by Amy Marie
Table of Contents
Jeanne-Marie Leprince De Beaumont
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Coming Soon
Bonus Content
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Reminiscence
A Statera Saga
By Amy Marie
Copyright© 2016 Amy Marie
All Rights Reserved.
Cover Photography & Design Copyright © 2017 Amy Marie & Shutterstock.com
Published 2017 by Amy Marie
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or fictitious
Public domain citations:
Print mark re-created by author from original. Grafton, Richard. c. 1511-1573. Printer’s mark in use 1537-1572. Displayed at multiple institutions: Specifically, in this reference: displayed in the window of the Sperry Room, Harvard Divinity School, Cambridge, MA.
Excerpt from Beauty and the Beast (French: La Belle et la Bête) Jeanne-Marie Leprince De Beaumont - Maria Tatar - Le Magasin des Enfants - London - Haberkorn – 1756
ISBN-13: 978-1542969383
ISBN-10: 1542969387
Thank you for downloading this E-book. This E-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This E-book 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 recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite E-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.
This book is dedicated to all of my friends and family who have enriched my soul
Table of Contents
Introduction
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Coming Soon
Bonus Content
About the Author
Acknowledgments
“True memories are not of mind and body, but those that remain forever written on the soul.”
-Elizabeth Barret-Browning
Introduction
Reminiscence is the knowledge that originates in a form of existence before birth, accessed through triggers of recollection. This unexplainable knowledge has been recognized by a select group of people throughout human history. The human brain automatically fights these triggers that have no place in our current lives, but some fall through the cracks in the form of déjà vu. When the mind is at rest, memories can most easily slip through in the form of dreams, and the knowledge can only be realized by those select few with the potential to recognize it, and bring it forth into their waking lives.
Prologue
1772 – Fox Hill, Colony of Massachusetts.
How desolate does one have to be to face the demon of destruction head on? The stranger knows he has no other choice. There’s nothing left for him in this life. Everyone he’s ever loved… is gone.
His features are lost in the shadows that embrace him as he clings to the mask of the morning twilight. His boots trace a path up to Fox Hill, printing in the early morning dew. His enemy will be there, waiting. Today he will have his revenge.
Stopping for a moment, the stranger reaches into his pocket to pull out a small, gold object. He turns the casing over to reveal an engraved symbol on the lid. His fingers lightly trace the four-point scroll pattern with a single rose entwined within. The design is elegant, flawless.
Like her.
With that thought of deep longing, he lifts the lid of the miniature casing to view a small portrait inside. The bright eyes that greet him take his breath away. His gaze caresses the features that his memory will never let him forget. He yearns to hear her voice one last time, but the young woman in the portrait stays silent, mocking him with a slight smile and the ghost of a dimple.
He chokes back the emotion of his loss, and transforms his grief into fuel for his wrath. Tucking the miniature away, his dark pride and anger carry him forward to his destiny.
Reaching the crest of the hill, he’s surrounded by the morning mist. Early calls of the birds nearby give false hope of a beautiful spring day.
As if the battleground was chosen by fate, the shade of the remaining night ends in a dividing line halfway across the small hill. The figure of a man seems to materialize from the very mist itself on the other side. He’s illuminated by the rising sun, contrast to the shadow that engulfs the stranger.
“You have taken everything from me,” the stranger calls from the darkness.
The enemy’s answering stare is cold and detached. He remains silent, unmoved.
The stranger takes the first step forward, hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. There’s no ringing of a bell, sounding of a horn, or beating of a drum – early morning silence marks the battle begun. Slicing the air, he draws his weapon.
The enemy stands still, but tilts his head to one side as he welcomes the advance.
As the stranger raises his sword, his temper is unleashed in a bestial rage. His feral scream shatters the morning calm.
The enemy darts out of the path of the sword, and draws a long dagger from its own sheath. The golden weapon is small, but well-crafted. The hilt is twisted into the likeness of a rose with an intricate bloom at the pommel.
The stranger is distracted by the odd choice of weapon.
The enemy takes advantage of the confusion and lunges straight to the stranger’s torso.
The stranger parries the blow and counters with a thrust aimed to carve out the enemy’s lung.
The enemy spins away, but his demeanor remains void of any reaction. His character is even more frightening with his lack of emotion in battle.
The stranger continues to brandish his swor
d and the enemy counters effectively with the dagger.
The sword swipes just an inch away from slicing off the enemy’s left ear.
The dagger slips and misses its target, managing only to tear the fabric of the stranger’s sleeve.
A few more spars and the stranger’s sword has doubled in weight. He now realizes the strategy of longevity in the enemy’s choice of weapon – he must finish the battle, or tire out.
In an act of desperation, the stranger throws his shoulder into his opponent, knocking the dagger to the ground. Before the enemy can recover, the stranger stabs him just below his lowest left rib.
The enemy falls to the ground, hunched over, grasping to put pressure on the wound.
The stranger breathes a sigh of relief, and catching his breath, moves to deliver the final blow.
“This is for her,” he growls, lifting the sword high.
The enemy swoops to snatch his dagger from the ground, and in one instant, buries it into the heart of the stranger.
The stranger glances down in shocked horror at the golden rose plunged into his chest. Though everything should be fading into darkness, instead his senses are sharpened. He can feel his heart embracing the dagger’s cold blade. A metallic odor fills his nose, and in his disorientation, he wonders if it’s from the weapon, or his blood. His ears even pick up the sound of the river’s flow a mile away.
Then he hears the enemy’s chant.
Whispered words of ancient magic dance through the air of this new warped reality. The world sways around the stranger, but his enemy will not let him fall. A warm sensation spreads from his wound, and the enemy pulls the dagger from his chest.
Taking the limp hand of the wounded man, the enemy places the dagger in his grip and forces the stranger to stab him in return, direct to the heart.
The stranger is too weak to resist the evil sorcery at work. Warmth spreads through his body and he knows it’s too late. He collapses to the ground with one final unspoken thought before he’s consumed by darkness:
Eleanor.
Chapter 1
Present Day – Boston, Massachusetts
Familiarity, déjà vu… we’ve all felt it. I live it.
The mind gets suspended when you’re trapped between an alternate dream world and the reality of consciousness. For most people the memories of dreams are vague, only catching small glimpses when they wake. Soon, they’re forgotten.
But not me.
My mind holds this suspension, retaining the memories of my dreams in my everyday life. There are times these memories carry over, and I can’t tell if they’re real. Times when my dreams question my reality, or my reality calls upon a dream. These moments offer glimpses of knowledge beyond my own life experiences, but I’m not sure how that’s possible.
I’m stuck here now, in the design of my mind. A dream I can’t control – one that plays out like a memory. The hands around my neck choke out the last of the breath inside me. I register one last glance into the hooded face of death, his hollow laughter drawing me into the void.
Struggling for a grasp on reality, I’m finally able to wake from the nightmare. Wondering if it was something more than a dream…
The echo of haunting laughter drowns in the sound of waves, seagulls, and mirth that always accompany a crowd at the beach.
“…Nora… NORA! Are you okay?” My best friend, Charity, wakes me with a shake.
I jump up with a start, blinded by the light of the sun. My frantic breathing slows to a normal pace with the steadying of my heart’s rhythm. I relax back onto my sand-cushioned beach towel. Nodding, I blink away the remnants of my nightmare.
“Yeah… sorry. I must’ve dozed off,” I say, squinting in Char’s direction.
“Dozed off! You went from snoring to screaming in like, two seconds. I know you have some seriously crazy dreams, but during a catnap on the beach? Really? How much further from a nightmare can you get?” Char laughs tossing me a bottle of sunblock. “Here, you’re turning a little red.”
“Thanks,” I say, happy to be distracted by lathering the SPF 55 onto my pink shoulders. I cringe with the realization that my freckles will be out in full force after neglecting to apply the sunblock religiously.
Glancing over at my brunette friend, I long for her complexion. “I don’t understand how you can be turning more bronze and beautiful by the minute, while I ripen up like an apple.”
“Are you kidding me? Guys tell you all the time they think your freckles are adorable. And your fair skin is so classic! You know I’ve always thought you were born out of your time, Queen Eleanor,” she laughs with a flamboyant wave of her hand.
I cringe inside at the use of my full name, but giggle and join Char in our fake queen wave to random strangers walking by. The strange looks we’re getting make us laugh even harder.
“Can you imagine if we were princesses, and we had to sit to have our fancy portraits painted?” Char says in her best attempt at a posh English accent.
“There’s no way. You’d make me laugh so hard, it’d be impossible to sit still!” I accuse.
It’s almost too easy to picture my regal portrait, and the funny faces I’d make if I ever had to sit for hours on end to have myself painted.
In reaction to my line of thoughts, a flash of a dream’s memory is triggered.
A sudden vision of a similar sitting forms in my mind. In the memory, I stick out my tongue at the stern painter when his head disappears behind the canvas. I make every effort to make a straight face when his head pops back in view, but end up laughing and earning a lecture.
Shaking my head, I clear away the thought. The heat’s getting to me. I’m confusing my dreams and memories again.
It’s happened to me since I was a child. Over-active imagination, my parents had always said. But in the past two weeks since Char and I have moved to Boston for college, it’s been almost an everyday occurrence. When I’m awake, I recognize places throughout the city I’ve never been to before. Or when I’m asleep, I dream about people I’ve never met. There’s a constant familiarity that keeps me from being able to distinguish my dreams from my own memories here.
Not to mention the nightmares – they’re getting worse.
Char glances at me with a raised eyebrow. I realize I’m wincing. She frowns, immediately picking up on what’s bothering me. “What was this nightmare about? Being chased down by a bounty hunter? Crashing a plane into a mountainside? Kidnapped by a monster?” As my best friend and adopted sister, Char understands my dream problem. She usually does her best to make jokes and calm me down, but it’s been getting harder to do that lately.
I shrug, knowing all too well that I’ve actually had the dreams she’s describing – but I’ll keep that low-key.
“No...” I explain, “It was just like the other dreams I’ve been having the past few nights. I keep getting stalked by this… thing.”
“The dark hooded figure? Oh, man. How’d he do it this time?” she asks, knowing about my latest round of nightmares.
“Strangled. Choked the air right out of me. I can actually remember the exact moment I knew I was going to die. And then I just sort of… gave in to the darkness.”
“That’s so not normal.”
“I know! It’s not like I can help it. I keep looking into the hood of this thing and seeing… nothing. It’s like it’s empty and no one’s inside. Until I hear the laughter. Sometimes I can almost hear it when I wake up. I’m telling you, these are the worst dreams I’ve ever had!”
Char’s voice softens. “Nora, do you remember how bad your nightmares got after the accident? When you moved in with us after you lost your parents? We slept with the lights on for almost a year. You kept dreaming someone was coming for you, trying to get you because you somehow survived in the back of that car.”
“Yeah, of course,” I murmur, recalling the nightmares. The counselors always called it ‘survivor’s guilt.’ I think back to the horror of being orphaned at the age of nine. Beca
use I had no extended family, Char’s parents, Eddie and Selma Goodwin, took me in and adopted me as their own daughter. My best friend since we were toddlers became my new sister, and she was the only thing that kept me going. When every other person looked at me in pity and gave me cliché advice, Char just sat by my side in silence. It’s the only time she’d ever been quiet in her whole life, and I love her for it.
“Well, maybe this is how you cope with big life changes. I mean, look at us now! We’re living on our own in a brand new big city, we just started college, and you got that new job. It’s a lot of pressure! But you can’t let it get to you. I know you have your struggle with dreams and nightmares, but don’t let it keep you in fear of living your life. You might be missing out on something big right in front of you.”
She gives me a nudge and I smile in return, accepting her advice.
Char shields her eyes from the sun, gazing in the direction of a lifeguard chair close by. A Greek god version of a lifeguard sits comfortably in the chair, shaded by a large umbrella. “Speaking of right in front of us,” she turns to me with a sly smile, wiggling her eyebrows, “I’m just going to go see how much an umbrella would be to rent. You know… I don’t want your burn to get worse.” Giving me an exaggerated wink, she saunters over to the lifeguard station.
With a laugh, I close my eyes in the sunshine and let the warmth of the light lift my spirits.
Char’s right. I have a life to live, and a busy one too. We’re only a week into our first semester at Boston College, and my history major has me overloaded with work.
Then there’s my job. What a lucky break!
Char’s mom is the niece of some big, esteemed historian in Boston. I’ve never met Selma’s uncle, but I suspect he’s the reason I got my job as assistant to the director of archives at the downtown historical society.
I’ve always been passionately nerdy about history. There’s a connection to the past that resonates deep within me. And now I have an opportunity to work in one of America’s most historically significant cities. Not bad for a small-town girl. I make a mental note to go thank Char’s great-uncle, Michael Augustine, for helping me land my job.
