The
Serpent’s Fate
Vigilati
Series
Book
3
J.K.
Hogan
Genre:
Paranormal Romance
Word
Count: 100,000 words
Cover
Artist: KHD Graphics
Book
Description:
Can
a traumatized veteran-turned-mercenary who is tormented by voices in
his head be saved by the love of a wayward single mother with demons
of her own? Afflicted by PTSD from serving in Afghanistan, and
tormented by a childhood trauma, transient veteran Matthieu Rousseau
struggles with the choices he's made in his life. Estranged from his
family, Matthieu drifts from one mercenary job to the next, until one
thing stops him. Fate.
In
hiding from her abusive ex-husband, musician Fate Callahan lives in
New Orleans with her seven-year-old daughter. She remains in constant
fear of being found, and her worst nightmare comes alive when a dark,
dangerous stranger tells her he’s been hired to locate and kill
her—but wants to save her instead.
Fate
and Matthieu find themselves on the run together, fleeing from the
hitmen and an unseen evil worse than anything else they’ll face.
While just trying to stay alive, they become entangled in the battle
between the Vigilati and the Lochrim; an archaic sect of witches and
the evil creatures they are bred to fight. Unbeknownst to Fate and
Matthieu, they are more deeply connected to the Vigilati than either
of them could ever imagine.
They
must join family and allies of the Vigilati to help save the human
world, possibly saving each other along the way. Matthieu teaches
Fate how to trust in love again, while she gives him back the one
thing he never thought he deserved—family.
Excerpt:
Fate
shot upright in her bed, on instant alert as she looked around the
dark room. Something had woken her, she was sure of it. But there was
nothing there. Her room, seemingly the whole house, was dead silent,
yet she knew she had to have heard something.
While
her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she climbed out of bed and put on
a thin robe over her tank top and shorts. She crept towards the door
to her bedroom, treading lightly while still listening for anything
out of the ordinary. Her hand froze on the doorknob as she remembered
Matthieu’s whispered plea to keep the door locked.
She’d
planned on obeying—but what if their pursuers had made their way
into the house? What if they’d taken out Matthieu? Fate wasn’t
about to wait in her bedroom for them to come and get her, the
perfect gift-wrapped sitting duck.
She
had to make a quick decision. Turning the lock, she stepped out into
the hall and listened. Finally, she heard it…a pained moan coming
from somewhere in the living room. It was barely audible, yet
excruciating—as if someone were gasping out their last breath.
Matthieu.
Fate
hurried into the open living room which was washed in pale moonlight
from the large picture windows. She didn’t see anything at first so
she started to turn toward Matthieu’s bedroom, when she heard the
sound again, much more faint.
It
came from the couch. Panicked, she rounded the end of the overstuffed
sofa and looked down; sure she was going to find Matthieu bleeding
out on the supple leather. He was there, but with no physical
injuries that she could see.
His
body was completely tense, back bowed off the couch but arms and legs
straight, as if they were bound. But his face...his face was screwed
into a twisted mask of indescribable pain—jaws clenched, teeth
bared, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
She
watched as he seemed to struggle against the invisible bonds, and he
let out another one of those death-moans. The sound tore at her and
she was drawn to it, helpless to do anything but try and stop his
pain. Yes, he’d made her promise never to wake him—but maybe she
didn’t have to. Maybe she could soothe him, ease his pain, while he
still slept. It was worth a shot.
Climbing
onto the couch over him, she straddled his hips and stared down at
his pain stricken face. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered, and
grabbed his thick wrists, one in each of her hands.
She
felt her body convulse as she was violently ripped from her own
consciousness and thrown, head-first, into Matthieu’s.
I’m
in the dream, Fate thought. She was in Matthieu’s nightmare and,
more than that, she was Matthieu. For that moment in time, she had
his thoughts, his memories. She was inside him.
She
found herself strapped down by the arms and legs to a metal table,
surrounded by men chattering in a language she’d never heard, but
somehow understood—because Matthieu did. Looking down at her
body—Matthieu’s body—she saw that it was covered in blood that
oozed from dozens of open wounds. They were too shallow to be fatal,
but enough to cause immeasurable pain. No wonder he’d cried out.
Finally,
the men stopped yelling, and one who seemed to be the
ringleader—Patang—approached her. He gestured to one of the other
men, who opened the door of the dank, dungeon-esque room. A third man
came through tugging a bound soldier, an American, and pushed him to
stand in front of them.
Fate
felt Matthieu’s stomach constrict and his heart begin to pound. A
name flickered through her mind, just a whisper – Striker, one of
Matthieu’s team members—a brother in arms. Striker’s captor
kicked at the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel in front of the
leader, before taking out a wicked looking knife.
“Last
chance, Sergeant,” he said in that guttural language. “Who sent
you? Who’s pulling your strings?”
Matthieu
hesitated, and the man holding Striker pressed the knife closer to
his jugular. Fate could hear Matthieu’s thoughts racing as he
stared at his friend in what could possibly be his last moments
alive. Striker knew that Matthieu wouldn’t give up his unit—in
fact, as Matthieu’s eyes connected with the other man’s, Striker
stared him down and gave him an almost imperceptible shake of his
head.
You
were trained for this, Rousseau, he told himself. They couldn’t
sacrifice the entire unit, the entire mission, for two men, and they
both knew it. Slowly, with his heart clenching in his chest, Matthieu
turned his face to the leader and glared, then looked back at
Striker.
The
leader obviously took it as confirmation that neither soldier was
talking. With a stiff nod to his subordinate, Patang stood there,
detached, as the man pulled the sharp knife across Striker’s throat
and let him drop.
Fate
felt Matt’s pain, but also his conviction. He wouldn’t grieve
much for Striker, knowing the man had died the way he lived,
protecting his country. But he would grieve the rest of his life for
Riksa.
She’d
had enough. She wanted to be back to herself. I need to be me, she
repeated, and concentrated on pulling her thoughts from Matthieu’s.
Finally, she felt herself separate, but much to her disappointment,
they were still in the dream.
The
insurgents had gone and left them alone with Striker’s cooling
body. Fate cringed and tried not to look. Instead, she concentrated
on Matthieu. She could see him now as she stood beside the torture
table. He was strapped down by his arms and legs, covered in blood
from the agglomeration of wounds that marred his body.
His
face was turned towards her, but his eyes were on Striker. She wasn’t
sure if he’d be able to see her anyway—then again, she didn’t
really know the rules of invading someone’s dream. It had never
happened before.
Matthieu’s
body was racked with violent tremors and tears were running down his
face, mingling with the blood to create ghastly red streaks from the
corners of his eyes. After a few moments of silence, he threw his
head back and let out an anguished roar.
Fate
had had enough. No one deserved to suffer this much. Heedless of the
blood, she stroked his face with a gentle hand. “Matthieu, it’s
time to wake up. Let it go, for now.” She was startled when he
stopped screaming and grief-stricken eyes locked onto hers.
Fate
was slammed back into her own body with the force of a freight train.
But it didn’t dislodge her from her perch on Matthieu. Her hands
remained wrapped around his wrists. Good thing, too, because he came
up swinging.
Well,
he would have, but Fate concentrated all of her energy on holding him
down. His body raged and bucked beneath her as he tried to dislodge
whatever was weighing him down. She just held on as tight as she
could.
“Matthieu,”
she said in a calm voice that belied her trepidation. She repeated
his name over and over until his violent motions stilled and his eyes
began to focus. A deep, dark chocolate, his eyes finally rested on
her face and widened. While still cautious, Fate let go of his hands
but kept her position on top of him.
Matthieu
looked disoriented as his eyes bounced around the room, likely trying
to get a handle on exactly where—and when—he was.
“Hey.
It’s me. You had a bad dream, but you’re here in New Orleans. La
Maison de Rousseau, remember?” she asked with a quirk of her lips.
Finally
he nodded and threw a heavy arm over his face. She couldn’t see his
eyes, but the tears that seeped down his cheeks were clear as a bell.
His muscles took up that full body shudder he’d had in the dream,
and his big chest began to convulse.
Swallowing
down her fear, Fate lifted his arm away from his face and held his
head still so that he was forced to meet her eyes. She stroked his
scarred cheek—realizing that the injury had to have happened before
the torture—and spoke softly to him.
“Matthieu,
you have to let it go.”
“How
can I?” he said. His voice cracked as his body was shaken with
another brutal shudder.
“Tell
me,” she answered. Without a thought, she ran her fingers through
his hair and found it softer than she would have imagined. He tensed
and she was sure he wouldn’t speak, but then he did.
The
whole story poured out of him in stuttering gasps and sobs—he told
her about the mission, the bomb, the civilians who’d been killed.
So that was who Riksa was. He told her about his injuries, to his
eyes, ears, and throat—and, yeah, that explained the voice.
He
told her about getting captured, and being tortured by Patang and his
crew. She was horrified by what they had done to him, but she forced
herself to keep calm. Finally, he told her about Striker—SFC
Vincent “Striker” Perelli—and how he’d essentially signed the
man’s death warrant.
When
it was all done, he looked so destroyed, so miserable, that her heart
went out to him. She leaned forward and took his face in her hands.
“You were doing a job and still, you did everything you could to
try and save Riksa. And you did exactly what Striker had
wanted—expected—you to do. You have to let this go, and forgive
yourself.”
“I
don’t think I can.”
“Try,”
she said, and leaned over to touch her lips to his.
About
the Author:
J.K.
Hogan has been telling stories for as long as she can remember,
beginning with writing cast lists and storylines for her toys growing
up. When she finally decided to put pen to paper, magic happened. She
is greatly inspired by all kinds of music and often creates a
“soundtrack” for her stories as she writes them. J.K. is hoping
to one day have a little something for everyone, so she’s branched
out from m/f paranormal romance and added m/m contemporary romance.
Who knows what’s next?
J.K.
resides in North Carolina, where she was born and raised. A true
southern girl at heart, she in the country with her husband and young
son, a cat, and two champion agility dogs. If she isn’t on the
agility field, J.K. can often be found chasing waterfalls in the
mountains with her husband, or down in front at a blues concert. In
addition to writing, she enjoys training and competing in dog sports,
spending time with her large southern family, camping, boating and,
of course, reading! For more information, please visit
www.jkhogan.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment