Destiny's Dark Fantasy Boxed Set (Eight Book Bundle)

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “By the blues guy?”

  “Robert Johnson.”

  “I think so. He sold his soul to the devil in exchange for success. It happened at the crossroads.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  I put down the drink and gave Sage my full attention. “Well. No. It’s just a song.”

  He let out a small laugh. “Of course it’s just a song. You know Robert Johnson was only twenty-seven when he died. He barely had any success.”

  “Then the devil was a liar. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  “His success came later.”

  “Then he should have been more specific.”

  “Some say he didn’t even sell his soul. He just made a deal. And it wasn’t with the devil himself.”

  “Either way, I’m sure it wasn’t a very sound deal.”

  He shrugged.

  “I’m turning twenty-eight next week,” he remarked, finally turning around to face me. His skin was ashen, eyes tired. “Joplin, Morrison, Hendrix, Johnson. They all died at twenty-seven.”

  “Do you think they all made deals with the devil?” I asked. My next question was, “Did you make a deal with the devil,” but I didn’t ask it. I just let it sit there on my tongue. It was easier that way. Then it wouldn’t be real and no one would have to deal with answering it.

  “And I said, 'Hello, Satan, I believe it's time to go,’” Sage sung softly by way of an answer. He scratched at his sideburns and reasoned, “I doubt Morrison would have made any deals.”

  “Why not? He died rich and famous.”

  “He died alone,” he argued. “The hopeful bargainer will always ask for love.”

  “He had Pam.”

  Sage smirked and flopped down on the bed, almost landing on his guitar.

  He mumbled into his pillow, “Pam loved him. I don’t think he loved Pam. Finding someone you truly love is much harder than finding someone to love you.”

  Spoken like a true rock star.

  In a few minutes he was snoring away. I sighed and walked over to him. I took off his flip-flops, filled a glass of water beside him, placed a few Aspirin there too, then got myself ready for bed. I wondered if Pam ever felt like I did. Based on what Sage had just told me, I decided she did.

  About Karina Halle

  The daughter of a Norwegian Viking and a Finnish Moomin, Karina Halle grew up in Vancouver, Canada with trolls and eternal darkness on the brain. This soon turned into a love of all things that go bump in the night and a rather sadistic appreciation for freaking people out. Like many of the flawed characters she writes, Karina never knew where to find herself and has dabbled in acting, make-up artistry, film production, screenwriting, photography, travel writing and music journalism. She eventually found herself in the pages of the very novels she wrote (if only she had looked there to begin with).

  Karina holds a screenwriting degree from Vancouver Film School and a Bachelor of Journalism from TRU. Her travel writing, music reviews/interviews and photography have appeared in publications such as Consequence of Sound, Mxdwn and GoNomad Travel Guides. She currently splits her time between her apartment in downtown Vancouver and her sailboat, where a book and a bottle of wine are always at hand.

  Darkhouse is her first novel and the first one in the Experiment in Terror Series. Things only get better from here on in.

  For more information about the series, please visit:

  www.experimentinterror.com

  www.khalle.wordpress.com

  Follow the author on Twitter at @MetalBlonde

  Interact with the author at:

  www.facebook.com/experimentinterror

  Or email her at info@experimentinterror.com – she’d love to hear from you!

  ZOMBIE GAMES: ORIGINS

  Kristen Middleton

  Cover by www.maeidesign.com

  Copyedited by: Carolyn M. Pinard

  www.thesupernaturalbookeditor.com

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Zombie Games: Origins

  Book One: Zombie Games Origins

  Copyright © 2012 by Kristen Middleton

  ISBN 978-1-300-70919-0

  Second Edition

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without express written permission of the author.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  Chapter One

  “Cassie, take out the garbage.”

  “Why can’t Allie do it?” I asked, closing the refrigerator door, pickle jar in hand.

  “Because it’s your job,” replied my mother, who was sitting at the kitchen counter, leafing through the mail.

  I pulled out the largest dill I could find and crunched down. “Mom,” I said between chews, “come on, she needs more chores. She’s twelve.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  “Sorry.”

  She peered at me over her glasses. “Tell you what…you can do the dishes and I’ll have her take out the garbage.”

  “Fine, I’ll take out the garbage.”

  “I thought so,” she answered with a wry smile.

  I rolled my eyes and swallowed the last of the juicy pickle. Before I could reach for another, she pointed to the trash can. “The pickles will still be here when you return.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re making me do this in the middle of the night,” I pouted, glancing out the window into the darkness.

  “That’s funny, coming from a seventeen-year-old who keeps begging me to extend her curfew.”

  “Yes, but not to go wandering alone in the dark.”

  Her eyes softened. “Honey, there’s nothing to be afraid of. We live on a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs.”

  Even though my mother was trying to comfort me, I just couldn’t shake the feeling of dread or quiet the niggling voice inside, whispering of something wicked lurking in the darkness. But then again, it could just be the fact that I’d been watching a horror flick earlier and it’d totally freaked me out. “Ok, well, if I’m not back in two minutes, send dad out.”

  “Right,” she snorted. “Little Ms. Black Belt.”

  I couldn’t help but grin. Last week I’d received my Black Belt after four years of intense discipline and training. It took a lot of patience and commitment, but earning the Belt was worth it.

  As I stepped outside, a warm breeze lifted my brown hair, blowing it across my face. I glanced up at the sky and shrugged off my anxiety; it really was a peaceful evening. The stars glimmered brightly and the moon was full.

  As I rounded the corner of the garage, Charlie, one of the neighbor’s dogs, began to bark; which was a pretty common occurrence. As annoying as it typically was, tonight it was somewhat comforting to know I wasn’t alone.

  “Hey, it’s just me, Charlie!” I called, my voice echoing across the dark cul-de-sac. A lone streetlight flickered on his side of the circle.

  Charlie’s barking increased and he tossed in some obnoxious growls. As far as I was concerned, this dog had some serious trust issues.

  There was a sudden loud crash from behind the Hendrickson’s rambler and the motion-detector light flickered out. Charlie growled angrily in the darkness for a few seconds and then, without warning, let out an ear-piercing yelp.

  Oh crap, that can’t be good, I thought.

  A knot formed in the pit of my stomach as I began to panic. Really,
I wanted nothing more than to take out the garbage and hurry back inside. I also knew that if I ignored Charlie, and he was hurt, I’d never forgive myself.

  Dropping the garbage bag, I started walking towards his house when I heard a deep, strangled moan. I froze in my tracks; that wasn't Charlie.

  I shivered. “Hello? Mr. Hendrickson?”

  A tall shadow emerged from the darkness and my breath caught in my throat. I watched, motionless, as the figure shuffled through Charlie’s yard, towards me. It was about a hundred yards away when the figure stopped directly under the streetlamp. I sighed with relief when I recognized Scott, a guy from my karate class, who I’d dated a few times. It certainly was creepy, though, that he was lurking around the neighbor’s yard in the middle of the night.

  “Scott, what are you doing out here?” I called out.

  He just stared at me, swaying slightly.

  “Is everything okay?” I tried again, wondering if he was drunk. He’s my age, seventeen, and I’ve never known him to drink alcohol or use any kind of drugs, so his behavior was odd. I stepped closer and noticed that he held Charlie in his arms. An alarm went off in my head, and I froze. “Um, is Charlie hurt?”

  Scott growled and then dropped his face down towards Charlie, who lay motionless. When he lifted his head back up, there was a dark red stain covering his mouth. He smacked his lips and moaned in some kind of twisted pleasure. I shuddered in horror as my brain finally registered what was happening. Scott was feeding on Charlie!

  “Oh…my…God!” I choked, backing away. Bile rose in the back of my throat as the guy I once kissed assaulted the dog again with that very same mouth.

  I turned to run, stumbling over the garbage bag I’d dropped, my ankle twisting in pain. I cried out and struggled to stand when something grabbed my leg firmly. I looked back and froze in shock; it was Scott, only it wasn’t him. His green eyes were now black as death, cold and lifeless. His skin was gray and riddled with bloody sores. His mouth, which still dripped with Charlie’s blood, twisted into a grimace and he let out an unearthly screech.

  “Scott?!” I screamed as his teeth tore into my skin.

  ~~~

  I opened my eyes and drew my comforter up to my chin. Reminding myself it was just a dream, I released a shaky sigh and forced myself to chill out. Yes, it was definitely time to stop watching horror flicks before bed. Forcing the last of the disturbing images from my mind, I turned over and let out a real bloodcurdling scream.

  “Jed, what are you doing in my room!?” I gasped. It was the third time this week he’d snuck up on me. Apparently, it was now a special game.

  Three-year-old Jed giggled with delight. “Hi, Cassie,” he said, licking a thick layer of green slime from his nose. Even in the dark I could tell the sleeves on his Spiderman shirt were crusty from dried-up snot. “Hey, want to see my new caw?” he said. Jed has a hard time pronouncing his R’s. He removed something from his jeans and lifted it proudly into the air; a small, blue convertible that had seen better days.

  “Nice,” I mumbled, plumping up the pillow. “Now…please, go find Kris. You need a tissue.”

  Instead of leaving, however, he opened his mouth and began coughing, hurling millions of invisible germs towards me.

  I backed away in horror and yelled, “Mom!” Sure, he’s adorable with his big blue eyes and dimpled cheeks, but I’ll be the first to admit; I have a major phobia of germs. My room is off-limits and the daycare kids are forbidden to enter it; especially, the little “germy” ones.

  My mother popped her head into my room and cringed. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I didn’t know he snuck in. Come on, Jed, time to clean you up.”

  I snorted. “Clean him up? What about my blankets? He just infested my whole bed with his nasty cold germs.”

  Jed‘s lower lip began to tremble and his eyes welled up with tears. “Sowy, Cassie,” he whispered.

  My heart melted immediately. I reached over and ruffled his curly blond hair. “Hey, it’s okay, Jed. Just cover your mouth when you cough.”

  His face lit up. “Huggies?” he asked, raising his crusty arms.

  “Um, later, okay?” I replied as I beckoned my mom with my eyes.

  She grabbed him and placed him on her hip. “Come on, Jedster. Let’s go wipe your boogies and get something to eat.”

  “Thanks. Make sure nobody else waltzes in here.”

  She motioned towards my alarm clock. “Hey, Wild One, it is time for you to get up for school. Start going to bed earlier and you won‘t be so grumpy every morning.”

  I gritted my teeth. “I’m not grumpy. And quit calling me that.”

  My last name is “Wild” and my family thinks it’s amusing to call me The Wild One, because I was such a handful as a kid.

  My mother frowned but left my room without another word. As she closed the door, I could hear the chaos taking place in other areas of the house; kids were chasing each other, someone was screaming about a lost toy, and a baby began to howl. We live in Wolf Creek, a small town in Minnesota, and my mom runs a daycare in our house. What was once a calm home, is now hectic zoo. It was only Monday and I already yearned for the weekend.

  I dragged myself out of bed, grabbed my favorite white Henley T-shirt, and a pair of jean shorts, then snuck into the bathroom to take a shower. Unfortunately, I have to share it with the daycare kids, so I have to be stealthy about it. If they realize it’s me in the bathroom, they’ll do things to torture me, like wiggling their fingers under the door, jiggling the knob, or repeating “Wild” over and over, annoying the heck out of me. Today was no exception.

  “Enough,” I warned, combing through my thick, dark hair. I pulled it into a ponytail and looked closely at my reflection in the mirror. Brown eyes, pug nose, and extremely dry lips. I rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found some of my sister’s “plumping” lip gloss. I applied it gingerly to my lips and then frowned. Now they looked swollen, like I‘d been punched. I tried wiping it off, but it didn’t help. My eyes widened in shock as they continued to puff out.

  Seriously, I thought, why would anyone intentionally do this to their lips? It was embarrassing and my lips were starting to sting.

  I threw my hands up in defeat and stomped into the kitchen. To my dismay, I noticed three other kids, sick with colds. They all smiled at me, matching snot dripping from their noses.

  “You have got to be kidding. What is it with everyone dropping off their kids here when they’re sick? Shouldn’t they be home taking care of them?”

  “I know, nothing I can do about it, unless they have fevers,” mom replied wearily as she grabbed several tissues and began wiping noses. “Everyone seems to be getting sick with this horrible cold. Some parents even dropped off their kids just so they could go back home and rest.”

  “Figures,” I mumbled.

  I pulled out my cell phone to check my messages when, Daniel, a five-year-old boy who pretends he’s my shadow, sneezed all over it. I turned to my mom in horror, who winced and quickly handed me an antibacterial wipe.

  “Daniel, why don’t you go and draw Cassie a nice picture?” she said, guiding him away from me.

  Frantic to escape, I grabbed a cereal bar and my truck keys. “I’ll eat this at school. I‘ve got a karate class tonight.”

  My mom nodded and then wrinkled her nose. “Megan? Do you have a poopy diaper?”

  I turned and fled the kitchen before I could smell the answer. Just then my dad shuffled by in his robe on the way to his “Man Cave” in the lower level of our home. He calls it his sanctuary from “Daycare Hell.” Right now he looked like he’d just stepped out of Hell himself, with the dark circles under his eyes and hair that stuck up in every direction.

  “Hi, dad,” I said. “Let me guess, you were up late again blasting zombies?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Heh. I actually finished the game.”

  My dad is addicted to video games. Before I was born, he once spent thirty-six hours straight, playing Everguild, a very a
ddictive Internet game, surviving only on caffeine and buttery pretzels. When my mom became pregnant, she lost her patience with his harmless addiction and brought a group of his friends together for an “Everguild Intervention.” Now he’s only allowed to play games on his Wii or PlayStation, which he has only a slightly better handle on.

  “Do you have to work today?” I asked him. My dad sells cars for a living, which isn’t particularly his dream job. Unfortunately it’s something he’s really good at, so although he grumbles about it endlessly, he never changes it.

  “Not until this afternoon. You ready to try out my new Beretta?” he asked, his face lighting up. His other addiction has to do with guns. Almost every Saturday since I turned sixteen, has been spent at the gun range with my father and grandfather. Both avid collectors, they own about thirty different guns between the two of them. When I began showing an interest last year, they were both delighted and started teaching me everything they could about guns. Now my aim is almost as good as my dad’s.

  “Sorry, dad, I can’t make it to the gun range for the next couple of weeks. I have to study for final exams,” I answered. “Plus, prom’s coming up. I’m just too busy.”

  Folding his arms, he gave me a stern look. “That’s right. You’re going with that Scott kid, aren’t you?” he asked. “Remember, no pre-prom parties, no hotels, and definitely no alcohol.”

  I snorted. “Hello? Does that really sound like me? And you do realize that Scott and I are just friends? I‘ve told you this so many times.”

  His eyes softened. “Good, keep it that way.”

  “Well, I’m just lucky he’s going with me. I didn’t go last year and probably would have skipped the senior prom as well if he hadn‘t volunteered to take me.”

  “Are you kidding me? He’s the lucky one!”

  I bit back a smile. My dad’s having a difficult time with the idea of me dating, anyone, which he shouldn’t; my love life is as dead as the zombies in his games. Scott and I are only friends, but it always seems to slip his mind. The last time I went out with Scott, my dad had insisted on chatting with him before we left for the movie theater; all the while cleaning three of his guns. My dad found it amusing; I was horrified. But Scott thought my dad’s guns were “awesome” and missed the entire point.