More shoes to delight.

You know that when I'm perusing beautiful shoes like these:




Vivienne Westwood Biba shoes from Zappos.com.

Or maybe these?



Jerome C. Rousseau Aizza Glitter Pumps via Saks Fifth Avenue.

Aren't they WONDERFUL?

But in the light of harsh reality, I'm wearing something like this:




Fiztwell Terry from Zappos.com.

The first page of Dracula's Secret.

Halloween Night

Burnside Avenue

Portland, Oregon



His sun pierced her night.

Valerie Tate stopped dead at the sudden stabbing pain and clapped her gloved hands over her sensitive eyes. Blood seeped from under her eyelids in response to the too-bright aura surrounding the man across the street. Stunned, she wiped her cheeks before risking another look. Nothing broke her concentration before a mission.

Six hundred years of killing had taught her well.

Shock gave way to curiosity. Curiosity then unraveled her single-minded determination. What was he, this man innocently checking his text messages on a silver Blackberry? As her eyes cleared, she studied him with all her undead senses.

Not soap, not cologne, but his essence was the first thing that struck her. The aroma of cloves, sweet and hot, rammed up her nose like a fist, overwhelming the car exhaust and excrement odors rising from Burnside Avenue. The fiery smell transformed her anger into something far more complicated. Hunger beyond blood clenched her stomach and below. She licked her teeth, swallowed, and squinted against his aura to study his face.

The endless Northwest autumn drizzle plastered blond hair to his skull. He glanced up from his little machine, obviously aware that someone watched him. She locked her knees against a shudder when she saw his blue eyes. Not any shade of blue, but the color of icy seas under the full moon. Even covered in worn jeans and a frayed but high-end sweatshirt, his broad-shouldered body made her mouth pucker, ready to kiss. A generous bulge in his pants caught her attention, lewdly contrasting to the brightness of his innocent shine.