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Now available from Amazon, Itunes, Kobo, and Barnes and Noble:  Fever Nights by Avis Black, The Second Volume in the Wound of the Rose Trilogy.

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Seth Keane has made a mistake. He mocks a vampire, and just when he thinks he has managed to evade the monster–he knocks on the door of another. Even Maurice Fitzpons, that master of turning a situation to his own advantage, finds that his lover’s peril is just one crisis too many.

Yet there are horrors worse than death. Insanity can dine on human flesh as hungrily as any vampire.

Fever Nights is the second volume in the Wound of the Rose Trilogy, a gay romance and paranormal adventure series.


A man was bending over a flowerbed. I raised my pistol, but I couldn’t identify the man from this angle. I blinked several times at him through the shimmering of fever.

He straightened and looked at me as if I had said his name aloud. Long grey hair, a tall hat with a wide brim. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up. Next to him was a wheelbarrow filled with clumps of dirt and greenery.

Ravenshaw had been weeding his garden. For a moment, I was too shocked to move at the sight of this monster performing such a mundane chore. “Where’s Maurice?” I shouted.

“Follow the buzzing of the flies,” Ravenshaw replied with cold mockery.

My hand came up like a spring, and I fired straight at his chest. The report nearly deafened me. My second shot struck his head. I could have ripped him apart with my hands for those words.

A spatter of blood flew out of his head and Ravenshaw spun around, landing on his face in the flowerbed.

“So what were you planting?” I yelled. “If it’s roses, I suggest fishmeal and lime.”

–Your flesh will feed my garden after feeding me–

I nearly flew into the air. That had not been a sound to the ears, but a voice sent directly to my mind. What?!

Slowly, Ravenshaw lifted himself into a sitting position. He stood, then turned to face me. I could see the wound right where the bridge of the nose meets the brow, just above the eye socket. The bullet must have passed into his brain. Another messy wound was in his chest. Blood was flowing down his face in a stream, and it covered Ravenshaw’s eyeball. He drew out his handkerchief and daubed at the injury while his other eye gave me a look of glaucous hate. “You can’t kill a vampire with a pistol,” he said evenly. “Your friend discovered that.”