In the midst of getting ready for a busy weekend camping and packing up our house for the move in ten days or so, I’m lazy. BUT! I am not so lazy that you aren’t getting a blog post, as I promised. Instead of writing down some tips or giving you a rant, I’m going to give you a peak into my favorite book, Martyrs.
For those who don’t know, Martyrs is the first book I’ve ever written. I started it when I was fifteen, and since then it has evolved into an intensely complex, seven-book series. The first book has been rewritten three times and now stands on the shelf waiting for one of two things: another rewrite or a publishing deal. It really comes down to how that query contest turns out. That will help determine my next step.
That being said, this book is one of my favorite things in the world. There isn’t a day when I’m not thinking about it in SOME way, big or small. Hell, half the music on my iPod makes me cry because it reminds me of tragic things that happen in the book (SO MANY TRAGIC THINGS!).
So, here you go, guys! This sneak peek is from chapter three.
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“Here. Take this.”
Something warm was forced into Darius’s cold and shaking hands. He looked down into a ceramic mug. Steam wafted up from some golden colored liquid. It brushed against his face in a way that should have been welcoming, comforting, but Darius didn’t feel anything. The scent of sweetened tea did little to take the edge off the bitter stink of blood still caked inside his nostrils.
The waiting room was small, large enough for seven chairs to sit around the outer walls and touch arm-to-arm. The air felt thick and confining. It crowded in around Darius like an angry market mob. Though Darius had only been in the room for fifteen minutes, it felt like hours had passed since nurses had rushed Noel onto a stretcher and through the double doors to his left. Now, he was waiting.
Darius didn’t remember being lifted up from the black asphalt in front of the bar. He didn’t remember being laid into the back of the black SUV. He didn’t remember leaving the old bar behind and leaving the city. He did remember waking up. His eyes had opened to a sound he hadn’t heard in over a decade: an engine roaring through leather seats. The motion and memory had made him sick, and he’d heaved up the same thing he had eaten that day–nothing. Dry coughing had brought their attention onto him.
What was going on? His mind had grasped at straws, trying fruitlessly to remember what exactly had happened. The images swirled around his head, a blur of black and red until they arrived, until he walked out into the street and they came to his rescue.
And he didn’t know who they were. The blonde woman had turned around when she’d heard him retch. She hadn’t looked sad or scared, the way she should’ve looked after seeing the kind of massacre they’d left behind. Instead, she’d looked solemn, stoic, and all too accustomed to this kind of bloodshed.
That troubled Darius the most. Like she had been expecting something like this.