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It’sjust that, I’m not always laughing. Not even on the inside. Nobody
knows the real Greg or the agony I hide with humor. My recently dead
sister had a clue, but she’s in no position to blab. I screwed up
big time—then and now—but it’s all my undoing. Through
everything, Hadley’s been my cure and my curse. And I fell in love
with my married best friend. But she wasn’t always married, and I
wasn’t always broken.

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Before
she was born, the Helios, a tribe of angels from the sun, came to
Earth to deliver the Surge, the next step in the evolution of an
embryonic human race. Instead they spawned a race of hybrids and
infected humanity with a hybrid seed.

Horque
manifests on Earth with another tribe of angels, the Solarii, to
rescue the genetic mix-up and release the Surge.

Akasha
embarks on a journey from maiden to mother and from apprentice to
priestess then has a premonition that a great flood is imminent. All
three races – humans, hybrids and Solarii – face
extinction.

With
their world in crisis, Akasha and Horque meet, and a sublime love
flashes between them. Is this a cause of hope for humanity and the
Solarii? Or will the hybrids destroy them both? Will anyone survive
the killing waters of the coming apocalypse?

46. The Hanging Gardens

The soft rain pattered against her face and sprinkled onto the swollen river. A dull thud nearby
announced something falling out of the sky. Akasha looked: it was a small bird with brown and
white markings. One wing lay open, the other broken and twisted. The tiny feathers on its chest
were still.
If only she could pass on the stirrings of this new life in her womb to the bird and bring it
back to life. She felt so helpless. The sheer bulk of her belly prevented her from even bending
over and picking it up. Instead, she caressed its mangled body with the tip of her staff. This was
all wrong. Birds flew in the air; they weren’t disgorged by it. A hawk? Now that would be ironic.
The poor thing had no wounds or predatory marks, so what had killed it?
A wave of sadness washed over her. The river had broken its banks and flooded her herb
garden. A bird had plummeted out of the sky. To hide it and cover her melancholy, she sprinkled
garden cuttings over its lifeless body. Beneath glowering skies, she stood alone in the slow,
persistent rain, feeling vulnerable and sad. Her time in the gardens had been serene but now her
body tensed in preparation for something worse, much worse.
It was as if the dead bird had fallen through a tear in the mystical fabric of the world, a tear
through which the furies themselves were about to burst.

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The
answers to all her questions are out there somewhere, and it’s time
she found them. It won’t be easy, it may even be dangerous, but
it’ll be worth it. Finding her family is only the first step, from
there she will have to piece her life back together as she learns thedifferences between who she is and who she was meant to be. What will
happen when she’s thrown into a world she knows nothing about?

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My
name is KAE Galla and I’ve loved writing since before I knew how. I’d
sit with my mom and grandma telling them exactly what I wanted my
story to be, and they would write it down under misshapen scribbles I
tried to pass off as art work. It wasn’t until years later that I
finally decided to go full throttle with my passion and share it with
the world. Now, thanks to the support of my loving family, great
friends, and an amazing team, my dream of becoming an author are
reality. My heart is in Paranormal Romance, and Romance in general,but I love challenging myself and broadening my horizons so you can
bet there is more to come!

As we continue north, our presence disrupts a cluster of flying insects. Wings similar to that of a
large butterfly, are attached to small ball like bodies, but the truly unique thing about these
insects is their coloration. As they fly in a shifting formation, their wings change colors from
green, like the plants they were resting on, to purples and pinks, creating a distorted image of
what I think is a bird. Maybe this is their way of protecting themselves, making them appear
larger than they are and less like prey. The further we go, the more beautiful everything
becomes.
“You have such a goofy smile right now, I wish you could see yourself.” Iris says with a smile
herself.
Laughing I say, “I guess I’m glad I didn’t bring a mirror then.”
“You just keep smiling because we are going to have fun while we’re here, and if you’re lucky I
might even make you my famous ‘dragon’s breath stew.’” She says proudly
“Dragon’s breath stew? Um, no offense Iris but you sound like a stereotypical witch when you
say things like that.” I can’t help but tease her about being a witch. Over the years it has
become kind of a running joke between us, especially since the humans are so oblivious.
“Haha,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll have you know it’s a family recipe.”
“A family recipe huh? Well I hope I don’t have any family recipes that sound like it came out of
Halloween movie with a green, cauldron stirring, broom flying, children eating…”
“We do NOT eat children! And for the last time, we definitely don’t fly on brooms.” It’s always
fun to get her worked up over the human’s fictional version of her people.
Laughing I say, “But the cauldrons are real?”
She mockingly laughs at our banter. “At least we know you won’t have to sleep in a coffin, and
you won’t need a flea collar.”
“And I’m totally fine when the full moon comes around.” I giggle.
All joking seems to leave her system and she’s avoiding eye contact as she watches the ground
while she walks. “So…what stereotype are we dealing with?”
I knew eventually she’d press the issue, but I had grown used to our easy ‘don’t as don’t tell’
kind of relationship where my lineage is concerned. I had deluded myself into believing it wasn’t
important. Part of me has always worried that if she knew that I’m a Seeker, she won’t help me
or worse she’d turn me over to the wraith or my keeper. The rational side of me knows that both
fears are entirely unfounded, but in the past, I was unable to conquer that fear.
“Nova, you gotta let me in. I can’t help if I don’t at least know who we are looking for.” She tries
to hide the slight tremor in her voice as she quietly says, “you can trust me you know?”
She’s right, I know I can trust her and the only thing keeping me from telling her everything, is
the fear of putting her in harm’s way. If only she could understand that I do not mean to hurt her
with my silence. Maybe it is time. Taking a deep breath, “Ok…when we make camp, we’ll talk
about it.”

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“Matt
Drabble is a name that will one day be as widely recognized asStephen King & Dean Koontz“–READERS
FAVORITE

 

Clayton
is a small island community cut off from the mainland. They keep to
themselves and they like it that way.

As far as the locals are
concerned there are Islanders and there are Mainlanders. But the
locals don’t quite have the island all to themselves.

Depending
on who you talk to on the island The chosen Order of the Nine Divines
are either a peaceful religious order or a dangerous cult. Solomon
Abel had been the Father to the order, Known locally as The Niners,
for his entire adult life but he is an old man now and the younger
member, including his own son, are growing tired of the old ways.

As
far as Clayton Island is concerned a Clayton has held sway across the
land, a birthright currently owned by Dale Clayton. He is a man
haunted by the iron fist of his father and drowning in his own
inadequacy. The Islanders act like they respect him, but he imagines
it’s only to his face.

For centuries the two communities have
live side by side, until now.

With the local timber mill
folding the Dale Clayton is left with no choice but to listen to
mainland developers. Smart suited men who seek to exploit the
island’s natural beauty for their own gain.

Arriving with the
developers is an old face returning. Ashley Quinn hasn’t set foot on
her homeland for almost 20 years and she had no desire to be here,
but her job was the one stable thing left in her life since the
divorce and she was barely hanging on to the life that she’d fought
so hard to make.

The people of Clayton Island haven’t changed,
they’ve only gotten older, some she is glad to see and others not so
much.

 

With tensions rising fast between those who want the
future and those who want to hold onto the past Ashley finds herself
caught in the middle. And when it is discovered that The Niners are
sitting on the most valuable land on the island there are those who
will do anything to take it and those who will do anything to defend
it.

There is a powder keg on Clayton and it will only take a
single spark to burn the whole place down. Alliances and enemies are
formed with many hiding their true intentions and no one is what they
seem, because when two tribes go to war, everyone dies.

I
have a career high position of 5th on Amazon’s Horror Author Rank of
which I am immensely proud. I was also accepted as a full member ofthe Horror Writers Association.

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PROLOGUE

The night air was cold enough to bite at any exposed skin. Taylor Cole pulled his jacket up to his
ears and tried to bury his face in his scarf to fight against the seeping chill that was working its way
into his bones.
He was a small squat man making his way along the empty street, his sunken eyes constantly
scanning for witnesses. He clutched a small paper bag tightly to his chest, a bag containing of bottle
of his treasure and it was taking every ounce of self-control not to fall to his knees and devour the
contents right here on Main Street.
The only thing stopping him right now was the fear of repercussions. The local constable, Caleb
Bowman, was a big guy who had thrown his ass into the one holding cell in Clayton on more than
one occasion. Bowman had banned him from drinking in town, and even Casey had turned him away
earlier in the evening and that big bitch served everyone.
Unable to buy his booze, he had taken to seeking out his own plan, which had included smashing
a window at Tommy O’Brien’s store and taking a bottle. He had only taken the one and at this point
considered it medicinal.
There was practically no crime on the island of Clayton, and he knew full well that come sunup,
Bowman would be looking for him, but right now the sunrise seemed a lifetime away.
He made his way along the makeshift street, sticking as much as he could to the shadows. It was
after hours now, and Casey’s Bar had long since turned out its last drunken customer. Island life
meant most were early to bed and early to rise, so he didn’t expect to see anyone at this hour, but
still he was cautious.
With the bag clutched tightly to his chest, its contents calling out to him, he doubled his pace and
was soon clear of the buildings. There was a fire in his belly, one that needed to be doused before he
could sleep.
His father had been a drunk and his grandfather and his great-grandfather and so on and so on; it
was undoubtedly the family business. He knew that other islanders shunned him on the street and
avoided his gaze, especially if he was asking for money.
He lived in a rundown shack away from prying eyes, but in truth, he didn’t spend much time
there, preferring the outdoor air and the sanctity of the island’s woodland for comfort. He slept
outdoors most nights, but perhaps passed out would be a more accurate description.
There had been a time when he’d craved a normal life, a partner, children, a family to share his
time and affection with, but it had been a futile hope, he knew that now. He was a born a drunk. It
was his destiny.
He shuffled his way out of town and headed along the track towards the mill. It was the only
place in Clayton that held anything approaching a good memory for him.
The logging plant had given him a job and respect at a time when he’d kept his drinking under

control. Sure, he’d had a couple with lunch during his shift as supervisor, but he’d never let it
interfere with his work, and besides, it was only beer – that wasn’t real drinking. But then the gaps
between shots had grown narrower and narrower until there were no gaps at all and he was
drinking before, after and during.
Mercifully, no one had died under his watch but Steve Butler had lost two fingers due to a faulty
safety rail that Taylor had forgotten to replace and that was all she wrote. Dale Clayton himself had
him frogmarched out of the mill and he’d soon found out that Steve Butler had far more friends than
Taylor Cole.
He shook his head to cast aside the downbeat thoughts threatening to ruin what was left of his
night and hugged his bottle closer to his chest, the one friend who would never leave him or gaze
upon him with scorn and contempt.
The mill was on its last legs, no matter what that prick Dale Clayton tried to tell everyone. The
town mayor’s family had built the island up into a town, and descendant Dale never missed an
opportunity to claim the credit. The whole town knew that the plant was done – and with it, the
town. Taylor felt a stab of satisfaction that soon all of Clayton would fall and all those under the
watch of the sanctimonious Dale.
The gates were padlocked, but the fence was slack and Taylor lifted a section, squeezing himself
through the gap, making sure that his bottle was secure. He sliced his hand open on a rusty piece of
metal but his prize was safe, and that was all that mattered.
He made his way up to the mill entrance. The front door was locked, but he quickly found a large
enough rock and smashed a window. There was no alarm. He figured that even if crime was an issue
on the island, Dale Clayton would have been too cheap to install any sort of security system.
It was strange being back in the building, especially during the darkness hours. He made his way
up to Dale Clayton’s office. While the rest of the logging plant was falling apart, the owner’s office
was still pristine and no expense had been spared for the prick’s comfort.
There was thick, expensive-looking carpet underfoot, and on a whim, Taylor stopped long enough
to piss on it. He had intended to sit in Clayton’s comfy leather recliner and drink himself to sleep, but
now, of course, the office stank of his own piss.
Instead, he took the bottle out onto the metal walkway outside of Clayton’s office. The balcony
overlooked the mill floor and the big boss man would often stand on his perch, surveying his minions
below.
Taylor was leaning over the railing when something clanged against metal somewhere down
below in the shadows. He jerked his head up in shock and stood motionless, holding his breath.
There shouldn’t have been anyone here at this time of night. Maybe some of the local kids had
broken in; it wouldn’t be unheard of.
Eventually, he let his breath out with a long sigh. Maybe it was a rat or other small creature
coming for a last look around at the old place. A rat visiting the ship just before it sank seemed
appropriate.

On a whim, he decided to leave his mark on the mill tonight. He took a bunch of framed
certificates, awards and photographs from Clayton’s office. He headed down to the plant floor to
take his own goodbye tour.
He drank as he walked, filling his system with burning liquid courage and becoming more
emboldened with every step.
Clutching the armful of Clayton’s prized mementos, he dumped them onto the long conveyor belt
in the centre of the mill floor. He prayed that the power was still on in the building and his prayers
were answered when the truck-stripping machine sparked into life.
The sound was deafening but he was past caring now as he took another long swig from the
bottle, fuelling his anger and excitement further.
Clayton’s frames made their way jerkily along the conveyor belt before being smashed to pieces
under the heavy metal teeth. Taylor laughed, and his voice was lost in the clanging noise.
As he merrily drank, he was wondering what else of Clayton’s he could drag down here and
throw through the chomping jaws, in lieu of the man himself, of course.
He was pondering such thoughts when suddenly, the bottle fell from his hand and smashed to
pieces on the concrete floor. He stared down at the spilled precious dark liquid, wondering how he’d
dropped it when he noticed that he was actually still holding it.
His pickled brain took some time to process what his eyes were seeing. The broken bottle was
still gripped around the neck by his hand, but both were now lying on the ground. He turned his gaze
to his arm to find a bloody spurting stump and then he finally felt the pain.
His scream roared momentarily louder than the machinery but didn’t last long.
Just beyond his hand and the remains of the bottle, a circular saw blade with razor sharp teeth
was now embedded in the side of the conveyor belt. Clutching his arm with his one remaining hand,
he turned around, and as he moved, he felt a rush of wind pass by him, missing his torso by
millimetres. A second saw blade had flown by him and smashed into a wooden strut, driving deep
into the surface.
Taylor started to stagger away. He’d intended to run, but the shock and blood loss were quickly
starting to take their toll.
He stumbled alongside the long conveyor, desperate to get away, his addled mind working off
sheer instinct now.
A third blade struck him in the back of his left knee and drove him down to the ground, making
any escape now moot. He sank against the side of the conveyor, blood pouring from the two
devastating wounds. The third saw blade was still deeply implanted in the back of his leg, its metal
teeth sank into bone.
Taylor’s mouth popped open and shut like a starving goldfish. His eyes were bulging wide in pain
and terror as he dimly felt a powerful hand grab hold of his collar from behind.

His small squat frame was lifted effortlessly, and then he landed down hard on the conveyor belt
rollers. He desperately tried to squirm free as he headed towards the clamping mechanics, fighting
to drag himself off the rollers, but a strong hand held him in place.
The man standing over him was muttering something under his breath, but Taylor couldn’t see
him clearly. The strong hand pinning him down now started to propel him forward. He was dimly
aware that he was heading feet first into the whirling machinery, and as his boots disappeared into
the gnashing teeth, the pain was monstrous.
He screamed and screamed, but there was no one to help him. At If he’d gone in head first, at
least it could have been over quickly; instead, he was torn to pieces and it took what seemed like an
eternity to die.

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A
billionaire.

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Gigi Stevens had never seen a party so over-the-top gonzo.
Palm trees, jungle vines swinging from the ceiling, and animatronic dinosaurs so large and
lifelike they could be used in the next Jurassic Park film. If the DJ’s steady assault of concussive
beats weren’t enough to elevate Gigi’s heart rate, then the sight of velociraptors and a roaming
T-Rex most certainly were.
Granted, since moving to San Francisco she’d attended only a few of the tech industry’s
notorious gatherings, thrown by nouveau riche code nerds who’d hit it big with apps or games or
search engines, socially awkward guys who might chronologically be pushing thirty, but who
were emotionally still
scouring the pages of D&D monster manuals in their parents’ basements.
Tonight’s party was different, however. And the party was different because the man throwing
the party was different.
Damian Black, she thought. Or should I call you by your full name, the one given to you by the
tabloids? Damian Black, the Bad Boy Playboy of Silicon Valley.
“Georgina!”
Gigi whirled in the direction of the shout. Speaking of full names, she thought.
Judy Mixson was making her way through the throng, holding champagne flutes high in each
hand, trying not to spill their golden contents. When she finally reached Gigi, she handed her a
flute and said, loudly, over the music, “A bit of the bubbly, my dear.”
“Oh God, thank you,” said Gigi. “I need it.” She leaned her head back and downed the
champagne in one gulp.
“Easy there, girl! The night is young and so are you.”
“I wish I wasn’t,” Gigi said. “It’s one reason why nobody here will take me seriously.” She peered
thoughtfully into her empty flute. “Young, fresh out of college—”
“An Ivy League college,” Judy interjected.
“Yeah, but it was Brown, and for some damn reason everyone keeps forgetting it’s an Ivy
League school. They know Harvard, Yale, and Princeton, and that’s it.”“Look here, Georgina: you’re the smartest person in this room and you know it. In the last half-
hour, you’ve forgotten more about coding and techy stuff than everyone else in here will learnover the next ten years. And look at you, girl, you’re totally—”
“Don’t say ‘hot.’ You know I’m not even remotely.”
“Actually, I was going to say—”
“And don’t say ‘cute.’ You know how much I hate hearing that.”
Judy made an amusingly frustrated face. “But you are hot. You are cute. Just look at you in your
smart little blazer and black jeans.”
“You’re not helping.”
“And those glasses! That beautiful brown hair!”
“I’m praying the Lord takes me right now,” Gigi said.
Judy laughed and sipped her champagne.
In fact, Gigi was brilliant and beautiful, and not wholly unaware of it. She wore her blessings with
grace but not always with ease. Beautiful women, she knew, were seen not as equals, but as
possessions, and smart women were threats to the established order. TrekTek, one of the more
promising Silicon Valley startups, had taken remarkably little time in bringing her on board its
research and development department, but Gigi sensed that she’d already plateaued at age 23
and could expect little more than a career of lateral promotions. She was a young, beautiful
woman in an industry run by men with egos as big as California and as fragile as Christmas
ornaments.
“By the way,” Gigi said, “you know you’re the only one who gets to use my actual name, right?
Don’t go giving people ideas. I don’t want it to become a trend. I only allow you to do it because
it’s a best friend privilege.”
Judy gave a look of melodramatic mock seriousness. “The dreadful secret of your first name will
remain safe with me, Georgina.”
Gigi scanned the crowded floor of Club Terra, thick with sweaty partygoers dancing herky-jerky
and not always to the beat. In the distance, over Judy’s shoulder, Gigi could see a T-Rex

flashing in and out of view, the strobe effect of the DJ’s lighting setup rendering the dinosaur’s
movements every bit as herkyjerky as the revelers.
“Dinosaurs, for God’s sake. You ever been to a party that had dinosaurs?” Gigi asked.
Judy thought for a moment. “Down in Bakersfield, I attended a party with a dinosaur.”
“Really”
“Yeah,” Judy said. “His name was Sidney Applebaum.”
Gigi laughed.
“Seriously, the guy was like 70 years old and had just married a girl our age.”
“Ew,” Gigi said, wrinkling her nose.
“You know what he gave her as a wedding gift?”
“No, what.”
“An antique organ.”
Gigi laughed out loud. “Oh, Judy, that’s terrible.”
There was a loud metallic bang, like someone throwing a giant switch in a fuse box, and
suddenly, without warning, the room was thrust into total darkness. No lights, no music, no
nothing. A beat of silence, then people started screaming.
Then, just as suddenly, a single bright spotlight illuminated the DJ’s table onstage.
But instead of the DJ whose name Gigi never cared to learn, the figure now lit by the spotlight’s
glare was someone whose name she knew quite well.
Damian Black.
The crowd’s terrified screaming quickly morphed into wild cheering and clapping, and Gigi felt
her face go warm. For God’s sake, get a grip, she told herself. You know what he’s about. You
know he’s no good.
“Holy shit,” Judy said. “Just look at him, girl. It’s gotta be a mirage. He’s too damn good-looking
to be real.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt he’s gorgeous,” Gigi nearly shouted over the cheers. “And there’s
definitely no doubt in his mind.”
“Be nice,” Judy said.
Damian raised his hands. “Greetings, Silicon Valley degenerates!”
The crowd laughed.
“I want to welcome you all here for this celebration of, well, me.”
More laughter, and from the crowd a female voice shouted, “You rock, Damian!”
He raised his hands higher to quell the cheering and said, grinning, “No need to point out the
obvious, love.”
Everyone laughed.
Everyone, that is, except Gigi. She leaned toward Judy and said, “I just rolled my eyes so hard
they fell out of my butt.”
Judy gave her a nudge. “You gotta get in the spirit of things. The guy’s not even 30 yet and
already a friggin’ billionaire. Of course he’s a little full of himself. You gotta loosen up, girl.”
Gigi stared through the crowd at the sleek, glowing figure onstage. “According to the tabloids,
he’s loose enough for both of us.”

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