Tara Walker dreams of more excitement than slinging plates of seafood for Cape Cod tourists, but as she learns when she is attacked and forced to fight for her life, fate sometimes has a funny way of giving you exactly what you wish for. Faced with strange new powers and embroiled in a murder investigation, Tara must now race to uncover the secrets of the ancient Fury that has woken inside of her – and of the evil that stalks her.
As if Tara’s life hasn’t gotten complicated enough, she is forced to ally herself with Jackson Byrne, witness to her assault and uncle to a pint-sized oracle whose fate is intertwined with hers. Skeptical, stubborn, and oh-so-sexy, Jackson wrestles with demons of his own. He is determined to ignore the attraction rising between them even faster than the body count, but like it or not, he and Tara need each other if they are to unravel the mysteries that surround them.
I got up and stood over the body for a few
minutes, trying to think. I didn’t feel even remotely drunk anymore, but I was
exhausted and my head and arm were screaming at me. It was hard to think
clearly. The situation was majorly freaky and I just wanted to go home and
pretend it had never happened. But how could I?
He got what he deserved.
The voice came from inside my head, sharp
and sibilant, like when I’d hissed at the guy a few minutes ago.
“Oh, God,” I moaned aloud. “What’s
happening to me?” Clearly, I was losing my mind.
No one saw what happened, whispered the freaky- me voice again. No witnesses.
It was hard to focus, but the voice had a
point. The longer I stuck around, the more likely it was that someone would
come out of the bar, see me standing by the body, and accuse me of...something.
I didn’t know what had happened, but I knew it looked bad.
He got what he deserved, freaky-me said again and I propelled myself into action. My split
personality— or whatever it was—was right. The unmoving body at my feet was
hardly an innocent victim.
I leaned closer to study the...thing lying
next to Nora’s truck. It didn’t really resemble a man anymore, and after a few
seconds, I had to turn away. Its staring, bulging eyes looked at me accusingly.
Turning my back on it, I walked toward the
more brightly lit section of the lot where my car was parked, glancing back
over my shoulder every couple of seconds. I half expected the body to lurch up
and follow me, but nothing happened. When I reached the car, I debated whether
I was sober enough to drive, and finally reached the conclusion that whatever
had come over me, it had dissolved the alcohol in my bloodstream.
I let out a desperate laugh—some silver
lining. I was panicking, exhausted, and in pain, but at least I didn’t feel
drunk anymore.
I got in and put the car in drive, trying
not to think about what I’d left behind me. My palms were sweaty on the
steering wheel as I drove, fingers curled around it like claws, and I expected
to hear the wail of sirens the whole way home. Finally, I pulled into the
driveway. After fumbling with my keys for what felt like years, I managed to
stagger inside, and made it as far as the couch before I collapsed with my
shoes still on.
Before I lost consciousness, I had just
enough time to hope I wouldn’t wake to cops banging at the door.
Nicola R. White is no stranger to the fantastic. Although there are no Furies in her family tree (that she knows of), she comes from a small city on the east coast of Canada where ghost stories and superstitions abound. She has worked on movie sets, as a bartender, in a lighthouse, and as a lawyer, and though she’s never been an exotic dancer like her character, Alex Hughes, she does know how to pole dance.
She has always been fascinated by the strange and morbid, and often stays up too late reading books that give her nightmares. She believes truth is stranger than fiction, and just a few of her heroes are Buffy, Dana Scully, and Xena.
Nicola is a member of Romance Writers of America and Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada, and is an active member and supporter of the award-winning Romance Divas website and online forum.
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