Okay, you guys have been hearing me talk about Death’s Legacy, the first book in my Death Maiden series almost as long as you’ve heard me talk about my Keira Blackwater series, and are probably wondering a) if it really exists, and b) what the heck it’s about. So I thought I would give you a teaser by posting chapter 1 on here for you to read and check out (please keep in mind, it is still a work in progress and some things may be different when the book is officially released).

A little back story: the characters from Death’s Legacy woke me up one night and wouldn’t allow me to go back to sleep until I’d written the bare bones of their story down, which took almost an hour to accomplish. After that, they sat back and waited while I finished Keira’s story and published it. Then when the story tried to reassert itself, I put it on the back burner so I could write and publish Blood for Blood, book 2 of Keira’s story. Now, though I am fighting to write book 3 for Keira at the same time, the characters and story are refusing to stay in the background any longer, which is why I am currently writing two books at once.

Please note: Death’s Legacy is NOT like my Keira Blackwater series. It has a much darker feel to it, and is written in third person from the three main characters points of view. The different POVs took some getting used to, and requires me to switch gears and get into a whole different frame of mind when I’m going from writing book 3 of Keira’s story to it. I really hope you enjoy this peek into my new series. Please feel free to leave me a comment on here or Facebook to tell me what you think. Thanks!

Oh! P.S. I’d like to give a shout out to my good friend Kelsey Kessel for helping me come up with the title Death’s Legacy. Thanks, girl! You rock!!

*********************************************************************************************************************

Chapter 1

Jarko Knox shoved open the door of The Cauldron and stepped into the warm Oklahoma darkness that greeted him. The heavy steel door clanged against a Dumpster situated a little too close behind it, then swung shut, drowning out the laughter, yelling, and loud music that had become The Cauldron’s hallmark.

“Idiots,” he mumbled half-drunkenly. Hadn’t they learned by now only fools played flaming quarters with him? Jarko knew how to manipulate his craft better than any of the other witches, wizards, or warlocks that frequented the bar. He’d been there when they invented the game as a way to settle disputes peacefully, so he knew the rules intimately. Nowadays, they used it more as a way to flex their metaphysical muscles than anything else. A drunken bar game he had yet to lose. He loved it.

He kicked an empty beer can on the sidewalk with the toe of his boot and listened as it clinked and rolled off the concrete into the gutter. The street was empty this time of night, except for the two women that passed him on their way to The Cauldron. Witches perhaps, he couldn’t tell. Judging by the leather they wore and the twinkle in their eyes, they craved a little after work fun. Jarko smiled and tipped an imaginary hat to them, causing the two ladies to quicken their pace. Whether they guessed he was a warlock or not, they knew to avoid his kind: tall, dark, and menacing.

Old memories surfaced, bringing with them the heated anger that always accompanied them. His fist clenched and unclenched as he remembered his parents, and the warlock that murdered them shortly after he turned thirteen which had led him to becoming who he was now. He’d spent his youth alone, perfecting his craft on the mean streets of New York with little guidance to teach him right or wrong. He stole, killed, fought to survive, making him as cold as the winter nights had been. He blew out a resigned breath. Tenderness was not his forte, and never would be. Though he knew the differences now, the mold had been cast.

Tires squealed somewhere in the distance as Jarko cut right off Fifth Street, ducking down the dark alley that separated the street the bar sat on from the one that would eventually lead him home. The path he walked spanned several blocks, sometimes taking him as much as an hour and a half depending on his drunkenness. He didn’t mind though; it gave him time to sober up.

The overwhelming odor of rotting garbage, beer, vomit, and other bodily fluids assaulted Jarko’s senses. The warm night air heated them like an oven and saturated the alley with their stench the way a batch of cookies baking would a house, creating a sobering effect similar to smelling salts. Most people wouldn’t be caught dead cutting through this particular alley in the middle of the night. They built The Cauldron in an abandoned warehouse district to protect the magical community’s secrecy, but that made it easier for bad things to happen to people caught out after dark – magically inclined or not.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely took notice of the tall, willowy shape that emerged from the shadows in front of him. Jarko puffed out his chest with every intention of just strolling on by, but when the figure stepped into the middle of the alley, effectively blocking his path, he stopped and quickly evaluated the possible threat in front of him. He was confident, not careless. He hadn’t survived a hundred and five years by being stupid.

Black cloth cloaked the figure from head to toe. The cloth rippled and writhed, giving it the appearance of a living thing. Not an inch of skin or defining feature showed through; nothing that would characterize who or what the creature was. It flickered in and out of focus, as if trying to hold onto its form.

“Get out of my way before I remove you permanently,” Jarko ordered, his palms itching from the adrenaline that coursed through his veins. He snapped his fingers and a bright ball of orange light leapt to life in his right hand, letting the stranger know what he was. The energy quivered and danced in his palm, anxiously awaiting its master’s command. It had taken him nearly two years to be able to call forth his energy sphere by snapping his fingers instead of rubbing his hands together as was customary among his kind.

“Such temper. Your reputation precedes you,” the male voice hissed, drawing out each ‘s’ the way a snake might. No snake shifters existed as far as Jarko knew, but several creatures had fangs that might produce the sound – vampire and demon being the first two that jumped to mind, though neither of those seemed to fit quite right.

Jarko tossed his energy sphere into the air, where it circled effortlessly around his head. He crossed his arms across his chest and stared at the intruder. Whatever the creature was had his full attention, the alcohol long ago washed away with the adrenaline of a possible threat.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Jarko didn’t bother hiding the agitation in his voice. Instead, he punctuated it by intensifying the brightness of his energy sphere. If luck, the fickle bitch, decided to play nice, the creature would get the hint and walk away. He hated wasting energy needlessly just because some creature had grown bored and picked the wrong warlock to screw with.

The figure flickered into solid form and circled Jarko, forcing him to spin a slow circle, never letting it out of his sight. “Have you figured out what I am yet, warlock?” the creature teased. “Here, let me help.” It stopped in front of him and pulled a bony, pale hand out from under the cloak. Palm outstretched, it whispered an ancient word he didn’t recognize, causing a black energy sphere to instantly appear. Jarko’s eyes widened as he took a reluctant step back.

“Soul Sucker,” he whispered.

There were six magic using groups, each one identifiable by the color of their energy spheres. Witches were white, one of the lesser groups, yet still powerful in their own rights. Wizards were green, mid-grade magic users, formidable if trained properly. Red was reserved only for demons, the intensity of the red in direct correlation to how powerful they were. Warlocks were orange, Jarko’s color, one of the most powerful magic using factions out there. Blue belonged to the bottom of the barrel, barely worth mentioning; half-breeds. They were the least capable of any of the groups, usually due to the diluting of magical blood by mixing with a non-magical user.

But the one feared by all, the one most likely to destroy you, was black. Soul Sucker, Death Dealer, Grim Reaper. They’d been called many things throughout history. Most notable was Death himself – a real entity who ruled all the others.

“So you do know me.” The creature chuckled, obviously proud of where it stood in the food chain.

“Yes, I know you,” Jarko answered, a little more respectfully. “How may I be of service?” It pained him to sound so humble, but he knew his place in the scheme of things. Any other time he was lord and master and could do whatever he pleased, but the power the Soul Sucker had over Jarko’s soul held the trump card.

Hell would welcome him with open arms when his time came, penance for the dark magic he’d performed most of his life. He knew that, had accepted it long ago, but to have his soul consumed and the energy that made him so powerful fed off of for eternity, all while being consciously aware and unable to seek eternal rest, was something even the most hardened black magic user feared.

“Don’t worry, warlock…” The creature laughed, a great guffaw that hurt Jarko’s ears. “…your soul is safe for now. I have a job for you.” He extinguished the black energy sphere from his palm, reducing the threat to Jarko, before placing his bony hand back under the cloak.

Jarko heaved a sigh of relief, then ground his teeth together. The action irritated him immensely. He hadn’t been troubled by anyone since his teenage years he spent alone and scared on the streets, something he swore he’d never go through again. He’d worked hard to earn his reputation, his place in the world.

“What job?” Jarko retrieved the energy sphere still circling his head, and palmed it, bouncing it up and down in his hand. He knew the gesture betrayed him, made him look nervous, which he was, but the habit had proved hard to break.

The Soul Sucker sounded almost gleeful when he answered, “Get rid of Death.”

“My name is Lyra Prim, and I’m terrified of zombies.” There, Lyra admitted it out loud, something she’d never done before. She couldn’t really say she felt much better for her confession, but the well-dressed woman sitting opposite her scribbled furiously in her little black notebook.

Lyra sat in Dr. Evelyn Carter’s office, psychiatrist extraordinaire, on a dreadful peach sofa staring up at the smiley faced clouds floating across her ceiling. Did they really think those things would make someone who thought they needed to see a shrink feel better? The only thing that kept Lyra from giggling was how serious Dr. Carter looked as she jotted down her notes.

“And why is that Miss Prim?” Dr. Carter stopped her annoying scribbling, and glanced up at Lyra through a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses that made her look prudish. She crossed her expensive Jimmy Choo sling backs, one over the other, then leaned back against her brown leather chair and waited for Lyra’s answer.

“Well, I …” Dr. Carter’s left eye twitched, drawing Lyra’s attention. The skin beneath it started to sag and stretch, making it look as though it melted. Lyra closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to dislodge the image, then reopened them. Yep, still there.

Dr. Carter noticed Lyra staring, so she reached up with a blood-red fingernail – were they longer than they had been? – and pushed the skin back up into place. “Go ahead, Miss Prim.” When she pulled her finger away, her eye looked perfectly normal again.

Must be the lighting, Lyra told herself.

Lyra wasn’t quite ready for the rest of the confession, but she took a deep breath and blew it out slowly anyway in preparation. Something acrid and sour coated her tongue, but was quickly replaced with the overwhelming smell of warm cinnamon coming from the small crockpot sitting on the corner of Dr. Carter’s large cherry desk. The cinnamon-scented liquid potpourri would have made Lyra’s mouth water if it hadn’t been for the foul taste still coating her tongue. She looked around the room, trying to find the source of the faint, somehow familiar smell, but found nothing.

“Ahem.”

Lyra’s attention snapped back to Dr. Carter, who bounced her foot impatiently and glared at her. “Sorry,” she offered.

“That’s fine, Miss Prim, please continue.” She parted her strawberry red lips and smiled at Lyra with jagged, pointy teeth. One of her incisors was completely black with a hole rotted clear through it. Something green and slimy-looking oozed out from between the gaps in her teeth.

“What the …” Heart pounding, Lyra jerked away from her so quickly she rolled off the sofa onto the white shag carpet, then scrambled backwards, crab style, until her back hit the wall on the far side of the room. Her mind screamed at her to get out, that something was wrong, evidenced by the woman who changed right before her very eyes.

“Is something wrong, Miss Prim?” Dr. Carter asked as she rose from her chair.

Lyra stared in horror, nearly choking on a scream.

Dr. Carter’s face had completely transformed. The left side started melting again, causing her once beautiful brown eyeball to bulge from its socket. She blinked repeatedly as if trying to pop it back into place. Something wiggled beneath the skin on the right side of her face, drawing Lyra’s attention away from the eyeball dilemma. She nearly wretched when she realized what they were. Maggots.

“Are you all right, Miss Prim?” Her beautiful white ruffled shirt and black knee length skirt Lyra had admired when she first walked in was now rotten and riddled with holes. The ensemble made a wet squishy sound as she ambled toward Lyra as if to help her up.

“Don’t touch me! Get away from me!” Lyra clawed at the wall behind her, trying to find enough purchase to pull herself up, but she couldn’t move. Her legs wouldn’t budge. Lyra’s heart threatened to break free of her chest as it bounced painfully against her breastbone.

“Come now, Miss Prim, you’re being overly dramatic.” Dr. Carter smiled even brighter at Lyra, the green slimy ooze seeped out onto the floor; popping and sizzling when it hit the shag. Little whirls of smoke rose up where the ooze burned chunks out of the carpet.

Lyra tried to scream, but nothing came out. She watched in horror as Dr. Carter, now a full-blown zombie complete with rotting flesh, stumbled to within inches of where she sat frozen against the wall. The fleeting stench she’d smelled earlier now hit her full force… rotting flesh. So that’s why she burned so much cinnamon.

“Don’t worry, Miss Prim,” Dr. Carter purred. “This won’t hurt … much.” Dr. Carter licked her lips, her tongue so black Lyra almost missed the little pockets of puss that coated it, then she smiled and lunged at her.

Lyra sat bolt upright in bed, clutched the gold silk sheets tighter to her chest, and screamed at the top of her lungs. Lyra’s throat burned and her chest felt as though someone had stacked a cinder block on it. Maybe two. That must have been why she couldn’t scream in the dream. She’d been screaming for real.

After a thorough scan of her dimly lit room, she managed to convince herself that yes, it had been a dream. Lyra threw the sweat-soaked sheets off, flipped on the light, and stared at her reflection in the mirror that hung over her oak dresser.

Pink tinged her flushed cheeks; a sheen of sweat covered her body and shimmered in the overhead light. Lyra turned her head left and right, making sure the spot on her neck where Dr. Carter had been gnawing just a few minutes ago was still intact. It looked flawless, all except a tiny scar just above her left collarbone she received on her thirteenth birthday. The same day the nightmares began.

Lyra’s right hand involuntarily stroked the strip of silver hair that ran down the right side of her face the way it had a thousand times, every strand of silver amidst her otherwise jet black hair memorized. Her friends at school loved the silver streak – she’d inadvertently started a new hair trend – but she hated it with a passion. She’d cut it, dyed it more times than she could count, yet still, it grew back; a permanent reminder of what she’d done all those years ago.

Stop it! That was a long time ago. Leave the past in the past where it belongs. Yeah, she’d been trying to do that for the last seven years.

Although it was way-too-damn-early in the morning, Lyra knew she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, so she decided to take a hot shower, get dressed, and start her day. It was Sunday after all. She was anxious to see her mother.