Inferno (A Hotter Than Hell Novel Book 7)

by Holly S. Roberts

  I stare down at what’s written on the paper.

  Cori will be staying with me until she’s ready to face the world as a warrior should, Duke.

  “What the hell?” she whispers.

  I give her a smile. “If anyone can handle that giant, it’s Cori.”

  “I don’t know if I should worry or not. Cori is strong and she could handle just about anything before Fernandez destroyed us. Could you call Dax and check in?” she asks.

  “Sure. Could you kiss me first?”

  I kiss the woman I love and wonder what our lives will hold after we leave here and go back to the real world of sex, crime, and love. One day we’ll retire and become the Loches. If Madison wants to leave this life at any time, I’ll go with her and never look back. Someday we may bring a baby into this world. That too will wait.

  Until we’re ready, the woman at my side will kick ass and take names. I’ll be her loyal servant while she does it. Most of all, we’ll love each other.

  Chapter Forty

  Unknown location…

  That damn Fernandez didn’t kill that fucking bitch or her husband. I gave him all the information he needed and he still couldn’t get the job done. After the women escaped him, I planned to take Cori out myself. The bitch has had it coming for a long time.

  One way or another she’ll go down.

  ∞∞∞

  Dear Readers,

  I swore years ago that I would never write a rape description in a book so if you’re wondering about the vagueness of THE scene, that’s why. I however wanted to show the mental ups and downs victims go through. As a sex crime detective, I never knew if I would get the “calm” victim or the “chaotic and depressed” one. A person could be fine one day and practically schizophrenic the next. It was one of the saddest parts of my job. I was screamed at so many times by victims and the worst part was they would be extremely apologetic the next time I saw them and I would feel even worse for what they were going through. To all the rape survivors out there who took a chance and kept reading Inferno, I’m sending you the biggest cyber hug I can manage. My compassion for you runs incredibly deep.

  I have a wonderful proofing and editing team. Michelle, Sally, Michelle2, and Carol... I love you. Some questions that came up during the editing process were fun to read and I’ll answer them here.

  1-Vaginal tearing takes about 3 days to heal in most cases. The vaginal walls are very resilient and can handle a lot. Sadly, when women don’t report immediately so much of the evidence is lost. That doesn’t mean I don’t understand the delay in reporting. It’s common to process for a year or more before deciding to report. As an expert witness on the stand I spent loads of time explaining the “why” to jurors in the hope they would understand. The law changed halfway through my career in Arizona and women could go to a local doctor and have a rape kit/exam without police notification so the evidence would be available if the crime was ever reported. Please check for the laws in your state even though I hope it’s something you never need to think about.

  2-Cell phones cannot be tracked without a court order. The cell phone companies can be difficult to work with and I don’t see them helping criminals. Their foremost concern is user privacy. Television gets this so wrong.

  3-Metal fence post drivers. FYI: We actually used the hardware store variety to bust in doors. They also work on metal t-posts which they are designed for. If we ever meet, ask me about what I can do with aluminum foil. It’s solved many crimes for me.

  My note: Victim/Survivor: I have watched so many women overcome what happened to them and I applaud you. I have also seen those who feel they've never gotten past the victim stage. My heart goes out to you and please know, each day, you ARE a survivor.

  You’re probably wondering about Duke and Cori’s book, “Swelter.” It will release next year after Street Fight. I really need a fun vacation from crime and Street Fight is a riot along with having some intense scenes.

  The book I’m working on now is my Bad Girls' book titled, “She’s Deadly.” It’s book one of a new paranormal trilogy. It’s so nice to allow my paranormal loving side to write this genre again. It’s a post-apocalyptic werewolf story featuring Shadow Soldiers and a kick-ass woman to straighten them out. It will release under Holly S. Roberts. I’m having all my D’Elen covers changed to say Holly S. Roberts writing as… Hopefully I'll have them changed by finished sometime next year.

  2019 will see Heat, Sizzle, and Burn available in audio book. I signed a contract and they even paid me so I’m thrilled to share the news with you. I’m also in negotiations for the option of the Hotter Than Hell books as a television series. I’m super excited but don’t want to jinx it. If you follow my Facebook page or subscribe to my newsletter, I’ll be keeping you up to date.

  The book I’ve signed a movie deal with “Bullets for Breakfast” is moving along at a Hollywood pace which means waiting and more waiting. It took a lot out of me to write but it’s good, really good. I wish I could share the first chapter but I’m under contract to keep it quiet. Sorry to tempt you but I’m so fucking excited about this book.

  My long-time copy editor died before I could send her Inferno. Patricia Segar, you have no idea how much I missed your comments on this book. My heart is heavy with grief and I will always miss your poignant insights. Thank you is just not enough. I know you’re up with the angels now with more books than you could ever possibly read. Save some of your favorites for me because I know we will meet again.

  Thank you, readers for all you give me. I wouldn’t have this blessed life without you.

  On the next page, you'll find a sneak peek of She's Deadly.

  Peace, love and hope,

  Holly

  You can join me online at:

  Facebook - http://facebook.com/hollysrobertsauthor

  Twitter - http://twitter.com/hollysroberts

  WeMe - mewe.com/i/holly.roberts2

  Instagram - http://instagram.com/wicked_story_telling.com

  Newsletter

  https://www.subscribepage.com/wicked_news.com

  Website

  www.wickedstorytelling.com

  ∞∞∞

  She's Deadly (Shadow Soldiers Book I)

  *Still needs some editing*

  Marinah

  The plane’s engine rumbles beneath my feet and the white plastic walls shake while I fight the urge to vomit. Why me? I ask myself as I swallow back the sour taste of bile and inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth. I read somewhere years ago that this relieves queasiness. Ha. Just another reason I don’t miss the internet.

  The cabin of the plane is a small stripped-down passenger jet that’s seen better days. Someone pulled the seats out and now there are only two rows facing each other from opposite sides of the center aisle. The seat’s cracked vinyl pokes my bare skin below the stupid skirt I’m wearing making a miserable experience worse. The powers that be assured me the older aircraft offers the best chance of surviving the three hour flight from DC to Havana. Again… why me? I’m nobody of importance to the new U.S. Federation.

  If anything I’m a liability.

  Seven years of war against horrific creatures, thought to be from hell, almost decimated the human race. After one paranormal door opened it led to another breed of monsters that eventually came to our aid. The humans who survived, me included, have the latter to thank.

  I’m fortunate to be among the living only because of who my father was. Or am I? Why am I here, a useless non-essential person, in a world that needs soldiers, doctors, and mechanics? Oh and politicians. We can’t forget them. Not even a new world order could smite government windbags from our planet.

  Those blowhards are the ones who put us in our current situation with a novice like me in the middle. Bottom line: The devil’s monsters are regrouping and we have a thin to zero chance of surviving another war even with the help I’m on a mission to secure. It’s been twenty-three months since the last major attack from the monsters a
nd we’ve gained little ground in reestablishing anything but our government.

  After another deep inhale, I glance over my shoulder and look out the window. The president’s assistant told me that placing an aircraft at my disposal for this trip was an honor. He said it with a straight face too. Honor be damned.

  Bursts of electromagnetic energy have increased during the past few months signaling the return of our enemy. It also makes flight extremely dangerous. I’m wearing a ridiculous clunky parachute after less than five minutes of instruction on how to use it. The blue water below offers no comfort. I picture sliding into shark infested waters as a mid-day snack. My vivid imagination pictures my limbs dislocating and muscles shredding between ginormous teeth as sharks devour me in small painful bites. If we go down there’s no way I’m pulling the cord of the chute.

  My fingers are blue where they clench the armrests and I’m doing everything in my power to hold back a full on panic attack. It doesn’t help that the parachute is uncomfortable to lean back against and my neck is killing me.

  All of this races through my brain until I’ve had enough. I pry my fingers from the armrest stretching them to regain circulation. Once the pin pricks subside, I unbuckle the chest straps and divest myself of the moldy smelling canvas. I sigh out loud. I’ve taken back my power. The sharks will still get a snack if we crash but I won’t be alive to care.

  I lean my head back and enjoy that I can finally slouch into the crunchy seat. Closing my eyes, I count slowly by threes. The first few hundred come easy. Then, like always, I slide back into the thoughts that set off panic bombs in my head. Bottom line—I’m not adaptable to the new world. I’d give anything to return to life before Hell’s doors opened and the monsters decimated humans. I want to return to that innocent time. Go back to work in the bookstore where my worst day included a customer complaining about an unavailable piece of literature. I do not want to stay in present time when a bad day consists of rotting corpses, fear of attack, and good monsters verses bad.

  Maybe they’re all bad. Many people think so. I’m not one of those people and that’s possibly why I’m heading to the island of a different scary monster.

  Laughter bubbles up and spills into the empty cabin. The pilot, if he hears me over the sound of the engines, doesn’t turn around. That’s a good thing because he would think me crazy. He’d be right. My father, the defense secretary up until his death two years ago, would agree. The last thing he’d want is his daughter going on this insane mission. Of course, he would never have imagined that I’d walk in his shoes. Me, the shy brainiac with ambitions of becoming a research librarian after college. My school days ended as abruptly when Hell attacked. One day I walked the halls of Berkley and the next I stared at the television in my dorm and watched the beginning of the world’s destruction.

  Many countries thought the electromagnetic pulses were the detonation of nuclear weapons. Of course it was easy to see why. We lived in a world where it was only a matter of time before a terrorist group got their hands on nuclear weapons. When the electromagnet pulses started, several countries jumped in and took out the majority of the Middle East.

  The domino effect continued. All our enemies had to do was provide a few bursts of electromagnetic power to begin the end. Before the radioactive dust settled, Hell hit us with their ungodly monsters. Having no idea what the ugly dog-like creatures with razor-sharp teeth and nails actually are, I’ve adopted the military vernacular of “hellhounds” like everyone else. We also have no real idea if they come from Hell but the religious fanatics used biblical translations and gave the creatures a name. It didn’t matter. Hellhounds killed in waves leaving thousands dead after each attack and humans had no idea how to fight back.

  I, unlike most humans who survived, never learned the physical art of war. The government put my brain to work instead. I made charts analyzing our chances and creating optional scenarios to access human casualties. I have no illusions about why I received the analyst job. My father was the man in charge of managing our military forces and he worked best knowing his only child was safe.

  Yay me, the lucky one.

  My father died three months before the end of the war. I was one of a handful of people trained in foretelling the probability and location of the next attack and kept my job. For two years I’ve wondered when my safety gig would be up.

  You could have slapped me upside the head with a ballistic vest when the President of the U. S. Federation asked me to take over my father’s position. That was twenty four hours ago. This morning the president swore me in as defense secretary—a twenty-eight year old woman with no experience in war. Add in my lack of diplomatic skills, the fact I don’t even like people, and my analysis of the situation’s chance for success is two point three. I’m the third defense secretary since my father’s death. Having his title doesn’t bode well. My chance for survival is slightly higher than the mission’s chance of success at two point eight. That comforts me. Not!

  The shadow soldiers I’m heading to meet terrify me to the point of unreasonable behavior. Think jumping into a pit of crocodiles, whipping out an umbrella, and whistling My Humps by The Black-Eyed Peas while floating over snapping jaws. Crazy right? And now that darn song will be stuck in my head again. I start humming it.

  Shadow soldiers are elite fighters—larger and stronger than humans. They’re the polar opposite of Hell’s spawn because they think and strategize making them a more formable enemy. Due to fear and bigotry the Federation almost started another war when the threat of Hell’s monsters receded. Our government’s screw up gave me this advancement in office and began my mad dash to repair relations with the good monsters.

  King, the reigning leader of the shadow soldiers, requested a female liaison. That’s “King” as in Cher or Prince. He provided no other name so I’ll work with it. The question is—will King work with me.

  Our president swore me into office and gave roping in King as my number one priority. I’m not responsible for the mistakes made at the end of Hell’s War but my orders are to apologize, beg, plead, or do anything else to get them back on our side.

  “Defense Secretary Church we’ll be landing shortly,” the intercom blasts and I jump half out of my seat.

  Regardless of the abrupt blare, I’m unused to the title directed my way and my chest hurts at the remembrance of people addressing my father in the same manner. He died fighting. It didn’t matter that he was an old man barely fit for duty, his responsibility was to the men and women fighting an impossible war. Dad didn’t live long enough to know we won and he was gone before he could stop the heads of state from screwing up the relations with our allies. I know in my heart dad would have found a way around the diplomatic catastrophe that happened. The shadow soldiers respected him and he returned their respect. As his daughter, I’m following his lead even though the men I’m about to meet petrify me. They’re big, bad, and scary. I kid you not; their animal form is Bigfoot on steroids minus the shaggy hair. Goose bumps run across my skin and I go back to humming My Humps.

  I peer out the small window again and think about the scenery when the plane first took off. Knowing our cities are destroyed and seeing an aerial view of the devastation are quite different. Tall buildings were nothing more than scraps of concrete and metal. We live mostly below ground and as much as I’ve hated it, I’m relieved I didn’t have the day to day reminder of all we’ve lost. Even knowing sharks lurk in the blue water below the image is preferable to the ruin left behind by the nearly catastrophic war.

  I pull my gaze from the water, unbuckle my seatbelt, and head to the lavatory to check my appearance. I’ve grown accustomed to military fatigues provided to government workers. The dark blue suit jacket, skirt, and clunky heels I’m currently in are incredibly uncomfortable. I tug on the short skirt as I walk and almost trip. They put me in this getup to garner male attention. I’m not happy about it. I’m nothing but a piece of meat to the US federation. Believe me—meeting a group o
f monsters who grow six inch fangs is not a time to feel like food.

  I close the lavatory door and glance in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed red from the training I took yesterday. The small outdoor space had high walls and no shade unless you hugged the perimeter. My skin, unaccustomed to sunlight, took the brunt of the ridiculous training. I’m too tall and uncoordinated to learn fighting skills that take years to master. Would they listen to me? No. At least they gave up after a few hours. I’m hopeless and training with kids in their early teens, more capable than me, didn’t help my self-confidence.

  I adjust the clip holding my thick brown hair so the wayward strands conform once more. I’ve thought about cutting it a thousand times. A thousand times I resist. It’s my one vanity. Running a brush through my hair at night grounds me. It’s such a simple task even though keeping it clean and lice free isn’t easy. I shiver at the thought of the small creepers that make so many shave their bodies. The new world sucks.

  After my first full shower in months, I’m clean and with hot water no less. It could be my only perk as defense secretary before I die. I glance into the mirror and stare at my reflection. I’m far from beautiful or sexy regardless of what clothes they put me in. My high cheekbones and pointed chin give my face a thin, haunted appearance even with my current cherry cheeks. Truthfully I’ve never liked sunshine and prefer a dark corner to hide away and work. The war took away the option of sunshine, and, against my personal code of dark and quiet, I long for it. At least until the heat yesterday realigned my thinking.