Sister No More An Erotic Vampire Romance

By Bram Zelig

“Whatcha packin’ there, Little Bro?” the thing that used to be my sister asked, almost genially. “Wooden stake, silver bullets, maybe some garlic?”

I knew that killing It was going to be difficult—as much or more emotionally as physically.

She knew that too.

The .357 was heavy in my hand; I hadn’t pointed it at . . . her.

There was a fast flash of a pixieish smile across her features—like the flicker of a transmission from a malfunctioning and distant satellite; for just that instant: My Big Sister! Almost.

“A Magnum, huh?” she—It—said, as if in approval of the choice. I gave no answer. “Maybe loaded with depleted uranium bullets, something you picked up in the service? Think that’ll do it?” she asked, cocking her head to the side, seeming interested. Like we were fishing up at the lake. Like we were musing together about what fly to cast. Depleted uranium?

I nodded slowly, as if giving the matter serious thought.

But—no—she’d gotten it right the first time. The Magnum was loaded with Vamp Killers: high-impact, hollow points; with a silver core.

Maybe I should have dipped them in garlic oil; maybe I should have taped little “toothpick spears” to the point of each bullet; too late for that. I didn’t give myself time to think.

I brought the heavy gun up quickly and fired: center mass.

Maybe twelve feet apart?

Impossible to miss from that distance.

Impossible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zelig Media
• Release date: Aug 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463138113

Bram Zelig

Bram Zelig--a cousin of the, erotica-writing, twins Jon Zelig & Joy Zelig, the former more Femdom-Focused, the latter more Maledom-Oriented--writes about the supernatural in a contemporary setting, erotica and romance threading through the tapestry of his work. Vampires walk among us, thirsty for blood! And . . . sometimes hungry for love, sex, and a little compassion. Just because you have "biting issues" doesn't mean you're fundamentally bad! Just because you're supernaturally attractive, charming, and magnetic doesn't make you good--or necessarily the best person to get into a relationship with! And . . . just because Love, Sex, Death (and The Undead) are serious topics? Doesn't mean there's never anything to laugh about. Otherwise. . . ? What's the point, really?

Book preview

Prolog, December: The End of the Beginning

"Whatcha packin’ there, Little Bro? Wooden stake, silver bullets, maybe some garlic?"

I knew that she—I knew that It—was no longer my sister.

I knew that killing It was going to be difficult—as much or more emotionally as physically.

She knew that too.

The .357 was heavy in my hand; I hadn’t pointed it at her.

There was a fast flash of a pixieish smile across her features—like the flicker of a transmission from a malfunctioning and distant satellite; for just that instant: My Big Sister!

Almost.

A Magnum—maybe loaded with depleted uranium bullets, something you picked up in the service? Think that’ll do it? she said, like we were fishing up at the lake and wondering what fly to cast.

Depleted uranium?

I nodded slowly, as if giving the matter serious thought.

But—no—she’d gotten it right the first time; the Magnum was loaded with Vamp Killers: high impact hollow points, with a silver core.

I didn’t give myself time to think.

I brought the heavy gun up quickly and fired: center mass.

Maybe twelve feet apart?

Impossible to miss from that distance.

Impossible.

The Lodge, I: January (Eleven Months Earlier)

Well they’re inbred up here! my father said, talking through a mouthful of steak, a jot of beer foam on his chin, my mother watching and listening with low-key disdain. They believe all kinds of ridiculous shit!

The woods are full of lions and tigers and bears! I cried melodramatically.

"Wrong movie, Little Bro, Corie said, across the table from me. It’s ‘werewolves and witches and vampires!’ Especially vampires," she said, with a little shiver of excitement that seemed more real than put on, to me—too many paperbacks, I thought.

Charles? my mother said softly to me, Corinda? shifting attention to my sister.

That was all.

That was all she had to say.

There was no mistaking her meaning.

Over three decades of experience?

Understanding her shorthand was second nature to us.

My father gave a quick grimace at this efficient enforcement of etiquette.

Our hunting lodge in the U.P. was built by my mother’s grandfather.

Family legend has it that he earned his—first!—fortune in illegal fur trapping, selling the pelts into the Canadian market, just across the water in Sault Ste.