Saving the Sacrifice is now available on Amazon. For the first week it will be 99c, and is FREE to KU users.
- File Size: 4569 KB
- Print Length: 333 pages
- Publication Date: October 30, 2015
- ASIN: B017E7W10I
Micki Walker feels like an average girl despite having the ability to see the dead, connect to universal energy, and sense dark portals. In this occult thriller Micki is hunted by Algol, the head of a cult so deranged he believes she is the one to fulfill a prophecy long held by his bloodline.
It’s simple, she has to be sacrificed. Micki’s best friends band together to save her, to intervene while trying to hide the truth of murder, paranormal ability, and anarchy from law enforcement, but once Micki chooses the path of transparency two detectives become personally involved.
Life is sacrosanct, Micki’s exceptionally so. Her latent gifts are a legacy, her ancestors hide diabolical secrets. While battling with her hunters she is caught in attraction’s death grip, coaxing her to the dark den which will wipe her mind of terror and open the door for fate.
Grant Saunders was never meant to meet her, he’s an obstacle none of her stalkers could foretell. He is not ‘the one’. The white devil waits in the wings while Algol does his utmost to destroy the one woman he needs for immortality. But Algol has gone mad, he’s going to risk the entire operation for her blood.
When you are born to die only one man can save her, and she hasn’t met him yet.
This is a long novel which is split into 4 parts for ease of reading. This is part 1. It continues in part 2.
Warning: contains head hopping, violence, gratuitous torture, occult and supernatural influences, and in later parts infidelity.
“Enter and be damned, the Evil One awaits you!”
Micki flinched away from the diabolical usher, scurrying after Gabe. Grateful Danny and Rafe had her back by taking up the rear, she navigated between the tables to the one Gabe booked a month ago. Why she agreed to come to this mausoleum, she’ll never know.
A waiter dressed like a hearse driver from the 1800s waited for the ladies to sit around their coffin before imposing his dominion with the creed, “Blessed are the dead for they are the free, blessed are the broken for they bleed, blessed are thee for you came to feast with the Serpent.” A black eyed gaze stopped perusing the ladies to halt on Micki, disdain scouring her blonde hair and gray eyes, his eyelids narrowing at her pink dress. Speaking directly to her in his hoarse voice, he said, “Today’s specials are damned blood, unholy water, bones for picking, festered brew, lurgy vomit, and eyeball soup.” Long hair powdered with ash moved across his shoulders when he tilted his head to wink at Gabe. “Sister of night, which delicacy do you choose?”
Gabe looked at her menu, pursing her mouth at an angle. “Bruised bums, battered tatties, and to drink I’ll have a devil flayed on the rocks.”
The nefarious waiter smiles, which simply added to the seething decay he emitted. “Excellent pickings. I know you, you go to the dungeon on Tuesdays?”
Gabe coyly ducked her head. “Yup.”
Waiter boy looked at Rafe, black eyes festering darker, “What’s your poison?”
“Um,” she fanned herself with the menu, leaning back in her hard-backed chair. “Can you give us ten minutes, can we go for drinks first?”
He inclined his head. “Certainly. Which potion sates your wicked appetite?”
Rafe scanned the drinks side of the menu, which was old and crinkled like dried out parchment made of human skin. “I’ll have a Black Death.”
He smirked, looking to Danny, eyebrows arched, the piercings going through them catching the candlelight. She looked at her menu, blurting nervously, “Delirium tremens.”
Waiter man nodded again, looking finally to Micki, his dark eyes narrowing as if he found her existence offensive.
She looked at her menu, sliding her finger down the list and their explanations, finally looking up and making eye contact, saying, “I’d like Decubitis, please.”
He smiled, saying nastily, “I can see you dying in bed. It suits you. Would you like the black or red death?”
“Red please,” she muttered, on the spot, pinned by his sharp gaze, feeling his energy probing into hers.
“Red it will be, now it’s a prophecy.” He gave Micki a sharp stare as if imprinting her demise on the akashic records. Leaving an ouija board on the table with a planchette, he told the ladies, “Don’t blow out your candle. If a waiter passes and blows it out for you then you are chosen by the Dark Lord to join him at his table.”
And with that he strode away, leather pants squeaking with his movement, his coachman’s jacket with tails enough to make the flame on the candle flutter nervously.
Gabe grinned at Danny. “Delirium tremens? If you want the shakes hun, just come with me to the dungeon for a night.”
Danny shook her head. “No thanks. A good whipping is not foretold in my future, just go ask the psychic in the corner.”
Micki looked up, following Danny’s gaze to the lady decked out in more rings than a jewelers, her hair dyed deep purple, her lips black, looking elegant and very Cruella de Morticia. Her contact lenses made her eyes as amethyst as her hair, and she was staring directly at Micki, crooking her finger for Micki to join her.
Gabe noticed, kicking Micki’s foot under the raised casket. “Go. Your kindred summon.”
Micki was the weirdo among her friends, the psychic one, the one cursed with premonitions and astral insight. She looked to Rafe, being daring. “Come with me?”
Rafe nodded, flicking long brown hair behind her shoulder, standing like a catwalk model and sashaying through the restaurant littered with coffins and candles, almost everyone wearing black, looking goth and grim, which only highlighted how mainstream Micki was when she stood in her sorbet pink dress to follow Rafe to the lady in the corner.
Gabe watched them go, spying the blond man at the next table to the psychic leaning forward to survey Micki, absently rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip as if salivating at the thought of destroying her pink dress with rips and blood, cutting her veins to sip from the hot chalice, the one made for the darkness to feed on.
He scoured her from head to toe as if mapping a canvas fresh for bruising. She’d be prettier with charcoal rings around each eye to match the steel of her irises, a good punch to the mouth to give her lips a flirtatious pout, a needle in each hand because he didn’t like rings on fingers, except on his own. Hands should be owned by being impaled, not adorned. He looked as if he could decorate Micki in a legion of shades, in the noir tones of abuse, and then he’d smile instead of scowl.
Gabe shook her head, grabbing her jaded view back to her chest, cradling it inside instead of superimposing it onto patrons.
It was no secret that the blood-fetish crowd were regulars here, not that Gabe told any of her gullible friends. This was her scene, finding solace by making fun of death in such a gauche display of ridicule. Eating death, it’s the ultimate act of rebellion, and in her opinion the best way to celebrate life. This club was all about eating death, devouring it.
Micki reached the table of the psychic, when the woman grabbed her wrist and yanked her onto the padded seat she had claimed against the wall. Velvet and threadbare, Micki was tense against the padding, the table embroidered by the lines previously carved by woodworm.
“Light in the dark, you’re stupid to be here. The dark lord sees you, he smells you, he will hinder you,” hissed the omen whisperer.
Micki blinked rapidly, when Rafe leaned with her hands on the spiritual lady’s table to say, “Do they pay you to scare the trendies?”
The woman moved her hyacinth gaze to Rafe. “Smell the death, feel his touch, he’s coming for all of you.”
Rafe laughed under her breath, rolling her eyes, “Jeez lady, be original. Death comes for all of us, that’s a guarantee.”
Ignoring Rafe the psychic said to Micki, “The white devil has searched for you. You will be his sacrifice.”
“Nice meeting you too,” snapped Micki, getting up and jerking to free her wrist from the cool fingers of the so called psychic. Facing the lady, she stood next to her table, “You’re not psychic. My waiter is more psychic than you are. Fearmongers are just hungry for soul food.” Micki leaned down to whisper, “Feed your soul, it’s starving.”
Then she pivoted and sashayed decisively back to her coffin, Rafe following at a meander, enjoying the lurid gazes eating her up as she crossed the dimly lit sepulcher.
The blond man with cruel lips stood, took one step to the psychic and snared her wrist in trauma inducing fingers, dragging her to the dungeon door, out of sight, down into the bowels of suffering.
Sitting back in her chair to her waiting drink Micki surveyed the interior of Cabaret de l’Enfer (the cabaret of the inferno), which was supposedly based on the original club celebrating death from Victorian era Paris. The food and drink were mostly named after deadly illnesses, the musicians decked out like devils on their platform high above the restaurant arena, which was a graveyard of coffins and candles, the meager light holding a vigil to the singer in her cauldron, with real flames beneath it, crooning poetry dedicated to Faust.
Periodically spews of smoke blasted into the room, their odor acrid. This was meant to be hell, it fell far too short of it.
The aura prober returned, (Gabe having ordered for all of them), and placed bowls in front of them. This time when he twisted to walk away he rested a hand on Micki’s shoulder, trailing her exposed shoulders with his fingertips, moving her long hair out of their path to pinch her neck, whispering so only she heard. “You are marked.”
Staring up into his abyss deep gaze, she saw the gleam hidden in the chambers of his pupils, experiencing the cold ether filtering into her spirit with his accursed focus.
It’s not hell, but it is the devil’s den alright. He’s so pale, so tall, and so aware of what he’s doing. He’s siphoning …