Welcome to the 7th annual A to Z Blog Challenge in April!
Come back daily for more exciting posts and even some giveaways!
Today is P for Pockets of Darkness
** CONGRATS to Jean for the book being named a Finalist for Best Paperback Original in the 2016 International Thriller Writers Awards **
Excerpt: Pockets of Darkness
** CONGRATS to Jean for the book being named a Finalist for Best Paperback Original in the 2016 International Thriller Writers Awards **
Welcome to multi-published author Jean Rabe, who's talking horror and sharing an excerpt of her latest, Pockets of Darkness. Be afraid. Be very afraid... and be sure to comment for a chance to win a copy of one of her many books!
Dark Days Ahead
By
Jean Rabe
I
hadn’t started out to write a horror novel. It was supposed to be light,
irreverent urban fantasy. But it kept getting darker.
And
darker.
And
so I’d inadvertently written a horror novel wrapped in the dress of an urban
fantasy. And I’d like to do it again.
I’ve
never considered myself a fan of horror fiction, though I read the occasional
Stephen King. (Everyone should read the occasional Stephen King.) I’d attended
the World Horror Convention once because it was less than a two-hour drive and
the guests of honor were Neil Gaiman and Gene Wolfe, the latter of which became
a good friend.
Here’s
the beginning of Pockets of Darkness,
available from WordFire Press. (Contains some adult language.)
Yeah,
I think I gotta write me another dark book.
About the Book:
Bridget O’Shea is a mother, a successful
business woman, an expert on antiques…and a thief, a damn good one. But when
she steals an ancient relic from a Manhattan apartment, she acquires a curse in
the form of a Sumerian demon. The demon wants something from Bridget, killing
people she cares about to force her cooperation, and it will continue to kill
unless she meets its demands. Next in the demon’s sights? Bridget’s teenage
son. Bridget must learn to communicate with the demon, divine what it wants,
and satisfy it to keep her son alive. But she soon discovers that mollifying a
creature from the pits of hell could damn her soul and send the world into
chaos. Bridget never wanted to be a hero. That’s for suckers. But now, she has
no choice. She has to find a way to best the beast and keep its kin from
reemerging, or . . . well, there really isn’t an “or.” She has to win.
One
Elijah rocked back on the heels
of his Brunello Cucinelli wingtips. He drew his collar up and fixed his gaze on
the weathered sign hanging slightly askew above the door: Don’t Judge a Book . . .
By what? By its cover, the saying
went.
His mind replaced the ellipsis
with something more fitting: by the neighborhood it’s sold in. This was an
abysmal borough, and the buildings—this one in particular—ought to be
condemned. The structures were grimy shades of gray, separated here and there
by darker charcoal smudges of alleys. Despite the cold wind that deadened his
senses he smelled grease and dirt and the biting odor of piss.
Elijah couldn’t remember when, if
ever, he’d been in a part of the city so beat down.
A siren’s wail sliced through the
air. Always he could hear sirens in the city. It just seemed a little louder
here, more desperate. There were other traffic sounds, too, but from beyond his
line of sight—the constant shush of tires against pavement oddly snowless for
the middle of January, the blat of horns. There’d been only a couple of cars
trundling along in this block, more rust than paint, their occupants eyeing
him, necks craning as they drifted past. Not a single cab. He’d taken one from
Hudson Street, but it dropped him off five blocks to the south. He’d written
the address of this bookseller wrong, transposing the first two numbers, and so
he’d had to hoof it for a stretch.
Don’t judge a book by the
absolute utter dump it sits in, he mused. After several minutes he had made no
move to step inside.
Elijah shuddered when three
teenagers swaggered past, one purposefully elbowing him to set him off balance.
“’Scuse me,” the youth laughed.
The trio stopped a few doors down
and huddled in conversation; the one who’d bumped him had a flat, angry face
and gave him a serious up and down. Elijah knew they were talking about him.
With any luck they’d mug him. His
appearance practically screamed: Come and
get me! Middle-aged white man in a sheepskin-lined overcoat, designer
shoes, thick leather briefcase at his side that looked a few decades out of
date, but by its bulk promising something interesting inside. He looked down at
the briefcase and sneered.
Elijah wore a Rolex. He worked
his arm so the coat sleeve came up to show the watch. It was 5:45. According to
a placard nailed to the door, the bookseller closed in fifteen minutes.
Please
come and get me!
he silently begged. Dear, God, let them
come and get me.
He’d been mugged a few times this
month and emerged with only a handful of stitches and bruises that he’d hid
beneath his expensive clothes and that had cleared up quickly. Just last week
he tarried at a Brownsville subway stop in the early morning hours when some
homeless looking man took the bait and beat him up. Didn’t take the watch, or the
briefcase, only his wallet and the virgin wool Armani jacket he’d been wearing
at the time.
He didn’t file a report with the
police, not then or the times before. The hoods were only after his cash on all
those occasions, and he never carried more than a few hundred. No serious
damage done, no lingering wounds or scars. Didn’t
muggers recognize a Rolex?
He’d tried the ploy again just
two nights ago, this time braving one of the subway stops in Washington
Heights. Two muscle-bound gang members with matching tats had been intent on
taking him up on his unspoken offer: Come
and get me. But a cop appeared on the steps, and they veered away. Tired,
Elijah had called it a night.
This trio? They might prove his
salvation and negate the need to enter the bookseller and shell out a
considerable amount of cash. He could weather one more beating, couldn’t he?
“Come and get me you sons of
bitches,” he whispered. “Come and fuckin’ get me. Come and take it all,
assholes.”
** Comment to win a copy of one of Jean's books. What's your favorite horror character and why? Be sure to leave an email to contact you.
Both the blurb and the extract are intriguing. Though I should add that I'm a little confused as to how Elijah and Bridget fit together... just something to figure out while reading the book, I suppose. Good luck with the rest of the AtoZchallenge.
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