauritshuis? Beside the moat.”

Above the turnstiles hung a banner with an image of a blue foaming wave and the iconic shape of Mount Fuji. The banner said: Monsters and Mountains: the Art of Katsushika Hokusai. Perhaps that was why the Japanese schoolgirls were visiting.

Beside the bookstore was a café, with attendants setting out chairs and tables. Surely, those men must be here, somewhere?

“Do you need help?” Shara asked.

“No. I don’t think so.”

The girls retrieved their tickets, stuffed their backpacks into lockers. I walked past them, as if making for the bathroom. And there, half-hidden by a wooden screen, stood the three men. They watched the girls intently, as if inspecting their next meal.

“Madison, I’m sending someone,” said Shara. “Brett O’Hagan. American.”

“Shara!” I hissed. “No!”

The girls shoved the locker doors closed, then, still chattering, headed toward the turnstile. I opened the bathroom door casually, and glanced behind me. The men had left their hiding place, and I hadn’t heard them move. Now they stood at the turnstile, feeding tickets into the slots. They must have bought them earlier. They had planned for this.

Shit!

“Den Haag is my city. My city,” said Shara fiercely. “He’ll be there in ten minutes. I will alert security.”

“Security? No!”

But she had hung up.

I glared at the phone. What did she mean, ‘sending help’? What use would security be against vamps?

I couldn’t wait, either – I had to follow. If they were hunting, they’d be fast and vicious.

But I’d never make it through the metal detector with a sidearm, and I couldn’t afford delay-causing arguments. I hustled back into the bathroom, hid in a stall, and tucked my gun and its holster into my tote. My knives were carbon – we’d long since changed from steel because carbon was easier to pass through scanners – so I left them in their holsters: two at my wrists, one at my waist and one on each ankle. Quickly, I tied my hair back in a ponytail, getting ready for action. Leaving the restroom, I glimpsed my reflection. I could pass for a lawyer, I thought, and wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

I pushed the bag into a locker, bought a ticket from the dispenser, and headed up the stairs into the gallery. As I fed my ticket into the turnstile, I wished I was wearing my boots.


 

Want to read more? Check out Born in Blood on Amazon.

P.S. At time of writing this blog post, Born in Blood is also available for FREE via Kindle Unlimited.

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Behind the Scenes, Excerpt Tagged With: About my Books, Behind the Scenes, Excerpt, Urban Fantasy

How to Write Amazing Urban Fantasy

October 30, 2018 By Rachel Stedman

Amazing Urban Fantasy

fairytale book
Image source

What is Urban Fantasy?

Urban fantasy stories are tales of magic, but unlike other fantasy sub-genres, like Epic Fantasy (think Lord of the Rings) or High Fantasy (like Game of Thrones), they’re set in the real world. Urban fantasy stories are HUGE on TV, film, and books. They’re the oldest kind of story. I think urban fantasy is amazing!

Here’s some tips on how to craft a great urban fantasy story:

1. Use Recognizable Settings

Make sure the reader recognizes the setting of the story.

The house design is familiar, or the story takes place in a well-known city.

Generally, urban fantasies occur in a man-made environment, although sometimes they’re set in at the boundary between the urban and the wild. Like the story of Hansel and Gretel: the witch who lives in the woods in a house made of gingerbread.

2. Plot Structure

Often UF’s follow the typical hero’s journey:

  • At the start of the story, the protagonist is happily living his/her life, ignorant of the magical world. Generally, he will be from of humble origins and not blessed with any special powers. He or she will be ordinary. Good-hearted, perhaps, and sometimes naive. At the beginning of the tale, the hero never sees themselves as special.
  • Then … enter the miraculous; the theatrical; the magical. Generally, in an Urban Fantasy, the magical is a total, freaky surprise to the hero. Of course, the reader will know that its there, because it’s an Urban Fantasy, after all!
  • Frequently, upon entering this magical realm, the hero finds they have a super-power. He or she might be amazingly talented, or beautiful or desirable. Sometimes the hero discovers he’s from a magical dynasty and was hidden at birth to protect him from opponents of this dynasty. (Harry Potter, anyone?)
  • Sometimes the hero is the secret hope of the hidden world, but perhaps he’s a bystander. Either way, he’ll have to use his newly-discovered powers to overcome a threat, and in so doing will return to the real world changed.
  • He may leave the real world altogether and continue in the hidden lands, or he may continue as a bridge between the worlds, and move at will between them.
  • There are variations on this. For example, the hero may be inside the hidden realm at the start of the story – in which case, entering our real world may be a total shock.

But either way, all this is good stuff for a story, right?

3. What Tone Should I Use?

Urban fantasy stories are generally funny, although sometimes they’re dark, almost gothic in tone – Vampire stories are classic UF but they’re rarely funny.

Where there is humor it usually comes from the contrast between the magic and the real, and how characters in the magical realms just don’t get technology, or vice-versa.

But wait – there’s more!

I love reading and writing urban fantasy, and gradually I’m focussing more and more on the genre.

Over the next few blog posts I’ll showcase some of my favorite UF books, but right now I’m going to leave you with an Excerpt from Welcome to Faery.


Excerpt: Beauty is a Subjective Term

I’ve put this story below as it demonstrates many of the points above. (P.S. You can download this entire story collection at this link here: https://bookhip.com/VHJFPS)

– Define: Fairest
The Queen tapped her fingers on the marble dressing table. Click click click. Nails filed to a killing point. ‘Stupid Mirror. “Fair” means “beauty”.’

– Define: Beauty

The last mirror had done what she’d asked. But oh no, the dwarfs had talked her into this new one, saying magic words like ‘memory’ and ‘voice activation’ and ‘ram’ and she hadn’t wanted to look stupid, not in front of a bunch of dwarves. And now look at this super-sleek mirror; so beautiful on the wall and yet so, so useless. How was she supposed to find Snow White without a working mirror? An upgrade, they’d said, as if an upgrade was a good thing.

The Queen threw a crystal jar across her chamber. It shattered on the stone tiles, spilling musk-flavored perfume. A serving girl scurried to clean it up, ducking low to avoid any other stray objects that the Queen might throw.

‘I mean, you stupid mirror, is there anyone else in this Kingdom more beautiful than I?’

– Define: More beautiful

The Queen paused. How does one define beautiful, anyway? ‘Girl,’ she said over her shoulder.

The maid paused in her cleaning. ‘Yes, my Lady?’

‘What makes someone beautiful?

Kneeling on the floor, the maid carefully placed shards of glass onto a folded piece of paper. ‘Like you, my Lady?’

The Queen smiled. This girl was intelligent. ‘Exactly,’ she purred. ‘Like me.’

The girl scrambled to her feet, bending her head. ‘Beauty, my Lady? Ah, maybe something like clear skin. Red lips.’

‘Is that all?’ The Queen was disappointed. ‘Why, you have red lips.’

‘Thank you, my Lady.’

‘There you are, mirror.’ The Queen turned her back on the servant. ‘I want you to find out for me if there is anyone in the Kingdom with clearer skin and redder lips than I.’

Behind her, the girl went to get a mop and bucket.

– Subjective terms. Reframe your search parameters

‘Servant,’ called the Queen.

The girl was folding the paper into a funnel, ready to pour the glass into a small tumbler. ‘Yes, my Lady?’

‘What does it mean now?’

The girl ducked her head. ‘I think, my Lady, it does not understand your question.’

‘Why not? I am perfectly clear.’

Tap-tap went the nails. The Queen’s hand twitched towards another glass bottle and the girl added quickly, ‘It’s a dwarf mirror. My Ma works for them. They’re scientific. Need to use very specific terms, to get their magic working.’

‘Specific terms?’ asked the Queen grimly. ‘I’ll show them how specific I can be. With my wand, I can very specific.’ She sighed. ‘So. What should I ask this wretched mirror?’

‘May I, my Lady?’ The girl indicated the space beside the Queen.

The Queen nodded, and the servant stepped beside her. She smelt of musk perfume and bleach. Her face, what the Queen could see of it behind the fall of grubby hair, seemed pale. She was right to be nervous, thought the Queen grimly. Persons that got too close to her were apt to have a significantly shortened lifespan.

‘Mirror mirror,’ said the girl softly.

‘I said that. Didn’t I say that?’

‘That’s just the start command.’

‘Oh,’ said the Queen. ‘I knew that.’

The girl cleared her throat. ‘Definition input.’

– Inputting

‘Beauty = Fair. Beauty: blemish-free skin.’

‘Amazing,’ thought the Queen. ‘How does she make that noise in her throat? It sounds just someone choking.’ She frowned, remembering: red apple, blood falling on snow.

– Define: blemish

‘Definition input: Crease, line or wrinkles.’

‘Freckles,’ whispered the queen.

The girl nodded. ‘Definition continues: moles, warts, lentigines, skin tags.’

– Definition received

‘What is a lentigine?’ asked the Queen

‘Like a freckle.’ The girl pointed at a sunspot on the Queen’s hand. The Queen moved her hand quickly, hiding the imperfection. ‘So now, if you ask it to tell you who is the most beautiful in the land, it will tell you who has the clearest skin.’

‘Well,’ said the Queen, looking pleased, ‘that’s very clever. Back you go, girl, clean up that mess. The perfume is giving me a headache.’ The girl crept back to the floor and the scrubbing brush.

The Queen stared up at the mirror’s silver screen, tapped her finger and asked: ‘Mirror mirror, who is the most beautiful in the land?’

On the screen appeared faces, flickering in and out, changing too rapidly to recognize any individual. A montage of faces, from happy to sad, from fat to thin, in a rainbow of skin tones. All clear-skinned, all beautiful.

All of them children.

The Queen screamed, stood up, backed away from the mirror. She stumbled over the servant, still scrubbing the floor.

‘Your Majesty. What is it?’

The Queen pointed at the mirror. The menagerie of children floated past. But never her own face, never her own!

‘Girl! Make it stop!’

The servant sat back on her heels, called out: ‘Mirror. End query.’

The screen faltered, the faces disappeared. The Queen slowly straightened.

‘Beauty,’ she said crisply, ‘is in the eye of the beholder. And I behold my face, and I say I am beautiful. I do not need to ask any mirror anything.’

The girl returned to her scrubbing. ‘That’s what my Ma says. She says beauty isn’t that special. It’s what you do that counts.’

The Queen sniffed and returned to her dresser. ‘When you’ve finished clearing up,’ she said, ‘go and wash.’

The girl wrung her perfume-scented cloth into the bucket, picked up her brush and backed from the room. ‘That’s why she stayed with them. She’s never coming home. She’s no interest in your stupid kingdom. And we’re good at hiding. So stop trying to find us.’

The Queen spun on her chair, stared at the servant girl, creeping backward from the room with her mop and brush and bucket. She did look familiar; black hair, creamy skin. ‘Wait!’ she called. ‘Wait!’

But the girl had gone. Out into the corridor, merging with the other waiting staff. Hundreds of them, scurrying about like mice. Identical in their grey coveralls, hiding their faces. The Queen would never find her.

The mirror! The mirror could tell her.

‘Mirror, mirror,’ she said. ‘Show me…’

She stopped. She would never succeed. Curse the dwarves and their wretched technology! Only Snow White had ever managed to work with them.


Filed Under: Behind the Scenes, Fairytales, Fantasy, Writing tips Tagged With: Fairytales, Fantasy, How To, Urban Fantasy, Writing Tips

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