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Prey- ebook or paperback
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Infected:
Prey
Infected
Series
Book One
Andrea
Speed
Genre: Gay mystery/urban fantasy
Publisher: DSP Publications
ISBN: 163216325X
ASIN: B00NJRJZGG
Number of pages: 376
Word Count: 152,000
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
Book Description:
In a world where a werecat virus has
changed society, Roan McKichan, a born infected and ex-cop, works as a private
detective trying to solve crimes involving other infecteds.
The murder of a former cop draws Roan
into an odd case where an unidentifiable species of cat appears to be showing
an unusual level of intelligence. He juggles that with trying to find a missing
teenage boy, who, unbeknownst to his parents, was “cat” obsessed. And when
someone is brutally murdering infecteds, Eli Winters, leader of the Church of the
Divine Transformation, hires Roan to find the killer before he closes in on
Eli.
Working the crimes will lead Roan through
a maze of hate, personal grudges, and mortal danger. With help from his
tiger-strain infected partner, Paris Lehane, he does his best to survive in a
world that hates and fears their kind… and occasionally worships them.
Available at
DSP Publications Amazon
Excerpt:
HE was on his third beer
of the evening when he thought he heard a noise in the backyard.
Hank DeSilvo scowled and
looked out the window over the kitchen sink full of dirty dishes. He could see
nothing but darkness, and maybe a bit of reflected light from the television.
This was probably a bad time to remember the back porch light had blown out two
days ago, and he’d forgotten to replace it.
Not that it mattered.
The only light currently in the house was coming from the television, and as
long as he ignored it, he developed enough night vision to make out a shape
moving in the back garden. Or was it the wind moving a shrub? Kind of hard to
say.
He slammed his can down
with an annoyed grunt. It was probably the Hindles’ stupid ass dog again,
shitting all over the place and tearing through his garbage. He hated that
fucking thing, some ugly Rottweiler mix they insisted was a “friendly” dog, and
yet it always had a look in its flat, black eyes that was just this side of
rabid. They never leashed the damn thing either, and apparently his yard
destruction was “cute.” He was just about out of this fucking place and that
damn thing had to make a final appearance. And it was final all right; he was
going to make damn sure of that.
He went back to the
living room, glancing at the game as he walked past—it was a fucking damn
boring game anyway—and got his shotgun from the cabinet. It was illegal as all
hell, a sawed-off thirty ought six with the barrels cut so short you could have
stowed it under a jacket, but the barrels had been filed down expertly; it
wasn’t just the rough work of a desperate amateur but the sign of a pro. Which
was why, when they’d searched the drug mule’s truck and he’d found it wedged
under the front seat, he hid it in his trunk and didn’t report finding it. It
wouldn’t have added that much to the mule’s sentence; he already had enough
rock in his glove compartment to put him away for the rest of his pointless
life, especially if it was his “third strike” (and it was, no surprise there),
and he doubted the guy was so stupid that he’d actually ask why he wasn’t
charged with owning an illegally modified weapon. Yeah, he was dumb; you had to
be dumb if you were speeding and had a few thousand in rock in the car, as well
as being obviously stoned yourself. But asking after that was a special kind of
stupid, the kind only politicians and people on reality television ever seemed
to crest.
He cracked open the gun
and made sure he had some shells loaded in it before snapping it shut again
with a sharp flick of his wrist. Man that felt good. This was a real man’s
weapon, made him feel a foot taller and made of pure muscle, and he knew why
that meth fuckhead was carrying it around with him. A weapon like this was a
real god-killer; it made you feel invincible.
It was pure overkill, of
course. The Hindles’ dog was fairly big, and yet one shot from this gun would
rip it in half clean down the middle, as well as make a boom loud enough to set
off every car alarm on the block. But what the fuck did he care? He was an
ex-cop; he’d say the dog charged him, and on his property he could shoot the
fucking thing if he wanted. He’d swap out the sawed-off for his Remington
before they arrived. Ballistics wouldn’t match, but by the time they proved
that, he’d be long gone. Good-bye, shit-hole city; hello, tropical paradise. It
was just a shame that it took him this long to collect.
He stood at the back
door for a moment, cradling the shotgun gently, and let his eyes get adjusted
to the dark before going out onto the concrete patio. He had a mini Maglite
with him with a red lens over the bulb, so if there was something he needed to
see he could twist it on without losing his night vision. Not that he needed to
make a direct hit; even if he just winged the dog, he’d probably rip half its
face off, maybe a leg.
First step off the patio
his foot squelched in something; it felt too liquid to be shit, but the smell
that hit him was meaty, redolent of shit and offal and God knew what else. Had
that fucking dog already strewn his garbage about? Goddamn it.
Holding the shotgun in
one arm, he turned on the flashlight and looked down at what he’d stepped in.
At first it looked like
a puddle, which didn’t make sense since it hadn’t rained in a week, and the
thought that it was dog piss was dismissed since it was dark, and dog piss
wasn’t usually black. Or was that red-black? Swinging the light outwards, he saw
greasy, ropey strands that couldn’t have come from his garbage can, and then a
big hunk of raw, bloody meat like a lamb shank… only it was too long and thin
to be a shank, too dark, and ended in a paw.
It was a Rottweiler leg.
Someone—something—had
dismembered the Hindles’ psychotic dog and spread about a third of it all over
his backyard. He saw the leg, which was the biggest piece, an assortment of
internal organs, loops of intestines laid out like fallen party streamers, and
lots of blood. But where was the other two thirds of the dog?
The hair stood up on the
back of his neck, and he knew he had to get the fuck inside now. But as he
turned, shotgun at the ready and braced against his hip, he saw the flash of
white teeth in the dim moonlight, and his brain sent out the impulse to pull
the trigger.
He didn’t have time to
wonder why it never happened as the teeth ripped open his throat.
About the Author:
Andrea Speed was born looking for trouble
in some hot month without an R in it. While succeeding in finding Trouble, she
has also been found by its twin brother, Clean Up, and is now on the run,
wanted for the murder of a mop and a really cute, innocent bucket that was only
one day away from retirement. (I was framed, I tell you - framed!)
In her spare time, she arms lemurs in
preparation for the upcoming war against the Mole Men. Viva la revolution!
Website: www.andreaspeed.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/andrea.speed.3
Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/Andreaspeedwriter
Twitter: @aspeed
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/andreaspeed
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