Step into the mind of Laura Daleo and encounter a sinister Soul Collector, a twisted AI doll and a mysterious vampire murder.....
The Soul Collector
by Laura Daleo
Genre: Dark Fantasy
It begins with darkness. Are they dead, or trapped inside a horrible dream? No one can hear them, see them. Has the world forgotten them? Are they invisible? Not to the Soul Collector. They have stepped into her Kingdom, and she is waiting for them.
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The Doll
by Laura Daleo
Genre: SciFi Thriller
In the wake of Jenna Hess' sudden death, Jeremy Dillon is devastated. His only hope of easing the pain lies in alcohol...until he meets The Dollmaker.
Meet CR1XY, the Dollmaker's Elite doll, created especially for Jeremy. But is she?
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The Vow
by Laura Daleo
Genre: Urban Fantasy, Vampire Murder Mystery
Finals are over, and twenty-year-old Claire Matthews can hardly wait to begin summer break until…she arrives home to an army of police swarming her parents’ front lawn. Detective Reynolds delivers the dreadful news that the man and woman inside the home are dead, and Claire is forced to identify their mummified bloodless bodies. Her world comes to a grinding halt when she learns that it is her mother and father who are the deceased, and her younger brother, JJ, is nowhere to be found. The predator accused…a vampire.
Claire is no stranger to vampires; in fact, these days’ vamps are a dime a dozen. One-hundred-thirty years ago a vow was made, combining the two worlds. A vampire’s survival no longer required a human sacrifice. Vampire Centers were created, offering human blood through transfusion; yet, why were her parents bled dry? Why now? What changed? Could a rogue vampire be responsible? Was it possible vampires, Nate and Parker, JJ’s best friends, suddenly hungered for human blood?
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The Soul Collector Excerpt
Chapter 1
The biggest boxing match of the season landed on a Friday the 13th. But a little thing like
superstition had no effect on the newcomer, Jonathan Bayfield, and heavyweight champion, Lou Turlock.
The fight fans agreed, stomping their feet while chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” inside the packed, brightly
lit arena. Sportscasters got up close and personal, claiming ringside seats for an in-your-face camera
view.
Bayfield locked his gaze on his opponent, his right ear taking in Coach’s words.
“Go to the body. Don’t overreach. Straight punches. Got it?” Coach gripped Bayfield’s shoulder.
“Hey, eyes on me. Don’t let him get inside your head.”
Bayfield looked at Coach, giving him a slow nod, then reverted his focus back to Turlock,
transmitting a defiant “this fight is mine” glare.
Turlock reciprocated, taunting Bayfield with a “we’ll see” sneer.
The vein in Bayfield’s forehead pulsed, spreading a surge of heat through his body. A fist to the gut.
That would show the arrogant prick he had something to worry about, rattled through his mind. The
ringside bell shattered Bayfield’s thoughts, bouncing him to his feet. Turlock came out swinging, and
Bayfield pivoted while throwing a right hook, catching the corner of Turlock’s jaw. Turlock countered,
landing a jab to Bayfield’s chest. The blow forced the air from Bayfield’s lungs, his body folding in half.
But he quickly sprang upright, shaking off the sting, and fired off several consecutive punches straight
into Turlock’s gut.
Turlock wobbled back and the crowd roared, shouting, “Way to go, Bayfield!” Bayfield bounced back
and forth on his feet, tapping his gloves to the crowd’s cheers.
Turlock’s own pulse battered against his eardrums. Where was the respect? He was a champion,
and these morons had the nerve to cheer for a nobody, some kid who’d happened to land himself a good
manager. Adrenaline tipped the scales on the fighter’s rationality. Cognitive thought ceased. The whites
of his eyes blazed as he hurtled his body like a weapon, slamming his skull against the kid’s.
A crackling of bones ricocheted inside the ring, causing an eerie silence to fall over the area, before
shouts from the crowd came from all sides. The ref barged in, spewing spit as he held Turlock back.
Turlock’s gaze traveled over the ref’s shoulder, colliding with the kid’s vacant stare. He knew that look;
like no one was home. He’d seen it in his grandpa’s eyes before he’d taken his last breath. An icy chill
scurried down Turlock’s spine as the kid crumpled to the mat. Turlock stood still as medics, judges, and
more refs flooded the ring, surrounding the kid’s lifeless body.
“I can’t find a pulse.”
“Start compressions.”
Coach pushed his way through the chaos to Bayfield. “Jonathan, can you hear me?” Coach’s voice
shook. “Stay…” He blew out a breath. “Stay with me, buddy.”
Bayfield’s eyelids flew open, and with one push, he was on his feet. A weird and wonderful lightness
affected his body, which made no sense, being as he weighed 200 pounds. Sounds rushed back,
bouncing against his eardrums and forming words—Coach’s words.
“Hold on, Jonathan. The ambulance is on its way.”
Bayfield focused his attention on Coach. “Ambulance?”
“Just hold on.”
Bayfield laughed. “What are you talking about? Coach, I’m standing right behind you. Turn around.”
Coach made no attempt, his focus centered on something in front of him.
Bayfield’s tone rose an octave. “Coach, what gives?”
No answer came, not from Coach, nor from any of the other people hovering around him. Bayfield
skimmed the faces of the crowd, searching for a clue or hint to enlighten him on what the hell was
happening. Why was everyone ignoring him?
“Step aside, people,” security broadcasted with authority, herding the crowd back. “Let the
paramedics through.”
“Paramedics? Who got hurt?” Bayfield’s gaze darted to Turlock, where men in dark blue suits
surrounded him, escorting him toward the locker room. Bayfield let his gaze grow distant. He had no
memory of the fight ending, and his boxing gloves were missing. No one acknowledged him. None of it
made sense. He gave his head a good shake. “Gotta be an explanation for all this.” As his vision cleared, it
centered on the paramedics rolling a lifeless body away on a stretcher—his body!
His brain skidded to a stop—no pause, no rewind, no press play. Just a complete stop. Was he being
punk’d? Was this some kind of sick joke? His gaze followed the stretcher, catching the tail end of it
slipping inside the ambulance. Coach followed, his hands running through his salt and pepper hair. The
look of sheer terror etched across Coach’s pale face slammed against Bayfield’s brain. This was no joke.
This was real, and that ambulance was about to take off with his body.
Bayfield launched across the ring, catapulting over the ropes and sailing inside the ambulance
seconds before the doors closed and the siren sang out. He plopped down next to Coach, his gaze
transfixed on his own body lying across from him. One massive, purplish bruise swallowed up his
bloodied forehead. Bayfield couldn’t explain it—couldn’t understand it. “I’m sitting here, but also lying
there. How is that possible?” In a momentary shift, his eyes found Coach’s, thirsty for an answer. None
came. The silence sent a chill down Bayfield’s spine.
A paramedic with tattoos blazing down his arms informed, “Got a pulse,”—his intense blue eyes
narrowed—“but it’s thready.”
The paramedic behind the wheel, sprouting a six o’clock shadow, lobbed a reply over his shoulder.
“Letting dispatch know we’re five minutes out.”
Coach gripped his hands, squeezing the blood from his knuckles. “Getting a pulse, even a weak one,
is a good thing, right?”
The tattooed paramedic waited a good minute before saying, “For now, yes"
The Doll Excerpt
Chapter 1
After the last drop of tequila rolled off my tongue, the empty shot glass taunted me. I slammed it
against the bar. “Hit me again.”
“Sorry, Jer, I’m cuttin’ you off.”
A sharp pang of sorrow cut off my oxygen and echoed in my throat as I growled, “Don’t call me that.
Jenna called me that.”
Matt flung the bar towel over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. “Dude, I’ve been calling you Jer since
junior high.”
Jenna’s angel-like voice flitted through my mind: Jer. My sweet Jer.
I glanced at Matt, standing behind the bar, eyeing me with a narrowed gaze. Since we were
teenagers, the scruffy blond-haired guy, littered with piercings and tattoos, had been my best friend. His
twin sister, Missy, had brought Jenna to my eighteenth birthday bash.
The uninvited memory unfurled in my brain, with me helpless to stop it.
My parent’s living room, stripped of its furniture, had been transformed into a makeshift rave to
house my crew. Missy—the grand entrance queen—made her appearance a half-hour late, with a darkhaired girl at her side. The girl’s big brown eyes found mine, turning my brain to mush. I just stood there,
gawking like an idiot.
Missy tossed her long blonde mane over her shoulders, grabbed the girl’s hand, and led her through
the crowd toward me. “Jenna, meet the birthday boy, Jeremy. Jer, this is my BFF, Jenna.”
“Nice to meet you, Jeremy. And happy birthday,” she said in a sweet, angel-like voice.
I offered her my most charming smile. “Thank you. And it’s great to meet you too.”
She looked at my hair. “I like the man bun. Very hipster.”
“Is that a good thing?
Missy groaned before she walked away and joined the others.
Jenna’s eyes seemed to smile at me; then, she’d giggled. “Yes, it’s a good thing.”
Realization punched me in the gut. She was flirting with me. Holy crap!
Don’t be a creep. Relax. Take a breath, I thought to myself and casually asked her, “Can I get you
something to drink?”
I shook my head, forcing my attention to the present and back to Matt. “It was the way she said my
name. You know, with sheer devotion. She was…” My voice crackled with pain.
Reaching across the bar, Matt laid his hand on my shoulder and narrowed his jade-colored eyes. “I
can’t even imagine the heartache you must feel, but Jenna wouldn’t want this. She’d want you to keep
living.”
Hot tears stung my eyes as her face formed behind them. I soaked in every beautiful inch of her
before blinking her away. Alcohol was the only thing that allowed me to forget, even if only temporarily.
Jenna wasn’t coming back. “She didn’t just walk out of my life—that, I could’ve dealt with—but her
death… it haunts me,” I said, wiping the tears from my face. “I should’ve told her not to drive, to wait
until the morning, but I… I wanted to see her.”
“The accident wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself.”
“She’d be alive if it weren’t for me!” I yelled, anger spewing from my lips. “She wouldn’t’ve fallen
asleep at the wheel and crashed if I’d just told her to wait.” Taking a few deep breaths, I held up the shot
glass and urged, “Please, Matt.”
A look of sympathy tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Just one more, I promise.”
He shook his head in a slow, sad manner. “I’m doing this for your own good.” He snatched my car
keys off the counter and set them behind the bar. “Someone’s gotta look out for you.” He filled a mug
with black coffee and set it in front of me. “You can hang out and wait for me to drive you home, or you
can Uber it, but you’re not driving.”
I waved him away and grumbled, “Fine.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“Doubtful.”
Matt walked away to tend to a couple at the other end of the bar.
I took a swig of coffee, cringed, and scanned the bar for packets of sugar.
“Looking for this?” a male voice inquired from my right, sliding two packets of sweetener my way.
“Thanks,” I said, eyeing the bald, wrinkly-faced man.
He moved to the barstool next to mine and remarked, “I couldn’t help but overhear. Was she your
girlfriend?”
“Fiancée.”
“Lost my wife years ago. Without The Dollmaker, I don’t think I could’ve overcome this.” The focus
of his gaze slipped.
I jerked my head in his direction. “Dollmaker?”
He pulled a tattered business card from his worn denim jacket and laid it on the bar top. “This man
saved my sanity. Might be able to help you too.” He offered a kind nod, got to his feet, and exited the bar
without another word.
The name on the card read “The Dollmaker,” with a phone number printed underneath—no address
or website on the front or the back. What the fuck? How could a dollmaker help me? I shrugged, then
punched the number into my cell.
It rang twice before a recording clicked on, announcing, “You’ve reached The Dollmaker. We are
closed at this time, but please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and we will return your
call the next business day.”
Once the machine beeped, I sputtered, “Yeah, um… My name is Jeremy—Jeremy Dillon. Cell’s 310-
555-9189. A prior customer gave me your card and said you could help.” I paused, debating if I should
elaborate. Instead, I mumbled, “Thanks,” and ended the call
The Vow Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Seriously, where were my parents? I heaved a sigh of frustration as I scooped up my overnight bags
for the third time and hoisted them over my shoulder. My phone calls went straight to voicemail, and my
text messages remained unanswered. Even my brother, JJ, hadn’t responded. My parents were
paradigms of punctuality, so overlooking their own daughter’s arrival at the airport seemed unlikely. An
explanation existed, but what could it be? I took one more glance around before heading back inside the
terminal and skimming over the many faces within the cell phone waiting lot. Not one of them belonged
to my parents. “Oh, to hell with it; I’ll take a cab,” I mumbled under a strained breath, trekking through
the airport doors and reclaiming my spot on the curb outside. I jetted up a hand, signaling for a cab.
With the raise of my hand, a taxi broke formation from the pack of yellow cars nearby and sped
over to me, scrubbing up against the curb and idling. The driver lowered the window. “Where to, Flower
Child?”
I glanced down at my cutoff shorts, lace crop top, and floral kimono, then stared at the middle-aged
man with salt-and-pepper hair, cocking my head. How had the cab driver known my dad’s nickname for
me? Truth be told, my closet was overflowing with flowy vintage pieces embellished with lace,
embroidery, or fringe, but a 60s hippy I was not. I constantly reminded my dad that the proper term for
the style was Boho Chic, but in his eyes, I was his Woodstock Flower Child—the one he’d forgotten to
pick up from the airport. “2863 Derrick Place,” I answered, opening the back door and tossing my bags
onto the seat. As I slid down against the upholstery and crossed my arms, the image of myself as a
pouting child flashed inside my head, but I wasn’t about to let my parents live this one down. One guilt
trip coming right up.
Twenty minutes later, the driver turned onto my parents’ street, slowing his speed. As my home
came into view on the right, he glanced in the rearview mirror at me with raised brows. “Here?” he
questioned, as if I’d given him the wrong address.
I didn’t speak, and barely managed a nod, fixated on the police cars, bright yellow crime tape, and
crisp white of the van decorating the front of my parent’s house like some bizarre Halloween scene
brought to life. I read the words Medical Examiner emblazoned across the van, blinked, and read them
again before blankly staring into space. Was this some sick joke?
“That’ll be twenty-five dollars,” the cab driver rattled off, ending my paralysis.
I fumbled with my wallet, flipping it open and paying him before slowly stepping out onto the
street. As I took a few steps closer toward my childhood home, a sickeningly cold feeling swept over me,
causing me to drop my bags on the pavement. A swarm of neighbors hovered close by, their eyes on me,
their faces painted with gloom. I shuddered at the sudden prickling along my flesh, as though hundreds
of ants were scurrying up my spine. I made it up onto the sidewalk somehow.
An officer, clad in dark-blue, hurried toward me, blocking my path. “That’s far enough, Miss. No one
is allowed inside.”
I stood my ground, not budging an inch. “That’s my parents’ house.” I didn’t wait for a reply, but
pushed past him instead. “I’m going in there.”
He grabbed my arm, stopping my progress. “I can’t allow that, Miss. This is an active crime scene.”
He released my arm. “Now please, stay back.”
A crime scene? I glanced at the words sprawled across the white van once more. Oh God. Mom?
Dad? JJ? The chill mushroomed, slithering into my pores and gnawing at my bones. The sun’s golden rays
reached down, drenching my body, but I couldn’t escape the fierce winter storm building momentum
beneath my flesh. Something was horribly wrong. I looked back at him, desperation creeping up my
throat. “What happened?”
His mouth tightened, forming a thin line. “I can’t discuss that with you at this time.”
“Then who can?”
“Right now, no one.”
What the hell had happened in our house? Had there been a murder? The word blinked on and off
behind my eyes, like a failing neon vacancy sign. I needed to get inside, and this fool was in my way.
“You’re telling me there isn’t a single person who can explain to me why I can’t enter my own home?”
He glanced at my bags, and then met my eyes. “You live here?”
I nodded my head, struggling to control the tremor in my voice. “I’m home for the summer.”
“College?”
“Yes. Finals are over.” I internally chastised myself. Why should he care about finals? My stomach
clenched, the knot of fear tightening. I peered over his shoulder. “Where’s my family?” I locked eyes with
him. “You need to let me go in.”
“Evidence is being collected. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait here.”
Like hell I will. A flurry of questions flew from my mouth. “Why is the medical examiner here? Did
someone die? Who? Are my parents and my brother okay?” My voice grew frantic. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer me. Instead, he turned toward the army of police officers scouring through trees
and bushes and called out, “Jenkins, find Detective Reynolds. Tell him I need him.”
Their search continued, no one taking notice of his request.
A pinched expression overtook his face as he shook his head. Focusing on me, he asked in a calm
manner, “What’s your name?”
“Claire, Claire Matthews.”
“Wait here, Miss Matthews.” He hesitated before moving away and disappearing into the mystery
beyond the front door some thirty feet away.
I stood alone, facing the house jam-packed with my memories of joy, and watched the front porch
become a revolving door for police officers wearing rubber gloves and blue booties over their shoes.
Some carried evidence bags, a few took notes, and others gathered around the doorway exchanging
dialog. A flood of tears blurred my vision. My fingers swept them away as I gathered my resolve. There
was no reason to cry. Not yet. Maybe robbers broke in while no one was home and turned on each
other. Maybe the neighbors heard the scuffle and called the police. My imagined theories slowed the
panic racing through my veins and softened the repetitive drum of my heartbeat, yet deep down, I
couldn’t shake the feeling something terrible filled the space behind the front door.
The officer reappeared inside the doorway, and standing next to him was a middle-aged man
dressed in a gray suit, with hair much blonder than mine. He plastered a solemn-TV-cop expression on
his face—the same one actors adopted when they delivered dreadful news. He ambled down the
walkway, narrowing the gap between us. My pulse flew into a wild sprint. Maybe, if I closed my eyes,
tapped my heels three times and said there’s no place like home, all of this would vanish. Sadly, I already
was home.
“Miss Matthews, I’m Detective Reynolds,” the new man said, extending his hand. His large palm
swallowed mine up, the heat of his flesh warming my icy fingers. “May I ask you a few questions?”
“Not until I’ve seen my family.”
“I understand this must be difficult, and the last thing you want to do is speak to a detective at this
time, but information helps me do my job.” His inquisitive eyes roamed over me. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty…but listen, why can’t you just tell me what happened?” I begged more than asked.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, focusing on my bags. “In college?” Giving a nod toward the
house, he then asked, “Do you live here?”
“I go to school in San Francisco,” I answered, my voice on edge. “I’m home for summer break.”
“Were your parents expecting you?”
What kind of question was that? “Yes, of course.”
“When did you last speak to them?”
A wild impulse to blast past him and run straight into the house seized me, but I remained perfectly
still. “Please, just let me go inside.”
He regarded me with an air of authority. In a tone to match, he stated, “Miss Matthews, in order to
help your family, I need your cooperation. Please, answer my question.”
He wasn’t going to give up. If I wanted to gain entrance to the house, I had to play his game of
twenty questions. “A couple of days ago.”
“How did they sound? Did you notice anything peculiar about the conversation?”
Why the third degree, and what did he care about our topic of discussion? “They sounded fine.” I
paused, staring him down. They were my parents. If they had behaved strangely, or if I thought
something had been off about them, I would’ve done something—called somebody, or come home
early. Again, and with emphasis, I stated, “They were fine.”
He rubbed his chin, as if in thought. “What about background noise? Did you hear anything
unusual?”
Each question pinched a nerve, and I’d had enough. “I’m not answering another question until I
know what’s going on.” I took a deep breath. “Are my parents…dead?”
He put his hand on my shoulder, the somber-cop face returning. “I’m sorry, Miss Matthews. Yes, the
man and the woman inside the house are dead.”
His words came crashing down on me, threatening my strength to stand. I choked on my breath and
stumbled back a step. How could I survive without my parents? I looked away from him and focused on
the street. Tears spilled from my eyes, splashing against the hot asphalt and hissing out of existence. I
finally managed a couple of breaths, then a couple more, before finding my voice and looking up at him.
“Wh-What happened?"
LAURA DALEO has been writing for over 20 years and has published 6 books. In addition to advocating for reading and writing, she is a strong supporter of the Indie author community. She is well known for her Immortal Kiss series which captures vampiric persuasion. The Egyptian pantheon, which gave rise to vampires, is explored in this series in an interesting way.
Laura has a passion for writing stories that explore the supernatural realm and bring her characters to life. Her published works include Immortal Kiss, Bound by Blood, The Vampire Within, The Vow, The Soul Collector, and The Doll. The release of her upcoming book is eagerly anticipated by her fans. Once We Were Witches, book 4 in the Immortal Kiss series, is scheduled to be released in 2023.
With her Facebook group, The BOOKLounge For Readers and Authors, she has created a community for readers and authors. It is home to over 65k active members. In addition, Laura is contributing to a short story anthology with four other authors from The BOOKLounge for Readers and Authors. The anthology is scheduled for release in October 2023.
A native of San Diego, California, Laura now lives in Tucson, Arizona with her two dogs, Rose and Cooper.
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This looks like the perfect horror novel!
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing!
ReplyDeleteThe cover looks great. Sounds like a very interesting story.
ReplyDelete