But he doesn’t come. He can’t hear me. He’ll never hear me again. How could he?
My voice fades to a whisper. Pain stabs my head with every beat of my heart. The pinpricks of light surrounding me are now blurry halos. In the quiet, I can no longer hear the ragged breathing of the young creature. Certain it’s dead, I weep again, mourning not just the death of this deformed thing that tried to eat me, but the death of something much more precious to me: my soul. As my body gives way to exhaustion, I slide down onto the stone floor, surrounded by bones and wonder, maybe that’s the point.
—SAMPLE—
THE SHEPHERD by Ethan Cross
Available for $2.99 on Kindle at: Click here to buy
DESCRIPTION:
Marcus Williams and Francis Ackerman Jr. both have a talent for hurting people. Marcus, a former New York City homicide detective, uses his abilities to protect others, while Ackerman uses his gifts to inflict pain and suffering. When both men become unwilling pawns in a conspiracy that reaches to the highest levels of our government, Marcus finds himself in a deadly game of cat and mouse trapped between a twisted psychopath and a vigilante with seemingly unlimited resources. Aided by a rogue FBI agent and the vigilante's beautiful daughter -a woman with whom he's quickly falling in love-Marcus must expose the deadly political conspiracy and confront his past while hunting down one of the most cunning and ruthless killers in the world.
EXCERPT:
Chapter 1
Jim Morgan watched as reflections of the patrol car’s flashing lights danced across the front window of the remote gas station. He strained to see beyond the strange and ominous shadows into the building’s interior. Although the call from dispatch warranted only a routine robbery report, for some reason, an irrational yet overwhelming feeling of dread crept over the edges of his consciousness. He couldn’t explain the sensation—cop instincts, intuition, or premonition—but he knew something wasn’t right. He took a deep breath and released a prolonged and deliberate exhalation. As he exited the vehicle, he forced away the feeling that something dark awaited him.
He noted the absence of the moon. The darkness seemed solid and eternal beyond the pool of radiance cast by the lights of the cruiser and gas station. He felt as if he sat on the edge of the world, and nothing else existed in the universe. Turning his gaze back toward the station, the feeling took root again.
He couldn’t pinpoint the source of his fear, which frightened him even more. For Jim, the worst kind of fear had always been one without a name. Out of trepidation, he considered calling to check on his wife, Emily, and their daughter. He consulted his watch and decided against it. He didn’t want to wake them.
His partner, Tom Delaine, said, “You okay? You look like somebody pissed in your cornflakes.”
“I’m fine. Let’s get this over with. It’s past my bedtime, and I just want to go home.”
The look of concern was still evident on Tom’s face, but he nodded and walked toward the front door of the station. Neither man had drawn his weapon, since they knew from dispatch that the assailant had already fled the premises. Nevertheless, a proper report needed to be filed, and the station’s attendant had seemed adamant that someone should come right away.
As they entered the building, Jim caught the hint of a strangely familiar smell, but he was unable to identify it. He pushed the thought away and focused his mind on the task at hand.
Once inside, he scanned the room. The station’s counter rested along the back wall, parallel to the door. A man with dark hair and haunting gray eyes sat behind it. The attendant’s midnight black t-shirt stretched tight across his chest, firm muscles bunched underneath. The man didn’t say a word; he simply stared without expression at the two policemen.
As their gazes locked, Jim instinctively moved his hand closer to the pistol holstered at his side.
“Nice night, huh?” the attendant said. “The darkness tonight is . . . oppressive. It has weight.”
He couldn’t comprehend the logic that associated an oppressive darkness with a nice night, and he distrusted the man possessing a mind in which the two were linked. The significance of such a statement was apparently lost on his partner. Tom just raised his eyebrows and replied with a drawn-out, “Okay.” After a pause, he said, “Were you the one who reported the robbery?”
“No,” the man said, “I reported a murder.”
Upon hearing the statement, Jim’s breath caught in his throat. He moved his hand over his gun but didn’t draw the 9mm Glock semi-automatic from its holster.
“Who was murdered?” Tom said.
The attendant didn’t answer, and although Jim couldn’t be sure, he thought a suppressed grin had passed over the man’s face. Instead of a reply, the attendant leaned forward and shifted his gaze down one of the station’s aisles.