The Gentleman
Natasha Powell
Genre: Horror, Paranormal (bromance), Fantasy
Date of Publication: April 14th 2014
ISBN: 0615990371
ISBN: 978-0615990378
ASIN:
Number of pages: 266
Word Count: 81,247
Cover Artist: Natasha Powell
Book Description:
James Greene would do anything to keep his soul. But his year on the run from the demon known as The Gentleman, has left him with two choices: kill himself, or pay the piper. While in a dumpy hotel in Florida, wrestling with the thoughts of suicide, a letter sent from a stranger gives James a third choice: get rid of him once and for all.
The letter leads him to his family’s plantation home in Athens, Georgia. There, he discovers not only his family's secrets, but also The Gentleman’s true intentions. The Gentleman offers James a deal he can’t resist, play the last game, and if he wins, he gets to keep his soul.
Available at Amazon and Smashwords
Excerpt: Chapter 1
Storm
of the Century
It was 1981, and
a year since James Greene’s deal with The Gentleman. Days ago, he’d fled from
the terrors in South Carolina for the Florida Keys. He intended to reach the
Keys before the sun rose, but the storm that put cannon-sized dents into his
truck in the wee hours of the morning spoiled his plan. Worst of all, the
feeling of someone watching and following him had heightened after he’d entered
Florida.
When the
droplets of rain became tiny atom bombs exploding on the windshield, he’d
swerved around potholes and driven slower than the speed limit to avoid driving
his 1959 pickup into a muddy quicksand. The condensation on the windshield
formed faster than his wipers could clear it off. As the rain fell harder,
gallons of it flooded the inside of his truck by way of the rolled down window
on the passenger’s side.
“Damn it! I had
only one hundred miles left.” He slammed his fist into the steering wheel. The
impact left knuckle marks in the plastic and bent the frame. After taking a
deep breath and a swig of rum, he looked on either side of the road for a place
to hole-up until the storm died.
Only dreary
trees lined the sides of the road. Then, finally, a sign for The Hotel Love
Nest blinked on and off beside the road as he drove past. James mashed the
brakes to the floor, turned his truck around, and drove back in the direction
of the hotel. His bag splashed onto his floorboard, into the swimming pool that
grew with each passing minute. As his tires screeched, they pushed slushy mud
up and sprayed rocks in every direction.
He parked his
truck, more crooked than usual, in front of a rundown hotel. It had all the
makings of a bad-side-of-town look. As the rain increased its frenzy and
cascaded harder from sky, he rolled the passenger window up to prevent more
from pouring inside.
“Okay, one, two,
three!”
On three, he
opened his door and battered through the storm, until his boots landed in a
large puddle outside the main office. He ignored it and continued toward the
door. The rain confused his sense of perception, and he overshot the distance
to the handle, causing him to open the door with his shoulder, shoving his way
inside where he collapsed onto the floor.
Once the door
shut, reducing the sounds of the raging thunderstorm, he stood and wiped the
rain from his face. With clearer vision, he saw a man with stringy hair,
coke-bottle glasses, and greasy clothes sitting dangerously close to a black
and white TV behind the desk.
“Hey,” James
said and waved his hand to the guy.
The man paid him
no mind and watched a woman on the tube scream as a monster slashed her throat.
James moved his
hand to his side with stealth and unsheathed his knife.
“No,” he
whispered, squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and snapped closed the
button to the knife’s casing. “Hey buddy, I need a fuckin’ room.” James smashed
his hand on the bell that sat on the desk.
The man moved
around to face him. “Ten dollars.” He turned back to the TV.
James ripped out
his wallet and put the soggy bills on the counter.
After the man
had removed the key from the wall, he slid it over to James. “Room four,” he
said while gawking at the TV where a townsman was dragging the monster from its
hole. He stuffed more donuts into his cavity-corroded mouth.
“Thanks,” James
said and ran back to his truck for his soaked bag.
The rain pelted
his skin; the gusts slapping his face and slowing him to a fast walk. Because
of the hurricane force winds, the truck’s door weighed a thousand pounds, and
he had to dig his feet into the mud to yank it open. After removing his bag and
shotgun, he hustled to the sidewalk, but not before grabbing the two sets of
dog tags that hung around the rearview mirror. As he stepped onto the sidewalk,
the hotel roof finally provided relief from the storm.
He reached into
his pocket for the key and accidently snagged a drenched flyer with a fisherman
on the front along with it. The wind tossed the paper in the air, and he
captured it before it disappeared into the downpour. He held it to the
moonlight, scanning it before returning it to his soaked pants.
“Soon, I’ll be
James, the fisherman. Just one night and that’s it.” He strolled to room number
four and paused before entering. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
The wind
swirled, pulling him back toward the rain. He forced his feet forward and
focused on the lock. The sounds of the hotel building settling resembled the
hair-raising screams from a serial killer’s basement. Something, he was sure of
it, called his name.
“It’s not real.”
He stabbed the key into the lock. A swift jerk and shake of the door caused the
room number to fling free of the bent nails that held it up as the door swung
open. Without looking back, he darted into the dark room and closing the door,
leaned his back against the door as it closed out the howls of Hurricane
Nightmare. Rain dripped off his wet body and streaked down the doorframe.
“Okay, I made
it. It’ll take him a while to catch me now.” After standing up from the ground,
he turned on the lights and marveled at the disaster of a room. The walls
resembled the pocked surface of the dark side of the moon. The bathroom,
covered in mildew and mold, had no door. Cracks similar to the ones in the
Sahara desert appeared on the ceiling, and cancerous black spots filled the corner.
The only positives were a bed, a desk and chair, and a TV.
“This is the
worst of the worst. No wonder it was ten dollars.”
Not wasting a
minute, he dropped his duffle bag on the floor and unzipped it. After pulling
out a velvet pouch, he spread soot at the inside of the door. The smell of
burnt leather drifted up to his nose, and a small haze rose from the material.
He burned sage in the window seals and set fire to a hard material that he laid
in the middle of the room. As the hard substance burned, a smell worse than the
room lingered. But once it evaporated, the muggy smell of a dead man’s anus
withered away.
Now to get out
of these. He wiped away some of the water from his face as he reached down,
unlaced his boots, removed his wet socks, peeled off his shirt and pants, and
tossed them onto the ground. From his bag, he retrieved a dry pair of socks and
pants and put them on.
After
unsheathing his knife, he felt the groves and tic marks engraved along the
handle and placed it on the table. There were thirty-four marks etched in the
wooden handle.
When he’d
finished, he rested his short-barreled shotgun against the table where he
relaxed and pulled out his Florida State game-winning baseball from college. He
tossed the ball into the air, launching it higher and higher. It hit the
ceiling and pieces of plaster fell on his head.
“Fuck!”
Once he stood,
he brushed the fragments from his matted hair and shoulders onto the stained
carpet and stopped the baseball from rolling under the bed with his foot. The ball
still had pieces of plaster on it, and he brushed them off then tossed it into
his bag. His bag contained another treasure of his—rum. He removed a new bottle
and uncapped it, sucking down the spicy juice through his dehydrated lips.
“Huh.” He wiped
what spilled off his face and recapped the bottle.
Sitting at the
table, he flattened the torn flyer and spread it across the broken and
splintered top. While shutting his eyes, he pictured the sea, the way it
smelled, and the way it felt against his skin. The whales collided with the
boat, and he heaved and hoed with the dozen or so other men that worked along
with him on the large vessel. The ropes burned his hands and blood mixed with
the salty water. No one knew if they’d die by the whale’s hand or the storm.
Nevertheless, that was all right by him. There was no one around hounding and
harassing him, taking away his sleep and ability to think. No one threatening
his life, family, or conscience. It was him and the sea. James and his
thoughts.
“I can’t wait.”
He smiled and interlaced his fingers behind his head.
A violent bang
at the door erased the peaceful vision. James fell from his seat onto the
floor, whacking his head along the way. When he rose, he dashed to the light
switch and flicked it off.
The thing
outside beat and hammered on the door. With his back pressed against the wall
and breathing as little as possible, he shook each time the door thumped. Sweat
raced down his chest and forehead. His nostrils flared as lilac seeped into the
room, and he resisted the urge to gag.
“No,” he
whispered.
The thing
scratched and chattered on the other side of the door, and multiple voices
talked simultaneously. It raged and laughed, and the windows vibrated; little
cracks spread across the glass.
James squeezed his
eyes shut and prayed to God, any God that happened to hear him. He prayed until
his mouth was too dry to open. Then he prayed in his head.
The commotion
ended, and the ominous presence left. He lifted his trembling hand to the newly
cracked window, pushed the curtain away, and saw nothing. After turning on the
lights, he sat at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
“Only one more
day. I’ve had one hundred fucking miles, and now this.” He drove his fist into
the wall beside the bed. The pain caused him to wave his hand.
“It’s one of the
hallucinations. You haven’t slept in what, three days? It’s like the time in
Macon.” He rubbed his head.
A letter swished
into his room from under the door and floated beside him onto the tattered
covers. James leapt from it. His eyes widened at the sight of the handwriting.
“It’s just
paper,” he muttered. Mustering the courage, he seized the letter. It shook in
his unsteady hands as he read the words.
I WANT MY SOUL,
AND SINCE I’M SUCH A NICE GUY, I’LL GIVE YOU UNTIL DECEMBER 22 AT 1:30 AM. I
KNOW WHERE YOU’RE AT. NO NEED TO RUN, IT’LL ONLY MAKE THINGS WORSE. OH, AND
CLEAN UP.
FROM THE
GENTLEMAN, WITH LOVE
James’ thoughts
spun. He looked around the room for something, anything, to help him stand
upright, but instead landed on the bed. The words raced through his mind,
smashing the good memories aside.
“I can’t leave?”
He tugged at his hair and wiped the sweat from his face. What he’d spent the
last several months planning was all for nothing. A deep emptiness filled his
soul. Not even the burning of the rum could fill it. He curled into a ball and
wept himself to sleep.
About the Author :
Natasha Powell is an avid gamer, anime and manga junky, comic artist, sci/fi nut, in other words, a well-rounded nerd. When she isn’t busy fighting pirates for booty on the high seas, Natasha resides in her home in Tampa, Florida, where she continues to write horror, thriller, and sci/fi novels and short stories.
Twitter: @na_pow
FB page: www.facebook.com/napinc
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/napow
May 19 Top Ten Guest blog
Darkest Carvings
May 19 Spotlight
Fang-tastic Books
May 20 Interview
Pembroke Sinclair.
May 20 Spotlight
Roxanne’s Realm
May 21 Interview
The Creatively Green Write at Home Mom
May 21 Spotlight
3 Partners in Shopping, Nana, Mommy, & Sissy, Too!
May 22 Spotlight
Deal Sharing Aunt
May 22 Spotlight
Lisa’s World of Books
May 23 Interview
Author Karen Swart
May 26 Character Interview
Eclipse Reviews
May 26 Review
Paranormal Romance and authors that rock
2 comments:
Interesting book
Sounds intriguing. Can't wait to give it a read. Thanks for the giveaway opportunity.
Post a Comment