Faith: The Forbidden Fruit - Novel & Cover Coming Soon

Excerpt:

Soft white petals drifted through the night and melted against Máire’s skin, yet she felt warm and cozy, blanketed by a calm, soothing sense of peace. Below her stretched the lush greenery of Hibernia, untouched by the light snow. She drifted downward at a pace that should have terrified her, but fear refused to take hold. A strange presence hovered just out of reach, following or perhaps guiding. She didn’t know which one.

Lacy treetops passed beneath her outstretched fingers. She reached down, hoping the motion would not upset her balance. The last branches slipped away, and an open hilltop came into view. Her descent slowed until she hovered motionless above the chosen landscape. Something tugged at her heels, pulling her downward…

Máire jolted awake, heart hammering against her ribs. She clutched the woolen blanket to her chest, though its warmth had nothing to do with the perspiration trickling down her neck. This dream had been more vivid than the last. They had begun the night her father, Drustan of Rittic, announced her betrothal to the most skilled warrior in the land. The one exalted at the last feast. A repulsive man who turned her stomach.

Their village was in need of protection, having suffered several attacks as of late. Her brother was still too young to help defend. It was explained to her that this warrior was the key to their survival. It was her familial duty to marry this man, and she had just turned an adequate age to do so. No was not an option given. She had no choice but this one. And no other prospects, despite the beauty of her long auburn hair and steel-blue eyes, which complemented her fairest of Celtic complexions. She blamed her father for the lack of suitors as well. He was an ogre of a man who kept her on a tight bridle.

She rose from the bed on shaky legs and crossed to the small window. Darkness still cloaked the sky. There was time yet.

Moving carefully, she gathered the tools she kept hidden beneath her cloaked hay, to perform her latest ritual. But she must be as quiet as a mouse. Her family had long since embraced Christianity; they knew nothing of her renewed devotion to the old ways, and she meant to keep it that way. Their ignorance was her bliss.

She eased the door open. The hinges gave a low, treacherous creak. Máire froze, eyes squeezed shut, listening. No footsteps. No voices. She slipped outside barefoot, the cold night air raising gooseflesh on her arms as she hurried toward the woodland just beyond the home.

Her feet had worn a faint path to the small clearing at the base of the great oak. By the time she reached it, her toes were numb. She knelt, lifting the hem of her woolen gown to keep it clean, and winced at the bite of the frozen earth against her knees and shins.

With trembling fingers, she dug a small hole and placed the bronze medallion inside. The trinket had once saved her life. When first she laid eyes upon it, she had bent down to pick it up only to hear the hiss of a poisoned arrow pass where her head had been a moment earlier, the neighboring tribe’s weapon of choice. She hoped the Morrigan would accept the offering and spare her again.

This was the last night of the dark moon. Máire undid her braids, letting her long auburn hair tumble down her back. She closed her eyes and began to chant softly, the ancient words rising on the breeze that stirred through her tresses. She begged the goddess of magic and prophecy to intercede. She asked for nothing grand, no protection for her family, no great love of her own. Only to be spared from a marriage that sickened her.

She wanted nothing to do with the warrior her father had chosen. She could feel only contempt for him already, and she knew time would not soften that feeling.

Máire opened her eyes, despair and doubt rising within her, noticing daylight threading between the trees. She patted the earth down carefully over the medallion, brushed the dirt from her legs, and hurried home.

To Máire’s relief, her parents, who were early risers, still slept. She crept back inside and slipped beneath her blanket. It seemed only moments later that her mother’s hand shook her awake.

"Quickly, child. He is here."

Máire blinked, groggy. "Who, Mother?"

The Seduction of Faith - Updated Novel & Cover Coming Soon

Excerpt:

Crash! Then total darkness...

The unmistakable scent of coolant acted as smelling salts, shocking Alexandra back to consciousness. Her first visual was that of the car stereo’s display. She had only been out for a minute or so, according to the clock.

It was not the end that Alexandra had foreseen. Letting him in had changed everything. She could not begin to conceive what effects this would have on the future. Her thoughts raced, almost as fast as had the engine of her crumpled, tan Lexus. How would Catherine know what to do? Who would help guide her daughter down the right path? A single tear ran down her cheek, intersecting with the blood she could feel trickling down her temple. Alexandra wasn’t ready to leave Catherine all alone. She needed more time.

Alexandra hadn’t even taken the opportunity to tell Catherine who she really was, her importance during the years to come, and now it was too late. How could she have been so careless? Things had already been set in motion. It was so obvious to her. But would Catherine be able to read the signs? It was her responsibility to protect that which is most precious, and now she had failed.

It’s in God’s hands now, Alexandra realized while struggling to remain conscious. At least they were well hidden, out of his reach, but she must not think of that now. He may hear. She cleared her mind of it.

Alexandra could feel the end was near and feared what he still had in store for her. She had tried to get away from him once she recognized who he was, his dubious influence, his intoxicating ways, but too little, too late.

She didn’t know how, but he had found her again. Alexandra hadn’t stayed in the same place, not even a day, for quite some time now. Could he still feel her, despite all the other precautions she had taken?

Alexandra flinched, startled by high-pitched scratching against metal. The sound grew louder as her pain grew stronger. The unnerving grating stopped without warning, only to be replaced with the crash of breaking glass a few seconds later.

She moaned in pain, attempting to unfasten her seatbelt, shards raining down from behind her. She was desperate to fling open the door and run away to safety, but Alexandra was unable to move. Her body was not responding. Every inch of her ached. Trapped, like a caged animal.

Her heart beat faster when she felt his familiar lips, which used to thrill her but now caused panic, caressing the right side of her neck. His velvet kiss deepening, causing her essence to tremble with both pleasure and fear.

“Oh no... please don’t,” she begged, suspecting what might come next. But what method would he use? He could choose to smother her with the deflated airbag. Maybe light a match, igniting the fuel she could smell leaking from her vehicle. “You’ve won, now leave. Let me die in peace.”

There was silence for a moment, but then a deep voice whispered, his warm breath in her ear, “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t put you out of your misery? I’ve missed you so, my raven-haired beauty.”

She couldn’t fathom how anyone could be so cruel. Alexandra prayed it would be over quickly.

He sensed this of course, which is why he would prolong it for as long as nature would allow.

Terror gripped her when, with great force, the driver’s seat was jerked backward onto the back seat of her vehicle. Alexandra could no longer feel her legs, which were now pinned under the dash, as the panther first tore into her neck, traveling the rest of her body with scrupulous intensity.

Alexandra tried not to cry out, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but had lost control of her actions. There was no way to escape, nothing she could do but lay there in excruciating agony and wait to succumb.

The panther’s black coat glistened with her blood as loud, horrific screams drifted off into the darkness along the desolate highway. No one heard her suffering or came to her aid.

Excerpt:

I try to focus on the dusty furniture left behind by later generations of the house’s original owners, but the walls won’t stay still. The candlelight flickers, making the shadows dance, longer than they should, sometimes stretching toward me like fingers of rot reaching from the grave. I blink. They snap back. Just the light. Just fatigue.

Instead of wrapping the blanket around my shoulders, I lie down on the floor in the middle of the room and pull it over me. The boards beneath me are cold, damp, like lying on a grave slab. I need a minute to rest my eyes.

SLAM!

The sound comes from upstairs: sharp, deliberate, like a coffin lid dropping. Mark? I bolt upright. The room spins for a second before I remember where I am. It’s freezing. Where’s my blanket? I pat the floor around me. Nothing. My palms come away gritty, damp.

SLAM!

Louder this time. Closer. I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn toward the sound, heart hammering against my sternum like it’s trying to break free. There, my blanket is draped across the handrail of the staircase like someone carefully placed it there. The folds are too neat and deliberate. The fabric looks wet in the candlelight, as if it’s soaked through with something darker than water.

Oh my God. Someone’s in the house. But how?

I’m anal about locking doors the second I enter, especially in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I move slowly, methodically toward the mantel, trying not to bump into anything. I don’t dare make a sound. I pick up the candle. The flame gutters wildly, throwing shadows that seem to lean toward me. I creep to the front door.

I’m half-ready to throw the door open and run outside screaming my head off, but the knob won’t budge. Locked. Of course it’s locked. I’m anal, remember?

I dash to the kitchen, slamming my knee into the end cabinet next to the back door. Pain flares white-hot up my leg, like bone grinding against bone. I bite my lip until I taste copper. Son of a… The back door is locked, too.

SLAM!

The sound is closer now, definitely upstairs. A door. A heavy one. I walk back to the parlor. As soon as I step inside, the noise gets louder, rhythmic, like someone testing the hinges.

SLAM! SLAM!

It’s coming from the second floor. Stupid old windows. Probably just a draft. I grab my blanket on the way up the stairs and wrap it around my trembling shoulders. The fabric is cold, clammy, like it’s been soaked in river water. I wish I’d checked all the rooms when I first arrived. What if someone is in the house?

I’ll poke him in the eye with my candle, I think. Burn his eyes so he can’t see to follow me. Then I’ll run outside and scream my head off. Sounds like a plan. I wish I had a better one. I wish I’d invested in a gun and some target practice. Something worth considering now that I’m on my own.

When I reach the top,

SLAM!

I see the culprit: the last door on the left, the master bedroom where I should have been sleeping tonight.

I place my palm on the door and push, expecting it to swing open. It doesn’t budge. I have to turn the knob first. How has it been slamming shut?

Nothing about this house makes any sense. A heavy front door that won’t stay open; a bedroom door that sounds open but stays shut.

The last slam must have done the trick, my reasoning tells me. But something else, something colder, wetter, tells me to go inside.

One of the bedroom windows is open. I’d better shut it unless I want to hear the door banging all night. I set the candle on the dusty bedside table. The flame throws jittery shadows across the peeling wallpaper, shadows that seem to shift when I’m not looking directly at them, like skin rippling under the surface.

The view outside the window draws my attention. The river is electric at night. The water sparkles intermittently, reflecting the lights from houses, businesses, and hotels on the far shore. “Beautiful.”

I take hold of the sash and pull down. The window is as old and heavy as the front door. I tug and tug, feeling no hint of movement.

Before I tug again, my hands still on the sash, it slams shut fast, with no effort from me.

A man’s reflection stares back at me in the glass.

I’m on the second floor. There’s no one outside. This mirror image is coming from behind me.