Happy Release Day, Rick R. Reed! Join him & IndiGo Marketing in celebrating the release of A Face without a Heart. Find out more about this paranormal suspense/horror, read an excerpt & enter in the giveaway for a $10 Ninestar Press credit too!
Title: A Face without a Heart
Author: Rick R. Reed
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: June 1, 2020
Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 56700
Genre: Paranormal Horror, LGBTQIA+, photographer, drag queen, dancer, addiction, drug use, dark, suspense
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Synopsis
A modern-day and thought-provoking
retelling of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray that esteemed horror
magazine Fangoria called “…a book that is brutally honest with its reader and
doesn’t flinch in the areas where Wilde had to look away…. A rarity: a really
well-done update that’s as good as its source material.”
retelling of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray that esteemed horror
magazine Fangoria called “…a book that is brutally honest with its reader and
doesn’t flinch in the areas where Wilde had to look away…. A rarity: a really
well-done update that’s as good as its source material.”
A beautiful young man bargains his soul
away to remain young and handsome forever, while his holographic portrait
mirrors his aging and decay and reflects every sin and each nightmarish step
deeper into depravity… even cold-blooded murder. Prepare yourself for a
compelling tour of the darkest sides of greed, lust, addiction, and violence.
away to remain young and handsome forever, while his holographic portrait
mirrors his aging and decay and reflects every sin and each nightmarish step
deeper into depravity… even cold-blooded murder. Prepare yourself for a
compelling tour of the darkest sides of greed, lust, addiction, and violence.
Excerpt
A Face without a Heart
Rick R. Reed © 2020
All Rights Reserved
Prologue
GARY
There is blood on my hands. I look down
at a body, a body that’s become a thing—monstrous, ugly, inanimate. It could be
a sculpture, a figure formed from wax or porcelain. The soul inside is gone,
leaving a shell. I wipe a line of sweat from my forehead with a trembling hand,
trying to tell myself these things, trying to believe that what lies at my feet
is nothing more than an object, something to be reviled, something not worthy
of further consideration.
at a body, a body that’s become a thing—monstrous, ugly, inanimate. It could be
a sculpture, a figure formed from wax or porcelain. The soul inside is gone,
leaving a shell. I wipe a line of sweat from my forehead with a trembling hand,
trying to tell myself these things, trying to believe that what lies at my feet
is nothing more than an object, something to be reviled, something not worthy
of further consideration.
It’s not easy to believe. Although the
corpse does not have a twinkle in its eye or the simple rise and fall of a
chest, it’s hard to remove myself from the plain fact that the body possessed
those movements, those simple signs of life, just minutes ago. Distance, for
now, seems more a matter of location than of feeling. The body at my feet wears
the badges of its untimely demise—a dented face, a split-open skull, blood and
grayish-pink matter seeping out. The bruises have already begun to rise, ugly
yellow-pink things all over the body.
corpse does not have a twinkle in its eye or the simple rise and fall of a
chest, it’s hard to remove myself from the plain fact that the body possessed
those movements, those simple signs of life, just minutes ago. Distance, for
now, seems more a matter of location than of feeling. The body at my feet wears
the badges of its untimely demise—a dented face, a split-open skull, blood and
grayish-pink matter seeping out. The bruises have already begun to rise, ugly
yellow-pink things all over the body.
I stoop, plunge my fingers into the
deepest hole, the one on the belly, to feel the warmth and the entrails. Amazed
that the breathing has stopped. Amazed that I have such power.
deepest hole, the one on the belly, to feel the warmth and the entrails. Amazed
that the breathing has stopped. Amazed that I have such power.
I lift a finger to my mouth and slowly
run it over my lips, the blackish liquid warm and viscous, metallic to the
taste. I recall the vampire films I loved as a youth, never really believing
such a thing could exist.
run it over my lips, the blackish liquid warm and viscous, metallic to the
taste. I recall the vampire films I loved as a youth, never really believing
such a thing could exist.
Now I do.
I have stolen a life so that my own
might continue. There is something vampiric in that, isn’t there? Because
without this theft of a beating heart and an expanding and contracting pair of
lungs, I would be unable to live.
might continue. There is something vampiric in that, isn’t there? Because
without this theft of a beating heart and an expanding and contracting pair of
lungs, I would be unable to live.
Isn’t that the real essence of the
vampire?
vampire?
It seems too quiet here, deep in the
basement of a high-rise. A dull clanging is my only accompaniment, pipes
bringing warmth and water to tenants above, whose lives continue, ignorant,
untouched by my murderous hand. And that’s the amazing thing, the thing that
causes my breath, when drawn inward, to quiver.
basement of a high-rise. A dull clanging is my only accompaniment, pipes
bringing warmth and water to tenants above, whose lives continue, ignorant,
untouched by my murderous hand. And that’s the amazing thing, the thing that
causes my breath, when drawn inward, to quiver.
Life goes on, in spite of this
monumental act, just a quick, surprised scream and a heartbeat away.
monumental act, just a quick, surprised scream and a heartbeat away.
There is blood on the walls, spattered
Jackson Pollock-style. Who can say what is art and what is murder?
Jackson Pollock-style. Who can say what is art and what is murder?
This so-called victim who now lies in
final repose on a cold concrete floor, staring vacantly at nothing or perhaps
at the hell that will one day consume me, can no longer chastise me, can no
longer beg me to drop to my knees with him and pray, pray for forgiveness,
imploring Jesus to lead me down the path of the righteous.
final repose on a cold concrete floor, staring vacantly at nothing or perhaps
at the hell that will one day consume me, can no longer chastise me, can no
longer beg me to drop to my knees with him and pray, pray for forgiveness,
imploring Jesus to lead me down the path of the righteous.
It’s not too late, he said before I
brought the mallet down on his skull, cracking it open like a walnut, slamming
it into his windpipe, his gut, an eye socket, his shoulders as he fell, anywhere
the mallet would ruin, destroying, sucking life.
brought the mallet down on his skull, cracking it open like a walnut, slamming
it into his windpipe, his gut, an eye socket, his shoulders as he fell, anywhere
the mallet would ruin, destroying, sucking life.
He was wrong. The final irony of his
existence, I suppose, is that he thought he had the power to do anything, to
change another person, whom, I must admit, he cared very deeply about.
existence, I suppose, is that he thought he had the power to do anything, to
change another person, whom, I must admit, he cared very deeply about.
No, that power rests in my hand, the
death-dealing claw that changed him. And people whine about how change never
really lasts when it comes to others, how they always unfortunately revert to
their old ways, the ways you don’t want them to be. Anyone who has ever tried to
change another knows this to be true. Oh certainly, the change may last a week,
a month, even a year. But soon the real person comes back, the one who has been
waiting in the wings for just the right cue, the one that will allow him to say
“Ah fuck it, I’ve had enough.”
death-dealing claw that changed him. And people whine about how change never
really lasts when it comes to others, how they always unfortunately revert to
their old ways, the ways you don’t want them to be. Anyone who has ever tried to
change another knows this to be true. Oh certainly, the change may last a week,
a month, even a year. But soon the real person comes back, the one who has been
waiting in the wings for just the right cue, the one that will allow him to say
“Ah fuck it, I’ve had enough.”
But the change I’ve wrought in my friend
can never be undone. He is dead and always will be. I have a power of which
psychiatrists and psychologists can only dream. And I accomplished my
transformation in a matter of seconds, behind a red-tinged curtain of rage.
can never be undone. He is dead and always will be. I have a power of which
psychiatrists and psychologists can only dream. And I accomplished my
transformation in a matter of seconds, behind a red-tinged curtain of rage.
Pretty sly, eh? For a man who’s spent
most of his life doing nothing but looking after his own selfish needs and
pursuing his own pleasures, it’s a pretty accomplished thing. Decisive. For
once, a man of action.
most of his life doing nothing but looking after his own selfish needs and
pursuing his own pleasures, it’s a pretty accomplished thing. Decisive. For
once, a man of action.
I nudge him with my foot and am amazed
at the heaviness my friend has taken on in death. His body doesn’t want to
give, to roll; it has become a body at rest…forever.
at the heaviness my friend has taken on in death. His body doesn’t want to
give, to roll; it has become a body at rest…forever.
I turn and head back upstairs. There are
matters to attend to…clothes to be burned, an alibi to be concocted. People
will want answers. And conveniently, I will have none. Knowledge is a dangerous
thing. What was it my other friend once told me? “The only people worth knowing
are the ones who know everything and the ones who know nothing.”
matters to attend to…clothes to be burned, an alibi to be concocted. People
will want answers. And conveniently, I will have none. Knowledge is a dangerous
thing. What was it my other friend once told me? “The only people worth knowing
are the ones who know everything and the ones who know nothing.”
I know nothing about this. And now I
must go back into the realm of the living to ensure my ignorance remains
secure.
must go back into the realm of the living to ensure my ignorance remains
secure.
But alone, I know that ignorance is one
of the few luxuries I can no longer afford. Alone, I have only the luxury of
time to contemplate how it all began.
of the few luxuries I can no longer afford. Alone, I have only the luxury of
time to contemplate how it all began.
Purchase
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Meet the Author
Real Men. True Love.Rick R. Reed is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction. He is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. Entertainment Weekly has described his work as “heartrending and sensitive.” Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” Find him at www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA, with his husband, Bruce, and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix, Kodi.
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