Forget everything you ever thought to be true about our world. Angels are real. And they are fighting for control over the human race.
What would you do if you learned everything you knew about the world was wrong? Microbiology student Elena Michaels is about to find out. After a few chance encounters with Alexavier Edmunds, a strange but intriguing student on campus, Elena is on the run from an ancient organization of angel-like beings. Strange things are awakening within her, and there is only one with the answers—the Elder. But can she make it to him in time?
About the author:
Scott Wieczorek is a professional archaeologist working in the American Middle-Atlantic region. He has written numerous short stories and several full-length novels ranging from science fiction, to paranormal mystery, to horror. In addition, he writes reviews of books by Independent authors. Samples of his work are available on his blog at wieczorekfictblog.blogspot.com.
Elena’s face felt cold as the blood drained from it. She had not seen the woman’s mouth move while she spoke. She sobered almost instantly, the hackles on her neck rising as she stared at the woman’s cold smile. She recognized the voice in a moment of lucidity as the one she had heard at the airport, their tail, their stalker—one of the Opposition.
My mistress was right, the woman’s voice continued. She told me it would be a matter of time before one of you two slipped up. The amazing thing is you both slipped up at the same time. The woman turned to Elena.
The woman stood nearly a whole foot shorter than Elena and appeared much more fragile. Elena tried to gauge whether or not she would be able to handle this woman on her own. She knew from experience Daimon men were quite powerful, but never expected such strength from females.
Let me clue you in on some secrets. First, Daimon men cannot handle their liquor. In fact, all Daimones are very quickly undone by alcohol. The woman eyed Elena up and down before saying, Second, you could never take me on. To illustrate her point, the small woman gripped the countertop and crushed a small section of it into powder.
“What do you want from me?” Elena asked.
The choice is simple, the woman replied mentally. Either come with me to see my mistress. Or…
“Or?” Elena asked, realizing she would regret this decision.
Or you and your companion die, the woman replied. A placid and sickly happy smile spread across her face as she said it.
The woman’s evident pleasure at making such a dire threat sent a chill down Elena’s spine. She conjured up the most severe feeling of pain she could imagine and directed it right at the Daimon woman as she had done to the other Daimon in Canada. However, instead of the anticipated effect of crippling pain she had seen in the Daimon man, the woman’s eyes flashed, and then she laughed.
Silly girl, the woman said to her mentally. I am no mere weakling. Your foolish mind games have no effect on me.
Alec…I need your help! Elena cried out, hoping beyond hope he would hear and come to her aid.
The woman started laughing even louder. A terrifying grin crossed her face. He can’t hear you. Alcohol impairs Daimon abilities. And Alec has had a few too many. I guess I shouldn’t have bought him so many rounds!
Elena didn’t wait for the woman to move. Filled with blind rage over being trapped by this woman, she pressed her attack. If her death was on the menu, then she would take this woman with her as dessert.
Elena bowled into the small Daimon woman, throwing all of her weight into the attack. To her surprise, the woman fell backward with her arm clutching at the sink.
She didn’t stay down for long, though and responded by pushing back at Elena with startling speed, shoving her back a few paces.
Elena responded as fast. She threw her hands up in anticipation of the Daimon woman’s attack. However, she couldn’t fathom what kind of attack to expect coming at her.
The small woman was lithe. She maneuvered herself underneath Elena’s arms and thrust upward with both arms like lofting a volleyball lifting Elena off of her feet and throwing her into the far wall. Elena managed to turn herself sideways in order to absorb her impact with the wall and push herself off into a counterattack.
Elena rushed across the room. The woman crouched at her approach. Instead of missing her target, however, Elena lowered her center of gravity and leapt, flying over the woman’s back. While sailing over her opponent’s body, Elena stretched out and grasped the woman around the waist.
Elena’s momentum carried her forward, and she tucked her head and rolled, pulling the Daimon woman off her feet and flipping her onto her head with startling force. The Daimon’s legs flailed and slammed into the large wall mirror, shattering it.
But she did not stay down for long. Before Elena could right herself, the woman leapt up and moved back across the room. Elena stood and whirled to face the woman but was caught off guard as a fist struck her across the face. Surprisingly, it did not carry much force. Elena brushed the blow off and delivered her own to the woman’s chest, forcing the woman back several feet.
The Daimon crumpled, winded by the force of Elena’s attack. When the Daimon stood again, she clutched a large shard of the broken mirror, which she wielded like a knife.
One of the most frequent things people say to me as a writer is: I would love to get inside your head. So, the purpose of my guest post today is to do that: give you a few minutes inside my head (please pardon the cobwebs).
First, let me say that this is a horrible thing to say to a writer. For me personally, this just triggers a knee-jerk reaction in my mind two simultaneous thoughts—one of someone using a pen, pencil, or other seemingly innocuous item to vivisect my brain, the other of a small person crawling into my skull through either my nose or ear. However, after this reaction, I understand what they really mean is that they would like to be able to see the world from my perspective and view the world from a writer’s point of view.
I have to say, as a writer, that I have a unique way of seeing things. A meme recently posted on the internet captures, in part, one of key elements to this unique perspective. The meme displays a door hanging slightly ajar with text saying something to the tune of: For most people this door is ajar. For a writer… There are several permutations of the final text, but all of them drive home the point that writers tend not to take things at face value, and also tend to have overactive imaginations. The long shot of this is that the open door merely represents an invitation to create a story about how, and why that door is open, and what will happen next when someone encounters it.
Since childhood, I have been plagued with a highly overactive imagination. The best way to channel this creativity, for me, was writing. So I take every opportunity to look at the open doors, and let my imagination wander because there is always the chance that inside may lay the greatest story yet untold.
I hope you have enjoyed the last few minutes in my head… now please get out (and take the other voices with you).