Sunset by Garon Whited

Nightlord Series Book 1

A college professor gets turned into a vampire against his will and is thrown into a world of magic, danger, and relentless hunters…all while just trying to survive his new undead reality.

Eric never planned to become a vampire—much less one called a “Nightlord”—but an unplanned hangover and a fateful encounter with a beautiful stranger force him into a bizarre new reality. A bit of accidental fang-biting convinces him that monsters are all too real, and now he's wrestling with bloodlust, newly awakened magic, and a growing sense that something bigger is going on in the shadows. Even so, Eric’s sense of humor remains unshaken, suggesting he’s either resilient or just one wisecrack away from insanity.

But the vampire thing is just the start. People are trying to kill him, monsters want a piece of him (sometimes literally), and Sasha, his unnervingly gorgeous mentor, insists there's a secret battle raging at the very edge of the world. Between hungry demonic horrors, tricky magical hierarchies, and a precarious balance between Darkness and Light, Eric’s greatest challenge may be coming to grips with his own powers—and deciding what he’s willing to lose to stay (un)alive.

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Excerpt from Sunset: Nightlord Series Book 1 © Copyright 2025 Garon Whited

SATURDAY, JUNE 11TH

Everything has to start somewhere. For me, it was at a bar.

Normally, I'm the clean and sober person in the bunch—I often find myself in the role of the tolerant, understanding uncle. I party with students, drive them home, pour them into their houses, and shake my head at the senseless slaughter of brain cells in their prime. Drinking is not something I do.

Or didn't. Or did, depending on how you want to look at things.

The actual beginning was on Friday night. My friends did their best to get me plastered. They had good reason. Travis was buying mixed drinks, Hutch was setting me up with vodka shots, and I already had myself on the outside of a Scotch on the rocks. At least I now know I'm not a cheap drunk, so the night wasn’t entirely wasted, unlike myself.

Which brings me up to the present, in a roundabout way. The last thing I recall was the bottom of a glass, and that was none too clear. Now, I was keenly aware of a vicious pounding noise. The intervening period was a blank.

If I could have rolled over and gone to sleep, I would have, but the sadist with the hammers kept up a steady beat. I could feel the throbbing in my teeth. I'm told that's a sign of a Grade-A hangover.

I opened my eyes under a pile of blankets and tried to sit up. I felt like I was buried, which did my hangover no good at all. So I shoved them out of the way and blinked at the dim light; even that seemed to drive nails into my head. Even through the eye-watering agony, I noticed a few details. The bed was larger than I recalled. The room was larger, too. There was a window—presumably—behind some frilly pink curtains.

My brain eventually reached the conclusion I was not in my own bedroom. I checked for company, discovered I was alone. I'm still not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed.

All of this was secondary to the fact I was stark naked. My clothes weren't even scattered in a trail leading to the bed. Not a garment in sight.

I hate that. It's only happened the once, but I'm already sure of it.

So I lay there, groaned, and tried to breathe deeply without making my head explode. It seemed to help, at least. After a while, I didn't think I'd suffer an aneurysm from standing. I stood. Either I swayed, or the room rocked. I'm betting on me swaying. I grabbed a sheet, wrapped it around me like a toga—being the sober guy at a frat party teaches you things—and headed out to find something to drink, preferably without alcohol. And to deal with a very urgent need before it became an embarrassment.

The door wouldn't open.

I tried the knob again. It turned, and my hypersensitive ears—or hypersensitive skull—could hear the scrape of the bolt even through the thudding of my pulse, but the door still wouldn't budge. Since the door had one of those antique keyhole locks, I knelt down and looked through that.

No key stuck in the outside. A tiny slice of hallway. Floral wallpaper.

Something moved through my line of vision. Then my view went black.

When the lock scraped and clicked, I caught on. I stood up and stepped back. The door opened and a woman entered, carrying a tray.

Even in my rather fuddled state, I could appreciate her. She was beautiful. Dark hair tumbled in loose waves down over her shoulders—that look takes hours and an expensive stylist to get right. Her face was an oval, with full lips—no lipstick, or a type that made itself look natural—and wide, dark eyes. Her complexion, as far as I could tell, was perfect. Venturing lower, I encountered a nicely packed halter top, a smooth expanse of taut tummy, and a waist that flared into full hips contained in a pair of athletic shorts. Long legs, bare feet.

…and a tray. It looked antique. What was on it managed—barely—to distract my attention from her. There was water, milk, juice, bacon, eggs, diced potatoes, and toast. I looked at breakfast with a combination of longing and terror; the hangover was overwhelming.