Raven’s
Peak
World
on Fire
Book
1
Lincoln
Cole
Genre:
Horror/Paranormal Thriller
Date
of Publication: 7/4/16
ISBN:
9780997225976
Number
of pages: 280
Word
Count: 76,000
Cover
Artist: MN Arzu
Book
Description:
A
quiet little mountain town is hiding a big problem. When the
townsfolk of Raven's Peak start acting crazy, Abigail Dressler is
called upon to find out what is happening. She uncovers a demonic
threat unlike any she's ever faced and finds herself in a fight just
to stay alive.
She
rescues Haatim Arison from a terrifying fate and discovers that he
has a family legacy in the supernatural that he knows nothing about.
Now she's forced to protect him, which is easy, and also trust him if
she wants to save the townsfolk of Raven's Peak. Trust, however, is
considerably more difficult for someone who grew up living on the
knife's edge of danger.
Can
they discover the cause of the town's insanity and put a stop to it
before it is too late?
Excerpt:
“Reverend, you
have a visitor.”
He couldn’t
remember when he fell in love with the pain. When agony first turned
to pleasure, and then to joy. Of course, it hadn’t always been like
this. He remembered screaming all those years ago when first they put
him in this cell; those memories were vague, though, like reflections
in a dusty mirror.
“Open D4.”
A buzz as the door
slid open, inconsequential. The aching need
was what drove him in this moment, and nothing else mattered. It was
a primal desire: a longing for the tingly rush of adrenaline each
time the lash licked his flesh. The blood dripping down his parched
skin fulfilled him like biting into a juicy strawberry on a warm
summer’s day.
“Some woman. Says
she needs to speak with you immediately. She says her name is
Frieda.”
A pause, the lash
hovering in the air like a poised snake. The Reverend remembered that
name, found it dancing in the recesses of his mind. He tried to pull
himself back from the ritual, back to reality, but it was an uphill
slog through knee-deep
mud to reclaim those memories.
It was always
difficult to focus when he was in the midst of his cleansing. All he
managed to cling to was the name. Frieda.
It was the name of an angel, he knew. . . or perhaps a
devil.
One and the same
when all was said and done.
She belonged to a
past life, only the whispers of which he could recall. The ritual
reclaimed him, embraced him with its fiery need. His memories were
nothing compared to the whip in his hand, its nine tails gracing his
flesh.
The lash struck down
on his left shoulder blade, scattering droplets of blood against the
wall behind him. Those droplets would stain the granite for months,
he knew, before finally fading away. He clenched his teeth in a feral
grin as the whip landed with a sickening, wet
slapping
sound.
“Jesus,” a new
voice whispered from the doorway. “Does he always do that?”
“Every morning.”
“You’ll cuff
him?”
“Why? Are you
scared?”
The Reverend raised
the lash into the air, poised for another strike.
“Just…man, you
said he was crazy…but this…”
The lash came down,
lapping at his back and the tender muscles hidden there. He let out a
groan of mixed agony and pleasure.
These men were
meaningless, their voices only echoes amid the rest, an endless
drone. He wanted them to leave him alone with his ritual. They
weren’t worth his time.
“I think we can
spare the handcuffs this time; the last guy who tried spent a month
in the hospital.”
“Regulation says
we have to.”
“Then you do it.”
The guards fell
silent. The cat-o’-nine-tails, his friend, his love, became the
only sound in the roughhewn cell, echoing off the granite walls. He
took a rasping breath, blew it out, and cracked the lash again. More
blood. More agony. More pleasure.
“I don’t think
we need to cuff him,” the second guard decided.
“Good idea.
Besides, the Reverend isn’t going to cause us any trouble. He only
hurts himself. Right,
Reverend?”
The air tasted of
copper, sickly sweet. He wished he could see his back and the scars,
but there were no mirrors in his cell. They removed the only one he
had when he broke shards off to slice into his arms and legs. They
were afraid he would kill himself.
How ironic was that?
“Right, Reverend?”
Mirrors were
dangerous things, he remembered from that past life. They called the
other side, the darker side. An imperfect reflection stared back,
threatening to steal pieces of the soul away forever.
“Reverend? Can you
hear me?”
The guard reached
out to tap the Reverend on the shoulder. Just a tap, no danger at
all, but his hand never even came close. Honed reflexes reacted
before anyone could possibly understand what was happening.
Suddenly the
Reverend was standing. He hovered above the guard who was down on his
knees. The man let out a sharp cry, his left shoulder twisted up at
an uncomfortable angle by the Reverend’s iron grip.
The lash hung in the
air, ready to strike at
its new prey.
The Reverend looked
curiously at the man, seeing him for the first time. He recognized
him as one of the first guardsmen
he’d ever spoken with when placed in this cell. A nice European
chap with a wife and two young children. A little overweight and
balding, but well-intentioned.
Most of him didn’t
want to hurt this man, but there was a part—a hungry, needful
part—that did. That part wanted to hurt this man in ways neither of
them could even imagine. One twist would snap his arm. Two would
shatter the bone; the sound as it snapped would be . . .
A symphony rivaling
Tchaikovsky.
The second guard—the
younger one that smelled of fear—stumbled back, struggling to draw
his gun.
“No! No, don’t!”
That from the first,
on his knees
as if praying. The Reverend wondered if he prayed at night with his
family before heading to bed. Doubtless, he prayed that he would make
it home safely from work and that one of the inmates wouldn’t rip
his throat out or gouge out his eyes. Right now, he was waving his
free hand at his partner to get his attention, to stop him.
The younger guard
finally worked the gun free and pointed it at the Reverend. His hands
were shaking as he said, “Let him go!”
“Don’t shoot,
Ed!”
“Let him go!”
The older guard,
pleading this time: “Don’t piss him off!”
About
the Author:
Lincoln
Cole is a Columbus-based author who enjoys traveling and has visited
many different parts of the world, including Australia and Cambodia,
but always returns home to his pugamonster and wife. His love for
writing was kindled at an early age through the works of Isaac Asimov
and Stephen King and he enjoys telling stories to anyone who will
listen.
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