by Jade Hart
Why was he rehashing everything? “Yes.” I gulped. “I hear voices, Maurice. Inside. They’re taking over.” I sounded like a lunatic saying it out loud.
Maurice nodded, as though what I said made perfect sense. “What if we had it wrong? What if you soul isn’t being sucked dry? Doesn’t it make more sense that you aren’t being emptied? You’re being filled up.”
My mouth fell open. “What?”
Maurice shook his head at my expression. “Sorry, I didn’t explain it very well. I don’t believe your soul is stolen. I think you’re intact, but there isn’t enough space inside.”
I was boggled. “What are you talking about?”
Maurice patted my cheek. “I think you have seventeen other souls inside you. This is a guess, but if I'm correct, and believe me I need to do a lot of research, but it looks as though you absorb the soul you kill.”
Oh my God. Something twisted inside, angry as hell at this information, while another part sucked in a breath and hoped for a miracle. I shook my head. “You think I steal their souls when I kill? Not the other way around?”
He nodded hard. “Yes. Each soul is captured by you, and because you're killing black-riddled souls, they're filling you with darkness.”
Holy shit, if he was right, I was full of murderers and rapists. It resonated within. It made… sense. It was the first answer to my marks that brightened me with a glow of hope. The fierce joy battled the emptiness. A bright ray of sunshine burned away the evil ghosts and fog sharing my body for just a moment.
Maurice rubbed his cheeks. “This is all a guess, but you saved Mamello. There must be something inside you that can help. Something inside your make-up allowed you to convert an evil soul and use it for good.” He took a deep breath before announcing his final theory. “I believe Mamello inherited the energy from a soul you murdered. That’s why you don’t have eighteen marks.” His face fell; uncertainty filled his eyes. “Of course, I could be completely wrong and be shooting at minnows.”
I couldn't stop the shakes. It rattled me, earthquaked me. If what Maurice said was true, there was hope. Delicious, exquisite, incredible hope.
Callan. I wanted to tell Callan.
My chest fell. He betrayed me. I’d never be able to share my news. After everything, we may have had a future after all. I might not have had to push him away because I was tainted and wrong.
My thoughts turned on me. You did worse. You left him in an apartment with a corpse. That was ten times more terrible. If I couldn’t forgive him for keeping information from me, how could I ever expect him to forgive me?
This was such a mess. I was bone tired.
Hope and every facet of emotion were sucked into the black-hole of my soul. I was left cold and empty once again. Possibly living inside me were the evil dregs of the monsters I murdered. I wanted to throw up. Adrian's soul. Bazeer's soul. I needed them out. It was confirmed that it was their voices I heard, their dark tendencies urging me to do horrendous things.
I panicked. My hands pooled with sweat; my breathing grew irregular. Get them out. Get them out. I didn’t want to be a monster. Get them out!
Maurice grabbed my chin, eyes shooting into mine. “Ocean. Calm down. We'll get them out of you, child.” He kissed me on both cheeks. “You’re such a unique, special girl. Oh, Ocean. I think I can find a way to save you.”
I was faint again. I might have a future. I might not be damned.
I wanted to celebrate at the thought—to twirl, and dance. But all I could do was sit and wallow in the black filth inside. When was the last time I properly smiled and giggled? I couldn't remember. It was so long ago.
I could go back to the old me. I could love. I could adore Callan.
Callan.
I was unable to escape the thought of him; my shoulders fell. Was there any hope for us? He deserved better than me, but I was selfish enough to admit, I didn’t want to give him up. No matter how crazy I might’ve seemed in Bali.
Maurice saw my face. He collected the laptop and brought it over. “Here. While I research, go find Callan. Make sure he's safe.”
Safe? Was that the right word after I left him with a bashed-in corpse? I nodded.
Mamello stood, holding out his hand.
I placed my cold one in his, allowing him to pull me upright. I wanted to be alone to message Callan. There was so much I wanted to say, and I needed time to think if this was my final goodbye—to set him free from the crazy woman I was—or if I was selfish enough to make it work.
“Thank you, Mamello. You've saved my live. I'll be forever in your debt.”
He smiled. “Those are my words. You owe me nothing.” He leaned in, whispering, “I will forever think of you as a Soul Purger from this day forward. You did me a great honor saving my life.”
I had no response to that. Leaving Maurice speaking rapidly on the phone, and Mamello tidying the lounge, I headed to my room and cuddled up in bed.
Opening my email, I swallowed back tears when I saw nothing from Callan. The guilt pressed on my chest again, and no matter how hard I fought, tears fell anyway.
Why did I think Callan would email? He was probably wandering around a strange city, trying to get home. His passport was still in Bali. If he was overseas, he was in huge trouble.
I killed right in front of him. I disgusted him. I was as bad as the criminals he locked away.
A new message from someone I didn't recognize blinked in my inbox.
I clicked on it.
From:[email protected]
Date: 24 July 2012
Subject: Gifts and introductions
Dear Anomaly,
I know you have a gift. . . or is it a curse? I've never decided if teleporting, and the pain associated with it, fits into either category. There isn't anyone to discuss it with. I've been alone for so long. As have you.
Your secret is safe with me. Why? I have one too.
I'm like you. I want to meet.
Do you want to meet me?
Tariq Hunter.
My world fell away, leaving me standing on the precipice of the unknown.
The End
Acknowledgments
Well, I must admit. This is the scariest part of writing for me, as I don’t want to forget anyone who was so fundamental to my writing journey. Ocean Breeze all began with a dream, and the story would never have been told without the constant support of my hubby who suffers me having my nose in my laptop nine hours a day, and the amazing network of writers and friends I have made online. Let’s see if I can list them all: Cassie Mae—who was the very first critique partner to help guide me. She’s a best friend and introduced me to some amazing women: Kelley Gerschke, Jenny Morris, Hope Roberson, and Theresa Marie, we share so many laughs together and your input is invaluable. I know I would never have achieved my dreams without your constant support and critique. You guys are what every writer should have in their corner—here’s to the HNSD Ninjas. Amber Harville, Devin Cushman, Heather Simone, Suzi Retzlaff, and Victoria Smith, you guys rock and helped shape Ocean from draft to book. I love chatting with you, forming my ideas, shooting concepts, and generally becoming awesome friends. Thanks to Anita Exley for being the only other writer friend I know in Middle Earth, having a kiwi-sense of humor, and being a great cheerleader. Thanks to my Mum and Dad for letting me use my imagination as a child, and for not yelling at me too much when I couldn’t stop reading at the dinner table. Thank you to my editor, Leah Wohl-Pollack from www.everything-indie.com, and my three (yes, I know I went over board) wonderful cover artists: Ricky Gunawan from www.ricky-gunawan.daportfolio.com and Michelle Johnson from http://www.facebook.com/pages/Alex-me-design/190567480986754, and Megan Kennedy from http://www.facebook.com/abuseofreason?fref=ts, you guys have made this book shine and have become fast friends. And lastly, thank you, to you, the reader. Thanks for your feedback, your reviews, and for (hopefully) enjoying Ocean’s and Callan’s story.
About the Author
Jade Hart can e
ither be found spaced out in her imagination typing away, or with her nose deep in a book. If she isn’t writing or reading, she’s travelling the world with her hubby. She currently lives in Middle Earth, but has lived in Hong Kong, England, and Australia, and uses her many travels as inspiration for locations.
If you have feedback on this book, or would like to review an eARC of upcoming Ocean Breeze books, please don’t hesitate to contact her.
Thanks for reading!
Blog: www.dreamwritepublish.blogspot.com
Joint Blog: www.falling4fiction.blogspot.com
Twitter: @JadeHart8
Email:[email protected]
Facebook: JadeHartAuthorPage
Other books by Jade Hart
Samsara: An Urban Fantasy New Adult book which twists 4,000 year-old Hindu fables into a story full of puzzles and a love that lasts forever.
Ocean Slays: Book two of Ocean Breeze, coming early 2013
Ocean Hunts: Book three of Ocean Breeze, coming late 2013
Coffee and Cockpits: Coming early 2013: A New Adult Contemporary Romance, featuring Nina Poppins, a flight attendant, who can’t decide if she wants the sexy co-pilot or the yummy engineer… and ends up having both.
Sneak peak into Samsara
Loka has died. Again.
For the seventeenth time.
Each reincarnation cloaks the previous, and Loka never remembers her past, who she truly is. Not that it would help. Loka believes she's human... she’s mistaken.
Hidden deep in her rolodex of memories lurks darkness and power.
She is Kali, Goddess of Death, who kills and maims, then drapes herself in the ears of her victims. She is Parvati, wife to the God of Destruction, Shiva, and the key to his heart. She is also the Reincarnate Redeemer, with power to Soul Jump into unsuspecting humans, and help them with karma.
She is all of those and more: a deity with more personalities than a schizophrenic, and has been forced on a path to unlock who she truly is. With strange power tingling in her limbs, and tattoos that burn with bloodfire, the only help Loka receives is from her douche-of-a-celestial-guide who speaks in cryptic circles, and the mysterious and frightful half-beast, half-man, Shankara. He is as terrifying and deadly as an assassin, but despite Shankara’s passion to kill, Loka falls in love. As their bond increases, he reveals a dark secret:
Loka’s power is so great it could kill her and every soul alive if it isn’t harnessed correctly... And once she figures out the truth, she has one raging battle to fight. Brahma, the God of Creation, wants what swims in her veins, and he’ll stop at nothing to get it.
Chapter One: Deadly Equipment
If I’d known I was about to die, I would have kept my Brazilian wax appointment.
My blood pumped with every snare of the drum and my eyes refused to move from the sexy tatted drummer. God, he's hot. Why did I turn him down again?
Recalling the awkwardness of shutting down Dean last month made me fidget. That was until he attacked the drum set as if it was covered in spiders and sweat droplets went flying. The heaviness of the beat sent excitement sparking through my veins. They were going to make a fortune, and me too. I was their newly appointed manager. Appointed by myself, I may add.
Yep, this was a good move; the first in a while. It was safe to say I was… happy. But the fleeting moment of joy was pulverized into mind shattering pain. One second I was enjoying the gig; the next - white, hot torture.
My legs buckled and agony blazed through my chest. Even as the dusty floor caught me and I saw the harpoon of metal. . . it didn't seem real. But the wildfire of pain overtook everything else, and I knew. This was real. Most definitely real.
I screamed. I had to scream, the pain needed releasing before it consumed me, but only a gurgle made it past my lips. God, my heart.
The thudding gave way to spasms, and I looked down at my impaled body. I immediately wished I hadn't. A rod that had held the strobe lighting was embedded in my ribcage.
In frantic sympathy with my torment, my heart galloped, stalled, then sprinted. Adrenaline kicked in, fighting the foreign obstacle now displacing my organs.
An eternity passed while the band practice continued, oblivious to my impending demise. Trust me to hang around with a group of drug-hazed band members.
A riff of strings and thrash of cymbals bounced off the derelict warehouse walls. Music obviously much more important than me. How ironic. Only months ago they were swarming over me, more focused on my tits than their instruments. It was me who pushed them to embrace their talent rather than bonk the groupies. Not that I was ever a groupie, of course.
''Loka?'' Silence blanketed the room, a final note twanging. ''Loka!''
Finally.
A crash and a curse later, big brown eyes and sweaty hair loomed over me.
''Hell! Toby! Help me get this out of her. Quick!'' Dean disappeared and I gasped as the rod scraped my insides.
My heart stuttered, stopped then restarted. ''Don't,'' I panted. ''Don't touch it.''
Dean filled my vision again. ''I'm gonna sue those bloody sound riggers for this. Toby, call an ambulance.''
A bright sear of pain and my heart flip-flopped. Morbidly, I chuckled. I was actually proud of myself ; I could laugh in the face of death. Me, who hated any form of pain. See Death, I'm not afraid of you! Yes, I would go out with my pride intact.
''No. . . ambulance. . .'' Sweat tickled my neck as I winced.
''Huh? What did you say?'' Dean's eyes flashed toward Toby. ''Hurry up, man, she's losing it.''
I laughed again, but blood choked me, my voice was a gurgling drain.
Dean leaned closer. ''What is it, Loka?''
My heart squeezed, thunked and stopped. Oh, thank God, no more pain.
I smiled. ''Not ambulance.''
Confusion, then horror filled his face.
''Hearse.''
Sneak Peak into the:
The Crimson Hunt:
Book One of the Eldaen Light Chronicles
A new adult science fiction romance, by Victoria H. Smith
Available Now On:
Amazon | Barnes and Noble | Smashwords
Author Contact Details:
[email protected]
Twitter: VictoriaSmith76
Facebook: AuthorVictoriaHSmith
Blog: http://twentysomethingfictionwriter.blogspot.com/
Chapter One
“Hey, loser, would you keep it steady on your end?” Piper asked with a huff. “You’re wobbling more than a frat boy after last call.”
I looked around my edge of the couch with incredulous eyes, unable to believe her nerve. I shouldered most of the weight. “Well, maybe if you put out that frickin’ cigarette and gave me some help—”
“Hey, easy with the attitude.” She continued to speak out the side of her mouth, a smoke cloud curling from her lips. “You should be kissing my feet right now. If not for me, we would have paid twice the amount he was asking for this damn thing.”
Her grin was smug as she puffed on her cigarette, or as she liked to call them, “ciggies.” One week-long excursion in Europe last spring break that almost resulted in an arrest involving a monkey and a pretty wigged out local, and the girl thought she was cultured.
I waved my hand in front of me, deflecting the vile fumes.
“You aren’t going to make a habit of smoking those things in the house, right?” After two long years of putting up with people sneaking smokes in the dorms, it would be nice to finally have an option of whether or not I would die from second-hand smoke.
Piper whipped around her firecracker-red bob like I just asked her to give me her soul for safekeeping.
“So we’re establishing house rules, now, are we?” she asked. “How about this?” She set down her end of the couch, forcing me to drop mine. She made a sloppy scout’s honor sign with her fingers—as if I’d ever believe she’d been a Girl Scout. “I promise not to smoke in the house, if you promise not to have a stick up y
our ass the entire time we’re living together.”
The girl really was as sweet as sugar. “Well, since we’re creating terms, how about you abide by one of my own? I promise not to have a stick up my ass, if you promise not to bring a new guy into the house every other night . . . or if you so choose to do so, at least grant me the common courtesy of playing your music loud enough so I don’t have to listen to all the moaning and groaning.”
I held out my hand for her to shake. She wasn’t the only one who was good at this game.
She propped her hands on her hips and tapped her foot, looking to the sky while she considered my terms.
“Touché, my friend. You got yourself a deal.” She shook my hand, smiling.
I didn’t know how we did it, but we managed to get the blasted thing all the way up our creaky, splintered front stoop and into the living room without killing ourselves. And we managed to save the fifty bucks it would have cost to hire a moving service. Although I suspected the only reason Piper suggested calling movers was so she could sit in a lawn chair in her bikini and sip lemonade while staring at their asses.
“Thank God!” Piper collapsed on the couch, sending a cloud of dust into the air. She waved a hand in front of her face to clear the particles from her vision. “I guess we can get a slipcover or something.”
She put her hands behind her head, daring to lean back onto the leisure item.
I’m so not going to comment on that right now. I joined her, leaning my head on her shoulder as I admired our hard work. The room really did open up once everything was inside. When we first leased this house from Campus Rentals, it hadn’t been much to look at; now, it almost felt like home. Sure, none of the furniture matched, the paint was chipping off the walls, and the place smelled a little of stale beer, but the house was ours.
I took in a deep breath, but the beer smell and dust caused me to exhale, mid-breath, sending my body into a coughing fit.
