The Cornwall Coven, Book Three; Demonic Pandemonium
Genre: Erotic Paranormal Romance (Vampires, Demons, Angels)
Publisher: Silver Publishing
Heat-Rating: Four Flames—Fiery
Sex, blood and rock and roll
Pandora is a half-demon, alone in the world and good as abandoned, with a mother who barely tolerates her and a father who is unable to be with her nearly often enough for her tastes. She keeps to herself, and tries not to associate with others often, lest they discover her secret—until she meets Kevlar Cornwall. The two collide in ignorance of one another, but the sexual-attraction is indisputable and cannot be ignored, growing more profound with every passing moment. It blinds them to the lurking danger hiding just around the corner, out to end both their lives and everyone either of them have ever known or loved.
Excerpt One (RATED: PG)
There are many types of people in this world.
And I have no idea what type I would be classified under. I walk through life always unsure of my next move and how it would affect others. Because everything I did rippled outward and long ago realized I had to limit my association with the “outside world”, relying on no one but myself.
I couldn’t rely on my family, friends or enemies for guidance of any sort; forever alone and doomed to always be. Such was the case with my kind—though I wouldn’t know, since I didn’t associate with them either.
What am I? A demon.
Hell, I couldn’t even fit into that category. I was half-mortal, a thing cursed to be complicated and dangerous—even to myself. I couldn’t do normal things, normal people did, mostly since all it would take is one wrong word or action, and all of a sudden I would turn into a monster that made everybody else quake in fear. A Frankenstein, but of a different sort.
And I was the only one on earth.
I had a human mother who hated me, and a demon father who I rarely saw or talked to. Creatures of the lower realms weren’t allowed on this plane without a direct access pass. And even then, it was sketchy.
So what was life like for me? Shit. Absolute uselessness.
You’d think it would be enough to drive a person just a little batty. But no. There’s more.
I was an author by profession. I had an agent, an excellent career—or I’d had anyways. It isn’t as good as it sounds.
Within the past few days, I’d realized my chosen path in life wasn’t as great as I’d cracked it up to be. My agent, Sam, proved to be ripping me off; stealing my work right from under my nose.
The most important book of my existent too boot. Well, to me anyway. The novel would be published, but it sure as fuck wasn’t by me. Sam Poetize was an underhanded slime-ball who had worked on my behalf since the beginning of my writing days. He made me believe in him for believing in me. But that came to an end.
Trusting him was one of the biggest mistakes I could’ve made.
One of; but definitely not the worst.
Oh no, that would be reserved for the day I’d been born, if you asked my mother, Lillian.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while I thought of this, when the radio came on instead of an alarm clock, at exactly six-forty am. Loud noises hurt my overly sensitive ears.
Nickelback’s Burn It To The Ground blared through the speaker.
When it ended, one of the disk-jockeys of the Jeff O-Neil Morning Show, Charis’ voice filled the room. The program was a favourite of mine with their causal banter and favoured rock; but not the deep concern that weighed her careful words.
“It continued last night,” Charis began. “The murder count is now up to ten.”
“Ten?” Jeff repeated.
“The police are cautioning the people of Vancouver to be on the look out, and to report anything suspicious.”
“What did they find this time?” Scotty inquired.
“The witnesses on scene were reported saying a severed arm was found in one part of an alley, and a leg on the other side of Hornby Street. No weapon was found or determined.”
I sat up in bed, listening closely. I lived only a few blocks from there.
This would cause hysteria. Pandemonium. Something deep inside stirred at the thought of so many terrified people. I shivered, and then thrust aside the part of me that relished the distinct possibility. My human part was appalled, and since I resided on earth and not—well not on earth, that would be the emotion I stuck with.
I’d seen this as nothing more than a serial killer the news named him—or her.
Yet these murders held a far greater meaning in relation to me, and the lives surrounding mine. I just didn’t know it then.
Perhaps if I’d been more cautious and aware of my surroundings, the signs of my own demise would have shown themselves to me before it was too late.
But that was wrong.
It had been too late for a long time already.