Excerpt: Queen of the Dark , Vol. 4

•May 30, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Isabella’s energetic steps echoed off the bluish shimmering granite-walls. Her inner turmoil pulsated in the stone and it appeared to be throbbing–sometimes brighter, sometimes dimmer. Where was Darian? He was long overdue in reporting. She let out a scream of frustration that made the walls glow. It was only temporary relief because once again she immediately felt as if something didn’t go according to the plan. She hated nothing more than being out of control.

Darian had already failed miserably several times in trying to send that Leia woman into the eternal abyss. She had brought misfortune to all her sons, be it directly or indirectly. When Leia had the chance to devote herself to her youngest, sensitive son Yven, she had not taken it. As a caring mother she would have turned a blind eye, but Leia continued throwing herself around Morris’s neck, messing with her eldest’s mind. Those who didn’t want to listen had to bear the consequences.

Besides, everything else was also completely unacceptable. She was dissatisfied, unhappy and had imagined her existence here truly differently. Very differently.

Isabella thought that Sy would belong entirely to her when she took the last step. A great fallacy as it now turned out to be. He had given her a choice: redemption by taking on a new body eventually or to be with him for all eternity. Not hesitating for a moment she had voted for him. She was always faithful to her great and true love, the man without whom she couldn’t imagine life or death. Therefore she had planned on committing suicide and had ensured that she was alone in the Newport house that weekend. Her body had decomposed quickly in the heat and although Morris had felt a little suspicious, he nevertheless remained silent and theorized her passing had been due to a virus.

Furthermore, she abhorred the idea of having to start a new life. Isabella had loved her life. The only advantage in being dead was that she could choose her appearance, to be young and beautiful again, just as she had looked in her late twenties and not to age a single day. Regardless, what good did timeless beauty do for her when she was trapped in this dark prison where no one would see her anyway? How much she missed her extravagant gatherings, the parties, the sun, the sea, the light, the delights and it greatly pained her that Sy wasn’t with her. She longed for his touch and physical love with him.

Isabella had always known that she was not Sy’s only woman, but the sheer amount of his female followers from around the world was even beyond her grasp. As far as she knew, there were at least one hundred women here who had decided to live in the intermediate world, the realm of demons and the dead, to be near their lover, Sy. And every single one of them was of exceptional beauty and grace. So, she wasn’t even extraordinarily special anymore, which she had always thought of herself when living in the earthly realm. Isabella sobbed and wiped the dark tears from her cheek.

Alarmingly, the only thing halfway satisfying her currently was to bring death to others. She remembered something else, that bitch Lilith was running around completely out of control and rather than focusing on her task, she was absorbed in her own agenda. Isabella thought that she could control her; however, she became quite independent, which could be attributed due to the fact that her soul was inherently demonic in character and difficult to tame. She would have to punish her for her miserable failure.

There was a knock on the door and an Asian woman poked her head in. “Isabella?”


“My name is Manu. I wanted to ask if you feel like accompanying us on a hunt.”

Isabella stepped into one of the openings of her realm and looked down upon the creatures far below her, those who had to suffer their own torment day in and day out in order to find redemption one day. At least they would at some point be freed from this hell.

A few torchbearers passed through the gate looking for a couple of black souls for the upcoming hunt. She had never once attended this event since she initially found it tasteless, although boredom caused her to be intrigued. “I’m coming.” ….

copyright by Lilly M. Love


available on Amazon, Paperback    http://amzn.to/VELefD

and E-book http://amzn.to/12iupMH

Light of the Dark, Part V of the demons of dream Saga

•May 5, 2013 • Leave a Comment




Light of the Dark, VOL. V

Did you sleep well last night? Did you dream?

What happens when visions don’t remain visions?

What happens when a person asks too many questions?

What happens when a friend becomes an enemy?

After Leia stays too long in the world of the demons of dreams, it’s not only Morris that notices conflicting changes in her. Then there is Christine’s insidious plan for vengeance that will change his life from one day to the next, and his brother Yven, who suddenly starts acting more peculiar each time he sees him, which also creates additional headaches for Morris…

Available on Amazon as Paperback and E-book: http://amzn.to/11Gv7j2


3rd Riddle in April

•April 1, 2013 • 1 Comment

Sorry, I was so busy with my fifth book Light of the Dark  that´s why  the March Riddle did not take place.


But here we go: This time it´s a hangman riddle. And again you can win one of four books (your choice) of the Demon of Dreams series.

EASY!!! so start sending me letters! One by one!! sending them them to: lillym.love80@gmail.com or on Twitter

Someone gave me an A. E. N, T,

W h a t      h a p p e n s      w h e n       a        d e m o n       o f       d r e a m s        n o t

o n l y            s n e a k       i n t o       y o u r       d r e a m,

b u t       i n t o         y o u r         h e a r t ?


SOLVED. On Facebook you can see the winner.

I would love to hear your opinion

•March 24, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Yet, I am still insecure if I should merge part ONE and TWO. What do you think?

In an interview somebody asked me a good question:

1. Between your first two books, you switched perspectives (and target gender audience); what were some big differences writing for Leia or Mo? (correct me if I got anything wrong)

Writing for Leia was a lot of fun. It was the first time for me writing in first-person perspective and I really loved it. It flowed unbelievable. Sure, the style is automatically different, sometimes a little bit more cheeky than writing in the third person point of view Morris. You can say I wrote two different stories which sometimes meet in some scenes. And as many people said, it´s amazing, because it´s not boring at all.

Many times I thought to merge both books, but honestly it would destroy the mystery, which the first has.

2.Follow up: you said Prince of the Dark was more suited for men than Meet Me in the Dark; what makes you say that?

I got a nice review for the first book from a woman. She said. Awesome!!! Sex and the City meets fantasy…it´s all said with that, I think.

The first book has here and there some typical female problems in there, clothing, shoes, envy between women, falling in love quickly, being attracted by handsome men and weird dreams.

A lot of women deny not being attracted by physical beauty, they feel superficial. Sure, it´s not the most important thing, but … we should be honest, first of all one is attracted by the way a person looks like. Man or woman that doesn´t matter.

The second is written from the point of view of the demon of dreams Morris Eltringham and shows his problems with his addicted human wife, his job and his evil brother Payton. I think it clears up a lot of question from the first.

Okay, this is my personal opinion, but don´t forget an author often doesn´t see the forest for the trees. I know men thinking differently and some said…Noooo, I loved the first too.

To everyone who have read Part ONE and TWO…I would appreciate hearing from you what you think.


Excerpt: Voices of the Dark, VOLUME III

•March 23, 2013 • 1 Comment

I come home from a nighttime excursion with a few bruises and scrapes

Again, this seems all too familiar.

 It happens quite often that I’m not in my bed at night. I’m not sleepwalking, but travel with Sy. There’s nothing better than to be near him.

My mother starts asking stupid questions. Apparently she also listens at my door, which I always keep locked. Especially when Sy spoils me with his wonderful talent, I do not want any surprises or to be disturbed.

One day a strange man is sitting at our dining table trying to get information out of me. As it turns out, he is a priest. I cannot believe it. My mother thinks I’m possessed. That’s a hoot.

The entries for the next few days are missing. I rifle through the loose pages but they are of different dates. Her notes continue just about ten days later.

I am home once more. They have tortured me for one week trying to exorcize the devil or the demon that possessed me. In order to do this they have tied me down naked on the bed with my legs spread so that the devil had unhindered access. After this they waited and prayed. First there were three of them, then only two, and in between I always heard my mother’s shrill voice quoting what Sy had told me during our intimate hours. I hate her.

Four days later they alternated in shifts with their damn crossings of themselves and prayers. Every day and night. Then during the last night the unexpected happened. Since I was under constant observation and so exposed, I could only get a little bit of sleep and watched as the younger priest, who already eyed me strangely the entire time, suddenly pulls his robe over his head.

I can still see his grinning face above me, feel him squeezing my mouth shut with his sweaty hand and then he thrusts into me while citing Our Lord’s Prayer.


Available on Amazon, Paperback   http://amzn.to/UN14FT

and E-book http://amzn.to/WHXuKH


Being one with the Universe

•February 27, 2013 • Leave a Comment

imagesWe sleep away a third of our lives, about 200,000 hours, providing that we don’t die prematurely. Sleep is an important part of our health. Who doesn’t sleep or dream becomes ill, so they say.

While we are asleep we pass through a door into another time, another dimension, into a different world where we are separated from everything earthly and one would almost like to assert that through this detachment we possess an altered intelligence. We are more farsighted and evolved because we allow things to happen that we deny and ignore in our conscious state of mind. Here, in our sleep, we encounter our own inabilities, our weaknesses, as well as our fears and have to face them.

The Greeks illustrated sleep and death through the brothers Hypnos and Thanatos and dreams of course through Oneiros. Demos Oneiros is the land of dreams. Accordingly, in Roman mythology, the Oneiroi are called Somnia.

The Greek poet, Ovid, also wrote in his important works of antiquity about the three brothers, Morpheus, Phobetor (also called, Ikelos) and Phantasos, who are the three dream demons, sons of the god of dreams. Morpheus is the most powerful amongst them and can transform into any desired shape and appears in dreams as a human being. His bed is made of ivory, located in a dark cave. In some mythical worlds he was additionally worshiped as the god of falling asleep. Ikelos (as he is called by the gods, Phobetor by the people), however, can turn into wild animals and roams like this through dreams, while Phantasos represents the soulless, water, stones and nature.

Now, the mighty god of dreams, ruler of all demons of dreams, has sired many, many sons that visit us in our dreams and thus some have hereby fallen in love with a mortal. The question is; what happened to the female offspring? That and much more, you will learn in “Light of the Dark”, the fifth sequel of the demons of dream saga.



From being published to self-publisher

•February 16, 2013 • 6 Comments

BooksYes, it´s a hard and an uneven path and yes it´s a lot more work. Not only the story, but the plot is now your responsibility alone, as well as paying for editing and a grammar check, unless you have smart friends that’ll do it for free. Then comes the cover design, which has to be professional, especially if you want a print version, the formatting of the book and chapters, converting it to an e-book and the right advertising, which is limited if you are not a millionaire.

Publishing four books sequently almost put me in the loony bin.  And there was a time I said to myself: Okay this time you underestimated the work and you will never write again, not one book.

Now, only one month later I think differently and the addiction is back. And… the most important thing is … there are a lot of angels out there. I already have a bunch of fans that are eager to know what´s going on with the Demons of Dreams saga, with Leia, with Yven and all the characters who are involved in the story. This support is un-repayable. Thank you so much. I won´t disappoint you.

I will come to a sensitive topic. Twitter.

First of all, I am a newcomer and had to learn to manage Twitter, which I never wanted to do. I am glad I did it because I really met a lot of wonderful people here. But what really annoyed me initially and still does is: I read every two seconds: Bestselling author: buy my book, buy my book, buy my book, buy my book, buy my book … OMG this sucks and for me, a reason I would never buy those books. NEVER EVER!

It casts a shadow on us, on us the self-publisher. It looks so desperate and completely selfish.

I wish authors would use more subtle ways to promote their books?  Sure, it´s hard for a self-publisher to get the attention of potential readers, but I´m sure you can do it differently.

Recently I bought a book from an Indie author to show my interest in him and his works. When I told him that I was reading it right now I got following answer: Great. You know where to find my others. Hm…Do you think I´m going to buy his other works??

It´s a give and take, not just take!! So help each other.

Speaking of that, I´m on the next topic. Book Bloggers.

With Amanda Hocking, book bloggers became famous. So I know every author tries to get their attention. I wrote to a minimum 30 bloggers asking for a review and got five answers. Amazing! Three Yes, two No.  Clear and short answers are fine for me. What´s not fine for me and utterly baffles me is that a lot of them act like celebrities. They cannot even give a writer a YES or NO answer.  It´s not too much to ask for a little respect, don´t you think. In my childhood I was taught to answer any question. And without the millions of storytellers they wouldn´t have anything to read or write about.

I am honest, I would even pay for their services, but under their holy shell they won´t accept money. Why not? They are spending their time reading books and writing a short essay about it. This takes time and time is money. This should be paid.  Don´t you agree?

I wanted to take this opportunity to mention some very special people here that I met during my journey on the Internet and say thank you for the reviews you made and the interviews you posted. THANK YOU! Also a special thanks to a few Blogger ladies that were extraordinarily kind and answered me!! You know who you are, right? THANK YOU!!!

Here are some links with interviews and reviews.


@LillyMLove1 ow.ly/hrlJT






Excerpt from Vol. I Meet me in the Dark the Demon of Dreams Saga ; Prologue, Chapt. I, Chapt II

•February 9, 2013 • Leave a Comment

There are two gates of dreams:

one, whence issue all deceptive and flattering visions,

being formed of ivory;

the other, through which proceed those dreams

which are fulfilled, of horn.



Darkness crept back in on Long Island quickly as the car drove along the narrow road way too fast for the current weather conditions. Mud swirled up the sides as the woman shortly lost control of the car and ran off the road. Her knees were shaking uncon-trollably from fear, making it almost impossible for her to press the gas pedal.

An approaching vehicle had its headlights either on high beams or just adjusted too high. For a second, the road in front of her disappeared. The rain made driving even more difficult with it forming an impenetrable barrier on the windshield. She jerked the steering wheel to the right and the oncoming car flew past her while blasting its horn. In front of her the street reappeared in the darkness, but the headlights of her pursuer still made it difficult to see. She squinted and folded up the rear-view mirror up so as not to be distracted by the lights of her pursuer. Soon, she would have succeeded; she only needed to drive onto the Robert Moses Causeway Bridge. Hopefully there would be enough traffic so that he would forgo the chase.

It was then that her car was struck from behind with a violent bang and her forehead hit the steering wheel. Brief pain shot through her head instantly. She grabbed for the seat belt, strapped herself in and reached for her handbag on the passenger seat. Those damned pouch bags in which one could never find anything. She dumped out all of the contents and searched wildly between toothbrush, eye shadow, pens, notebook, coins and camera for her cell phone. Finally, she felt the cold object in her hand.

Once again, her car was slammed forward and her cell phone flew from her hand, landing in the dark foot well.

Swearing, she hit the steering wheel with the palm of her hand.

On her right side, less than three hundred yards away, she could see the brightly lit bridge. The windshield wipers, working at full speed, pushed the rain to the side and made screeching noises as if they would soon stop altogether.

She used her foot to search the floorboard for her phone until she finally felt the hard casing beneath her shoe. Without removing her gaze from the flooded road, she leaned down carefully, stretching her fingers as far as she could and grabbed the phone.

At last she was on the bridge and accelerating while she blindly dialed the three digit emergency number with her fingers and pressed Send. She glanced at the display, checking to see if she had any reception and dared a quick look in the side-view mirror. No lights. Surprised, she folded it down to its correct position, but everything behind her was dark. No sign of her pursuer.

She looked back to convince herself that she was not the victim of an optical illusion, but it was still all dark. Relieved, she exhaled and turned back around when lights suddenly sped towards her. There was the sound of screeching metal and the car lost its grip on the road. She jerked the steering wheel, but it was too late, the wheels began to spin and suddenly she was hanging upside down like on a roller coaster. For a brief moment she felt weight-less. An ear-deafening bang followed and a rushing sound as if she was caught in the vortex of raging surf.

Water started to enter the car. Defying all the rules of physics, she tried to open the door, but the pressure held its invisible iron hand against it. She could open the window just a little, but then it stopped, moving neither up nor down. All she had succeeded in doing was to turn the trickle into a waterfall. A broad stream of cold water started filling the car.

She tried to keep calm as the car began to sink like a submarine. Ironically, at this very spot, the bay seemed to be deeper than in most areas, where it was on average only six feet deep. She watched the bubbles of air go up the window like pearls on a string and waited for the water to reach her neck, to creep into her nose and eventually surround her with its cold hand.


I’m standing on top of a mountain, almost on the same level with the black, low-hanging clouds. They seem close enough to touch and these dark, bunker-like buildings – three in all – appear mon-strously creepy on the vast plain.

I am searching for my little boy. He vanished without a trace. My fear for him leads me into the first bunker.

As I enter and stand under the partially destroyed glass dome, the building seems even larger than it appeared from the outside. The dome lays three hundred feet above me and there are innumerable floors on both the left and right sides. Everything looks as if it has just been bombed. The walls are full of holes, broken out stones and rubble covers the floor beneath me, which has deep fissures. Suddenly, something becomes very clear to me; it is a war and nobody lives in this building any longer and probably not in the other ones either. I feel like an ant beneath a giant shoe.

Beside a staircase, which is the only means to reach the top, lays an abyss leading into nothing-ness. I throw a little stone into it and wait for impact or a splash. There is no sound. This is the entrance to eternity.

I run up the stairs, step by step, open unlocked doors and glance into empty, deserted lofts. No people, no furniture, not even an insect is to be seen crawling around.

After the twentieth door, somewhere on the third floor, I find a piece of furniture that has been left behind. It is my Mom’s sofa. The one with the turquoise-pink striped silk cover. It is standing in the middle of the room, alone and forsaken.

The war seems to have passed me by. I noticed nothing and even worse, I don’t even know who the enemy is. Not a single human being is here. This frightens me. I do not wish to remain behind on this earth alone.

I run outside again and my attention is caught by the changing color of the facade. Far up on the other side is a toy store. It seems that it is the only thing left intact in this building. Colorful costumes and a large clown figure with red overalls are hanging in the window. I don’t like clowns. They paint a smile on their faces and cry inside them-selves.

While looking at the shop I am immediately overcome with a terrible thought. It entices children with its many colorful toys. Perhaps my little boy is there. However, the question is, how do I get up there? There is no staircase and no elevator.

As I run to the other end of the corridor, a large shadow appears on the wall. It gets smaller and smaller until it takes the shape of a human being that is slowly approaching me. There is no feeling of danger, so I stop and wait. I am neither far- nor nearsighted, meaning I have no problems with my eyes, but this figure is blurred, flickering like air over a heat source. The closer it comes, the clearer its contours become, until it is standing directly in front of me.

Two piercing blue eyes, surrounded by dense black eyelashes, are staring at me. I don’t know the man, yet he feels strangely familiar and when he says my name it sounds like a melody coming from his mouth. “Leia.”

I hear the soft sound of running water. At first I think it is rain trickling down my windowpane. However, something tells me that rain makes a different sound. I know the sound.

Damn! I emerge, leaving my dream, although I would have preferred to remain with this beautiful stranger who had pronounced my name in such a lovely way.

I have difficulty adjusting my eyes to the darkness but the other side of my bed is empty with the cover folded back. Drowsily, I lumber in the direction of where the noise is coming from and I see Joe, who is standing in my walk-in closet, peeing. “What a damn mess!” I yell at him and switch on the light.

“What’s the fucking problem?” Joe says, blinking and holding his hand in front of his eyes.

“You are peeing in my shoes.”

“Bullshit.” He sways past me naked and lies back down. In less than three seconds he is fast asleep again.

Enough is enough. It wasn’t the first, but it will certainly be the last time. Enraged, I go down to the kitchen, grab a bucket of water, a mop and some rags to try to limit the damage to my sanctuary. At least he missed my brand-new sneakers.

I am so upset that I cannot close my eyes for the rest of the night. My thoughts return to the strange dream and what it could possibly mean. About a year ago, I bought a dream diary. It is black, embellished with metal colored curved flowers and leaves and is lying beside my bed coated with a thin layer of dust. I was really determined to write down every dream, but as things are, such euphoria does not last long and I only have seven little entries.

On the next blank page, I note the date and the time.

These buildings looked like they were from another world. I was alone. Not too easy to interpret that. I am alone. Although I do enter into little love affairs, I feel lonely. That is how our society is: Everyone for themselves. I was looking for my child. But I do not have a child and I do not want one. So, this cannot be related to an unspoken wish to be a mother.

And now I come to the interesting part. That man. He not only looked very handsome, he also radiated a certain charm. That’s what I find masculine. Calm, composed and circumspect. He is the opposite of what is lying beside me, Joe. Irritable, nervous and fickle. One of the many people with borderline personality disorders and other syndromes that still have yet to be invented, so that there is always a reason to turn to alcohol and drugs.

I really want to return to my dream and the blue eyes. I could still sleep for another hour. Too short. The digital display of the alarm clock jumps to 6:01.

While reflecting on the pros and cons of going back to sleep, I am overcome by immense fatigue; my senses shut off and I feel how my blood is pumping only sluggishly through the streets of my life.

Let´s go back; I think and close my eyes. Sometimes I manage to re-enter the dream where I had left off and guide the events. I actually do enter the dream again.

“Leia,” I hear him say. His soft sonorous voice sounds pleasant and calming. Why doesn’t he continue speaking and tell me an entire story with his voice? Instead, he takes my face between his hands and kisses me. I do not resist and surrender to this intoxicating gentleness.


The alarm clock tears me back mercilessly to the stale, dark reality. It is seven o’clock. One hour later. Yet I have the feeling I slept only for a moment.

Joe mumbles something and turns himself away from me. Looking at him, my mood already hits a low, even before my day has started.

The first thing I do in the morning is press the button on the coffeemaker, so the water can heat up while I am in the shower.

Men say that when I look sleepy, I look particularly sweet and sexy. That is probably because I look like this after having sex and they prefer me in the horizontal position. In any case, I find myself prettier when my eyes are open and focused, when I have put on some light makeup, brushed my teeth and combed and smoothed my long, dark hair that reaches my hips.

A glance at my daily planner tells me that I have three appointments today for showings. Lunch with my friend Lilith in Soho, then back to the office and later on, I will advise a client in the afternoon about the interior design of an apartment he just purchased for eighteen million dollars. The things one does. However, good client services hold the promise of recommendations and further clients.

As I walk freshly showered into my closet, the strong smell of human urine, still hangs in the air.

I quickly slip into a black pantsuit, a pair of boots and grab my handbag.

With a last glance at the passed-out drunk in my bed, I write a short note on the pink tear-off note pad and lay it on Joe’s jeans. It says, “Please leave your key here“. In my opinion, these words suffice.

Sometimes I ask myself why I am living here in New York. Yet, the question can be answered easily. It is, rather it was, my mother’s fault. Unfortunately, she is no longer alive. It is a chapter in my life that I don’t like talking about. In spite of that, I could have returned to California a long time ago, or gone to Hawaii or Florida, which are climate zones I prefer, yet I decided to stay.

Summer is about to begin and it’s still frickin cold. My car has been sitting in the repair shop for two weeks. Against any sense of reason, I have a car. Most New Yorkers go on foot, use the subway or a taxi, because finding a parking lot can be both, expensive and frustrating. However, I like sitting in my car, listening to my music and like to let my thoughts flow undisturbed in the morning without any other human energy around me. So, for that I put up with the traffic. Besides that, my loft in Bushwick is not located in a particularly beautiful or safe area and I like getting out of my car right in front of my door. According to statistics, we had five hundred and fifteen murders here last year, one thousand four hundred and seventeen cases of rape and almost twenty thousand robberies. Of the one thousand four hundred and seventeen cases of rape last year, I was almost number one thousand four hundred and eighteen.

I was coming back home late one night from a private opening and as I was fumbling around in my bag for my key, in which I usually never find anything quickly, three guys came around the corner. I can only remember parts of what happened; how my bag was ripped out of my hand and suddenly out of nowhere a guy with a cap on was standing there. He took care of my attackers and threw me my key. It is still a mystery to me how he found it so quickly. The following day I discovered my bag lying on top of the trash container. Everything was still inside.

In any case, the three-story, old warehouse, where my loft is located, is a real gem. The ceilings still have the typical Art Deco silhouette from the 30’s that gives New York its special charm. There are about 20 people, besides me, living in here. Most of them are penniless artists.

I love my loft. It is on the top floor, it’s spacious and has old pillars up to the ceiling, a concrete floor and natural redbrick walls. It is so high that I could put in a second level in half of the loft, which contains my bed-room and my dearly beloved walk-in closet. The best thing about it is the view from my bed to the sky, which is through a skylight that I had installed. It also has a small terrace, big enough for a few plants, two chairs and a small table. A pretty, modest place, where I sit in the summer and like to drink coffee.

With my arm stretched upwards like the Statue of Liberty, I hail a cab and tell the driver the first address I am going to in the Upper East Side.

During the trip, I look for the name of the client in a mass of loose papers. I have a really bad memory for names. This has put me in really embarrassing situations at events.

My first client is called Mr. D. Clayton from California, an entrepreneur. How old might he be? Married, divorced or the eternal bachelor? Deep down I hope that one day during a showing, the man of my dreams will be standing in front of me.

Speaking of him I submerge in thought. The kiss in my dream seemed so real. In any case, gentler and more cautious than those I have experienced in the previous years, when my clothes were torn hastily from my body and tongues intertwined as if in a wrestling match. I think of the man in my dream and imagine that Mr. D. Clayton almost fits the image. When I enter the building and our eyes meet, he will be enchanted by me.

Finally, the cab stops in front of the apartment building in the prestigious area of New York. The potential buyer, D. Clayton, is already waiting for me in the lobby; an elegantly dressed man in his forties who does not bear the slightest resemblance to the man in my dream. Love at first sight is a totally visual event and definitely does not take place in this instance. My dream bubble bursts and I am back to reality with both of my feet on the ground.

“Leia Walsh,” I say introducing myself and extend my ice-cold hand toward him.

“Daniel Clayton.”

So, the D. stands for Daniel. Nice name, but I only know idiots called Daniel.

We ride up to the fortieth floor and we both follow the digital display without saying a word. As I stand at an angle behind him, I have the chance to take a closer look. He has fine, dark blonde hair with a receding hairline, a nose like a shark and thin lips.

Upon opening the door and seeing the first impression in the clients eyes, I can already tell what their decision will be. I see immediately that Mr. Clayton likes the apartment. Of course he acts disinterested, so he can get the price lowered a little. A certain amount is always taken into account, so that the client leaves the negotiations happy and satisfied, thinking he made a great deal. The chances of selling the five thousand square-feet duplex, with a view of New York’s Central Park, is quite good. Sixty to forty I would say.

I am showing him around when suddenly the doorbell rings.

“Oh, that must be Jeanette.” He looks at his watch to confirm this.

So, he has a partner.

When I open the door, a little, short-haired women in high heels, a too tight, deep cut dress and a Dior jacket is standing before me. Jeanette, twenty-five at the most. It figures. Without even looking at me, she marches past me, looks around and makes a face. “Not happy. Not happy,” she says in a much too high-pitched voice.

The two of them go upstairs and I overhear him trying to talk her into the apartment. “Not happy,” I hear her say again.

I would have been more than happy if I could move in here, but nobody asks me.

They come downstairs. Like a gentleman, he descends in front of the lady, so that if she stumbles, she would fall on him and take him down as well.

The chance of a sale is now ten to ninety.

“We will think it over,” he says with a look of regret on his face.

Zero chances now.

With a charming smile that he is not supposed to forget, I give him my business card. “Just give me a call.” I accompany the couple to the elevator and return to the apartment. For quite some time I stand by the window and enjoy the view of Central Park. Up here is a heavenly peace. Everything seems so small, unreal and transient…

to be continued.

available on Amazon, Paperback http://amzn.to/11tnH6x

or                                         E-book  http://amzn.to/WlQ17H


Copyright by Lilly M. Love

Excerpt from Prince of the Dark Vol II. of the Demons of Dreams Saga, Chapter I, Chapter II, Chapter III

•February 2, 2013 • 2 Comments


A snow storm of the century blew with fury outside and any reasonable person watched the goings-on only from a window from inside his four warm walls.

“Are you still going out, Mo?”

“I have a date.”

Christine looked at him with her slightly crazed look, which was a clear sign that she was once again hyped-up on pills and alcohol. The various therapies that she had gone through already were all for nothing. Meanwhile, Morris had given up searching the cupboards for hiding places and flushing the little mood enhancers down the toilet. She always found new means and ways to acquire re-placement ones anyway.

He dressed in a black jacket and a wool cap, gave his wife a kiss on the forehead and grabbed the car keys.

“Where are you are driving to?”

“To a private opening in Soho.”

She nodded and wished him a lot of fun.

Art was his great passion and he never missed an opportunity to go to museums, exhibitions or similar events and admire the work of artists.

Today’s exposition had particularly aroused his interest. The topic was the intermediate phase of death. He was curious as to what the artist thought regarding this subject.

It looked like that he was not the only one interested in this theme because the gallery’s vast space was overflowing with life. The guests were sometimes standing so close to the pictures that it was almost impossible to view them undisturbed. At first glance however, they were all rather disappointing and did not come even remotely close to reality. But how could a pathetic little human being know how it should look.

He grabbed a glass of wine from a tray and listened to the conversations of bystanders. Every-one seemed to have his own story linked to the topic of death.

“My mother recently died … At the end she looked really transparent.”

“With my father I knew it already weeks beforehand. I could see it in his eyes.”

“They say that they are being met … by those that have gone before.”

“Have you read the report on Steve Jobs’ death? He smiled when it was his time.”

“One could really not have tackled the topic any more boringly. Even a fly’s turd is more interesting than this. Shit, it’s only ten o’clock.”

He smirked and looked for the person that voiced his thoughts so accurately. She stood next to a man and they toasted the press photographer. Long black hair lay like glossy liquid silk on her back and when she turned around he saw her stunning face and a fascinating pair of bright, piercing green eyes.

“Dr. Eltringham!” Louise Rush, a colleague from the hospital rooted herself directly in front of him and blocked his view of the beautiful woman.

Since their first encounter in the operating room, the almost five foot nine physician adored him and tried to engage in conversation at every suitable and unsuitable occasion. Before his marriage she would have been an easy and welcoming target, but at the present he had no need. In addition, women that offered themselves like this and whose intent was so obvious, bored him to death.

She pointed to a painting behind him and chattered away uninhibited and without hesitation. Morris looked around again for the little beauty, but she was lost somewhere in the crowd.

Dr. Rush had only Morris’s good manners to thank for the fact that he simply did not turn away and leave. Letting the nonstop babble flow in one ear and out the other, he nodded occasionally at the appropriate times. His eyes wandered again and again over the heads of the guests looking for the pair of jade-green eyes.

“… don’t you think so, Dr. Eltringham?”

“I agree completely.”

At last he had found her. Smooth and gracefully she moved among the crowd and shot photos with her camera. Her upright posture suggested that she had enjoyed many years of dance lessons.

All the nearby women kept throwing him lustful glances, but she ignored him, which attracted him even more. “Would you excuse me?” Too much chatter gave him headaches. He left the doctor standing alone and walked past a couple of art works feigning interest, paused for a little while, listened to the asinine comments and then moved slowly towards the exit. Fresh air was needed urgently. Normally he would have left the opening after a half an hour, at the latest, but yet hung around for a while and went later to his car in order to wait for the end of the event.

When the last guests had finally left the gallery it took less than ten minutes until the lights were extinguished and the beautiful young woman appeared on the street with a blonde. Hoping that the two would not stop at a bar or a nightclub even though the night was still young, he started his engine and followed them slowly from the shadows of the houses to a parking garage. There he watched as the two women parted from each other and rolled down his window. The night wind carried their voices softly to him and as he had hoped, he caught her name. Leia. Speaking it in a low voice, it sounded like a note in a sad piece of music.

Patiently he waited until she drove out the exit and followed her at a moderate distance up to Bushwick. Meanwhile, it had started snowing again. The thick snowflakes swirled around the moving cars and lay like cake icing on roofs, roads and parked cars. The white carpet gave the night a strange light that in other parts of the city were certainly romantic. In this area it only highlighted the blemishes.

Bushwick was known for its thriving drug trade and its Hispanic population that accounted for eighty percent of the majority.

On the house walls young people had sprayed their wild graffiti; street lights had been smashed and submerged some corners into an eerie darkness. She lived in a rather uncomfortable and unsafe neighborhood. In his opinion it was far too dangerous for a young woman of her class to wander alone at night.

They drove past a small park where a few gang members were playing football with a tin can on the fringes. One of them, a small short-legged Puerto Rican pointed to Leia’s car and said something to the others.

Leia was completely oblivious to anything in the outside world. From what he could observe by her bobbing head and drumming hand on the steering wheel was that she was listening to loud music. The car stopped next to a large dumpster a few streets further. She probably lived in one of the old factory buildings that had been rendered habitable and converted into lofts. Still she had no clue as to the danger that was surrounding her.

He turned onto the side street and stopped several hundred feet from her front door, observing how Leia exited her car in his rear view mirror. While looking in her purse for something, three creepy young guys stepped around the corner and immediately circled their quarry.

Morris took out two batons from under the seat, put one in the left and the other in his right pocket and got out of the car. He pulled his black wool cap down low over his face as he neared the small group.

One of the Latinos grabbed the bag and chucked the contents onto the street. He discovered her wallet and with a satisfied grunt thrust a handful of dollar bills into his pocket. The other cretins were in the mood for something else. The biggest pushed the frightened defenseless woman against the wall while holding a knife to her throat. Frozen with horror, she made no sound as he probed under her skirt.

They were so preoccupied with their victim that they didn’t notice Morris approaching them. There was only a slight clunk as the batons extended and a snapping sound as one hit a guy’s leg and the other almost simultaneously slammed down into the face of another. A nasty crunch told him that he had broken the bones of both. The third and shortest stared up at him stunned and quickly scampered away.

Morris picked up the keys from the street, threw them at Leia and waited until she had disappeared through the doorway. When he knew she was safe, he glanced at the pathetic figures at his feet. Filled with fear neither made a sound. Morris could hear the panting of the third guy that had bolted around the corner. He launched into a sprint and spied him in no time. A well-targeted throw of the baton knocked down the fugitive and Morris seized him by the collar, dragged him upright and pushed him up against the wall. Small condensed clouds of breath came in bursts out of his mouth and the eyes of his opponent widened in terror-stricken fear.

The blood in Morris’s veins ran like hot oil. It was a sure sign that he was going to transmogrify. His irises changed color to a deep black and sharp talons dug into the throat of the young guy.

“If I ever see any of you on this road again and people are hurt or robbed, I’ll make sure that you’ll wish that you had never been born, is that clear?” he hissed and reached into the pocket of the panting Latino to retrieve the crumpled dollar bills. No sooner had he released him from his claw-like grip, he took off across the road and disappeared into the dark unlit park.

The other two were still lying on the ground in front of the snow-covered entrance. The one with the broken jaw was now unconscious; the other–holding his leg–writhed in pain. However it did not keep him from uttering a threat, which he paid for by receiving another blow to his other leg. This would discourage the rat from preying on helpless people. Morris picked up Leia’s scattered belongings and put everything back into the purse, which he then laid on top of the dumpster.

Light was now on in two lofts. He made out the delicate shape of Leia behind one of the top windows. She was completely distraught and was talking to someone on the phone. Retracting the batons, he went with a knowing smile back to his car.


When he arrived home, his wife was asleep on the sofa. On the table stood an empty bottle of wine and the television was on. A familiar image to him, as he often came home from a night shift and found her like this.

He covered the huddled body with a blanket and looked at Christine worriedly. How swiftly she had faded in his hands. The once young, beautiful and rosy face of the thirty year old had suddenly aged a decade in the last year. But that was not the only change; her soul was damaged too by her dying love. The one time cheerful uncomplicated young woman now became irritable and moody. She had started drinking and taking drugs for reasons that not even she could explain. But he knew why and his mother had warned him not to enter into a marriage with a mortal woman.

He switched off the TV, walked into the bedroom and laid down on the bed.

Again and again the bright green eyes that had not even once noticed him were on his mind. The urge to see her again was intense. Confident that Christine would not wake up again he went to the window, went deep inside himself and spread his wings.

The entire city with its glittering jewels lay beneath his feet as he glided silently through the darkness. No one was visible on the cobblestone street in front of Leia’s house. The young creeps had either been picked up or hit the road by themselves. Satisfied, he noticed that her purse still lay untouched on the dumpster. Softly he landed on the snowy roof of the old brick building and peered through the skylight.

There she lay asleep, only half-covered between rumpled, dark gray silk sheets. The outline of her slim body only confirmed that he was not mistaken; she was picture perfect. He forced his way into her subconscious and moved between the images in her dream.

She just finished processing the evening in the gallery and was in the middle of giving new color of her own with a brush and palette in hand to the paintings. A portion of them were already completed. The artist himself was sitting in a cage and spat angry insults about her smears. Morris found the scene very amusing.

The colorful, bright pictures that were supposed to illustrate a world between life and death were painted over by Leia’s dark, wild brush strokes and obelisk-like structures.

“Interesting,” he remarked calmly.

Grim-faced, she turned towards him ready to defend herself, but when she saw him her expression softened immediately. “Have we met?”


She studied him with narrowed eyes, but could not remember nor place him, which didn’t surprise him a bit. “Why interesting?”

“Do you imagine the transition like that?”

“Transition means that you are on the way to something. Heaven is light, warmth and love while hell is dark, cold and malevolent. So why should the transition be full of light if the destination is still uncertain?”

“That sounds logical in a certain way.”

“It does not just sound, it is logical.”

“The transition could also be colored. Like a mixture of light and dark. How would it be with dark blue or purple?”

She looked at him curiously. “I don’t like purple.”

“That’s naturally an argument,” he said laughing.

The brush was dipped again noisily into the black paint and smeared over the oil paintings some more.

Abruptly, Leia opened her eyes and looked around confused. Her eyes roamed to the skylight. For a moment he thought that she had discovered him, but looking back down at her, she was writing by the light of her reading lamp, with weary half-opened eyes, a few lines in a book: the man with the beautiful ice-blue eyes. She giggled quietly, closed the book and put it back on her nightstand.

He waited until she was asleep and then pushed off and ascended, higher and higher, until disappearing into the clouds, where he turned a few circles and went on his way back home.

Most people forgot their dreams immediately upon waking and even though the memories sometimes came back like déjà vu, they were quickly forgotten again. He had wandered through many dreams; had sweetened many women’s sleep, but only a few had aroused his interest. Leia excited him and he would see if and how far she would let him into her heart.

Exactly at six he woke up. His wife was lying in bed facing away from him in the fetal position. During the early morning hours she must have laid down next to him shortly after he went to bed. When they were newly in love she had always pressed herself close to him and was only able to fall asleep when he lay beside her. That had changed as well as many other things.

Rising quietly, he went into the bathroom to get ready. It had been his desire to lead a normal life as much as it was possible for his species. That’s why he had studied and went to work like any other human being. Although due to his background he didn’t have to do anything. His father had seen to it that the woman he loved and the two sons he had given her would want for nothing in life. He had sent her a rich man to marry, who would bequeath her his entire fortune after his death. However, the marriage was short-lived as his father could not bear to see his love in the arms of another man.

After the death of his mother, managing the family wealth lay in the hands of his half-brother Yven, who had been the result of the short marriage.

In the emergency room all hell broke loose. A serious road accident had claimed five deaths and Dr. Henry Rodman had struggled for two hours to save the lives of the three seriously injured. When Morris entered, relief reflected in the face of his colleague, who tried with bloodstained hands to stabilize a patient who had a steel rod rammed into the abdomen. But the shaft slipped out and in its place was a large gaping hole that now spurted blood. Dr. Rodman reached into the opened abdominal cavity and pressed the artery closed by hand.

“Patient with polytrauma,” he explained to Morris, who guessed the severity of the injuries at a glance and classified the chances of survival as very low. The monitor displayed the baseline heart rate that gave an urgent and monotonous tone.

“Cardiac arrest, doctor.”

But the surgeon did not respond.

“Dr. Rodman, no more vital functions,” said the nurse now urgently. “The patient is dead!”


The nurse reluctantly prepped the adrenaline syringe.

Henry Rodman pulled it out of her grasp and drove the entire dose into the vein. Then he reached for the nurse’s hand and placed it on the open artery. “Come on! Just press!” He worked the sternum of the patient, but the line of the ECG remained merciless and even the continuous tone signaled the futility of the resuscitation.

Morris put his hand on the doctor’s arm. “She’s not there anymore, Henry. Let her go.”

Slowly, the physician seemed to respond. He was completely overworked and Morris led him out. “Go home and get some rest, I’ll take over now.”

His colleague looked at him with gratitude and trudged down the hall with his head hanging, to his well-deserved time off.

While looking at the big clock above her head and writing down the exact time of death, a movement caught her eye. “Dr.?” Silently she pointed to the ECG recording. “We have activity.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Incredible. I thought she is …”

“Columbus also thought that he had landed in India.”

A clear, slight twitch could be seen on the device that could also just be a last gasp, a deceptive sign of uncoordinated cardiac work. The nurse reached for the defibrillator and gave him the electrodes. Morris, who at the same time felt for the patient’s pulse, looked at her furiously. “The patient has a PEA. Have you heard of it?! What are you doing with the defibrillator?”

The nurse helplessly checked for a pulse and could not find it, just like Morris, who meanwhile administered thoracic compressions. “P stands for pulseless. Would you therefore please start respiration.”

Morris called for a colleague to take care of the damaged artery while he continued massaging the heart and resumed the work initiated by Dr. Rodman, although he wished that the young woman would have completed her journey today.

The nurse pumped oxygen at regular intervals into the lungs and nodded to him encouragingly as the heart line became regular and stronger under his hands. “You have golden hands, Doc,” she said and wiped the sweat from his brow.

The eyes of the patient opened for a brief moment and her pupils were dilated, staring past him, seeing something from another world that was incomprehensible to her human mind. As soon as she awoke, all would be forgotten and then the race was on. Morris knew the game; she would either soon need psychiatric treatment or turn into a black soul. The last possibility was that she was strong enough and trusted in God, but not many did that…

to be continued

Copyright by Lilly M. Love


available on Amazon, Paperback http://amzn.to/YrNSWp

or E-book http://amzn.to/WM1TPB


2nd Riddle in February

•February 1, 2013 • Leave a Comment


Solve the riddle and win one of four books (your choice) of the Demons of Dreams Saga.

This time I want to have three answers:

First question:

Once upon a time there was a legendary King in a foreign country. He built beautiful castles, but out of all of these one became especially famous. Tell me the king´s nickname.


He built something in his castles, which is connected to a famous fairy tale. Which one is it? And written from whom?

Have fun and write me the answer to my e-mail: lillym.love80@gmail.com

The winner of this riddle will be announce end of February.

Unfortunately this time there was no winner. But I was surprised of some really nice answers which I loved. This answer I got from a very smart person. She was so close just the fairy-tale was wrong.

I’ve found out that there is a sea cavern / grot connected to the living room in Neuschwanstein, leading you to the winter garden, which reminded me instantly of the fairytale “The Twelve Dancing Princesses” (or “The Worn-Out Dancing Shoes” or “The Shoes that were Danced to Pieces”) by the brothers Grimm.


The King: Ludwig II of Bavaria

Nickname: The Swan King

The Country: Germany

The famous fairy tale: The wishing table by the brothers Grimm. Ludwig built in his Linderhof Palace and the baroque palace of Herrenchiemsee a special table in his favorite room. It was a dining table disappearing by means of a mechanism to the kitchen which allowed him to dine alone.

Okay this one was heavy. The next is easier. I promise.

www. lillymlove.com

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