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Dream Weaver Novels
Category:
Young Adult/Teen
Publisher: Dream Weaver Novels w/CreateSpace
Type: Fiction
Pages: 877
Copyright: Aug. 6, 2014
Price: FREE! (eBook)
Vampires sparkled through the spotlight. Then the zombies shambled through. Now it’s time for a new supernatural. The Dream Weaver Trilogy is a dark romance, action/adventure thriller and survival story of mind-benders and mind-jackers. DREAM WEAVER is an International Book Award Winner & 5 Star Novel; a dark science fiction meets YA romance with a little tragic style. An absolute must read! A deep and wild, dark novel!
Nickolas Benedetti is a Dream Weaver - an ancient, arcane and almost immortal race, descended from angels, with the power to command memories and dreams. Nick plunges heart-first into Emari Sweet's tragedy-torn life to rescue her from the night terrors that stalk her after the death of her parents and brutal assault. But, can he save her from the living, breathing nightmares that have followed him to her doorstep?
In ROCK STAR Emari lives the dream of being a rock star in an elaborate memory weave created by Dream Weaver Sabre James; and faces her own mortality at the hands of Sabre's longtime nemesis bent on vengeance for the death of his beloved sister. Immortality and magic unearth treasures and secrets that some would rather keep buried. And the biggest secret of all could destroy everything.
In BREAKING NORMAL, Does 'normal' even exist for Emari Sweet anymore? Normal is all she's wanted since the death of her parents, but with the Wraith, Thomas, out for her blood, and the betrayal of Nick, Em doesn't see normal returning any time soon. Will her relationship with Nick survive? And will any of them survive the destruction of the malevolent Nightmare Wraith?
Excerpt
Dream Weaver: Dream Weaver Novels Book 1
By Su Williams
Prologue
Nick
Incorporeal I drift, camouflaged against the shimmering snow, no more than a sparkling flurry in the wind, dancing just on the precipice of light shielding me from her—and them. I am her aegis, her defense from the darkness that presses in on her from without, evil cloaked from her eyes. I feel her inner darkness’ pull on her; hear it call her name.
Vivid images whose birth I cannot fathom—whether from within her heart, or tailored for her torment—still, after all these months accost her sleep and crush her soul. Yet, her screams tear the night and my heart less often than before. Surely, she is strong enough to endure some terror; no lifetime is without it. Such a gentle soul so tethered and weighted by so much loss, so much grief. I have mended what I can of her damaged mind without wholly purging her memories. At least I can dull her pain, callous her tender heart.
I know the unwritten code: ‘There are mortals, and there are immortals, and never the twain shall meet.’ Still, I find myself here, hovering on the fringe of the woods just outside the halo of light that wreathes her home. And they haunt the darkness, hidden within the shadows. I sense them, though not how near. I shudder at the consequences if they discover my presence. They would kill her, or at the very least brutalize her—just because they are able, just for my torment, the fresh nightmare of her torture a delicacy on their lips as they devour my memory.
They are changing, such aberrant evolutions we have found in their kind of late. Creatures so like us, spoken from the same heavenly breath, yet worlds apart. Their sustenance makes them monsters, even evil. They grow stronger pillaging the gifts of our kind and using them as their own and leave us worse than dead. For this cause, I feel powerless, mortal.
She knows nothing of my world, few mortals do, and it is only because of a promise and her safety that I enter hers. I vowed to protect her at any cost, with my life if necessary. And something of her draws me in, her heart to mine. It wakens an ache, a passion that long ago I laid to rest, deep beneath the sodden earth, entombed in company of my mortal life.
My heart aches with indecision. Should I go to her, risk her life perhaps to save it, or leave her be to strengthen from the terror?
CHAPTER 1 Going Under
Night terrors stalk my sleep and haunt me through each day. I am never free. Macabre phantoms, twisted metal, flames and the sound of my parent’s screams, their cries for salvation. And I would give it—if I could, if the realm in which I live and the terrors in which they died were equal.
In time, my gasps for air and life abated. I learned to live without the press of suffocation on my lungs. At the least, I was treading water with some hope of survival. But monsters strike even in the shallows, even when you’re feet from shore and almost standing on solid ground.
The subtle bumps of a predator, like a shark in the deep, reawakened the terrors. And I lived in fear of the jaws ripping through me and dragging me under, lost again to the darkness of terror. The darkness that has nothing to do with light or sleep.
I am Emari Sweet, sole survivor of a crash I was never in. The crash that claimed the lives of my beloved parents Zecharias and Jane Sweet. The crash that left me orphaned at seventeen. The crash I foresaw in the eyes of the State Trooper before the words formed on his tongue. Cold and hard, the words turned my blood to hardened steel and eviscerated me. My soul twisted and shredded.
I lived with the terrors for many weeks after that. My best girl, Ivy, kept my body functioning, the basics for sustenance of life. She kept me Earthbound and alive when I’d rather have been neither. She guided me through an icy summer that tumbled into autumn like the leaves off a tree.
Adrian Rovnikov, my father’s best friend, my shrink since the crash, brought me drugs—antidepressants. But they are only safe in the right hands. In mine, they are death. So, before I caused irreparable harm, the pills went the way of dead fish.
Dreams of an angel with eyes of obsidian wound their way through the darkness until they finally displaced the terrors. His gentle hand calmed my writhing body, drew out the poison of the chimera, and guided me back to life. The dark-eyed angel faded as my darkness dawned into light. Yet, even when the terrors diminished, the torment hovered nearby, stalking my sanity, prepared to strike at any show of weakness.
Winter’s chill cast a mantle of white over Spokane. Trees wore shimmering nacreous cloaks that rivaled the grandeur of their summer dress greens and fall’s autumnal oranges, reds and yellows. The city lay calm and peaceful under winter’s frigid embrace and my heart still ached under the frost of grief. I hid it from all but the most discerning eyes.
The tumble of seasons brought more than cold; the real monster lurked in dark corners and phoned me at work, promised me pain and fear.
* * *
Daylight masquerades as dusk, the clouds heavy-laden with snow. An arctic blast extends its arm, balling its fist to bludgeon the car from the road. Brake lights flash a glaring red. The tires whir and whine on the frozen asphalt, seeking elusive purchase. The wind flings the car across three frosted lanes. Panic twists my father’s face as the car fishtails out of control. His frantic hands, hands that can do anything, build anything, grapple uselessly at the wheel. My mother’s face is fear-white, her mouth a perfect ‘o’ that disappears beneath her small, stark hand. A wall of white emerges out of the flurry before the windshield, but not of snow. Cement. Massive and merciless. The shiny new sedan plows into the bridge abutment, lifting Mom’s side of the car into flight. Giant sparkling snowflakes of shattering glass fly into the air as the car rolls over and over. Metal screams and moans in protest. Finally settling on its top, the car slides across the icy black tarmac, a path of broken scattered pieces in its wake.
Upside down, my mother’s pallid face appears at her window. Violent crimson drenches her hair, a severe contrast against her spectral skin. Her dazzling emerald green eyes, my own eyes staring back at me, implore for my help. Pounding hysterically, her knuckles split and bleed, smearing the window in a web of red. The roar of fire drowns her cries, flames that now return the light to the day, and vanquish the masquerade.
Like a pin-hole camera, the light etches the panic and fear on my mother’s face onto my retinas and deep into my brain. The blaze scorches my eyes, boil my tears. Searing heat and the horror of looking into the faces of my mother and father as the flames devour them forces me to turn away. My body finally crumbles onto the cold freeway, in exhausted agony. I crush my ears with my hands to block out the maelstrom. Their haunting screams reverberate in my ears, echoes of the torment resounding throughout my body.
The reality of my own screams awoke me. I bolted upright and clutched my head. My body trembled and rocked, soaked in sweat, as I manically searched for a thread of truth. My breath rasped from my lungs that thrashed against the smoke-that-wasn’t.
Comforting gazes from my black and white movie monsters centered my thoughts. Bela Legosi, both Lon Chaneys, Boris Karloff and even Vlad Dracul himself, with his large round piercing eyes, crowded the walls of my black and white bedroom. Vlad was the only true monster there, but somehow I found a strange compassion for the man, given his tortured history. My glossy companions brought my heart an odd comfort.
* * *
Ninety minutes later, I sat in Adrian’s office and debated with myself just how much to tell him. I didn’t need the ‘Emari, you should come stay with us’ lecture again. I’d proved to the Spokane Courts that I was capable in every way to be considered an adult, and was granted emancipation.
“Nightmares again?” Adrian asked.
“Ya think?” I wasn’t being rude. We were just beyond fluff and formality.
“Any idea what the stress trigger is this time?”
“Um…” I squirmed against the soft red leather of his couch. “There’s this guy…”
A small conspiratorial smile crept onto Adrian’s face while I paused, contemplating.
“Uh, no. I mean a bad guy. He’s calling me. At work. Like phone stalking me.” I hated admitting even this little bit to him, but most of the time his psycho-babble really did help.
Adrian leaned across the desk. His eyes narrowed and deep canyons grooved his forehead. “And just what is being done to stop him?”
Great! Just what I need. ‘Protective-daddy’ mode.
“It’s all good.” I waved him down. “My friend, Jesse escorts me to and from my car every day and Collin keeps one of the Loss Prevention guys in the department as much as he can.” Despite playing it off as no big deal to Adrian, a cold uneasiness squirmed through me like night crawlers.
“Is he only calling you at work?” The Doc was in full-on interrogation mode now.
“Yes. Only at work. But it’s weird. It’s like he’s watching me but the LP guys never find anyone.”
“Tell me you’ve called the police.”
“Sure, sure. Nothing the cops can do unless the guy actually kills me or something, though.”
Adrian sat back in his chair with a harrumph of frustration, the ‘daddy-look’ still plastered on his face. “Emari…”
“Adrian. Don’t even start.”
“Then, why are you here?” he retorted.
“The night terrors? You’re supposed to say a bunch of ‘shrinky’ kinds of things to make me feel better.”
So he did. And when he was done, he walked me to the door. He gave me the usual ‘be careful’ and ‘buckle up for safety’ speech; something he and Dad must’ve gone to school together to learn.
Then he gave me his best fatherly hug. I had to admit, his arms truly did feel like the safest place in the world.
“See you for Thanksgiving?” he asked.
“Sure, Uncle Adrian. Kiss Celeste and the kids for me.” He wasn’t really my uncle. Just my father’s closest friend in the world.
“Of course. See you then, Emari.”
“See ya.”
I shambled into work after my meeting with Adrian. Ivy saw me for the zombie I was, so in contrast to her perky pixiness. Her ornery smile wavered as I drew nearer but she reined it in. She’d given up months ago with the ‘you look like hell’ comments. Visine and Covergirl couldn’t wreak miracles that big. She opened her arms and I stepped inside.
“You okay?” she whispered.
I stepped out of her embrace. “Sure, sure,” I said with a grin and a quote from one of our favorite books. The marbled blue of her eyes softened into limpid pools, so vast any guy could swim in them. I tucked a wisp of her soft brown hair behind her ear. “Let’s get to work.”
She pinched my arm playfully as she released me. “Collin’s got LP scheduled in an hour, but Blake came early, off the clock,” she informed me as we sorted children’s clothing to reshelf. “Jess’s gonna be pissed you didn’t wait for him.”
Jesse DeLaRosa was the closest thing to a real life Prince Charming in my world. He was instantly likeable, flirtatious in the sweetest way, easy at being a fast friend, faultlessly kindhearted. His ingenuous smile lit up any room, a constant feature that graced his lightly bronzed face. He sang or whistled while he worked, no matter how mundane or dirty the job, a lingering accent, from his days as a child in Puerto Rico colored his speech. He was a couple of years older than Ivy and me, but he clicked with our dorkiness and we’d become best friends. He’d taken it upon himself to be my daily escort—even on his days off.
“He’ll get over it,” I told her, but inwardly I hoped he wasn’t too mad at me.
Every time the phone rang, it jangled our nerves. Ivy’s hand lashed out with the speed of a viper to protect me from innocuous callers.
“You can’t field all of the calls, Ives,” I said after the fourth call.
“I can try,” she replied with a smug half smile.
The stalker wouldn’t call with Ivy there, and we both knew it. He would wait until she went on break, as though he had a bird’s nest in the middle of the department. He wanted me alone, separated from the pack, vulnerable.
Ivy reluctantly took her break and Blake haunted the racks. Despite my anticipation, adrenalin shot through me like an ice river and my heart banged against my ribcage when the phone rang. I watched Ivy’s shadow disappear from sight as I reached a quivering hand to the phone.
“Children’s Department,” I choked out. Collin instructed us not to give our names until this ‘situation’ was resolved.
“I see you,” the voice purred gruffly. I envisioned a lion crouched in tall grass. Rigid, poised for attack. His words were soft and succinct, as though masking something from me, but the smooth lacquered surface didn’t camouflage the menace that roiled underneath—like the delicate crust of cooled lava veiling the molten lake beneath.
Blake’s eyes locked on my face as he lurched away from a rack of boy’s jeans. They followed the silent nod of my head. The muscles of his line-backer physique hardened as he prowled the department.
“I’m sorry. What was that?” I delayed. My voice quivered with anger, to my dismay. I wasn’t scared. I was pissed. But I knew he would read it as fear—just what he wanted.
“Your rent-a-cop won’t catch me.” The lion’s throaty warning growl. His voice turned acerbic, his need to induce fear sparked electrically through the phone. “Nah. He’s not even a rent-a-cop. Not even a pathetic mall cop. Just some punk kid they hired to baby-sit the store.”
Baby-sit? Either this guy’s full of crap or he’s freakin’ huge. I was betting on full of crap.
He chortled at my unease, and I heard something familiar but untouchable in his voice. Like I knew him from somewhere—and that pissed me off even more. “What the hell do you want?” I demanded.
“Just you,” he said slowly. He sniggered again with a ghoulish glee and the line went dead.
“Damn it!” I slammed the phone down and turned with a start. A customer, a woman with a little boy about five, glared at me with righteous indignation. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I just…it was…there was this guy.”
She harrumphed and stormed away, towing the boy in her sanctimonious wake. No doubt to complain to my manager.
So. Let her.
Blake shuffled up to the quad, what we associates at Cash’s Department Store called our customer service desks. “Sorry, Em. No luck.” He looked every bit the defeated athlete, his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets making his shoulders and arms bulge.
“It’s all good. He’ll get bored eventually and go away.” I hope.
Dream Weaver on Amazon - http://mybook.to/DWNovels
Rock Star: Dream Weaver Novels Book 2
By Su Williams
Prologue
Nick
They are present.
Escaped.
Living.
If you can call their existence life.
They stand in the distance lobbing bombs of torment to my mind.
I fight.
They win.
He was the catalyst to her harm, the one I love above my own life. He pulled the strings of the one who beat and broke her, took away the innocent place in her heart and destroyed it.
She comes to me in innocence. She trusts me with her world. And yet…I manacle her wrists, bruise the tender flesh. She cries out, and I muffle her cries with my hand. My hands. That do things to her that I would never do. My lips that speak things my lips would never say. I wound her. I break her. I take her. As if I had a right. As though she were mine to command, to use.
I awaken in sweat-drenched clothes. Calling her name. Screaming for it all to stop.
They are present. And we must find them, and stop this evil they wield against us all.
Emari
Chapter 1 The Rock Show
“Cuimhnigh! Cuimhnigh!” the crowd chanted. The 8150 arena was already sultry with fan sweat, and pyro and hazer smoke from the warm-up band; they were heavy into the flash and bang, shock and awe. My eyes already burned from the glycol smoke; which was actually cool, because the extra blood flow or something amped up the green of my eyes; made them more intense.
My eyes were my prominent trademark—trademark for the band; they appeared on every CD cover from the first. Rarely had I found a person with eyes as green as mine, at least not without some serious lenses. They’re emerald green, a gift from my mother, sparkling semiprecious gems. My eyes were enchanted, a magnetic spell cast on fanboys—and some girls, too—that magicked their hearts to mine.
But the eyes weren’t my only magic. Funny how being a musician has that affect on people; how they just want to be with you, to touch you, to talk to you. The charm heightens their awareness, charges every neuron in their brain and body until they do things they wouldn’t normally do, say things, give you things, give you themselves. But, I don’t generally like to take things. I’m a giver. I tried to be, mostly. You kind of have to be, to be any kind of artist. You have to give. Like giving your soul. It’s personal, intimate. You reach deep down inside and pluck out who you are and present your ‘self’, palms open. “Here I am. My heart and my soul. Take it.” And you blindly trust that they will cherish your gift, treat it tenderly and hand it back to you in one piece.
“Cuimhnigh! Cuimhnigh!” the chant thundered through the wings. In American, it sounds like ‘Come nigh’. Probably most Americans think that’s how it’s spelled too; probably think it means ‘come near.’ But in its native language, Irish, ‘cuimhnigh’ means ‘remember.’ Our subliminal plea to be held in the hearts of the masses, forever.
The roar of the crowd brought me out of my reverie and back to reality and Vail, Colorado’s 8150 Club. Show time. Kylen locked wrists with me and hauled me off the green room couch. “Time to rock, Sweets.”
“Yup. All right guys. All in.” I extended my arm in front me, palm up. Palm up to catch the blessings that rained down on us. We were a secular rock band, but we still believed we were blessed. If not, our fans surely did, and those adorations were gratefully received. Kylen placed his upturned hand on mine. Jack added his next, Drey came next and Yvy topped off the stack, palm down—to hold the blessings in. We joined the chant of the crowd, pumping our stack of hands in the midst of our circle. “Cuimhnigh! Cuimhnigh! Cuimhnigh! Let’s Rock!!!” We broke apart, revving ourselves up for the show. This was our pep rally. We’d done this before every show since the first. We were superstitious that if we didn’t, the show would be a flop. Granted, we’d definitely played a few stinkers over the last couple of years or so, but none that were complete disasters.
Jack left the green room first. He would warm up the crowd—as if they needed it; the club was virtually effervescent with this hot mob tonight; but, rumor had it, the 8150 always was. The rest of us haunted the wings on either side of the stage, absorbing the vibe that rushed the stage in raw waves. Nerves gave way to passion as Jack’s drum solo swelled with the fervor of the crowd. The throb of his bass drum thrummed in the rhythm of my heart. Lights and lasers flashed across the stage, never fully illuminating any one place, turning the venue into a surreal other world. I sucked in one last calming breath, stepped out onto the stage, and followed the glow in the dark arrows to my mike.
“Ladies and gentleman,” a light flashed on behind me, defining my silhouette at the front of the stage. “On drums, Mr. Jack Leonhardt.” A group of spot lights converged on him. The crowd cheered riotously and Jack thundered a fill. “On lead guitar, Mr. Kylen Toth.” The lights raced to the guitarist. The crazed crowd erupted as Kylen added his smooth, seductive guitar to the drums. “On rhythm guitar, Mrs. Yvy Iusi.” The roar continued as Yvy’s anointed fingers stroked the strings of her guitar. “On bass guitar, Mr. Drey Iusi.” The crowd stomped to the thump of Drey’s bass. “And I’m Emari Sweet,” the spotlight flooded me, “and we are,” I paused for dramatic effect, but the crowd beat me to it. “Cuimhnigh!”
The energy was raucous and deafening, and totally alive and thrilling. Energy so sated with devotion that there were no words to describe it, as it filled the arena, gorging every corner and spilling into the night beyond the walls. I closed my eyes and spread my arms to absorb the waves that passed over me. They were hot and sweet and violent and passionate. It was a tangible energy that washed through the room like the ocean. Like standing on the beach of some alien planet, where the waters were electric and celestial. Like nowhere else in this world or any other. And this was home. Nothing else mattered at this moment. This was my drug of choice.
As the intro music bled into the chords of our first song, my foot struck something solid at the base of my mike stand. I didn’t remember sandbags during rehearsal. Searching the stage, I also noticed the tie-downs on all the PA equipment; our stacked monitors were strapped to anchors on the stage. I looked out over the audience who was now bouncing to the pulse of the band. My head swam and I grabbed my mike stand for support. Kylen grinned and strolled, half-drunkenly, to my side. He leaned close to my ear and shouted over the music. “Welcome to the 8150 and the bouncy stage!”
My eyebrows crunched together as I surveyed the stage and audience, once again. Sure as hell, the whole damn stage was moving with the crowd’s enthusiasm. Holy…It didn’t take long for the bounce to become a part of the fevered intoxication. This would be a high to remember. The bounce and zeal inebriated each of us.
Sometime during the second set, as tradition and perspiration dictated, I stripped off my soaked vintage tee, typically a gift from a fan, whirled it over my head and launched it into the audience. My eyes followed its tumbling arc into the uplifted hand of a man whose eyes caught and captured mine. I stumbled over the lyrics and an anchoring sand bag; and felt, for the first time ever, remotely abashed in my black skinny jeans and cherry push-up bra.
His eyes were crazy blue, so dark they were almost black, radiant with some unknown energy that mesmerized me. And to top it off, he was hot, more closely resembling a rock-god than any of us on the stage, with his tousled black hair, perfect, pouty lips, carved cheekbones and those amazing eyes.
I had to pull away from his gaze before I lost my way completely, and threw myself back into the concert. Toward the end of the set, I allowed myself a glance in his direction, in the hopes I could send a roadie after him to bring him to me back stage at the end of the show. But, to my utter disappointment, he was nowhere to be found.
I pined over the inky-eyed stranger, as I soaked in the hotel shower after the show, and obsessed over those incredible eyes. The steamy water coursed over my skin, rinsing away the layers of sweat and hazer smoke. Once I’d scoured myself clean and toweled off, I slipped into my holey sweats, and under the covers of my queen-sized bed and let the thoughts of the handsome stranger drift away.
Our accommodations here in Vail were actually very nice. Most promoters took very good care of the bands they booked through their venues, making sure we were well fed and had a decent place to flop after the show. Most even realized there were girls in Cuimhnigh and made sure I had my own private room, and, of course, Yvy could sleep with her husband. Although, in the early days, there were a few misinformed, or uncaring, promoters out there.
My memory drifted to a house that we were supposed to stay at in one town. ‘The Band House’ they called it. We pulled up to the dumpy, dilapidated house, ready to crash for the night after a problematic show, a long ‘meet and greet’ afterward, and drinks at a great dive bar with a couple of fans; only to find a party raging full bore. There was a keg perched on the dining room table, surrounded by dozens and dozens of hard liquor bottles; bongs smoldered on the coffee table and hookahs still oozed who knew what. We were sure the more ‘potent’ stuff was being dealt in the back rooms, away from prying eyes. And we didn’t want to know what could be occurring in the beds we were meant to sleep in. None of us said a word; just turned around and left. Cuimhnigh didn’t glorify drug use like some bands, and by the looks of things, the house could’ve been raided at any moment. None of us had any criminal records and didn’t want to start. Not with the tour going so well. Needless to say, we paid for our own accommodations that night at a Super 8ish type of motel. At least we had relatively clean beds, and Kylen was always willing to share.
My mind wandered to a place that we laughingly, now, called the Spider Inn. We’d heard of the Roach Motel; hell, even stayed at a few. But they didn’t hold a candle to the Spider Inn. The promoter put us up in a motel on the outskirts of town; a long, white, L-shaped, two story building, with turquoise trim and cracked, rusty, white-painted wrought iron railing. I refused to hold the handrail as I dragged myself up the steps to our second level room, because of the massive spider webs anchored to the rail. There were no less than four huge webs, and at the center of each was a spider bigger than a fifty-cent piece, with their horny legs all splayed out in a way that, I’m sure was very spider hot, but only served to creep me out.
I glanced along the railing and found every few feet, the baby spiders had weaved their baby webs every two to three gaps. I groaned, hoping the room would be my sanctuary, but it didn’t take long to find a web stretched across the corner of the ceiling in the main sleeping area and another in the bathroom. I showered only out of sheer necessity and desperation, and shook out my clothes before I dressed to make sure there were no cling-ons. Kylen had chosen the bed furthest from the spider web and I pattered across the threadbare carpet and launched into the bed beside him.
“Are you my bed buddy tonight?” he asked chuckling.
“Yep. As long as you protect me from him,” I nodded toward the web and its occupant.
“Oh, him. Well, he and I have had a convo and have come to the understanding that if he stays away from me with his multiple shoeless feet, I’ll stay away from him with my shoed ones.”
“Hmph. Well, I don’t trust any creature with too many eyes and legs no matter what the agreement is.” Regardless, I snuggled down next to Kylen’s warm body—after I’d nearly stripped the bed and searched all around it and through the sheets and blankets for any other arachnid-type crawly things. Kylen chuckled again as I wiggled and squirmed to warm up the blankets. Crisp cotton hotel sheets always felt like they were stored in a deep freeze. Kylen’s amusement disintegrated. I jerked and twitched all night long, sure his agreement had been broken. Every tickle of thread or brush of breeze elicited a physical response. The dark circles under his eyes in the morning proved he’d gotten no more sleep than I had. He grumbled dirty words at me that Jack seconded, and swore we’d never bunk together again. Yeah. Until next time.
I returned from my journey down memory lane and the warm soft blankets that enshrouded me. The guys were only yards away, in an adjoining room, and this room seemed reasonably spider-free. I hunkered down and escaped into the world of a book, where the scariest creatures were humans that turned into wolves when the bite of winter touched their skin. I sighed at the comfort and safety of this fantasy world, and read until my lids drooped and sleep drew me under.
Rock Star on Amazon - http://getbook.at/Rockin
Breaking Normal: Dream Weaver Novels Book 3
by Su Williams
Prologue
Sabre
I never believed much in fate—vile loathsome creature as she is. Once upon a time, when her light danced in the eyes of my beloved flaxen-haired beauty—then, so young and naïve—I might have believed. But I watched her light depart the eyes of my darling—watched their celestial blue harden into glaciers.
Yet now, I see that same light dance in Nickolas’ eyes. His whole soul is immersed in hope, despite the girl’s shunning him at every turn.
She blazed into our home, a cyclone of fury and fire, and pillaged his memories as violently as any Rephaim in my lifetime. She ransacked his mind, and perhaps may have left him a broken empty shell, had I not dragged her, kicking and screaming like a banshee, away from him. She knows not yet the extent of her powers.
I watched him crumble in upon himself—broken-hearted, grieved for the loss of her love that he’d finally won, and loathing his own soul for his betrayal. He is not a man to take his promises lightly, but this oath has cost him everything he holds dear—it has cost him her.
Lost and melancholy, he pines in silence, hovers ever near over her cottage—unable to touch the heart that once was his.
Chapter 1 Saint Anger
Nick
She teeters on an edge not even I can bring her back from. All that she is, and all that she’s ever known, lies shattered at her feet. A reflection of her soul. And I—I cast the stone that broke her.
* * *
Emari
My heart blazed with rage. So hot. So heavy. Cohesive thought betrayed me. He betrayed me. Two words became my mantra, stoked the fire inside me: ‘You. Lied.’ Even sleep was disloyal and I sought retribution. I sought freedom that would not come, because of what I am. Because of what I’d become. Forced t0 live an eternity with the grief that oppressed me. I must find freedom. I must find it anywhere.
“Double Fireball, neat,” I droned to the bartender. I’d searched online for the appropriate terms, so I didn’t sound too inexperienced.
He poured the drink. “I’ll need to see some ID, miss,” he said as he placed the drink on the bar and cupped his hand over the glass, as though to guard it from some wily juvenile delinquent.
I might’ve been a newbie at this Dream Weaver thing, but I could weave believable lies. I slipped the license from my back pocket, held it out to him and wove my tapestry of deceit as my fingers grazed his skin.
“Well, you surely don’t look twenty-one, Miss Sweet, but I’d know a fake ID if I saw one.” His eyes were glossy with the aftermath of my weave.
“Here’s my card. Run a tab,” I told him and handed him my debit card.
“Are you driving tonight, Miss Sweet?”
“No, darling. I’ll be flying home.” I giggled and he nodded as though he got my private joke. Since my plummet to my death, and subsequent reincarnation as a quasi-immortal Dream Weaver, I savored the gift to phase wherever I wanted to go. They were my only moments of autonomy—soaring, drifting, free. Free of imprisonment to my corporeal form. The form that suffered every stitch of pain.
Three doubles and a half dozen Jello shots later, I staggered toward the door. The frigid night air bit at my cheeks as I stumbled to the trees behind Cinola’s Pizza just up the road from my house. I released myself to the inebriation, and shifted and drifted on the breeze in the general direction of home. I didn’t care if anyone saw me, and only the thought of Eddy home alone kept me on course.
He was the there when I phased under the carport. I could feel him hovering near, skulking behind the trunk of the massive blue spruce at the corner of the yard. Him. The liar. The one who betrayed my trust. I spun to face him and whirled in like flaming blizzard in front of him. Gathering his shirt in my fist, I slammed my knuckles into his chest. He cringed.
“Stay. The hell. Away from me!” I screamed in his face. His features twisted with misery, but I didn’t care. I didn’t give a damn about his pain, his despair or his apologies. He’d caused me enough pain in a few short months to last a lifetime. “Understand?!”
“Emi. Please,” he begged.
“Don’t call me that.” I shoved him away and bobbled on my feet. He lost the right to call me that.
“You’ve been drinking,” he accused.
“So what if I have. It’s none of your business.”
“Please. Don’t destroy yourself like this. This is all my fault.”
“Damn straight, it’s your fault. You burned the bridge. So just…” the booze was befuddling my snark. “Just—go away.”
His mouth fell open with a retort, but I didn’t wait to hear it. I faded away and into my home, and left him there with his mouth hanging open.
Nick
My treachery is more than she can endure. I should have told her. Should have been forthright. But I didn’t, and I wasn’t, and I can’t even explain to myself why. I can make excuses that not even I believe. It was easier in the beginning, before I fell in love with her, to justify my secrets. The more I loved her the harder it was to confess. The stakes just grew too high.
I thought the savagery of the Rephaim was brutal, but when it’s someone you love that extricates something that should have been theirs…I still shuddered at her ruthlessness. Her words echoed in the emptiness of my heart. You lied! In her heart, I am judged and found guilty of deception. And the secrets and promises I fought so hard to keep have destroyed us both.
Rhianna’s ‘Take A Bow’ pierced the crisp air around me, and even I questioned my own sincerity. Then, Disturbed’s ‘Deceiver’ rumbled from her home that vibrated the halo of mist enshrouding it. I wondered if she was building a playlist of songs she’d searched out about lies and deception. When she reached back to the 1980’s with ‘Fake Friends’, I was sure of her playlist, and received her message, blaring loud and clear. But still I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t take the chance that she might hurt herself, destroy herself—because of me.
Breaking Normal on Amazon - http://viewbook.at/BreakingNormal
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