Chaos
Bound
Chronicles
of the Applecross
Book
2
Rebekah
Turner
Genre:
Urban fantasy
Publisher:
Escape Publishing
Date
of Publication: 1 December 2013
ISBN:
9780857991072
ASIN:
B00G2UXCI4
Number
of pages: 177
Word
Count: 82,000
Book
Description:
The
long-awaited sequel to Chaos Born takes us back into the Applecross, where Lora
faces increasing threats to her survival and her chance at love.
Lora
Blackgoat — mercenary and smuggler — has only just recovered from the last
threat on her life and hasn’t even begun to sort out the mess of having both a
nephilim warrior and a reborn hellspawn as potential lovers. Work should be a
refuge, but a job finding missing persons puts her in the crosshairs of a
violent gang and a merchant with a taste for blood sport.
Reluctantly,
Lora turns to the two men in her life for help. Roman — the nephilim —
professes to be her soul mate and turns to her when he feels the darkness of
nephilim madness descending. But though Lora is drawn to Roman, it is Seth,
ex-lover and reborn hellspawn, who Lora must ultimately ask to protect those
she loves. Can she trust Seth to save Roman and her adoptive family, or will
this be a fatal mistake?
* * * *
How I Constructed my Hot as Hell Hero
When
I first began writing, one of the questions I found myself asking was: what
makes a man manly? What makes a guy sexy as hell? You know the type: that guy who
gets your attention when he steps into the room and the skill of forming a
coherent sentence leaves you. I found myself pondering; is it giant man titties
that do it? A massive chiselled jaw? I know that sure as hell worked for me when
I was a teenager, as I mooned over a Dolph Lungren, with his shaggy blond
mullet and baby-oil slicked muscles.
Roman,
the hero of my book in Chaos Bound, is
nephilim and bound to a militant religious order. I wanted to make him
appealing to both the reader and to my heroine, so after I laid out his
physical features, I went about trying to construct an irresistible manly man. I
outlined him as a single-minded hero, who lived by a strict code. I gave him strong
passions and ideals, mixed with a ruthless charisma. Then there was the strong
body, the quietly spoken words and shadowed eyes. I wanted Roman to be the type
of hero who knew what he wanted and went for it, no holds barred. The hero with
a deadly nightshade stare that meant trouble for anyone who crossed his path.
These traits appealed to me, because
there’s nothing sexier than a driven hero, especially when his undivided
attention is on what he wants between the sheets. And when that kind of desire
is juxtaposed on a hero in a military order with a deadly skill set, there’s a
delicious tension between the chaste control of his outer self, and the passion
he can show in private and the sense that those two worlds will collide adds
black powder to an already burning fire.
Of course, now that I’ve gone and created
this delicious hero, I have to put him through a world of hurt. I’ve got to
take away what he loves and watch him try to fight for it. He’s got to know the
stakes are high, so he gives the fight everything he’s got. It’s hard to watch.
It’s hard to write. But when you know he’s the hero who’s always got the
heroine’s back in a fight, the hero with the purest of heart, you just know
he’s going to make it.
* * * *
Chapter
1
No one had liked Rae Dowler.
His nickname had been Captain Chunky, and that was from his friends. He'd been
a greedy bastard in life and now, in death, was a weight on my conscience. This
was the second co-worker to die on a job with me. The first one I’d had to
behead after he'd become infected at an exorcism with a demonic entity, along
with the client. Thankfully, my sword had been nowhere near Rae Dowler when
he'd dropped dead of an old-fashioned heart attack. Still, people liked to
talk.
Spring
had bloomed in the bustling city of Harken, and instead of the usual rain, or
tepid fog, the narrow, crooked streets had been flooded with gentle, golden
sunshine. For a city used to constant downpours and overcast skies, the unexpected
weather was viewed with some suspicion and considered most unseemly.
A warm
afternoon wind was blowing though the cemetery, ruffling black skirts and
sending hats sailing. I watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground, only
half listening as a priest of The Higher Path faith droned on about eternal
life.
Dowler
had been in the Runner industry for over forty years. He was the only other
Runner at Blackgoat Watch that didn't mind being sent on jobs past The Weald's
guarded entryways: out into the modern world, with its buzzing technology,
flashing neon lights and all things deep fried. Transporting anything from the
Outlands back into the hidden Weald was illegal, but somehow Dowler always
managed to return with a tray of Winkie Bill's Crème Donuts. A tray he never
shared, mind you. Just sat in the kitchen of Blackgoat and scoffed the lot
before he had to go home to his wife. In light of his less than stellar diet, I
guess the heart attack that killed him wasn't a complete surprise.
Gideon,
my benefactor and owner of Blackgoat Watch, stood to my left, reeking of stale
whisky and boredom. Cloete, another runner at Blackgoat, was on my right. A
five-foot dynamo, Cloete was otherkin: her bloodline a mixture of succubus and
goddess-knew-what other interbred, mystic race. Today she was wearing leather
pants and a suede coat, her petite horns hidden under a bowler hat. Her
inky-black tail wrapped around one leg, the end tapping impatiently against her
thigh. Tails were tricky things, always giving away the mind of their owners.
Tails never seemed to lie and I was thankful I didn’t have one.
The
priest said 'amen' and people dutifully took their cue and began shuffling
away. Dowler's widow, a heavy-set woman with coarse hair and fleshy jowls,
tossed wilted roses into the open grave, her expression a mixture of sadness
and regret, with a pinch of what looked like suspicion.
‘Thank
Kianna's sacred tits that's over.’ Cloete yawned, tail unravelling from her
leg. ‘Who's up for a brew at Growlers?’
‘That was
the most boring funeral I've ever attended.’ Gideon copied Cloete's yawn,
covering his mouth with a hairy hand. He was decked out in a long frock coat
with a red carnation tucked in the lapels and a natty yellow necktie. Gideon
was a full-blooded satyr, and though he made every effort to look human, today
he'd forgotten a hat, and his tangle of steel-wool grey hair revealed the tops
of his horns he'd had amputated years ago in an effort to fit in. He'd also
forgotten the contacts that changed his slit pupils to round, and his
fancy-made shoes didn't match. All this, and his hangdog expression, suggested
he was struggling with a hangover.
‘It
wasn't that boring.’ I tried to sound indignant on Dowler's behalf, but came
off sounding guilty. I was busy praying the wife didn't notice me.
‘Before I
forget, Lora,’ Gideon paused to yawn again, ‘I need you to come in to Blackgoat
tomorrow to talk about a new job.’
‘You've
already got me babysitting the theatre bimbo,’ I reminded him. It was a simple
bodyguard gig. No real threats...low stress...limited chance of beheadings.
‘Please.’
Gideon looked pained. ‘Nicola Grogan is an actress, and a fine one at that.’ He
sniffed and flicked a finger at his carnation. ‘And I must say, that doesn't
sound like gratitude from where I'm standing.’
My lips
tightened, but I had enough smarts to pause before I spoke, giving my brain a
chance to kick in. After being passed over for jobs because other Runners
refused to work with me, I was in no position to turn my nose up at any
opportunities. I'd only attended one other successful exorcism job since the
beheading incident. That client had been high profile: the daughter of the Lord
Mayor Corelli. Unfortunately, the Mayor was a staunch advocate of the Church of
Higher Path, who frowned upon things such as spells and magic, seeing them as
blasphemy. Blackgoat Watch had been hired by Mayor Corelli's wife, who'd sworn
Gideon to secrecy, all of which meant I couldn't put the job on my brag sheet
of clients I hadn't killed. As things stood now, Gideon had been forced to
strong-arm Rae Dowler to work with me on a stakeout of a suspected cheating
husband. The fact that the job hadn't ended well for Dowler was now going to
make me a social pariah. Again.
‘Sorry,’
I muttered. ‘I'm grateful. I'm grateful.’
Gideon
grunted and made a beeline for the rickshaw he'd hired to chauffeur him to and
from the cemetery. Despite his dishevelled look this morning, Gideon liked to
think most people couldn't pick he was a satyr, and that he was a master of
disguise. No one had the heart to tell him he wasn't.
I rubbed
my right lame leg and leant heavily on my goat-headed duelling cane, jealous of
the rickshaw. After downing two espressos and three pastries from a local
bakery, I'd walked to the cemetery as an act of contrition. Orella Warbreeder,
my adoptive mother, had been lecturing me on how walking would do my joints
wonders. But after standing in one place for so long, my hip had seized. I had
half a mind to beg a lift with Gideon when a wink of light caught my eye,
coming from the line of pine trees hedging one side of the cemetery. The light
blinked again. I was no super spy, but had enough smarts to know when someone
wanted my attention.
‘Lora?’
‘Eh?’ I
realised Cloete had asked me a question.
‘Drink?’
She mimed throwing back a tankard of beer.
‘I think
I'll just stay here a bit,’ I said. ‘Catch up with you later?’
Her
eyebrows lifted. ‘Self-pity is an ugly emotion, Lora.’
‘Fuck
off. I've just got things to do.’
Cloete
pursed her lips. ‘You won't be bringing your boyfriend, will you?’
‘Boyfriend?’
My eyebrows arched. ‘Who would that be?’
‘Are you
serious?’ Cloete snorted. ‘You think people aren't gossiping about you making
goo-goo eyes at that fire and brimstone Regulator?’
I
flushed. ‘His name is Roman, and we're just friends.’
One side
of Cloete's mouth jerked up. ‘How very teen drama.’
‘Shut
up.’
She began
to stalk off, then paused, glancing back at me. ‘Just make sure you come to
Growlers tonight, yeah? I want to talk to you about something important.’
‘Fine, fine.’
I gave her a surly look. ‘I'll make sure my teen drama doesn't follow me.’
Cloete
chuckled as she left, striding towards the city with a smattering of other
burly-looking Blackgoat Runners. I'd heard she'd flat-out refused the
protection detail for Nicola Grogan. I wish I could have done the same. Spoilt
actresses were bad for my health. There was another flash from the woods and I
got the impression someone wanted me to hurry up.
The hairs
on my neck prickled and I turned to see Dowler's wife. Her lips peeled back and
she hissed at me, sounding like a kettle on the boil. I opened my mouth a
couple of times before managing to mutter condolences about her loss.
‘This was
your fault.’ Her eyes were slits of fury, face dry of tears. ‘My husband's
blood is on your hands.’
‘I don't
think that's fair,’ I protested weakly.
But the
widow was already leaving, an elderly man escorting her away. She let herself
be led, back stiff with anger. I watched her go, feeling miserable. How was
Dowler's death my fault? A small voice told me I was a jinx, so that kind of
made it my fault. I balked as the widow pulled away from her escort and stabbed
a finger at me, spit flying from thinned lips. ‘You're the angel of death, Lora
Blackgoat. You bring nothing but misery into people's lives.’
Her
escort tightened his grip, threw me a scowl, and hurried her from the cemetery.
I was the only one by Dowler's graveside now. Even the grave attendants had
retreated for a break, leaning against headstones and smoking tobacco pipes.
I
unbuttoned my coat and adjusted my work-belt with its heavy pockets, loaded
with knick-knacks most useful in a fight. This included pouches of salt, the
one medium guaranteed to act as a conduit to the ley-lines that ran under the
earth and fuelled all magic. It wasn't hard to cast; took a few years of
training to get the concentration right, then chuck a bit of salt, shout a few
words of power in the language of your choice, and hey presto, you could set
your own hair on fire. My belt was well stocked with salt, including one pouch
of my own special mixture: powdered consecrated silver, salt, and half a
teaspoon of gunpowder. I called it my Sucker Punch Special: guaranteed to rock
your socks when you needed it. Feeling prepared, I braced my cane against my
bad leg and strode towards the line of pine trees.
Available
for purchase:
About the Author:
Rebekah lives in
sunny Queensland and has worked in the past as a graphic designer. She now does
freelance work when her kids are looking the other way. An avid writer since
she could scrawl in her dad’s expensive encyclopedias, she has progressed from
horsey stories to tales of dark fantasy with lashings of romance and a
sprinkling of horror.
Her vices include
eating overpriced ice cream, over analyzing 80s action and horror movies and
buying stationery she just doesn’t need.
Learn more about Rebekah:
