Kindle Edition
Amazon
cwschutter.com
Category:
Fantasy
Publisher: Create Space
ISBN-10: 1497421683
Pages: 156
Copyright: March 22, 2014
ISBN-13: 9781497421684
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
Book Two of School of Shadows continues the adventure of the Nephilim teens and the unlikely romance between two Nephilims on opposing sides.
Where do you look for someone who's supposed to be dead? The apocalyptic adventure starts again with Destiny's inability to forget the paranormal romance she shared with Liam. Adamant that Liam didn't die while saving her and the rest of their Nephilim team's lives, Destiny's positive her gift of knowing hasn't failed.
While the English aristocrat, Nicholas, comforts her during her time of grief, Liam is resurrected from near death and a forty day coma by his billionaire Uncle Zarek using Nephilim science. Only one problem—Liam has amnesia. He slowly recovers only memories Zarek spoon-feeds him, but it doesn't include Destiny.
As Liam struggles to deal with horrific images used to brainwash him into believing he's a vicious assassin, he becomes convinced a girl with turquoise eyes who continues to float into his consciousness, holds the key to the truth about his past.
Meanwhile, the entire Nephilim team is invited to Dragon Downs, an Irish castle that Nicholas' ancestor built hundreds of years ago. The estate grounds are overlooked by a huge dragon gargoyle on top the roof. The team's arrival at Dragon Downs sets off a chain of curious and sinister occurrences from dragon and UFO sightings in the sky, animal mutilations, and crop circles. The townspeople are convinced Shadow Academy's students have caused their woes.
As Destiny draws closer to Nicholas, Liam recovers his memories. An alarming feeling sets in. Destiny is in danger. The truth comes with a shocking revelation about his dilemma. Can he save Destiny without condemning himself to an eternity in hell?
Book Two in the School of Shadows series continues on a dangerous road of surprises and strange, apocalyptic revelations thousands of years old, pointing to what may be the last days of earth as we know it.
Excerpt
I was born for the second time on the Fourth of July with no recollection of
my first life.
I woke up in a tub of warm mud. The sounds of a parade drifted in the
hospital window. I looked out at red, white, and blue festooned everywhere.
A noisy brass band played and soldiers of all ages marched behind singing
out of tune. The cacophony of undisciplined veterans amidst the cheering
crowd celebrating old war victories somehow fit me, an eighteen-year-old
suffering from multiple gunshot wounds waking up from a forty-day coma.
To add to the mystery of my origins, a curious man arrived and said in a
voice trying too hard to be affectionate, “My dear boy, you're awake at last.
I've been terribly worried about you since you were rescued in the Sinai
Desert.”
“Who are you? And what was I doing in the Sinai Desert?”
The stranger cleared his throat and raised one eyebrow. His odd tricolored
eyes flashed green for a moment before turning back to benign hazel.
“You don't remember me?”
A distant memory fought its way through to me and I tried to shake the
fog from my brain. “Uncle…Zarek?”
“Bravo! Uncle Zarek it is. Your closest and only relative as well as your
guardian and mentor.” Uncle Zarek's full, rubbery lips stretched into a
clownish smile that reached almost ear to ear. “What else do you remember,
my boy?”
“I don't remember being in the Sinai. What was I doing there? Is that
where I got shot?” I grimaced. “One of the doctors told me I turned eighteen
a week ago. What's a teenager doing in the Sinai getting shot?”
Uncle Zarek clicked his tongue and wagged his forefinger at me. “I
suppose you're going to tell me you don't remember being on assignment
there.”
“Actually, no,” I said chewing on my lower lip.
My uncle rolled his eyes and sighed. “My dear boy. You're an assassin.
And a very good one at that. Unfortunately you were wounded when a group
of marauders attacked you.”
My eyes bugged out. “An assassin? As in murderer?”
Uncle Zarek waved his hand in dismissal. Except for a golden claw
attached to his right forefinger, his fingernails were painted black. “Don't get
excited. I wouldn't exactly call you a murderer who kills out of passion or
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pleasure. You, my dear boy, are an executioner, an enforcer who kills with a
purpose—a higher purpose. Quite different from a common butcher.”
“A killer by any other name is still a killer. I'm only eighteen, how could
I be a lethal assassin? Have I killed a lot of people?”
“Hmm, speaking of names, although your family calls you Jaza, the
name your parents gave you, to the rest of the world your name is Liam.”
Uncle Zarek scooped white powder from a lacquered pill box with his golden
claw and snorted it. As he raised his eyes to stare at me, his pupils appeared
to inexplicably spin.
Who was this freak anyway? He wasn't just odd, but untrustworthy. But
since no one else claimed me or paid for my medical bills, and until
memories of my previous life surfaced, I slipped into my given role. The
Egypt story must be true. What else could possibly explain my bullet-riddled
body?
Everything about my situation was strange. I lost memories, but had a
sense of normal. Being the only patient in the hospital was not normal, even
if one's uncle was a billionaire.
The staff followed Zarek's orders, unusual because he wasn't a doctor or
schooled in medicine. Nevertheless, I healed so quickly, I didn't complain.
The treatments Zarek ordered continued, like IV concoctions. I took twicedaily
mud baths smelling of sulfur, followed by massage. A strange machine
sent mild electrical shocks all over my body. I slept in a hyperbaric chamber.
As a result of the special care, I regained amazing skills and powers, some of
them supernatural.
The world I found myself in was a curious place—full of magic,
sorcery, demons, and weird Uncle Zarek. Zarek was a colorful character, but
he introduced me to someone who made him pale in comparison.
Grigori Armer, a movie star handsome, world-famous magician
appeared in the midst of a blazing fire in the middle of Zarek's throne room.
Zarek called this unique way of traveling known only to people with powers,
like us, translation or transportation. We could transport our bodies through
space from one place to another in seconds. Armer, I was to find out, like
Zarek, did everything with a dramatic flourish.
When the smoke cleared, Armer raised an eyebrow, studying me as if I
were a prized horse for sale. Nodding in satisfaction, he bowed like a
musketeer of old and flourished his cape and announced, “Grigori Armer,
your other uncle. Just call me Armer. We're not formal here. I'm the one who
taught you sorcery, illusion, and the black arts. Of course, you still have a
long way to go.”
There was something magnificent, fascinating and totally terrifying
about him. Curious, I watched him on YouTube. Amazing.
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3
Another world-famous magician groused, “None of us can figure out
how Armer does his tricks. The thing about it is, I knew him before he
became famous. He was a third-rate magician. Makes me wonder if he didn't
make some kind of pact with the devil.” The magician smiled as if to tell the
world he was just joking. But his eyes belied his words.
When I woke from my coma, I was a blank page. Both uncles, Zarek
and Armer, as I was told to call them, eagerly filled my pages up with notes.
One chilling fact haunted me–I was an orphan and a cold and ruthless killer.
By the end of July, Zarek decided to test me. He studied me as he
slowly walked in circles around me. Stopping to feel my muscles he purred,
“You look battle hardened, but are you?”
“I feel good,” I said, feeling like a specimen under a glass.
“We shall see,” he snapped his fingers. A huge hulk of a man with a
lantern jaw and veins popping out of his skin walked towards me. “Meet
Keman. Keman's a skilled mixed martial arts cage fighter. Time to find out if
you've got back all your skills.”
Gold grills on Keman's teeth threatened brutal savagery. He approached
with clenched his fists and the confidence of a wild beast stalking an easy
prey.
Terror jumped on me. But suddenly I knew—fear was my enemy. The
thought curled into my brain and rippled through my muscles. I could take
him on if I crushed every shred of doubt.
Breathe. Block out anxiety. Put fear in a box. Isolate pain.
Ready to take him on without apprehension, I smiled.
Keman paused. Confusion flickered in his eyes.
Big mistake.
Before he could get into defensive mode, a 360 spinning kick to his
chest swiftly followed by another helicopter kick to his jaw, and he staggered
backwards. The third and last helicopter came so fast it knocked the wind out
of him and down he went, a surprised grunt escaping his lips.
I raised my fists in victory as searing pain shot through my legs.
Zarek stood, clapped his hands, and shouted, “Bravo!”
With sweat dripping down my brow, I walked over to Zarek. He threw a
towel to me. As I mopped away perspiration, I asked, “How did I do that? I
don't remember practicing that move.”
Zarek smirked. “You acted instinctively, my dear boy. It wasn't just
your muscles that got hooked up to our amazing machine to keep it from
atrophying, we hooked up your brain to one that helped you to remember
your skills.”
Most people would envy me. Uncle Armer was a world-famous
celebrity. Zarek was a billionaire who lived in a quirky mansion in a town
that can only be described as macabre. Beats me why he chose to live in a
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crystal meth-ravaged town like Armon. But getting to know my uncle, the
grotesque nature of the town synched with his freakish personality.
Then Zarek ordered me to kill a teenage girl.
“It's what you were born to do,” Zarek declared, a clownish smile
affixed to his face, “you are the ultimate assassin. Besides, she may only be
sixteen, but she's a danger to our people. Don't let her age or innocent face
fool you. She's dangerous to our cause.”
“What is our cause?” I asked.
“To obey our Prince. Our reward is we get to rule the world,” he
snickered. “Isn't that what everyone wants?”
I couldn't tell whether Zarek was joking. Because in this life, I still felt
like an infant. I tried to soak up whatever information I could without making
judgments. Although I didn't like what I was ordered to do, I tried to remain
impassive when commanded to kill. Was my soul absorbed into the
blackness of a coma? Or maybe the sulfur-smelling mud drained it out of me.
Scenes of murders flashed through my mind in grisly detail like a dark
and violent movie. Either I’d been conditioned to feel nothing or I was
born—bad. Whatever the case, I didn't think of murder as being right or
wrong. Murder was my job. Just as a private in the military blindly follows
orders from officers above, I obeyed the Prince of Darkness because I was a
soldier in his army. Until I found out otherwise, I accepted my profile and
did as I ordered.
Which is why I transported to a hiking path in Vancouver's Stanley Park
to kill a sixteen-year-old girl in the pouring rain. The tree branches lining the
path bent under the mist. The gray and haunting, mystical woods wound
down to the restless sea beyond.
The unseasonable weather, and the girl, made my mission too easy.
Bundled against the elements in a slick, heavy poncho, the girl lagged far
behind her group. She stopped now and then to get a closer look at the flora
and fauna carpeting the wet ground.
What were these people doing hiking in the icy rain anyway? Why
didn't anyone tell this sodden young girl it was dangerous for her to fall so far
behind the safety of her group in the treacherous fog?
Plotting to kill her from behind, I approached. Zarek gave me the exact
location to materialize. She wore the same orange galoshes he had showed
me online. Trained to be alert at all times and unusually perceptive, I didn't
have to see her face to know who she was. I reached out my hand, but she
turned around and smiled at me.
I held my breath. Young and lovely with innocent blue eyes that
sparkled even in the mist. The rain plastered dark blonde hair to her forehead
and cheeks. She looked like she’d stepped out of the shower, dripping wet,
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clean skin and eyes without a trace of make-up. She could have been thirteen,
but I knew what she was behind her innocent façade.
With one swift motion I grabbed, silencing her with one hand over her
mouth. Taking my dagger out of its sheath, I intended to plunge it deep into
her heart. Her body shuddered against me as her eyes widened with fear.
I hesitated.
“Stop right there!” A deep voice commanded.
A policeman’s gun trained on me. If he fired, the bullet would go right
into my brain. There'd be no coming back from that.
“We've got you covered,” another voice threatened from behind.
I whirled around with the girl still gripped in my arm. Another officer
stared me in the face. The cap shaded his eyes from the rain and dripped
rivulets down his jacket. The grim line of his mouth was unmistakable. Like
the other officer, he’d shoot to kill.
Where did they come from? Why didn't I detect their presence?
I loosened my grip on the girl's mouth and heard her murmur, “Thank
you, God.”
They weren't ordinary cops. I felt the force of their power before I
dropped the girl.
An anxious voice cried out of the swirling mist, “Jessica!”
I transported out and appeared soaking wet before my uncle. His eyes
hardened as he focused on the knife dripping water instead of blood all over
the spotless glass floor.
“You failed,” he said, contempt written all over his face.
Shaking from the cold as well as the realization of what I almost did,
tears dribbled from my eyes and mingled with rainwater. My soaking wet
boots prevented my emotions flashing colors underfoot from his chakrasensitive
floor. But all Zarek cared about, was that I didn't kill the girl.
*****
Standing in my steam shower later, I let the hot water rain down on me
and wash the stink of fear off me. I cried. Somehow, it didn't fit my profile.
Shouldn't the ultimate assassin be used to killing by now? Why did I
hesitate? Did the innocence of the victim get to me? And how could such a
girl be a threat? The girl, Jessica, had a radiance not to be snuffed out at such
a young age. Her death gurgle would have haunted me forever.
I closed my eyes. A woman's soft voice floated towards me from afar.
The water shooting at me from multiple jets garbled her words. Yet, the
sound of her voice pierced my heart. I opened my eyes—the steam had
turned inky black and swirled around me, drowning her voice and
suffocating my emotions in confusion.
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I shook my head. “I’m Jaza, descendent of Semjaza, powerful fallen
angel who ruled the earth along with the Prince of Darkness. Anything I
desire, is mine for the taking. Except my memory. I need to be strong. I have
no time to waste on pitiful human tears and emotions. I'm a mighty man and
warrior to the Prince of this world. The only regret I should have is that I
failed to carry out my mission.”
I had to fulfill the rest of my assignments without regret. But Zarek
decided I needed more therapy. He hardened me with a steady diet of blood
and gore in movies and pictures. I listened to a steady stream of murderous,
antisocial music. Zarek also imprinted more horror on my brain through cruel
video games in my spare time. Everything calculated to desensitize and
systematically brainwash me.
I read children in war zones were anesthetized to brutality like children
in the inner cities of America who grew up amidst egregious violence. The
article sounded an alarm. Children who watched blood-soaked movies,
listened to warped lyrics, and played disturbing video games, were as numb
to real violence as those who actually lived amidst it.
Zarek’s depraved mind created many of the horrific video games. A
source of his wealth, along with his investments in the entertainment
industry, spread from violent movies, music, and his tainted ideas even
wormed its way into the media.
The savage violence was harrowing as I watched babies, teenagers, men
and women of all ages sacrificed, tortured, and killed. I murdered hundreds,
maybe thousands, of people playing the extreme video games, never killing
them the same way.
Zarek expressed his contempt of most murderers. “They murder for
themselves,” he said as he shot his newest girlfriend up with heroin. “They
kill out of greed, lust, or insanity. There's no purpose or art in the slaughter.
Just madness. Unlike many serial killers—like Jeffery Dahlmer, who
consumed his victims, or the grandfather of all serial killers, French
nobleman Gilles de Rais. He was a true artist who raped, tortured, mutilated,
and killed with finesse young boys, and sometimes girls. A murderer of the
first degree, his only flaw was after bathing in their blood, he cried, prayed,
and recited litanies like a wimp. And to think the murderer of two hundred
children once fought with Joan of Arc! What delicious irony,” Zarek
laughed.
Zarek's laughter chilled me, but I kept my emotions in check, not
wanting the chakras to betray me.
According to Zarek, a professional assassin needed to act like one. But
unlike the monsters Zarek admired, I couldn't imagine I once took pleasure in
killing. I hoped I wasn't like Gilles de Rais, sorry for the slaughter I
supposedly caused, but a murderer nevertheless. I shuddered and reminded
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myself I was a soldier of war—nothing more, nothing less. It was my duty to
take lives without question. As both my uncles said, killing was my destiny.
Then why did I feel so conflicted?
But soon after my failed mission, I met someone who claimed to have
known me before I woke up in the hospital bed.
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