Tracy St. John's Netherworld II: Blood Potion No. 9 Now Available!

Pick it up from Smashwords or New Concepts Publishing!

Dead escort Brandilynn Payson goes undercover with a shape shifting motorcycle gang: Beauty, meet the Beasts.

Brandilynn has more or less settled into her ghostly existence after dying. She's getting a little bored with the afterlife, so when vampire boyfriend Tristan Keith sends her on an assignment to spy on the shape shifting motorcycle gang The Beasts, she's raring to go. She finds more than she bargained for....

A plot to kill vampires and humans alike by the murderous leaders of the gang, not to mention a sexy werewolf undercover agent that shakes up her already crowded relationships with Tristan and ghost boyfriend Dan Saling. Juggling three paranormal hunks and racing to prevent genocide is a tough job, and Brandilynn handles it with characteristic good intentions. It's just too bad that good deeds don't always go the way she planned.

Length: Mid-Novel
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Rating: Carnal/Erotica. Mild BDSM, Multiple Sex Partners


Sequel to Netherworld:  Drop Dead Sexy

I was out of time.  The other Beasts mounted their motorcycles and they roared to life.  I ran over to the closest one and grabbed on.  The power flowed into my body, and the bike shut down.

Another biker, his bear aspect making him a shaggy creature, laughed at my hapless victim.  “Problems, bro?”  He kept laughing until I killed his bike too.

The world around me was coming into hypersharp focus.  I was getting high off the excess power I was drawing, and there were close to thirty motorcycles to disable.  My body tingling in reaction, I hit a third.

As it sputtered, its werehog rider banged a frustrated cloven fist on the gas tank.  “What the hell?  Someone been messing with our bikes?”

I shut him down, and it felt like every hair on my body stood at attention.  My eyes felt wide enough to fall out of my head.  The werehog, bigger and not as butt ugly as C.K. (but certainly not pretty), sat on his dead machine and stared at me.

He shouted to the rest, “Holy shit, look at the ghost bitch!  She’s fucking with us!”

Bitch indeed.  That was no way to talk to a lady.

Now that they knew what the problem was, the other bikers, the ones with the still-running engines, were starting to pull out.  They’d be out of the gate within seconds, chasing after C.K. 

The gate.  Aha!

The hog was cussing me.  “You hateful crotch!  No one screws with my bike!”

I grinned at him, energy snapping through me.  “You can see me?  Well check this out.” 

I flipped him and his two buddies off.  Now cussing is for the illbred and I acknowledge waving the middle finger around is a form of cussing, but some things just have to be said.

Leaving them with their mouths hanging open, I zapped off and materialized at the little box that required a passcode to get into the storage space.  The power box was right there too.  The other Beasts were approaching the closed gate and would trip it open at any moment.  Pulling the energy coursing through me into both hands, I reached into the two metallic boxes.  Then I let enough power back into my fingers to dig at wires and circuitry.  No, I had a better idea.  I fed them some of the energy that was making me dance in place like I needed to find the ladies room toot-sweet.  There was a spark, and a sizzle, and a bit of smoke.  I caught a backwash of power and nearly backflipped with exuberant energy.  Woohoo!

The blatting motorcycles drew to a stop on the other side of the now nonfunctioning gate.  I did a crazy little victory dance for the benefit of the staring and trapped shifters.  Oh sure, they could climb over the gate, but their bikes couldn’t.  Game, set, and match to Brandilynn. 

I laughed and stuck my tongue out of them, shaking what my momma gave me.  Okay, maybe rubbing their snouts in defeat was a little much, but remember I was jacked up and high as a kite just then.  I think I can be excused for my poor sportsmanship.

“So long, boys!” I shouted at the snarling shifters, who were fighting to get the disabled gate open.  “I’m gonna do some hog hunting now!”

Their curses and shaking fists let me know that they heard and saw me just fine.  Being visible gave my hectic brain an idea to help Bane out of the jam he was in, and I was raring to go.  So I went … straight to the hood of Bottle’s car.

I arrived planted on all fours in the middle of the Chevy’s hood as it clattered down 341 near the industrial section.  You should have seen Bottle and C.K.’s faces as I glared through the windshield at them, even before I yelled, “BOO!”  Bugging eyes and round, manhole mouths.  I swear to you, C.K. screamed louder and higher than his girlfriend, his cloven hands thrust out to ward me off.  Bottle let go of the steering wheel to grab the sides of her head, and the car squalled as she hit the brakes hard.  Priceless.

Then the car swerved out from under me, and I popped over to the side of the road to watch it jump the curb.  Bottle had rolled up her window, and I heard it when her head thunked against it.  Ouch.  The car came to rest a few feet from train tracks and stalled out.

Forget PIT maneuvers and spike strips.  All you need is a seriously amped-up ghost as a hood ornament and the bad guys stop.

Neither passenger moved, and I materialized by the driver’s side to check the situation out.  Boy, I hoped I hadn’t killed Bottle.  C.K. – meh.

Bottle was breathing but out cold.  C.K. shook his head, clearing the cobwebs.  A rivulet of blood ran down the side of his jowly face.  “Ha ha, tag, you’re it,” I called.

His nearsighted eyes swung over to me and squinted, trying to make me out more clearly.  He bared his yellowed tusks, and I offered a big, theatric yawn.  I’m already dead.  Whatchoo gonna do, Pig Boy?

What he did was lean over Bottle, throw the car door open, and shove her out onto the ground at my feet.   “Stay out of my way, bitch,” he snorted to me as he slid over to take her place behind the wheel. 

Yeah, he was a real winner to take home to Mom. 

He tried to start the car back up.  It ground to life, but when C.K. jammed the transmission into reverse, neverminding his girlfriend who would get run over if he followed that course, something under the car screeched.  The car shut off again without moving a bit.  I blew C.K. a raspberry.

He tore out of the car to scream in my face.  His was as red as a beet.  “Fucking ghost!  You think you can fuck with me?  I’ll take his ass out now!”