Blood Money Update (March 2020)
A demon and a blood doll
sitting in a tree
K... I... S... S... I... N... G.
First comes blood, then comes money, then comes devotion in a hell mouth moorage.
No clever anticdotes today. Just that I'm still at the first stages of writing. I've taken on a fun ghost writing project that I can't talk about.
So, instead of some long winded background on the story, I'm going right into the excerpt!
Excerpt from BLOOD MONEY
© 2019 S.N.McKibben
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, with the exception of a reviewer who may quote passages in a review, without written prior permission from the publisher.
PLEASE NOTE, THIS IS A ROUGH DRAFT. SPELLING, PUNCTUATION AND GRAMMAR ERRORS WILL BE CORRECTED BY A PROFESSIONAL EDITOR WHEN THE FINAL VERSION IS PUBLISHED.
THIS SCENE MAY OR MAY NOT BE THE FINAL VERSION IN THE BOOK.
all characters, places and setting are from the imagination of the author. Any resemblance is strictly coincidental.
I hated when I woke up dead.
My conscious swam to the surface still drunk from blood loss. My arms and legs weighed as much as steel pipes and didn’t budge when I tried to move. I thought about opening my eyes… after the rhinos got off my lids. The only thing working was my voice. Barely.
A moan, soft and low hummed in my mouth. I could feel my lips vibrate, but forming words was a challenge.
Small, consistent breaths helped oxygenate the blood in my veins. I was awake which meant I’d recovered from blood loss. How long I’d been out—that would be determined by how many of Lilly’s texts I’d missed.
Scratchy fabric resisted the efforts of my wiggling finger. The air touching my skin felt stale. The clothes I wore were not my own, but I didn’t smell the tell-tell chemicals of a morgue, yet it was silent as death.
There was nothing like waking up on a metal cold table, and startled morticians. A note in my purse labeled, in case of my death left specific instructions to not embalm, cremate or perform an autopsy on me. I was to be laid out and left alone. Preferable in the shade.
It was cases like this that made me paranoid. I did not want scars or to find out what happened when I woke up with embalming fluid. Since it was my blood that resurrected me, cremation would certainly kill me.
Times like these also made me wonder if Jesus was a blood doll.
Strength seeped into my bones and my senses became more aware. I opened my eyes to—beige.
Linen covered my body. Best case scenario, someone thought I was cold. Really cold. All the way up to my ears cold. Worst case, they thought I was dead. Either way, I was taking off the itchy covering.
I slid back my arms and raised up from my elbows, pawing the sheet off my face.
A crucifix stared back at me.
The chapel-like setting was small. Humble. Personable. As if I’d entered a mini church. A stained-glass window the size of a medieval castle tower cast soft lighting onto the cross. In reality, the size could have been affected by my angle and the spinning in my head.
Three rows of pews centered the room. Diego sat front and center with his head bowed, eyes closed, and hands clasp together in prayer.
I didn’t want to disturb him. If I were really quiet, I could sneak past him and be off as if this whole affair was over. As if I hadn’t been eaten by a Balrog.
I slowly swung my legs down and laid the sheet aside. But I’d misjudged its weight and the linen dropped to the floor with a whoosh.
Diego’s blank stare met my gaze.
Uh-oh. His face held the scared disbelief of the one mortician I’d freaked out. Before I could reach out and tell him not to… he screamed with the enthusiasm of a twelve-year-old girl. Diego thrashed backward into the second and third row of pews as if I were a demon.
Disbelief rooted my butt to the table. Here was the guy who stared down the ugliest mo-fo I’d ever seen, and he was frantic because I’d woken up? Granted he thought I was dead, but still… he’d stared down a force of darkness and evil.
“What is your problem?”
“Warren!” Diego’s voice cracked at the last syllable splitting his screaming to a high-pitch wail. “Warren!”
Last time he called that name, I died. “Hold on…” My hands rose in supplication. “Hold on…”
Diego yelled louder.
I jumped off the stone slab, searching for my shoes. No such consideration of footwear was left for me.
The flutter of wings, the air shifted, and there, behind Diego stood the tallest man I’d ever seen. He had to reach seven feet. Being five foot nine meant I saw eye to eye with most guys. But he made me feel petite even from fifteen feet away.
Diego swallowed, flailing backward until he bumped into who I assumed was Warren. I couldn’t blame the kid. He thought I was a walking corpse.
“I can explain.” My arms fell to my sides.
Diego looked up at the man and pointed at me. “Wa… Wa… Warren?”
“Then explain.” Warren snarled at me, pushing Diego behind him.
Wait one fucking minute. Warren. My addled brain started connecting dots. “You.” I pointed at him. His frown didn’t resemble the gleeful malice, but it was the same guy. His shaggy brown hair, the same red-gold eyes. This was same demon that ate me.
“You were dead,” Diego peeked out from behind his flesh-shield and adjusted his glasses. “He killed you.”
“Not very well.” Warren’s right hand went to an honest-to-Mika sword hilt and pulled out a claymore. “Which I will remedy.”
“Woah! Woah! Woah!” I backed up. “What the hell?” This wasn’t the only time I’d freaked someone out because of a DOA situation, but this reaction was a first.
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