Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 83933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
On the run and determined to get home, Moriah heads for the City of Lux, where a rumored portal between worlds exists. At her side are the most unlikely of companions. A scrappy hustler, a cranky ex-mayor, and a growing beast-dog. But the one who fascinates her most is Jasher, a heartless executioner who hides a terrible secret. Together, they’ll battle bounty hunters, lethal poppies, and winged monsters. Though Moriah doesn’t yet know it, there’s nothing more dangerous than their forbidden attraction.
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CHAPTER 1
THE TWISTER
On an overcast Monday morning in December, I masked a boatload of stress with a carefree smile and carried a breakfast tray into my father’s bedroom. “Tell your appetite to prepare for greatness,” I called as orange juice sloshed over the rim of its glass. “I made my specialties. Burnt toast and rubbery eggs.”
“Thank you, sweetheart, but I’m not hungry.”
At the first sight of him, my carefully crafted expression wavered. More fragile by the day.
He lay in bed, propped on a mound of pillows, his lower half draped by a faded pink and white comforter my mother purchased ages ago. One of the few mementos we possessed of the woman we missed with every fiber of our beings. Once I’d owned her favorite ring, but I’d done the unthinkable and misplaced it. The loss still haunted me.
Dad’s attention shifted to the window, where muted sun rays streamed in. “A storm is brewing,” he intoned.
“I’ll hunt down some candles in case the power goes out,” I replied as cheerfully as I was able. Our generator died last month, and I hadn’t yet raised enough funds to repair it. “How are you feeling today?”
He pursed his lips. “Like I’ve been chewed up and spit out.”
“So much better than yesterday. Excellent.” Oh, how I hated lung cancer. In only four short months, the awful disease had ravaged the once ox-strong man, rendering him a shell of his former self.
As I set the tray on the nightstand and organized my father’s plethora of medications, sunken brown eyes beseeched me. I stifled a groan, knowing what was coming next.
“You shouldn’t have to be my nurse and do my chores and wait tables at a crappy diner,” he grumbled. “All to pay my bills.”
Bingo. “Daddy, please don’t—”
“You’ve got to let me go, Rye.” More desperate by the heartbeat, he reached out with a frail hand and clasped my wrist in a weak grip. “I know you’ve got no desire to return to college. Why not attend trade school? Those jobs are always in high demand. Think of it. Class in the mornings and fancy dates at night. Nothing would make me happier.”
We rehashed this conversation at least once a week. “First, I will never let you go. Second, I like what I’m doing now.” But he wasn’t wrong about having no desire to return to college. I’d struggled to pick a major and switched from creative writing, to business administration, to fine arts.
My talents began and ended with bringing to life the hideous dragon-esque monsters my mother wove into the fantastical fairytales at bedtime. The elaborate stories had centered around a hero king with power beyond imagining who died in battle but somehow lived on, helping his people defeat the evil beasts left behind. An artist at her core, she’d dreamed of writing and publishing a children’s book filled with her one of a kind sketches. I wished she had. I’d do anything to read it. My obsession with the beasts persisted to this day.
In high school and college, I’d failed almost every creative assignment. Paint sunflowers—F. I’d created a bouquet of monster faces. Mold a vase—D. I’d shaped a winged monster able only to hold a single flower between its fangs. Sketch yourself—A-. Honestly, that had been a shocker. The teacher praised my ability to recognize my “inner trauma.”
When my father’s diagnosis came in, I’d entertained zero qualms about packing up and heading home to tend to the family farm while he recovered. A decision I did not regret. “As for dating,” I said, picking up the conversation where I’d left off, “no thank you. Something about me makes guys uncomfortable.” They never relaxed in my presence. But then, I never relaxed in theirs, either.
“It’s your eyes.” Dad sighed. “They see too much. Your mother dealt with the same problem.” Affection tinged his voice. “The right man will welcome your deep dives into the innermost recesses of his heart.”
My chest constricted. I was eight years old when Mom vanished. Daddy took me with him to plow the soybean fields after I’d begged to ride my favorite tractor. We returned hours later to find the house ransacked, blood splattered about, and Sandra Shaker missing, never to be seen or heard from again.
Dad and I had both adored the loving homemaker who’d made everything better, and we’d been ill prepared to deal with her absence. Or the unknown. What happened to her? Everyone believed she was dead, but a part of me still clung to a sliver of hope.
Tears singed my eyes. “I miss her.” Don’t make me miss you, too.
“She was a special lady, that’s for sure. And so are you.” His hand fell away, flopping onto the mattress, but his expression remained staunch. “Attend a play date with your city friend, at least. What’s her name? Jeanie?”