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Tales of the Executioners

Joleene Naylor is the author of the glitter-less Amaranthine vampire universe, a world where vampires aren't for children. Comprised of a main series, a standalone prequel, and several short story collections, she has plans to continue expanding with a trilogy and standalone novels. In her spare time, Joleene is a freelance book cover designer and for-fun photographer. She maintains several blogs, full of odd ramblings, and occasionally updates her website at JoleeneNaylor.com. In what little time is left, she watches anime, plays PokemonGo, and works on her crooked Victorian house in Villisca, Iowa. Between her husband, family, and pets, she is never lonely, in fact, quite the opposite. Should she disappear, one might look for her on a beach in Tahiti, sipping a tropical drink and wearing a disguise. Twenty-nine short stories of love, death, heartbreak, and blood. Meet the Executioners, elite enforcers of the vampires’ laws. Walk with them through origin stories, follow them across the sea to the colonies, and run with them through the wilds, as they try to bring civilization to a land ruled by “day sleeper” clans. Fifteen interwoven stories tell the beginning of The Guild, set under the watchful - and sometimes malevolent - gaze of the ancient Malick, whose heavy shadow stretches even across the sea. Meet his favorite son, his willful daughter, his child-like pet, and many more whose jealousies, hatreds, and loves twist together to create consequences they can’t foresee.

Joleene Naylor · Horror
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186 Chs

Chapter 95: Fallon - Taste in Men, Part 1

This story takes place in 1985 and begins in the citadel in Iowa. It is nine years after Migina's story.

***

"puppy love"

With a grunt, Fallon kicked the record stand. The arm jumped, the needle skipped, and the syrupymusic died.

"Hey!" Laura jerked up from her magazine, chocolate eyes narrowed. "What the hell was that?"

Fallon readied to kick the stand again, but she leapt to her feet and pushed him back. "You'll scratch it!"

"Good. I'm sick of that song." He flopped on the couch and dropped his head back. When he spoke he could hear the soft southern drawl, more pronounced with his irritation. "I'm sick of all your music. Can't you get something new?"

Laura fussed with removing the record and carefully replacing it in its sleeve. "I don't like the new stuff. Music peaked-"

"In the fifties and early sixties," he finished for her. "We've been listening to it for twenty years. Isn't it time to give that crap a rest?"