The Abduction of Persephone: The Untold Story
“He turned slowly, as though some unseen force had finally outweighed his resistance. His eyes were darker than usual, and beneath his skin the faint glow of his runes seemed uneven, fraying at the edges like light strained through cloth.”
“Moisture gathered on the walls, tracing thin silver lines that seemed to hiss where they touched warmer stone. Somewhere deep within the rock, the slow grind of immense forces shifted, as though the Underworld was moving its bones.”
“The void below stretched down farther than Persephone could see, its depths lit by violent flashes of crimson and icy blue. Heat and cold surged in alternation, as if two ancient forces wrestled in the dark.”
“He stepped closer to the ledge and stared down at whatever the great chasm below was willing to reveal. Its response was a deep rumble, followed by a low shudder that moved through the stone, sending a hairline fracture to appear between his boots.”
“A roar rose from the depths and a pressure that felt like a vast exhalation made the ledge tremble. Flashes of light struck upward like inverted lightning, forcing Persephone to shield her eyes. She feared for Hades; this god-man who could stand at the edge of such an ancient fury and think he was immune to its wrath.”
“The vial is where it should be, tucked into his pocket like it knows its job. Damien’s thumb finds the cap, making a move so small it could be a muscle twitch. Clause Nine sits behind his right eye like a migraine he cannot admit to.”
“A jacaranda petal drops and lands on the pool. It should ride a ripple. Instead it rests where it falls, accepted like a small flag pinned to a map. The woman in black watches the petal settle and only then addresses Damien without turning her head.”
“The word arrives like a hand on a lintel. The Pact of Thresholds is a bureaucrat’s poem: doorways, gates, lips of cups, the moment before, the moment after, no predation across Houses without a mark in the Ledger.”
“He doesn’t promise. Promises are contracts written by people who don’t know how to count. The oak stair under his shoe accepts him with the reluctant courtesy wood gives his kind. The chandelier at the landing hums a single note meant to be inaudible. He hears it.”
The Watchers: A Story of First Contact
“They are not truly of this human species, though their silhouettes mimic them. They have been among the humans for generations, their light dimmed to match the shadows around them. Some are clothed in synthetic skin, their faces made from patterns found in crowds, with features designed to evoke no particular memory.”
“From wherever they stand, they are motionless yet alive with anticipation. Their spines hum with a pulse that echoes our own. They do not know this, but they have been waiting since before they had a name. We seeded their existence to act as conduits between our mind and the human minds.”
“The humans remain still. They do not blink or stir, yet a ripple passes through them: a faint widening of pupils, a collective intake of breath so subtle it is almost imperceptible, even to us. Instinct whispers danger, but their bodies no longer answer instinct. We have subdued their reaction centers; fear has been muted to curiosity, resistance to awe. This is necessary. It always is.”
Fresh Blood: A Danny Arbor Investigation (Book 1)
‘Christ.’The light had revealed something, something Arbor had not expected.‘What is it?’ said Jenny.‘You’d better not look,’ he said.