Excerpt & Poster From Godhead

Olympus would soon be in ruins.

The sky overhead burned, smoke and flames licking against a blue dome that arced overhead. That same sky should have been free of clouds, save for when the rains were permitted to come and tend the land. But a black fog had come to spoil its perfect clarity, a thick creature of embers and ashes that haunted the sky, attacking eyes and lungs. Its tendrils whipped through the air, branches of smoke reaching forward in the darkness, ready to wrap their arms around the city.

War had come to Olympus, and it would not be quick to leave: it had worked its way through the city’s streets, into its buildings, into the homes and hearts of the city’s inhabitants. It had spread like a sickness, a virus that gathered momentum as it had grown in strength, consuming everything it touched. Only one place had remained untouched by battle, but even here, the signs of war could not be ignored: the Great Temple dominated Olympus’ skyline, giving a view of the city with its mountainous walls on all sides. Smoke obscured the view, but as the thick billows ebbed and flowed, the Great Temple provided a singular watchtower for the city’s destruction.

The temple was set atop a stone plateau that rose in the centre of the city; its sides were steep, rising near-vertical from the ground, dark greys lined with gold and marble veins that reflected always-dazzling sunlight. A single flight of steps led up these sharp sides, hewn into the rockface, white marble marching steeply towards the temple’s doors. These steps were a symbol, a test: they were not there to be climbed. They were a penance that visitors should undergo before the gods would entertain them, before they would be allowed access to the temple.

As one climbed the steps, the temple rose ahead, filling the gaze, a vast courtyard before it that served as meeting place and statuary. Curved colonnades embraced this plaza, much as the mountains embraced the city below: in each archway stood a different sculpture, heroic figures forged of gold, hewn from marble and stone, keeping watch on this hallowed place.

The Great Temple itself rose behind another twelve mighty steps; the building was round, so vast that its size and shape could only be appreciated from the city far below where its white marble burned as a second sun in the daylight, remained an unmoving moon in the twilight. The walls were punctuated with small balconies and windows, walkways and stairs snaking their way between them. But these could not be seen from the courtyard: from here, the temple’s greatest feature was its doors. Constructed from the same marble as the building, the doors were flush with its surface, decorated with gold etchings and jewels. These doors were usually open, welcoming visitors inside after their harsh climb.

But at this time, the doors had been sealed, closed against the world outside.

This was the home of the gods, and war had come to their city.

***

The vast room behind the Great Temple’s doors did not have a name: it was a throne room, a council chamber, a place of festivities that occupied the entirety of this level. Twelve balconies lined the room, giving access to just some of the pathways and chambers that led to the other parts of the Temple. The walls of this room rose high, forming an incomplete dome in the centre of the ceiling, open to the usually-perfect sky beyond.

But now it admitted only smoke and ash: the absent sunlight cast the edges of the room in significant shade. Opposite the door, a large throne dominated the room: like much about the temple, it was hewn from perfectly white marble, but this was unblemished with any veins, an oddity in itself. It had no identifying features save for its size, wide enough for several men to sit in, high enough at the back that even were a man to stand on the seat, he would not be able to reach its top.

But this room’s most dominating aspect, its most unusual feature, was the pool in the centre of the floor: many believed that the pool was endless, that its depths reached into the very bowels of the earth itself, deeper than any man, mortal or god, could go. Even as the gods had built their temple into the rock beneath this place, they had found the ground beneath this pool unyielding.

At its centre was a tree, a bark of silver-white wood that shimmered with light, even in this dark hour. The tree grew from the water itself, its roots stretching just under the surface. It was always in bloom, regardless of the season, always shimmering with a white light that cast rainbows through the water underneath and the marble walls of the room. Some of its blossom had fallen, white petals floating on the smooth water below, clinging to life even as other flora would have drowned.

The Olympians had no formal name for this tree: it had been here longer than the city, would no doubt remain even after the walls around it had crumbled. But they knew the truth of its fruit: this was the source of their powers, the very thing that had made their ancestors gods. Many of them believed that the tree was linked to their souls, that if they died, their Essence would return to this place and passed onto another.

The war already had a high cost: if this story was true, many of the gods had already returned to the tree.

This great room, usually bustling with life, was empty save for one woman, bent low as she stared into the hidden depths of the pool. As she stood to pace, she glanced at the great doors, toying with the idea of leaving the relative safety of the temple, wondering what awaited her beyond the walls.

If the gods of Olympus had a queen, this was she. Hera, keeper of the Great Temple, wife of Zeus, and one of the few gods not armed for the battle outside. The gods had no qualms about women on the battlefield, so Hera’s absence was not due to some misogyny. Hera and her capable powers were to be the last defence; if the Great Temple were to fall, Hera had been left explicit instructions, a final effort that could either save or damn the city.

On the eve of battle, Zeus had sought her counsel, whispering to her of love, of honour, of duty. In Hera, Zeus had sown the seeds of a plan, of a victory for the gods, a victory that necessitated her survival; if the gods were to survive, Hera would be the instrument of their salvation. The other gods knew of his plan: he gave them the courtesy of voicing their disagreement and their dissent, but it remained a courtesy. All of the gods knew the dangers that they would face, knew the toils that battle had already taken on their kind.

The gods did not love Hera, not like they loved Zeus; what deference they showed her was tied to her age, to her powers and her position. Even as they bowed before her, they did not lower their eyes. It was her own fault: she had done little to earn their trust, allowing herself to be consumed with challenging the purity of her husband’s bastard children, of clinging to the Olympian throne. Her pride had made her many enemies, most of them in her own family. But as that family had withered and fallen to war, Hera had realised the error of her ways for one reason alone: Hera feared for her life.

She bent once more, white and cream skirts gathered around her so she could kneel low, drifting one hand through the waters of the pool and sending ripples across its surface. The water sent fire through her senses; at once warm and cool, at once permissive and resisting her touch. In its waters, her reflection was that of a much older woman than she remembered, her hair and face turned grey and blue by the waters’ depths.

A whip-crack of sound caused her to start, rising to her full height and letting the skirts fall from her lap. She dressed simply, as did most of the gods, beige robes covering her shoulders but leaving her arms bare, a fine golden braid tied around her waist and hanging loose on her right side. In her auburn hair she wore a simple golden diadem, two golden bars criss-crossing in waves.

She turned to find Hermes mere feet behind her: in the vastness of the chamber, he was startlingly close. His robe was loose around his waist, hanging above his knees, his smooth chest bare to the elements, legs strapped into leather sandals. He wore a crimson cloak draped around his shoulders, hanging loose down his back as he leaned on his staff for support, a spiral of wood decorated with gold as tall as he was, the spiral doubling and twisting apart as the staff approached its tip.

“My queen, I came as soon as I could.”

His eyes darted low, refusing to meet her gaze.

“Hermes?”

Hera’s tone was brisk, pointed. She had enough of her time alone in this room; if Hermes had come with news, she would prefer that he share it. She stepped forward, her heart beating fast as he turned his face; he would not look at her, turning away as she tried to search his features. She knew that Hermes would not abandon the battle were it not necessary; she feared the worse.

Her hand touched his chin, pulling his face to look at her own: even as she did so, his eyes moved away. His face was red, nearly as red as his cloak; his eyes were dark, burnt by smoke and tears. A long gash broke his youthful features, torn into his face, wet with blood as it stretched from his right eye down to his lip.

“My queen.”

He looked at her, tears falling freely.

“It is Zeus. Your…Zeus has fallen.”

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Diary of the Gone, a short excerpt from Ivan Amberlakes short story from the Fusion anthology.

Chapter 1

Entry #4  January 8

I step inside a Shadow. It’s a black-and-white movie with no sound. I watch those who have only a few moments to live. While the rest of the world passes by with blind eyes, I see them dying, screaming into silence, and I just stand and watch death taking them.

The Shadow lasts for only a few moments, and then the movie is over. Color fades in around me, but I know the people I saw will soon be dead.

The knock on the door made me wince, and the knife bit into my index finger. Blood trickled from the deep wound, leaving splotches over the counter.

That wasn’t the way my day should have begun.

“Son of a bitch!” I let go of the bread. The knife clattered into the sink.

Not to spill any more drops onto the kitchen counter, I put my finger into my mouth and sucked the blood voraciously. The coppery taste spread over my tongue, my empty stomach rumbling in displeasure.

The knock-knock-knock came again. The source of my severe cut and pain throbbing through my finger.

I crossed the small kitchen to the front door and wrenched at the handle to see my best friend Nathan standing on the porch.

“Ah, it’s you,” I mumbled, still feasting on my finger. “Come on in.”

Though Nathan and I were the same age, I had to raise my head a great deal to look into his blue eyes and at his lopsided smile.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Just cut my finger,” I said, my head swimming a bit. I’d never been fond of blood, let alone of my own.

Nathan followed me to the kitchen, where I returned to the counter with my lunch half ready and bloodstained.

“Mmm, looks yum,” he said, eyeing my ruined attempt at making a burger.

I scoffed, happy to see that the blood stopped dripping down my finger.

“Anyone home?” he asked, taking a seat on one of the stools.

“Nope. Out of town for the day.”

“Good,” Nathan said. “I want to show you something.”

“What is it?” I opened the freezer to get some frozen French fries, tore the pack open and poured some into a glass bowl.

Nathan knew how to pique my interest—well, more often than not whatever he had to show was terrific, but today I decided to stay cool not to give away my enthusiasm.

“Can’t tell you. And it’s not here.”

“Where is it?”

“In the Swamps,” he said as I put the bowl into the microwave oven and turned it on. Nathan picked up a leaf of lettuce next to him and started munching it, looking me right in the eye.

The Swamps. The least desirable place apart from the graveyard and the school I’d attended for nearly a month here in Olden Cross.

“Of course it’s in the Swamps. Can it be anywhere else?” I said, trying not to show my apprehension, but the casual nod he gave me was proof he knew how I felt.

“So you’re afraid of going there, Cal?” Nathan’s lopsided grin only became wider. “I wonder if you’re more scared of your mom or the Swamps? Or maybe it’s your sister?” He shoved the rest of the lettuce leaf into his mouth.

“What about my sister?” I demanded. “I’m not afraid of her. You know what? Let’s go. I only need to grab my parka.”

Nathan chuckled as I scooped the hot fries with a napkin. “Do you know you just owned to it?”

“To what?”

“That Mom and Bev scare the bejesus out of you.”

“Will you go to hell, Nate?” I said. “Are we going or not?”

“Sure.”

I put on my old dark-red parka, scooped the keys from the bowl, and we left.

The wind whistled its mournful song as purple skies loomed lower, grim and forbidding. From what I knew about Olden Cross, the skies were always like this here.

We trudged through the mush of fallen leaves for about a half hour, the ground a mosaic of vibrant red and yellow. Trees swayed their skeletal branches while sponge-like moss shriveled under my feet.

Now that we were approaching the Swamps, my cut finger started throbbing again.

As I took another step, icy water trickled into my new sneakers.

“Dammit!” I jerked my leg up, but the sneaker was already soaked.

“C’mon, Callum,” Nathan urged, rolling his eyes. “We’re nearly there.”

He still hadn’t told me what he wanted me to see. Did I have any other choice but to follow him? As we threaded our way through the darkening swamped forest, I wondered why I listened to him and went wherever he wished.

“How much farther are we going?” I asked.

He pointed ahead with his index finger. “It’s there.”

I hadn’t been to the forest very often during the day. I didn’t know why, but each time I approached it, goosebumps popped all over my arms and back, and today was no exception. My heart raced like mad, warning me that we’d encroached on someone else’s territory. Someone we shouldn’t disturb.

Nathan turned his head left and right, then said in a hushed tone, “Wait.”

He looked down and I did the same. At first I didn’t spot anything out of the ordinary, but when I looked at the withered grass at my feet more closely I knew it was flecked with blood. I gulped, cold fear sliding down my limbs.

“What the hell is that?” I muttered, but Nathan wasn’t in the mood to answer any of my questions today.

“Let’s go,” he just said.

The farther we followed the trail, the more blood there was.

“This is not the worst part,” Nathan said, a maniacal glint in his eyes.

“What? Are you kidding me?” I panicked.

Both of us took cautious steps forward.

“Are you sure we should go on?” I asked.

Nathan nodded without saying anything.

“What is there?” I kept firing questions.

“You’ll see.” Nathan waved at me to keep following him.

The feeling of someone watching us persisted, and I didn’t like where this was going. A low buzzing soon filled my head, with a sickly sweet smell tickling my nostrils. The trail led behind a tree, and something told me I’d better not see what was there.

We made a few more steps, and then I gagged at the most horrifying sight I’d ever seen in my life.

There in the grass, in a pool of its own blood, lay a deer, disemboweled, a swarm of flies feasting on its carcass.

The fetid odor hit my nostrils, churning my stomach. I covered my nose and mouth with my sleeve and turned away from its lackluster eyes.

 “Gawd!” I moaned, taking a few steps away from the poor animal. “What the hell is this?”

Nathan backed away as well, but kept staring at it, then turned to me. “Cal, the question is what is it doing here? By the looks of it, it’s been here awhile. And all the animals left the Swamps years ago. How come this one ended up here?”

Whatever Nate was talking about, I didn’t care.

“I don’t know, man. I hope that’s all that you wanted to show me ’cos I really feel like I’m going to throw up,” I said, still covering my nose not to breathe in the putrid stench.

A stick snapped a few yards to the left of us, and the world lost the little color it had. It was the worst thing that could happen to me, my gift and my curse—the Shadow.

A dark-haired boy with a thin, pale face stood staring at me. A deep gash ran down the left side of his face, his neck bruised to a dark purple. As he wheezed fog escaped his cracked lips.

I looked around, and to my horror there was no Nathan, no animal rotting under the tree. No one except that boy.

He extended his hand to me, when of their own accord lacerations started showing on his skin. Circles, triangles and numbers came out, as if there was someone invisible hurting him. Tears beaded his dead eyes as he sobbed.

Then he opened his mouth wider and shouted, “Run!”

What made it more frightening was that he shouted in Nathan’s voice. The colors returned, together with the stench. Someone yanked me by the sleeve, dragging me away from the place.

Where the boy had been, stood a woman I’d seen once before. Mrs. Palmer. The school librarian.

Dressed in long, black clothes, she reminded me of a raven that had taken a human form and forgotten to shift back.

I knew that we’d better get the hell out of there. Raw instinct to survive spurred me to run. Nate tugged at the sleeve of my parka harder, and I let my fear claw hold of me.

We sprinted away, no longer caring about the pools of water in our way. Spray of droplets scattered in all directions as our sneakers pounded the ground. I jumped over a log of a fallen tree, and my foot stuck into the mud. I dropped onto the mossy ground, staining my jeans with green.

“Oh, crap!”

Nathan helped me up, and I tried to rub the dirt off, but only made it worse. Panting, we rushed towards the edge of the wood; trees seemed to close in on us, and I thought the wood would never end.

Finally we made it, exiting a few hundred meters away from my home.

“Holy crap! What the hell was with you?” Nathan asked, then coughed.

“I don’t know,” I said, air whooshing out of my burning lungs. “It was so weird.”

“She just appeared out of nowhere. And you stared at her without blinking. You two scared the hell out of me!” he said, taking a look back.

I looked back as well, glad to see only the skeletons of leafless trees, and no Mrs. Palmer.

“Do you want my advice, pal?” Nathan said. “Never approach that woman. She’s mental. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out it’s she who kidnapped Greg.”

Greg. Greg Thornby.

I remembered the story well. Greg Thornby had gone missing a few days before Mom, Beverly, and I arrived at Olden Cross. After a few months’ search his body hadn’t been found, and the inquiry still continued.

I’d never met the boy, but I suspected it was him standing there with his hands stretched towards me. The image still caused goosebumps all over me.

What if Nate was right, and it was Mrs. Palmer who killed Greg?

After a few minutes we slowed down a bit, still breathless and shaking. I looked a real mess, with the green stains and dirt over my jeans.

Now I’ll have to come up with something to tell my mom, I thought grimly.

My thoughts were interrupted by the voice I hated more than the sound of nails screeching against a blackboard.

“Well, well, well, little Callie’s got poo all over himself. Did you do it to him, Rushmore?”

Cheering and laughter followed the remark.

I turned around, my teeth clenched. A group of thugs were closing in on us. Stan Crosby, the boy who spoke, was in the center, flanked by four guys on either side. They made my life a living hell. During the short time I’d been in Olden Cross, he’d given me a couple of black eyes, tripped me whenever he saw me, and humiliated me in every possible way. The son of the school principal, he easily got away with it, and I didn’t feel like blabbering about every one of his pranks to my mom. Just had to live with it.

Nathan took a step towards the group. “Back off, Stan, or—”

“What? Are you going to kick me?” Stan’s group produced another round of cheering and whistling.

“I definitely will.” Nate balled his fists and took another step.

I grabbed him by the sleeve and whispered, “He isn’t worth it. You’ll only get another detention.” To my relief, Nate didn’t argue.

“Right, Rushmore, listen to the loser.” Stan folded his arms, a smug smile playing on his face. “You’re lucky we’re not in the mood to kick your sorry asses today. But we will be next time.” He turned to his cronies. “Come on, guys, let’s go.”

They rushed past us, Stan giving me a hard push with his shoulder. I tried my best not to flinch, even though the push hurt as if his shoulder was made of rock.

As their silhouettes and voices retreated into the distance, Nate and I stood watching them.

For a few minutes, I forgot about what had happened at the Swamps. Though lightning never struck twice, something told me my bad luck for the day wasn’t over yet. If bad things were bound to happen to me, today would be the day.

“Let’s go,” Nate said. “Wayne and Audrey are waiting for us.”

*

Olden Cross was a small godforsaken town, fringed for the most part by an ancient forest. The old townsfolk said it used to be a village whose first two streets formed a cross. As time passed, more people arrived here and the village turned into a small town. A few more streets appeared, but the name stuck.

The two-story cottage where my mom, sister, and I moved to belonged in a row of cottages that stood closest to the woods.

Nathan and I veered off the road, taking a turn away from my house and the forest. As the horrors of today played back in my mind, I decided to break the silence.

“Are we going to tell the guys what happened?” I asked.

“Sure. We need to tell them about the animal and Mrs. Palmer. There’s something weird going on, and we’ve got to find out everything.”

He offered me a humorless smile, a sign he was being serious.

That was Nathan. Never reasonable, always dragging himself and those close to him into trouble.

“Do you think she killed that animal?” I asked.

“Definitely.” He furrowed his brow, his lips squeezed in a grim line.

I started tsking and snapping my fingers, which I knew irritated him, but at least it helped me distract myself from the haunting images of the boy in the forest.

“By the way, here they are,” Nathan said.

Wayne and Audrey. Perhaps the two people I envied most of all in the whole world. Only a year older than me, they already held hands in public, kissed at the back of our school, and did who-knew-what-other things that I, the loner of Olden Cross as I called myself, couldn’t. I’d never even had a girlfriend. For a fifteen-year-old I had way too many things wrong about me, yet this one made me probably the most miserable.

Everyone at school compared them to Romeo and Juliet, and now that I saw them holding hands I wished it was me with Audrey instead of Wayne.

“Hey, guys!” Nathan called.

I shot an uncomfortable look at Audrey, mumbling a hardly audible hello, then looked down as if in shame.

Well, did I mention I felt like a total loser when girls were around? With Audrey I was a real mess. She was special, a flawless angel with perfect auburn hair, and an aroma of peaches around her. But what chance did I have to date such a girl? Zilch.

Wayne looked us up and down, curiosity twinkling in his eyes. “Where’ve you been? Looks like you had fun today.” Both he and Audrey smiled.

“We’ve got to tell you something,” Nathan said enthusiastically, as if what we’d gone through was something enjoyable.

“Maybe you’ll tell us when we get to the Underground?” Wayne asked, smiling.

“Okay then,” Nate replied.

“Erm, sorry, guys,” I said. “I just realized … I promised Mom I’d come home early.” Though that was a lie, everyone seemed to believe it.

Nathan shrugged. “All right, man. If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”

I nodded, turned around and ran home as fast as my sprained ankle let me.

THE BEHOLDER

Prologue

In darkness, Pariah crept along the wall of the ancient corridor, black eyes squinting toward the end of the passage. A silvery glimmer streamed through the archway, and he flattened himself into the shadow, out of the way of the shimmering light. With every heartbeat the light grew more intense, until he was forced to halt and close his eyes to block it out, if only for a little while. 

The Ethan girl was there, crouching behind the silvery dome she’d created in the center of the vast hall. It had cost them a lot of effort to track her down, and now part of the plan had been accomplished: he and seven other Shadows had brought her to bay. 

Opening his eyes again, Pariah took a step forward and winced at the subsequent burn. I shouldn’t go any closer. He clenched his knuckles and the movement hurt, driving fury through him. He wanted to crush her, destroy her Light … but she was dangerous and unpredictable.

What if she escapes? This may be our only chance to catch her. Pariah inhaled, reaching for patience. He must wait for her to make the fatal mistake, wait for her to leave her refuge. He envisaged his skulking brethren, guarding the other exits like spiders, and he grinned in malicious delight. She won’t get away this time. 

Currents of crimson energy flowed through Pariah and his brothers, the force aimed towards a circle of whirling silver light. But the girl remained unaffected, sheltered by its brightness. No, he realized, watching the stream. This was not the way she would be killed. The currents could kill an ordinary person—in fact, hundreds of them in one second—but not a Sighted one. What they needed in order to break such a defense was an inhuman hatred. Pariah knew how to do it, but this wasn’t the time. His objective was to lure the girl into the trap, not kill her. First he would torture her, learn her secrets, then he would kill her.

Against the Light he was a better warrior. His hands were stained with the blood of the many Sighted he had slain. Patience, he told himself. She won’t be able to stay there for--

Searing pain shot up his spine, burning like acid and paralyzing him, sucking out his breath. All he could do was stare as an effulgent creature emerged from the circle, brighter than the explosion of a supernova, and watch that violent star head in his direction. The closer she got, the more she stifled the darkness inside him. Disgust rose as he sensed what was happening. It was as though love had been sewn into his hateful mind; twinges of conscience were waking in him, eradicating his inherent evil.

He tried to slow time, to stop the burning pain, but she knew how to block his attempts and make him suffer even more. The laws of physics meant as little to her as they did to him, and both abused their gifts to attain their aims. She was quicker than any of the Sighted ones who had previously crossed his path. He knew she was just as aware of him as he was of her, but she was stronger. For the first time in his dark existence, Pariah knew fear.

It happened too quickly. With ease, she breached the vicious circle he and the others had formed, and shot past, leaving a comet trail twinkling in her wake. Pariah stared after her, thinking through the decision she’d made. The trail was a block, not an attack. The Ethan girl had decided to protect herself from the shadow’s evil mind rather than use her power to kill him.

How noble—and naïve—to spare your enemy’s life, Pariah mused.

His confidence returned, but his hands still glowed bright from her energy. He dispersed the vapor trail she’d left and warped his mouth to let out a horrific banshee howl. The terrible sound reverberated off the walls, rising in magnitude, and he hoped the amplified echo might hamper her flight. His brethren chimed in to reinforce the cursing howl as they swished past and darted after her, but Pariah remained stationary, suffering the agony of having been imbued with her Light.

He reached his hands in her direction, slowing her nimble movements as much as he could, but the distance between them only increased. Wasting no time—for he had no more to lose—he threw himself forward, steadily gaining speed, watching tunnels rush by on either side. Acting purely on instinct, Pariah cut a rupture in space and flung himself into the blackness. This time he exited much closer to her, and his success spurred him on to try again. 

Cut—plunge into blackness—return to reality. That was the process.

The sickening light came closer with every surge. Understanding his intentions, the others reassembled to help the Evil One coax the girl into the trap. Pariah was desperate, aware he would only get one chance. He took a final plunge into the ruptured darkness and the action brought him through at last. He reappeared directly in front of her, and she braked, glowing with that detestable light. 

For a brief moment, Pariah managed to discern her face, the amber eyes wide with fear. Then it was gone in an eruption of burning brightness. He sent a wave of dark energy at her, and her shield disintegrated. Pariah’s fury transformed into a victorious pulse; he had broken her defenses, and now she lay convulsing with pain, his deadly energy choking the life out of her.

Chapter 1

Streams of translucent sunlight seeped onto New York, setting the windows of the Chrysler Building, among so many others, ablaze. It was normal for people to rush along the sidewalk, passing each other without making eye contact. What was abnormal was the way the sky rolled overhead, darkening with each moment until the early morning light seemed swallowed up by night.

Jason drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel of his sedan, frustrated at being stuck in traffic. He hated being late, and today he had the added pressure of a big presentation for which he’d been preparing for the past month. 

A couple of women on the sidewalk stopped and pointed skyward, talking amongst themselves, so Jason leaned forward and looked up through the windshield, watching the storm cloud sprawl above the city like a purple bruise. As he inched closer to the Evelyn & Laurens building, a gust of wind wailed by, shaking the car and throwing thick raindrops against the windshield and roof. 

“Nice,” Jason grunted.

He clicked a button on the control panel, and the wipers squeaked back and forth, sweeping the water away. Turning into the parking lot, he grabbed the only spot left, collected his folder, and took a deep breath before getting out. Shielding his head with the bulging folder, he scurried across the parking lot, maneuvering his way between the cars, but the folder was poor protection. An icy blast whipped across his face, reducing his dark brown hair to a sodden mess. When the wind picked up and nearly ripped the folder from his hand, Jason gave up on using it as an umbrella and clutched it tightly to his chest instead, barely managing to keep it in his grip. 

He crossed the remaining distance, trying unsuccessfully to hop over streams of water, and shoved through the revolving doors. Water dripped from his new suit and pooled by his feet as he waited for the elevator, and he eyed his folder dubiously. He could only hope his paperwork wasn’t as drenched as he was.

“Of course it had to happen today,” he muttered.

Why couldn’t even one thing go right when it was supposed to? Had anything ever gone right? Like that time two years before when his plane from Manchester to New York had flown into an ash cloud and nearly crashed. The plane landed safely, but Jason celebrated his survival by ending up in a car accident not long after. He escaped with only a few cuts and bruises, but several others were severely injured. Dumb luck. 

And then there was the day he had moved to the new apartment. After that, things had only gotten worse.

In half an hour, he thought, as butterflies created mayhem in his stomach, I’ll be fired. 

The doors opened, and he stepped into the elevator, together with a crowd of people thoroughly soaked just like him. A pretty blonde he hadn’t noticed before wedged against him on the left, but when Jason smiled, her eyes shot green daggers at him. His smile waned, and he was relieved when the doors finally opened so he could get out.

More frustrated by the moment, he stormed into the office, paying no attention to the familiar chic surroundings, and slammed the door behind him. He wasn’t surprised to see his co-workers, Matthew Allen and Debbie Eve, had already arrived.

Matthew swiveled in his chair, giving Jason a smile no one could resist. “Did you have a good night last night?”

Jason shrugged, then winced as a cramp grabbed his stomach. “Just stayed in.”

“You should have come to the party,” Debbie said. “We missed you.”

“Yeah, well I had—”

A soft knock interrupted their conversation, and a woman with black-rimmed glasses and a svelte navy suit entered their office. Jason stiffened reflexively. Evelyn, their boss, was in her late forties but looked ten years younger. It seemed to Jason she never stopped smiling. She was friendly enough, but there was something intimidating about her eyes. They never smiled.

Now Evelyn stared at Jason, and a lump lodged in his throat. 

“The presentation will start in ten minutes,” she said, lifting delicate eyebrows. “I hope my trinity is well prepared.”

The cramp in his stomach had spread.

“Sure,” he muttered, his mouth parched.

“Okay. See you in ten minutes,” Evelyn said. 

As soon as the door latched behind her, the three of them rushed to make a new copy of the soaked report. Ordinarily, Jason, Matt, and Debbie weren’t the least bit nervous at meetings. Today, however, they were under pressure to coerce the clients to sign a contract for a substantial sum. Evelyn & Laurens specialized in interior design. Jason called it an anthill of psychos and maniacs. And though it could be fast-paced, after working here for three years Jason happily admitted that being a maniac wasn’t so bad.  

As the three walked in silence to the conference hall, the pain in Jason’s stomach intensified, twisting so that he almost doubled over. He suddenly wished he’d taken the time to eat breakfast. 

“You okay?” Debbie asked quietly. “You’re really pale.”

“Stomach’s killing me,” he admitted.

“I’ll do the presentation if you want.”

“That’d be terrific, Debbie. Thanks.”

Inside the hall, the clients sat waiting in a semi-circle. A smiling Evelyn sat opposite them, chatting away. She’d switched the lights in the room on since the ugly cloud had overwhelmed the sun, and the room lit even brighter with a sudden flash of lightning, echoed by a faint rumble of distant thunder. 

As if in response, Jason’s stomach convulsed. His knees wobbled, and he reached for a chair, barely able to stand. No. Please no! He took his seat, aware of a bead of perspiration trickling down his spine, and stared at the table. The storm worsened outside, and it seemed to Jason that the closer it came, the worse he felt. 

It wasn’t breakfast. It wasn’t nerves. He knew what it was, though, and he was helpless to do anything about it. Trying to control the agony he knew would only get worse, he clenched his clammy palms until his nails dug in, but the pain in his stomach took over his mind, crushing him. Though he wanted to sit, he knew he had to get out, knew he couldn’t take it anymore. He leapt to his feet just as a bolt of lightning struck the neighboring building, and the accompanying thunder rattled the windows of the conference room. Everyone jumped and turned towards the window, and the building’s lights flickered a few times before going out completely.

Jason stumbled out of the darkened room, vaguely aware that the pain in the pit of his stomach had spread throughout his entire body. No one can stand this kind of pain, he thought. 

He tried to distract himself, counting out loud as he raced toward the bathroom, but nothing helped. Inside the bathroom he gripped the rim of the sink, swallowing a scream as his left shoulder burst into an agony so sharp it was as if a nail had been driven into it. With an effort, he scooped water onto his face and gasped as it prickled like millions of tiny needles against his skin. He squeezed his eyes closed and saw … the impossible. Images—memories he’d never known—gushed out and seared themselves into his mind.

No, not again, he pleaded silently. 

The shadows had returned. He knew them so well: relentless pillars of smoke that thrived on his blood. Fighting for breath, he clutched the sink, letting sweat drip from his face into the porcelain bowl. When he snapped his head up to look in the mirror, he stepped back, shocked.

“No way.”

Five words were smeared across the mirror, written in what had to be blood. Nothing else left that shade of red behind. 

We are coming for you.

The room spun, and Jason dropped to the floor, falling into the yawning blackness.

                
   

A Quick Get To Know The Author

 A Tale of Red Riding, Rise of the Alpha Huntress Blurb

In this action-packed twist on the beloved Grimm Fairytale, Red Riding will not only face dangerous wolves; she will have to face the wolf within herself. Gifted with the power to transform into a werewolf, she will rise to become a legendary warrior known as the Alpha Huntress. Accompanied by bad-boy heartthrob Wolfgang Helheim, Red will lead a tribe of loyal followers armed with mystical powers of their own against a vile lunar deity, who plans to thrust Wayward Woods into eternal night.

A Tale of Red Riding, Rise of the Alpha Huntress Synopsis 

When one human stands before an army of impossible obstacles, the likelihood of overcoming them in this coming-of-age modern fairytale may result in war between light and darkness.

Abandoned as an infant in Prague, naive and strong-willed Charlotte Ruzikova was raised by one of the last Vampires left alive. As a human, she knows no other home than the one nestled deep in the woods of Eastern Europe, where Witches drew spells of enchantment, Phasers threw tea parties, and Elves are the closest in kin. Charlotte has lived her life in the dark with her Guardian, content to having him to herself and revelling in his attention, until she's realizes she wants more...

Resident medical doctor and Vampire, Valek Ruzik fears the day his ward would come of age and blossom into a fine woman, and he is forced to confront his own motives as time is of the essence once his past catches up to him, and their lives become endangered...

As genocide and war threatens their secret society, the dictator in power is ready to wipe out Valek's race, but Charlotte will not allow that to happen. Fighting for the only one she's ever loved and truly believed in, she will do whatever it takes to save their love...before the sun comes up and light takes over.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2122436/combined

Neo Edmund Interview

These are also by Neo Edmund

Hi everyone,

so, today is the start of 'Horror / thriller month' and I'm going to kick it off with the new cover reveal and blurb for Limerence. 
 
I hope that you love it as much as I do. I truly believe that it encompasses everything that the story represents. From yearning desire, to burning love, and twisted revenge, and I think that anyone that has read the story will understand the image.
For anyone who hasn't, well, I hope that it makes you want to read it now!
I'd love to know what you all think please.  
Thanks again for all of your encouragement, and as always...
 
happy reading
 
Claire ♥

Wait, what's that? You want something else for the start of horror month? Okay then, how about a sneak peak of Limerence II: Mia?
Thought you'd like that.
Enjoy...

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Limerence II: Mia. (coming January 2014)

 Sneak Peak.


The dining room is quiet at this time of the day. It is neither lunch nor teatime,
however there is always food prepared. I take my glass from the stand and
move along the counter until I reach Donny, the chef here. He smiles warmly at me.

“Mia, how are you today?”

“I’m good, hungry.” I mirror his smile as I look at the selection of food available.

“Of course, aren’t you always. What would you like? Something sweet? Something
spicy perhaps?” He licks his lips greedily and rubs his hands together. Donny is
always hungry, though he should have learnt to control his thirst by now. He is far
older than Evan and I, and even older than most of the other vampires around here.
His eyes gleam at me. I don’t know how he does this every day; the smell alone would
drive me mad, but he seems to relish in it. Perhaps his pleasure to it is because of his constant overindulgence. 

“Sweet please, Donny,” I say and hand him my glass.

He turns to the selection of humans behind him, and reaching for a youngish man he
pulls the seal from his wrist and holds it over my glass. The man’s eyes are glassy and hollow. He stares at nothing.

My stomach grumbles as the glass fills, and I urge him to hurry.  My fangs unsheathe in expectancy. 

Down boys, not this time.

Donny reseals the wound and turns back to me with my now full glass of sweet 
negative B.

“Thanks.” I smile wider this time and hurry to a table by the window. I want to sit
and enjoy the sun on my face whilst I drink. It’s cold out, but the sun still rises each
day in retaliation of the coming winter.

The first taste is always the best. That first millisecond when the blood touches
your taste buds is as if every one of my senses are being caressed by the hand
of God. Every stroke, every touch, awakens my very soul, devouring my body
from the inside out. Though without doubt, not by God.

I stare at my glass for a moment, watching the gentle waves of red caress the sides
of the thin glass; almost teasing myself, and then bring it to my lips. The smell makes
my face flush, like an ocean breeze, the wave caresses my skin. I lift it to my lips, tipping
it a fraction until the blood drips, in what seems like slow motion, on to the tip of my tongue. The fire ignites instantaneously within me upon that one drop, my eyes blurring upon the heady satisfaction and I tip it further and swallow the full glass down eagerly.
I can’t stop the moan of pleasure that leaves me. It’s warm and magnificent, and
when I’m finished I pick up my glass and go back over to Donny with a grin. 
 
“Melon?”I ask, tipping my head to one side.

“Ha ha, yes, melon. How do you do it? You always get it right,” he laughs
and claps his hands together. Mad Donny is what the others call him. Mad for his
crazy concoctions or mad for how he had been in his human life I will probably
never know.
          
“Not always,” I laugh back and hand him my glass.

“When? When did you not guess correctly?” 
             
I think for a moment, letting my mind go back several weeks. “The pizza. I didn’t
recognise the pizza.” Yes, I’ve already started to forget the taste of some things,
pizza being one of them.

“That’s true, though no one guessed correctly that day. It was hard to get the flavour
 of pizza into their blood.” He smiles again. “More?”
            
I look at the man sat in the chair. His skin is still full of colour, his lips plump, but it’s
his eyes that give it away. The faraway look in his eyes.  As if he’s already dead. Maybe
he is, it’s just his body hasn’t given up on him yet. It’s sad really. A sad, pathetic end to what was once, more than likely, a very happy life.

I nod with a wide smile. “Yes please. This one tastes good; I’ll have the melon again.”

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Click On The Picture For The Blurb

Life Ever After Blurb

Life Ever After Trailer

music used in this video is not owned by or affiliated to me and can be purchased here http://bit.ly/161DqqH

Finally here is the first review of Life Ever After  eeek! From the lovely Rachel Olson via the Parasupernormalism website http://bit.ly/14b70tw