Kasdeya, the Fifth Satan, waited eons for his Keeper to find her way to his tomb amongst the ancient ruins. He only has a limited time to convince Eliza that her role is critical to help defeat the loathsome Deumos, a female demon who has laid her claim to bearing his child—a child that will bring down mortals.
Trouble is, Eliza doesn’t even believe Kasdeya is real. If he can’t convince her he isn’t an illusion—and neither is their love—Deumos will win.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Egyptian Demon’s Keeper:
Eliza opened one eye and gulped back a scream. If she was asleep, then the dream was astounding. She wiggled her toes to make sure she wasn’t in sleep paralysis.
That man was humming. He was two feet away from her, staring at his palms as if a secret message were about to appear on his skin, and humming.
Okay, she thought, this is pretty bad. Unless the laws of physics had suddenly changed and rain could defy gravity, she had lost her mind, and this guy seemed a permanent part of her new psychosis. At least he was beautiful. Eliza hoped fervently that if she had to remain mad, he would continue to be part of her altered state.
“You hear about sunstroke killing people, you know, but you never hear about this stuff.”
He jumped to his feet and stared down at her, running his hand through his long black locks. “I was meditating. You…”
“I frightened you?”
His cheeks reddened, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Of course not. Mortals cannot frighten me.” He crossed his arms and puffed out his chest, as if the stance would somehow convince her that she hadn’t startled him.
“Mortals? Did you say mortals? As opposed to…non-mortals?”
“Correct.” He tapped his foot in a very mortal gesture of impatience.
“This just gets better and better. Okie dokie then. I know I’m supposed to be your keeper or servant or something—isn’t that what you told me in Egypt? Excuse me, should that be ‘the land of pharaohs’?”
“Correct. You are my Keeper, my servant, and it is the land of pharaohs. I’m pleased you listened.”
“Great. I’m dying to please my own hallucination. Would my hallucination mind getting me some water?” I have to try to pull it together. What if this is a real guy, and he drugged you? Come on, the door is close enough. Please, God, please let my legs work.
He gestured to the ornate decanter and glass on the low table. The smirk pulling on his lips ticked her off. So, he knew she meant to make a break for it.
“I will pour for you of course.” He handed her a glass, and she pushed herself up so she could sip. Mind racing, coming up blank, she concentrated on clearing her head with the water. She stole glances at him, but his expression was impassive. What does a serial killer look like anyway? Why couldn’t one look like a soap opera star? An Egyptian soap opera star? Did they have soap operas in Egypt? I’m in real trouble, no matter how I look at this.
“Look, if it’s money you’re after, you picked the wrong girl. Maybe the museum would belly up a few thousand for me… Did you drug me? That’s it, isn’t it? You got to my canteen in Egypt…”
“And then miraculously found you in New York, slipped unnoticed into your office or apartment and put a poison potion in your glass?”
She shook her head uncertainly. It didn’t explain the raindrops, the change in his appearance from Dr. Kasey Smith to Kasdeya. Nothing was adding up.
“So, you don’t really know David, and you don’t really work for the museum in Boston.”
“What gave me away?” He smiled fully for the first time, his eyes coming to life and gentle creases appearing around them.
Eliza refilled her water glass in a half-hearted attempt to stall. No matter how hard she thought about it, she could only come to one conclusion. The Egyptian desert had robbed her of sanity. Perhaps she was already in an institution and didn’t know it?
“Where are we?” She glanced around the large room, what seemed like part of a larger suite. “Are we in New York?” The ornate furnishings smacked of something from an Arabian Nights tale, but with modern amenities. “It has that flying carpet thing going on.”
“Not that again.” His smile faded, and he rubbed at his temples.
“Sorry. I’m known to give people headaches. Do demons get headaches?”
Kasdeya took a deep breath and blew it out. Eliza knew that move. She’d watched her mother, David and just about everyone else in her life do it many times.
“Is the room to your liking? I thought you would feel comfortable with these…things.” He gestured to the furniture uncertainly as if he had carved the intricate woodwork himself and was concerned for her approval. The Fifth Satan was a complicated guy—big, buff, dangerous, easily startled and oddly ill at ease. Did he need something from her? Perhaps he didn’t hold all the cards.
“You didn’t answer my question. Are. We. In. New. York?”
“More or less. Would you like to be in New York?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then we are.”
A mild tremor rolled through the suite. An earthquake in New York?
“Did you do that?”
He cocked his head to one side and studied her. “I thought you said you wanted to be in New York. Well, we’re here. Or there. You are a very confused woman, and you’re beginning to confuse me.”
“Why don’t you tell me what the fuck is going on, Mr. Kasdeya? And if you tell me not to curse, I’ll…I’ll curse again.”
“I will warn you that some of the answers you seek may come as a bit of a shock.”
“As opposed to rain stopping in midair? Try me.”
The last thing Eliza expected was for her captor to strip off his black T-shirt. “Dude, there’s no need for that!” Surely he wasn’t going to accost her? He shook his head subtly, as if he read her thought and wanted to ease her mind. “Look at me.”
“I’m looking.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him if she tried. Like an artist had wrapped a masterpiece of sculpture with velvety skin and breathed life into it, Kasdeya was exquisite. He moved his arm to point at the band of golden script that circled one bicep, and his stomach rippled, down to the ridges of muscles framing his slender hips.
“When was the last time you saw a man without a shirt, Eliza? I’m pointing to my arm. Look at it.” She glanced at his face instead. His smirk of satisfaction annoyed her.
“Oh, so big deal, you’re gorgeous. Get over yourself. All right, let me see your damned arm. I noticed that in pharaoh land. Skip the mumbo jumbo and tell me what it says and why I should care.”
“I don’t know what it says. You’re supposed to tell me. You’re my Keeper.”
“What the hell does that mean anyway? Like a zookeeper? When’s your feeding time? Damn, my head is killing me again.”
“You’re probably hungry. Come, let us dine and we can discuss things casually.”
“Oh, lovely, yes, let’s have a nice little chat over dinner. A night out on the town? Perhaps drinks first?”
“That sarcasm does not suit you. You will want to freshen up of course.”
Markhat’s new client is already dead and buried—or is he?
The Cadaver Client
© 2009 Frank Tuttle
The Markhat Files, Book 4
Humans, Trolls and even the halfdead have all passed through Markhat’s door—more than once—seeking his services as a finder of missing persons and lost loves. This is a first, though. This time, his client is a dead man. At least that’s what Granny Knot claims. But as long as the coin is real, Markhat has no trouble working for a guilt-ridden ghost.
Trouble is exactly what he finds, and soon he suspects his client, ghost or not, has darker motives for finding his estranged wife than the reconciliation he claims. Left with a cadaver for a client, a spook doctor for a partner, and Mama Hog as advisor on all things spiritual, Markhat must unravel a dark mystery ten years old, and do it before another grave is filled.
Maybe his own.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Cadaver Client:
You stay in my business long, you develop a sense for trouble. And even if you don’t, when six stalwart strangers pull up their sleeves and crack their manly knuckles in near unison while the tallest and widest of them fixes you in a glare and says, “Hey, you,” you know you’ve just landed in the proverbial wrong place at the unfortunate wrong time.
I stopped and raised my hands.
“Whoa there, gentlemen,” I said. “My name is Markhat. I’m a finder. Licensed.”
They weren’t having any. They rushed me, covering the dozen steps between us at a run.
There are a couple of things you can do when you find yourself unarmed and outnumbered six to one. You can stand your ground and put up your fists and laugh in their bullying faces, or you can follow me in a spirited retreat and hope your pursuers just enjoyed a very heavy meal and are wearing high-heel shoes three sizes too small.
They hadn’t, and they weren’t, and I was never much of a sprinter.
I went down, tackled and flailing, right in front of a dressmaker’s shop window. I caught a brief glimpse of a lady’s upraised hand and look of horror, and then numerous beefy fists fell hard about me and the last thing I recall is hoping I didn’t spoil her day out shopping.
“Boy.”
I tried to cover my ears and roll over.
“Boy.”
Someone dashed water in face, and I came to, sputtering and mopping my face.
It did open my eyes though. At least my right eye. My left one was swollen nearly shut, and that taste in my mouth was blood.
“See what you done to him? I ought to hex the lot of you!”
I groaned and tried to remember things. That was Mama’s voice, but how had she gotten mixed up in this?
My right eye cleared enough to let me see.
I was seated in an office. Mama stood beside me, shaking a tiny stuffed owl at a burly, red-faced man seated behind a massive, oak desk. The man looked worried. The two men flanking him, who stood at perfect Army attention, looked worried as well.
Mama snarled and gave them all one last good shake of her owl before turning back to me.
“You hear me, boy? You back at your senses yet?”
I tried to nod an affirmative, but that just made the room spin.
“All they done was rough him up some, Missus Hog,” said the big man behind the desk. He wrung his hands while he spoke, and his knuckles were white. “They didn’t break no bones.”
Big man he might be, but his tone and demeanor toward Mama was anything but tough.
“Yeah, they were gentle as lambs,” I managed. I looked the big man straight in the eye and spat old blood on his fancy Kempish rug. “I just hope nobody got bruised when they ganged up on me.”
I swear the big man blanched.
“Mister Markhat,” he said. He rose and came around the desk and put his hands behind his back. “They thought you was nosing around, maybe looking for a place to rob. They didn’t know who you were.”
“Hell they didn’t.” I spit again, out of pure spite. “I told them who I was. Told them that I was a finder. Right before they dived in swinging.”
Mama puffed up, and I thought the man—who was a good head taller than even I am—was going to break out in tears.
“Mama,” I said as I worked my jaw and probed the top of my head for fractures, “tell me what’s going on.”
Mama snarled. I swear she snarled, and her general lack of teeth did nothing to reduce the ferocity of it.
“This here big pile of stupid set his bully-boys on ye.” Mama’s Hog eyes were cold and merciless. “Once they’d done beat you half to death, one of ’em found that finder’s card you carries. They brung it to Mister Smart Britches here, and he knowed of a finder named Markhat what was a friend o’ mine, so he fetched me here to see if’n you was you.”
My hand went to my back right hip pocket. It was empty.
“Now, we got all your possessions right here, Mr. Markhat,” said Big Pile of Stupid. “Nothing missing. Money, city-issued finder’s card, pad and pen. All safe and sound.”
I grunted. My head was spinning again. But I was glad they hadn’t thrown that finder’s license in the gutter—damned thing costs me half a crown a year, and like everything else issued by the City they don’t hand out free replacements.
“So why the special greeting?” I asked. There was a knot on my head the size of an egg. “What did I do to rate all this?”
Mama gruffed and started to say something, but the big man dove in instead.
“My name is Owenstall,” he said. He almost extended a hand for me to shake, thought better of it and stomped back behind his desk and sat. “Regency is my neighborhood. My men and I keep it safe and orderly.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
Key of Solomon
Cassiel Knight
Trust no one…except the one who walks in the dark.
Relic Defender, Book 1
Anthropology PhD candidate Lexi Harrison never bares it all when she belly dances for a strip club crowd. She doesn’t have to—she’s that good. Every performance earns money toward her degree, and restores the sense of power that her painful childhood ripped away.
Something is different about tonight. A man whose silver gaze seems to touch her skin beneath her veils. When a rowdy customer crosses the line, he comes to her rescue with the speed of a falcon—complete with wings.
Mikos Tyomni has never seen anyone dance the raqs sharqi like Lexi. Trust his tormentor, Archangel Michael, to put him in close contact with the cause of his downfall: a mortal woman. Particularly this mortal woman. The Defender. He has only thirty days to win her trust before Hell’s deadliest demons attempt the mother of all prison breaks.
No matter how sexy the messenger is, Lexi’s career plans don’t include some crazy idea that she’s the last line of defense against the forces of evil. Until her university mentor’s murder leaves her holding the key to Hell. And fighting a losing battle against a passion with the unholy power to bring down Heaven…
Warning: This title contains a dark and sexy fallen angel, bad-ass demons, a heroine with kick-assitude tossed together with mythology, archeology and a shape-shifting rock with a fondness for the gangsters of the 1920s.
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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, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Key of Solomon
Copyright © 2011 by Cassiel Knight
ISBN: 978-1-60928-372-8
Edited by Bethany Morgan
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: March 2011
www.samhainpublishing.com
Key of Solomon: Relic Defender, Book 1 Page 28