Extraordinary
Love
Micah
Persell (author
touring), Kathleen Shaputis, Holley
Trent, Andrea R. Cooper, Candace Sams, Spring Stevens, Bobbi Romans, Lisa
White, Becky Flade, Danica Winters
Genre: Paranormal
Publisher: Crimson Romance
Date of Publication: August 4,
2014
ISBN: 1440583269
ISBN 13: 9781440583261
Book
Bundle containing 10 full category-length novels
Book Description:
Everybody needs love — especially
those sexy shapeshifters, gentlemen ghosts, misunderstood demons and witches,
and intergalactic leaders. You’ll find all of these otherworldly heartthrobs --
and the strong, sexy women who make their perfect matches -- in this
captivating collection of paranormal titles from Crimson Romance.
Titles include:
Of Eternal Life: Micah Persell
Her Ghost Wears Kilts: Kathleen
Shaputis
A Demon in Waiting: Holley Trent
The Garnet Dagger: Andrea R.
Cooper
The Peacekeeper’s Soul: Candace
Sams
Embrace the Fire: Spring Stevens
Swamp Magic: Bobbi Romans
Discovery: Lisa White
Fated Souls: Becky Flade
The Nymph’s Labyrinth: Danica
Winters
Chapter
One Of Eternal Life by Micah Persell
Abilene Miller,
sitting cross-legged on the floor, squinted at the rolls of gauze on the shelf
in front of her through the fringe of her lashes. When the gauze blended into
something resembling a snow-covered mountain, she sighed with satisfaction and
leaned her head back against the wall behind her. The supply closet was the
coolest place in the hospital, and with this little trick, she could almost
fool herself into thinking she was not in the God-forsaken Mojave Desert.
“Southern
California, you lying bitch,” she murmured as she took a vehement bite from her
peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Dreams of
rolling ocean waves, vibrant night life, and Disneyland had quickly given way
to the reality that was Needles, California: a small town of 4,000 outside of
the Mojave National Preserve.
Of course, the
two military recruiters who had come to her hometown of Aspen, Colorado, right
after med school to convince her to come work in their “cutting edge” research
facility had played up those very tourist attractions in a way that merited a
court martial for perjury. If that was even a thing that could happen. She
didn’t know. Military I am not, she thought in amusement as she set aside her
sandwich for a baggie of Oreos.
She sighed
again, this time in disgust. Top 5 percent of my class at Duke University Medical
School, and I get duped. She hadn’t even begun her residency, and these guys
had wanted her. Really, really wanted her. Enough to throw an obscene amount of
money at her, making “no” an impossibility. And if she had thought it was
suspicious that they wanted to hire her before she had even seen the facility,
the pull of finally being on her own had overshadowed the oddity.
She snorted. “On
her own” was proving to be an elusive concept. In fact, she felt as though
every step she took was measured. She lived in a military dormitory with the
four other women who worked in the labs. They all carpooled to work each
morning, and the head of the hospital, Major Taylor, seemed to lurk around
every corner, as aware of her movements as her overbearing parents.
Abilene knew
she’d made a mistake in taking this job. She just so badly needed to prove
herself. What was that old adage? If it sounds too good to be true, don’t
effing move into a military compound?
“Abilene, you in
here?”
She gave an
unfeminine grunt in response and returned her attention to her Oreos. The door
edged open, and Dahlia looked in.
“Oh, Abi, hon,
are you fantasizing that the gauze is snow again?”
“Among other
things,” Abilene replied.
Dahlia shut the
door behind her and sank down to the floor beside Abilene, reaching over and
snagging an Oreo from the baggie. She turned her warm caramel-colored eyes
toward Abilene.
“Tough day?”
Abilene met her
friend’s gaze. “Dahlia, how many patients have you seen today?”
Understanding
lit in her friend’s eyes. Dahlia had been at the facility longer than Abilene.
She had been recruited straight out of the University of Pennsylvania, also
before her residency, and had been working here for nearly ten months. From
their talks, Abilene knew it had been a long ten months.
“Abi, I haven’t
seen any patients today. You know that.”
Abilene nodded.
Both women had come to this hospital in part because they believed in the
cause. According to the military recruitment team that had visited each of
them, the government was conducting an experiment in which they planned to
refurbish small, abandoned military buildings in rural areas. These facilities
would be for the local population as well as for the processing of the armed
forces’ medical tests. The facilities would employ civilian doctors, but they
would be funded by the government and sanctioned by the military.
It was nice in
theory; however, the largely Native American population in Needles viewed any
help from the government with suspicion, understandably so, and avoided the new
hospital as though they still used plague-ridden blankets — a reaction the
government had to have expected, which lead Abilene to wonder what the real
purpose of this facility was. It was hard to believe she and the other women
were here just to run labs.
“What are we
doing here?” Abilene pushed a hand through her short blonde curls in
frustration. “Damn it, I want to see patients. I want to save lives. I want to
do something.” Dahlia broke eye contact and looked at the floor.
Abilene blew out
a breath. “Sorry.” She offered a smile. She’d gotten carried away again. “Jeez,
I’m sorry, Dahlia. I know you’re frustrated, too.”
Dahlia gave
Abilene’s knee a squeeze. “Hey,” she shrugged, “the government is paying us to
run labs and make friends. What’s to complain about?” She rose to her feet in
effortless grace, turning to offer Abilene a hand up. “Come on. Treat you to a
Diet Coke from the vending machine?”
This was turning
into a tradition among the women at the hospital. Whenever one of them had a
meltdown, it always ended with Diet Coke, which, personally, Abilene loathed.
The other women sucked it down like ambrosia.
“Oh baby, you
know just what I like,” Abilene said in a breathy voice, grasping Dahlia’s
proffered hand while shoving thoughts of her disappointing career aside. She
rose to her feet, much less gracefully than Dahlia. “You and your weird Swan
Lake moves suck, you know,” she grumbled.
Dahlia chuckled
and glided out into the hall.
• • •
Awareness
flooded his senses so quickly he choked on his gasp of air. For several moments
all he could do was gulp as his body took over in its need for oxygen. His
lungs burned. He could hear his ragged breaths echoing around him, bouncing
around an empty cavern.
Where am I?
His instinct
urged him to take in any details he could. He heard a measured beep. His
frantic mind wouldn’t place it. In fact, he couldn’t seem to concentrate on
anything but that hysterical pull of air. Panic crept into the edges of his
consciousness, causing his heart rate to thump.
Where was he?
What was happening? Why was he … afraid?
God, not fear.
His mind clamped
down on him. Fear was dangerous.
Regulate
breathing. Determine surroundings. He clenched his teeth behind closed lips.
Slowly, steadily, he drew a measured breath through his nose. The debilitating
fear in his chest abated. Again, an internal voice whispered.
He pulled
another breath through flared nostrils, this time blowing it out between
parted, parched lips. As the panic receded, he noticed the incessant beeping
slowed. In an instant, he discerned the beeping: his own heart rate.
A medical
facility.
I’m hurt? He
took mental inventory of his body. The sudden awareness of his limbs brought an
onrush of pain. His bones felt crushed, agony knifed through him, and he
groaned in the back of his throat.
Pain. Familiar
pain. He was not a stranger to this anguish. He eased his eyes open. An
involuntary moan escaped his lips, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the
bright lights.
“1457, subject
is stirring. Shows signs of light-related visual pain.”
Intense, animal
fear arose at the sound of the clinical voice above his head. At the alarming
reference to a subject.
As in test
subject? Ah, God …
He held his
breath as he processed this new information, what the presence of that voice meant.
I’m not alone.
For some reason,
instead of calming him, this revelation ratcheted the terror tighter, to the
snapping point. The inner voice whispered urgently:
This man is
dangerous.
A lock fell from
a hidden cache of information in his brain. He recognized the voice that
whispered to him. The Voice had been his constant companion since this
nightmare had begun. Now, the Voice whispered the identity of the other person
in the room: The Tormentor. The beep above his left shoulder sped up as panic rushed
in again. The muscles in his arms and legs clamped down as his mind scrambled
over fight-or flight.
This involuntary
movement caused more pain to slice through him, and he just stopped another
moan from rising out of his chest. He could not let himself make any sounds of
distress. Another revelation from that hidden instinct: Hide your suffering. He
loves it.
Oh, God. How did
he know that? There was no doubt in his mind that he knew that from personal
experience. This newest revelation solved his fight-or-flight dilemma: flight.
He moved his
left arm infinitesimally to determine how much pain he would be dealing with
when he fled. He became aware of the cold, cutting metal impeding further
movement.
A new flare of
panic. Oh, no. Not that. He moved his arm again and met the same immovable
restraint. He tried to move his feet. He was shackled. The sharp edges of the
metal binding his wrists and ankles bit into his skin, adding to the buffet of
pain, but his terror would not allow him to cease his struggles.
His mind
screamed at him, urging his body to do the impossible.
“1500, subject
is showing usual onset of panic at regained consciousness. Thrashing has opened
wounds at the sites where he is restrained.”
The last of his
confusion melted away. He remembered. He remembered everything, and knew he was
lost. There would be no escape, just as there had been no escape for the past
eight years. He’d been through this before. The panicked awakening. The fierce
pain swamping every corner of his existence. The dawning horror of remembered
tortures.
When he forced
his eyes open, ignoring the sting of the bright operating room lights, a
familiar figure approached.
“Always such a
fuss, hmm, Eli?” The Tormentor tsked. Eli recoiled. His name was not safe with
that man. He never heard it without being reminded that he had no control over
himself or his situation.
His struggles
against the metal restraints now resulted in a rather satisfying cacophony, but
still only caused blood to drip down his arms and pool beneath his feet. The
Tormentor approached, eyeing the damage Eli had done to himself with a sadistic
leer that turned Eli’s stomach.
“Blood is
strength, you know.” The Tormentor shook his head in mock-sorrow. “What a pity
that you seem to hold it in such low regard.”
A feral growl
resonated in Eli’s chest, and he punched his head up from the stretcher to
glare into the Tormentor’s eyes. “I’m going to kill you.
I’m going to
make sure everyone knows what you’ve done here, and then,” he paused to ensure
the Tormenter was looking at him, “I’m going to kill you.”
The Tormentor
cocked an eyebrow and raised a recording device to chin level. “0817, subject
is displaying the symptoms of aggression that have heretofore been associated
with memory recollection. Has threatened death. Again.” He clicked off the
recording device and slipped it into the pocket of his scrubs.
“‘What I’ve done
here,’ hmm?” He leaned down until his face almost touched Eli’s. “What I’ve
done here is what you signed up for, soldier.
Nothing more,
nothing less.” He straightened with a sneer and turned toward the door.
One of the two
guards on the other side of the see-through barrier keyed a code into the door,
and the hiss of released pressure and a grinding of gears announced that the
door was unlocked. The Tormentor paused with his hand on the handle and turned
to announce over his
shoulder,
“Number 140 begins in four hours. Perhaps you should use this time to gather
your strength instead of waste it.” He twisted the handle and left the room.
Four hours.
In just four
hours they were going to conduct their one hundred fortieth experiment.
Number 14:
gunshot wound to the chest. The cold feel of steel pushed against his sternum.
The force of the bullet driving his body into the unforgiving metal at his
back. Gunpowder stinging his nostrils as his teeth chattered from the cold
caused by his bleeding out.
Number 58:
asphyxiation by smothering. Excruciating burning in his lungs. The flailing of
his limbs as he fought the restraints in a need to knock the oppressive hand
from his mouth and nose. Stars dotting his vision as his brain fought the lack
of oxygen.
His heart rate
sped up to match his ragged breathing. Number 100: dismemberment. He couldn’t
stifle the moan that memory dredged up, hearing in his mind the buzz of the
bone saw, feeling the heat of whirring metal on flesh. His Tormentor had
informed him that they had wanted to make the one hundredth “special.”
He was panting
like an animal now. Four hours. In four hours, they were going to kill him.
For the one hundred
fortieth time.
About
the Author:
Micah Persell, winner of the 2013
Virginia HOLT Award of Merit for her first novel Of Eternal Life, holds a
bachelor's degree in English and a double master's degree in literature and
English pedagogy. She is an avid reader of all types of literature, but has a
soft spot for romance. She currently teaches high school English classes in
Southern California. Her paranormal romance series, Operation: Middle of the
Garden, and her "wild and wanton" editions of Austen's Emma and
Persuasion are available now through Crimson Romance.
