by Eli Constant
Like my fairy.
My fairy who was still gone with the wind.
Standing, I move through the small room and into the guest room. It’s smaller than the master, but I’m not going to sleep in my grandmother’s room. That place, more than the rest of the house is a tomb. A shrine to the woman, both wonderful and fear-inducing powerful, that had nurtured me. Literally, I’d stood in her room for five minutes before getting chills and walking right back out again, closing the door on that particular memory. At least for now.
The spare room is also unchanged. The shades of grey quilt was mine when I’d stayed her as a child. The side table even held books I used to read. I pulled off the bed things to wash and smiled when I saw the ink stain on the mattress. I’d fallen asleep sketching in pen. After the stain though, my gaze falls onto the window and my heart jumps into my throat.
I can close my eyes and still see the dead, reanimated crow slamming its body against the glass. I can still feel the terror in my stomach as ghostly faces tried to push into this room.
At least it’s quiet here so far. Which probably means the barrier spell to keep out the noise of Hellhole is still strong and kicking. Knowledge from her shaman—a way to anchor magic that wasn’t tied to grandmother’s mortal life.
“I can do this,” I speak once again, walking through the cottage to the closet with the washer and dryer. “I’m powerful. A freaking queen. I basically have a full-on-body period when I’m mad now, which isn’t great, but I’ll figure that out. This isn’t going to be terrible.”
Who am I trying to convince?
I almost laugh, until the air at my back grows cold. I stop moving and drop the sheets and quilt to the ground. “It takes a pretty powerful spirit to push through this spell,” I reason with whoever’s appeared behind me, and begin to turn very slowly. “I’ll help you if I can, but this space is reserved for the living.” It was something I once heard my grandmother say to an intruding soul. “Stop fighting the barrier and I’ll come out to the porch. We can talk—”
“An intruder am I?” A familiar voice. A familiar face. A nearly-corporeal form that does not seem to be struggling with the effects of the barricade spell at all.
“Grandmother?”
“Hello, my lovely little death. Welcome home.” She walks forward, her arms outstretched, and she hugs me.
And I can feel her.
My name’s Victoria Cage. Necromancer. Blud-ah Vas. New resident of 13 Spirit Lane at the edge of Hellhole Bay. And I’m literally hugging a dead person right now. Just when you think things can’t get any stranger…
Thank you for reading ‘Garden of Lilies’, ‘Water of Souls’, and ‘Body of Ash’!
Check out the next installment of…
THE VICTORIA CAGE NECROMANCER SERIES
Coming 2020
Follow Eli Constant on Amazon to get emailed after it releases!
BLURB
A blood-soaked invitation from the Dark Court clashes with the hunt for a werewolf murderer in this newest installment of the Victoria Cage series.
Victoria is living with her grandmother’s spirit and it’s like she’s back in high school again. There are curfews, house rules, twenty questions, granny panties replacing her sexy underwear, and a lot of well-intentioned, unwanted advice. Victoria is a powerful necromancer… she’s a freaking queen. But none of that matters when you’ve got a tiny transparent housemate who’s strong enough to wield a wooden spoon and yell at you for letting her beloved business burn.
Outside the walls of the suffocating rambler is Hellhole Bay, a.k.a. kryptonite for Victoria’s powers. Ghosts cling to trees, spirits cloud the air with unfinished business, and malevolent souls dip in and out of the anti-ether for a swim in the pungent, trash-riddled water. It’s sensory overload… and it means she can’t sense what danger’s coming next.
And it’s not just the crowded afterlife activity and her dead grandmother driving Victoria crazy.
Repairs to the funeral home are going supernaturally-slow. She also can’t sleep, not with the chorus of wolves howling every night. And much to her dismay, she’s getting approached by Dark Court dignitaries who tell her that their king wants her at some great Feast of Madness.
More than ever, Victoria needs advice. Liam-brand advice. Only… he seems to be gone for good.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Eli Constant also writes as Eliza Grace.
Eli adores all things quirky, eats ice cream with a fork, and likes warm Dr. Pepper (on a cool day). She once thought she'd marry Martin Short... until she discovered Alan Rickman. #Always (She might also have Martin Freeman and Simon Pegg on her 'I get a pass' list. And, please, don't get her started on Jeff Godblum... erhm, Goldblum. #lifefindsaway).
The most important things to her are family, friends, books, and dresses with pockets. Typically in that order.
Available Books by Eli Constant:
The Victoria Cage Necromancer Series,
The Dead Trees Series (re-releasing soon),
The Water is Sweeter,
To Scream Within a Dream,
and many more…
Available Books by Eliza Grace:
The Shadow Forest Series,
The Birthright,
A Shade of Hades (Book 1 coming 2020)
Available Co-authored Books:
Scatter My Ashes,
Darwin’s Fall (re-releasing soon),
and more…
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Stalk Eli Constant on social media:
Website: www.authoreliconstant.com
Newsletter: https://www.authoreliconstant.com/newsletter-subscription
Reader Group: Beastly Books & Badass Readers: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1996067960679574/
Twitter: @Author_EliC
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorEliConstant/
Books on Amazon: https://amzn.to/30Y0KJk
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2LWSiGj
Have you read…
THE BIRTHRIGHT
By
Victoria Cage Author Eli Constant (writing as Eliza Grace)
‘A teenager on the cusp of her eighteenth birthday is kidnapped, dragged halfway across the world, and faces sacrifice… all for the sake of magic.’
Read on for a sneak peek.
About the book:
Destiny. Death. And a birthright of blood.
Drugged and abducted shortly before her eighteenth birthday, Kat Forst is dragged halfway across the world. She doesn't know why... or how. She doesn't know anything, except that she's not alone. Her best friends have been taken as well. And that's her fault.
Because their kidnapper wasn't after them all.
No. He only wanted Kat.
Because her blood is the key to the magic of Chios. Her death will re-awaken what has been lost for so long.
But Kat isn't exactly ready to die. Not without a fight anyways.
And the fact that her captor is gorgeous and covered with glittering, magical tattoos won't distract her from staying alive... she hopes.
***
The Birthright is over 100,000 words of standalone supernatural mystery with sensuality, mythology, and a touch of horror.
USA Today Bestselling Author Claire C. Riley calls [The Birthright] 'a daring and sensual read that you will devour in one sitting.'
“Sunlight shone against his now exposed chest, against the glittering coral gemstones embedded in his skin. The swirling tattoos surrounding each stone intricately extended away from and returned to each orange-red jewel—creating a never-ending, cyclical pattern of beautiful art.
Just like in my dream.”
-Kat Forst
TUESDAY
9 PM
East Coast DST
NYC, USA
She wasn’t even supposed to be here.
She was supposed to be on a plane flying toward some exotic photo shoot. But she’d missed the 8 o’clock flight, stayed a little too long at the club.
Stumbling int
o the streets after hours of partying, she tried hard not to vomit as the paparazzi snapped picture after unflattering picture. Great. Another news story, more bad press. As if her rich old geezer of a husband dying mysteriously hadn’t been enough. They couldn’t prove she’d done anything, but tabloid writers love speculation. Even some of the reputable papers had taken a stab at her. Course, she’d sued the shit out of them.
And now she was ridiculously wealthy.
Catcalls and flashing lights violently yanked her back to reality, pushing her thoughts into the background.
So disoriented.
All she wanted to do was get away from the cameras and jeering, judgmental voices. She tripped away from them, not paying attention to where she was going. Her feet ached, the neon yellow stiletto straps cut into her ankles like dull scalpels. Then she sensed it. A menacing presence.
She saw no movement, heard no sound, but her intuition told her that something was following her.
Were her senses betraying her? She’d had so much to drink… she could barely see clearly. How could she trust her instincts?
The presence feathered against her skin, the lightest brush of an unseen something. Panic set in.
She ran, not pausing to strip off the high heels, but she could feel it drawing ever closer. She swirled at the gaping mouth of a dark alley, her silvery skirt billowing around her, and scanned the space in front of her. Nothing… nothing, but she could feel it. Her head was spinning; acid crept up her throat– the precursor to vomit. She lurched backward into the alleyway, not knowing if the shadowed space was any safer than the oppressive presence pursuing her.
She continued to stare forward and walk awkwardly backward. It felt so close. Too close. She turned to run, to flee, and came face-to-face with a dead end. Panicking, she slid her hands up and down the brick surface of the wall – praying for escape. A dead end. No… no… no. Her mind whimpered in protest.
She yelled for help now and began to beat her fists raw against the impenetrable brick surface. A single drop of blood ran from the knuckle of her left index finger; it slid slowly, wetly down her forearm. The wet redness was a strange compliment to her long cobalt nails– the same shade as her sleeveless satin top. The woman watched the drop of blood travel. Her hand wasn’t the only thing bleeding. The murderous stiletto straps had abraded her ankles. She could feel the yellow patent leather digging into the raw, bloody skin.
The invisible threat closed in on her, silent as a catacomb, stirring the previously stagnant air. Her chest felt heavy against the pressure of the presence.
She blinked furiously, trying to clear the haze of intoxication from her head, but the heady mist that moved toward her was not a byproduct of alcohol and dance-floor gyrations.
The girl tasted something tart on her tongue as she breathed in and out. It tasted like lemon juice, cinnamon, marigold and some earthy, foreign spice she could not place; it left a residue of pine and citrus in her mouth. With every passing second, the alleyway became more obscured by the building fog.
She parted her lips to scream, but as she pulled air into her lungs she inhaled something pungent; it was not ordinary, life-giving air. It was noxious, laced with something… Her mind felt as hazy as the mist that consumed her.
Her body inflated, filling up with the ever-thickening mist. She turned slowly away from the wall, her scraped and scarred hands limp at her sides, her fingers brushed lazily against the silver sequined skirt. She leaned against the ensnaring barrier for support, her fear floating away on the now receding smog.
She was no longer afraid, but just a normal girl, tired from dancing the evening away. An ingrained instinct urged her to shout for help, but her vocal cords were paralyzed and her skin felt warm and cozy, like she was sunbathing in the tropics. Suddenly, her knees gave out and her body was morbidly weak. Sliding down to the ground, her back still against the wall, she heard a whispered voice.
“Close your eyes. Close your eyes.” The sound was melodic, hypnotic… sinister. Something wet touched her lips, parted them, and she felt a strange liquid, both warm and cool simultaneously, slide past her teeth, over her tongue, and down her accepting throat.
Her body convulsed violently and the heat of her skin intensified tenfold. She wished to scream at the pain, her terror renewing, but she could make no sound. The heat burned out in a flash, leaving behind only cool night air. The voice continued its mesmerizing dance within her mind.
Her eyes widened as a figure began to form from the mist, the gray particles of haze gathering together to form the shadow of torso, neck, and head. She squeezed her eyes closed. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. I’m just really, really drunk. Please, God… please, God.
The figure remained gray and unclear; an ethereal hand came toward her. That hand passed a vial beneath her nose. She took a deep, involuntary breath. The tart taste was back, lazily passing through her nostrils and settling on her tongue.
Once again, the fear slid away, becoming the briefest hint of scent in the dark night. The kiss on her forehead was so slight, so soft. She felt a sudden sting behind each ear. Pain was no longer important.
Just before she lost consciousness, her vision and mind experienced an instance of sober clarity. The figure was not ethereal at all. He was solid and lovely; his nearly naked body decorated with stones that caught nonexistent rays of late night light that blinded her into oblivion.
Her body was lifted, carried, placed gently across a soft backseat. The vehicle drove swiftly for nearly five hours– the driver ignored speed limits and stop signs.
She died quickly. A beautiful death. The wounds on her ankles and hands would heal slowly. She would be a perfect corpse in time. The pin pricks though… those would stay, a sign of his possession and power.
It would be days before she was useful to him. Until then, let someone else deal with her. He methodically undressed her, folding her clothing next to her body; he made the fold creases sharp and smoothed the material until the wrinkles disappeared. It seemed like an odd effort, but he had his reasons- not the least of which was seeing the unblemished expanse of her body in the moonlight. The sight almost made him wish that he could feel… something.
He left her in the grass, her body looking pristine and otherworldly pale against the green backdrop.
Part I.
WEDNESDAY
3:45 AM
East Coast DST
Morgantown, WV USA
Lieutenant Mark Faulkner pulled up to the curb and shifted his truck into park. He was a precise driver, always had been, and the wheels were settled equidistant from the curbside.
Opening his door, he stood on the truck runner and sized up the scene: yellow tape, cameras flashing; Mark was surprised by the number of news vans: Channel 6, 12, and four others. Local and National News. The area was well-lit, despite it being hours before sunrise. Eight lights illuminated the park; they were an ominous bright orange glowing. The streetlights added to the ambience and several freestanding lights were set up, pointing downward and illuminating the immediate crime scene and police vehicles. The news vans were equipped with their own lighting. The lights were bright, round halogens, beaming like all-seeing eyes on top of each vehicle.
Four uniforms and a short, dark haired man huddled around a squad car; another twelve uniforms were keeping the press and public away from the crime scene and a black SUV and ambulance were parked on the grass near a swing set and sand box.
Even from a distance, Mark recognized the short man standing next to the cop car. Detective Leon Brewer. The man had a bit of a Napoleon complex and could be a complete ass, but most times, Mark got along with him okay. Brewer wasn’t the best at deductive reasoning, mind you, but he was in line for the next case. Rich Gunderson was with Brewer. He was a good man, a solid officer. The other three uniforms Mark recognized, but they were fresh to the force.
Even the Chief was present, leaning against his unmarked vehicle. Morgantown only employed a little ove
r 75 full-time uniforms and support staff. Each officer was cross-trained, ready to perform any task necessary to solve a case. If this many officers were present… This is something big.
Mark felt restless all the sudden, his body buzzing at the prospect of an interesting case in Morgantown. And the damn case goes to Brewer. It was sick, to covet a murder case, but most Morgantown crimes were pretty run-of-the-mill.
Still standing on the side runner of his truck, Mark bent at the waist and leaned into the vehicle, snagging his lightweight jacket with a hooked finger.
He was already pushing his right arm through the coat sleeve as he stepped down from the truck and as the fingers of his left arm appeared from inside the left gray sleeve, he closed the driver’s door with his hip. He didn’t bother to lock the truck. If someone was brave enough to try and jack it with dozens of uniforms nearby, then the prospective thief deserved the Chevy.
Mark zipped the jacket. The worn gray material fell long, covering his holster and adjacent badge. He ran a rough hand through his icy blonde hair; then that hand wandered toward the back of his neck where a series of raised and pale burn scars began– the collar of his shirt wasn’t quite tall enough to hide the bad memory.
Mark closed his eyes for a moment, letting his fingers play against the scars like a blind man reading braille. He took a slow breath. Despite his desire to be knee deep in an interesting case, he also really didn’t want to deal with the border of onlookers and officers. Not that he had a choice. Well… since he wasn’t in line for the case, he did have a choice.