by Chloe Adler
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Distant Light
Tales From the Edge - Book 1
Chloe Adler
Contents
Copyright
Chloe Adler
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
Chapter 7
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
17. Chapter Eighteen
18. Chapter Nineteen
19. Chapter Twenty
20. Chapter Twenty-One
21. Chapter Twenty-Two
22. Chapter Twenty-Three
23. Chapter Twenty-Four
24. Chapter Twenty-Five
25. Chapter Twenty-Six
Afterward
About the Author
Also by Chloe Adler
Copyright
Distant Light by Chloe Adler
Book 1 - Tales From the Edge
Copyright © 2017 by Signum Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book contains an excerpt from the 1st Book in the Love on the Edge Series - A Witch’s Mortal Desire - which has already been published.
ISBN: 978-1-947156-00-5
Dear Reader,
Thank you for picking up this book - I hope you thoroughly enjoy it!
This is book 1 in the series - Tales From the Edge and if you despise cliffhangers, you may want to chuck this in favor of a nice Italian soda or perhaps a hot chocolate.
So as not to offer too many spoilers, but so you know what you’re getting into, this follows romance expectations but is 100% reverse harem.
If you’d rather read stand-alone’s - please check out my other series - Love on the Edge where each book follows a different “couple” sans cliffhangers.
This series - Tales - follows Iphigenia Holt - the youngest of the witchy sisters. The love scenes do scorch and are appropriate for ages 18 and above.
Do sign up for my newsletter, The Edge - to receive free and sale book promos, author musings (for NL readers only), updates and information about new releases - both mine and those of other authors in similar genres.
If you enjoy this book I’d be ever grateful if you’d leave a review!
I welcome reader engagement, I won’t bite, unless you want me to :) Or please come stalk me on social media!
XXOOXX ~ Chloe
“Shine so brightly that you illuminate a pathway for others to see their way out of the darkness.”
~ Dr. Stacey A. Maxwell-Krockenberger
Chapter One
Iphigenia
I’m halfway through my morning yoga routine when my mother bursts into my room without knocking. I don’t really mind her coming into my room uninvited—she’s never done anything else—but she has a knack for doing it at the worst moments. How does a twenty-year-old woman living at home get her mother to take her seriously from Happy Baby pose?
By getting her butt off the floor, for starters.
I release my feet and bring my legs together before letting them drop to the floor, then use my abs to roll up to my feet. My lumpy bedhead bounces on my shoulders with the motion. “What do you need, Mom?”
“Iphigenia . . .” She reaches for a sweaty curl that’s fallen in front of my eyes, trying to smooth it down behind my ear. Conveniently, she’s too focused on it to look me in the eye.
My stomach drops. I know where this is going. Even without the waves of her guilt and worry swamping me.
“I know tomorrow is opening night and I know you want me to see you perform but,” she bites her lip, “I just can’t.”
Of course she can’t. Even though she doesn’t tell me to stop performing, she hates what I do. And fears it. Never mind that it’s the most important part of my life. I step back, then take a seat at my vanity, and pick up a hairbrush. “Mama, of course you don’t have to go.”
“I just can’t watch you doing something so dangerous. It might give me a heart attack. Or I’d be the one in the audience yelling, ‘Be careful, dearest, don’t fall!’ and what kind of show would that be?”
In front of the mirror, I yank the brush through my hair, flattening the frizz, and pulling everything into a smooth, tight topknot. “I understand, really. I’ve been performing for years, it’s not like it’s my first show or anything.”
I start adding bobby pins to keep the shorter bits in line. My own mother has never set foot in the big top on the Edge’s pier, never once seen any of the acts that I spend so many hours of my life perfecting, but I don’t dare point that out. One of the pins snags, ripping out a few hairs by the root before I shove it back in.
At least she’s being honest about her emotions for once. She really is terrified at the thought of watching me. Even now, her fear is palpable, like a thick, cloying blanket. Once the final pin is in place, I’ll smother everything with hairspray. Once I’m done, I could do two sold-out shows back to back in June in a tent with no air conditioning and not have a hair out of place. Assuming it didn’t give me a whopper of a headache first.
I must accept Aurelia for who she is, not who I wish her to be. “Besides, if you don’t go, that’s one more seat Serlon can sell.” I summon a wink to let her know I’m kidding.
“I knew you’d understand, darling.” Her face twists into a pained grimace. I think it’s supposed to be a smile.
My mother, Aurelia, has never given up her formal upbringing and at 188, it’s far too late for her to change now. “I thought you were staying in today to rest up for the show. Why are you primping?”
My arm falls from its position and my shoulders slump but I shake it off, prying open a bobby pin with my teeth. “I’m not primping. I’m figuring out how to style my hair for tomorrow.”
“Do not use your teeth to open those pins, child. You could chip them. You don’t want to walk around at 110 with missing, chipped teeth, now do you?” Her eyes watch me in the mirror, assessing. Her icy b
lue eye is cold and calculating. Instead, I focus on her brown eye, which I choose to see as warm and inviting.
“Yes, Mother, of course.” Despite the curt words and penetrating stares, concern pours off her in waves. Sometimes being an empath sucks—often when I’m around my mother. Her emotions are intense and all-consuming, but she works so hard to hide them. With a normal person, I sense their feelings as they experience them, but when they’re directed at me, I sense them ten-fold. And Mother puts up a good front, but underneath, she’s never been one to curb her feelings.
Her mood is so intense today I actually pick up flashes of her thoughts. She’s picturing me as a grown woman. She’s given me a dewy complexion and flaxen corkscrew curls cascading down my back. Then I smile and all four of my top front teeth are chipped. Nice.
Sighing, I lean back in my chair, pausing in my preparations. Picking up my pale-pink, hand-blown water glass, I hold my mother’s intense gaze in the mirror, take a sip, and then force a smile. “Of course, Mother. I won’t use my teeth anymore.”
She lets out a long, slow breath and offers me a curt nod but the image of me in her head now includes a full set of gleaming chompers. Crisis averted, I smile inwardly until— “Where did you get that glass?”
And just like that, Mother’s calm is gone again. My gift—and sometimes curse—is to feel emotions, not predict them. Otherwise I would have prepared a diplomatic response. “Chrys made it for me.” I take another sip before returning it to the glossy surface.
Concern oozes from her like endless scarves from a magic hat. “When. Did. She. Start. Blowing glass.” Her teeth are clenched so tightly that my own jaw aches.
“She’s taking a class at the art academy. Completely supervised. It’s safe; she’s not in any danger.”
Aurelia’s jaw softens, unclenching. “Not my concern. Your sister made her own choices to betray me, so why should I care about her?”
The question is rhetorical. Mother talks a good game but the pain she’s hiding cuts deeply indeed.
“Anyway,” she tosses her strawberry-blond waves over a shoulder, “I came in to tell you to stay in your room for the next two hours. The movers are arriving momentarily with Alistair’s furniture and I don’t want you to get in the way.”
That is not what she’s picturing in her mind though. She’s imagining me sauntering out into the hallway in my skintight work-out clothes and a group of men’s jaws dropping to the floor like cartoon anvils. She even adds falling furniture to her imaginary scenario.
I cough to cover my giggle, pretending the hairspray went up my nose. If she knew I could see into her head, I don’t know what she’d do. Aurelia is the most private woman I know. She’s also the most dramatic.
I clap my hands together, distracting both of us. Sudden, unexpected sound does wonders to jolt people out of their thoughts. “That’s right, today is the day. Are you ready?”
Mother’s clipped features scrunch up as she snorts. She hides everything, even excitement. Will she ever tire of this game? Even Alastair can see through it, and vampires don’t have an empathic bone in their bodies. I wish she didn’t feel the need to hide so much of herself from the world. If only she let people see how amazing she was, everyone would love her as I do.
The doorbell rings and she scurries out of my room, calling, “Alistair, they’re here!”
I remain sequestered, listening to the murmuring, deep voices of at least three different men. Soon the sounds of a dolly being rolled across the floor commence as I turn back to my not-primping. My older sisters primped, even Chrysothemis, and they ended up moving out and playing house with their boyfriends. Yet I belong here with my mother. No one understands her better than I do. My two sisters were unable to offer her unlimited help and the respect she requires. Everyone has their own path. Aurelia pretends to despise my sisters so I shower them all with unconditional love.
My updo figured out for tomorrow, I move onto the yoga mat. First my side splits and then my middle ones. I’ll never be a full-fledged contortionist but with daily stretching, I am getting closer. Blocking out the thunk of boxes and the army of booted feet outside my door, I sink into my routine, happily shutting off the world and tuning into my body. After I finish my stretching, I review my choreography for the show until my body screams that it’s time to expel the water I drank earlier.
Opening my door, I chance a peek around the corner. The coast is clear and my heart rate returns to normal. I do not want to run into my mother when she’s in moving mode. Alistair’s basically been living here since he and Mom became an item eight months ago, but moving him in is a much bigger deal. She still loves and misses my father, after all.
I step into the hallway and rush to the bathroom, eyes toward the living room to avoid the movers . . . which is why I smack straight into a very hard, very broad chest.
“Sorry!” I shriek without looking up. I try to sidestep into the washroom, but Broad Chest sidesteps in the same direction.
“Excuse me.” Broad Chest’s voice is so deep and warm it could melt a glacier.
I can’t help but follow Broad Chest up to Solid Shoulders, then to Corded Neck, Kissable Mouth, and Eyes to Drown In. Bad follow-through. He’s tall, muscular, tanned, and wearing no shirt. Great. I chalk the little surge in my heart up to adrenaline. Just the surprise of running into someone, literally. Must be that.
Without saying a word, I duck under his side, barreling into the bathroom, and slamming the door behind me. Once inside I pray to the Goddess that Mother did not hear the slam—it’s something my middle sister, Sadie, did constantly throughout her teens.
I can almost hear my heart beating as I do my business and wash my hands, risking a peek in the mirror. My face gleams with a thin sheen of sweat. It is summer in Southern California, after all, and we don’t have AC. I open the bathroom door after splashing cold water on my face. Surely the hunk—I mean, the gentleman is gone.
“I wanted to introduce myself.”
One foot across the threshold, I squeal.
“Sorry,” he steps back, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“What’s going on?” Mother stands in her bedroom doorway, nostrils flaring.
“Oh, darling.” Alistair’s arm shoots out from behind her, circling her waist, and she visibly relaxes against him. He peeks over her shoulder and smiles. “Iphigenia, I see you’ve met my grandson Rhys.”
“Grandson?” Carter has another brother? And Chrys never introduced us? I will be having words with my oldest sister . . . And impossibly, he’s another stunning vampire. The clichéd apple sure didn’t fall far from the tall, dark, and handsome tree.
Rhys extends his hand for the second time, a broad smile lighting up his dark-brown eyes, so deep and smoldering they remind me of a rich cup of espresso. His features are similar to those of Chrys’s boyfriend, another one of Alistair’s grandsons. But where Carter milks his bad-boy look, Rhys is more a dark Renaissance angel. His gentle curls lick his shoulders, and an aristocratic nose tops high cheekbones and a kissable mouth.
“Iphigenia,” Mother scolds. “Close your mouth before a bug flies in.”
My face heats and I look away without shaking his hand. Far from offended, Rhys smiles wider, the stretch lighting up his face. His body blocks my escape to the hallway. Great. Tall, dark, and obviously no good is making fun of my discomfort now.
Rhys leans an arm against the wall beside me. “Grandfather tells me you’re a circus performer.”
“Yes—“
“That’s enough.” Mother’s harsh voice rings out, and everyone’s heads snap toward her.
“Darling,” Alistair pulls my mother back into the bedroom, “there’s no harm in the children getting to know one another.”
Mother snorts. “Don’t forget why you’re here. We need you to move furniture.” I can sense her relenting though, and in a moment, she follows her man back into their bedroom.
As soon as they’re out of earshot, Rhys whispers,
“I’d really like to see you perform.” The way he says it is matter-of-fact, without a hint of flirtation. How refreshing. And yet, a little pang trickles through me. Here’s a complete stranger who wants to watch my act when my own mother refuses.
At least I’m more in my element talking about what I do. I smile up at him. “Tomorrow is opening night. If you’d like to come, I can get you free tickets.”
“I’m a patron of the arts. I’m happy to purchase tickets and support the circus.”
I twirl some fallen strands of hair between my fingers and am about to ask what he does for a living when Alistair’s booming voice calls Rhys back to work.
Rhys
Turning away from Iphigenia is like turning away from the sun and ducking into a walk-in freezer on a frigid winter day in Alaska. I want to turn back and stare into those crystalline-blue eyes one more time. Eyes that promise sunshine on a rainy day, eyes that sparkle like rainbows, eyes that could bring a dead man back to life.
“Rhys, can you help me move this dresser?” Grandfather says even though he could easily carry it himself with one hand.
Vampiric strength has its advantages, no matter where I go. Until I’ve gotten enough capital to start my dojo, I can always get moving jobs. Here in the Edge, it’s a little more difficult since the vampire population is abundant, but back in New York I always had a side gig to fall back on during slow seasons. Though I had to hide what I was there. Otherwise, I attracted the lookie-loos or the suck-mouths.