Today I wanted to give you the lowdown on the main love
interest in Call of Affliction,
Sasha. Here’s an excerpt from the character profile I put together for him
while I was writing the book.
Name: Alexsandr
(Sasha) Harris
Age: 21
Approximate height: 6”3”
Body Build: Tall
and with some lean muscle. He still
heats his house and cooks entirely by wood fire, so does a decent amount of
chopping and hauling logs.
Hair: Jet black,
wavy, and thick. Wears it longer, to his shoulders.
Eye color: Pale
blue
Family: Parents
Jeremiah and Yuna Harris. No siblings.
Occupation: Owns
a great deal of land in the mountains of North Carolina. Sells the timber rights to a logging company.
Best Friend:
Loner, doesn’t have one.
Where he’s from: Near
Boone, NC, but has traveled extensively.
Things he loves: To
be left alone, a good steak, and did he mention to be left alone?
Things he doesn’t
care for: Being forced to leave his cabin and have to interact with other
people, Galine’s careless disregard for her own safety, Sirin
What first draws him
to Galine: Her strength.
What makes him want
to strangle Galine: Her blasted
stubbornness.
Strengths:
Loyalty, accuracy with firearms, knowledge of the world of the Gamayun, honor.
Weaknesses: His
temper, jealously, a certain female with flame-colored hair.
Call of Affliction
The Gamayun Prophecies
Book One
Lara S. Chase
Genre: Paranormal Romance/Urban Fantasy
Date of Publication: November 22, 2015
ISBN: 978-1518876059
ASIN: B018FE5Z0M
Number of pages: 364
Word Count: 72,353
Cover Artist: Resplendent Media
Book Description:
I am no longer in control of my own body.
Without warning and without my consent, my shape shifts and contorts into the half woman, half bird form of the Gamayun. That’s bad enough, but then I’m forced to deliver prophecies to Sirin, the immortal who guards the gates of hell. Messages she doesn’t care to hear, and she’s not afraid to use deadly force to silence me.
I’m starting to see things no one else can see. The last Gamayun died in a psych ward, having lost everyone she ever loved. I refuse to meet that same fate, even if that means lying to my sister and best friend.
The only person I can turn to is Sasha, the mysterious stranger who guarded the previous Gamayun. When I stare into those pale blue eyes, it’s hard to be objective. Can I really trust someone with that much barely suppressed anger and hurt? For every piece of advice he gives, there are ten more secrets he’s not telling me.
But when he kisses me, do I really care?
Call of Affliction is the first book in a six part series. 99 cents until Christmas!
Available at Amazon
Excerpt:
CHAPTER 1
Part of me knew
it was the dream again. The sensible part of my brain was screaming at me to
wake up, but when does that ever work? So I watched the film unspool once more,
with me cast as the villain.
The bones in my
fists crunched with every blow to her face and torso. She fell, and did not
move. Her blood dripped off my fingers and onto the body at my feet. I focused
on the slow progression of the red trickle, hoping in vain that I wouldn’t have
to identify my victim this time.
My breath echoed
in my ears as the rest of the world grew still. Drip. Inhale, exhale. Drip. The
pain in my swollen fists forced its way into my thoughts as I stood over her.
Inhale, exhale. Throb. I shook out my hands and forced my gaze down. I didn’t
need to see her lifeless eyes look back at me to know who it was. It never
changed. Who could inspire a killing rage from me but my mother?
I squatted lower
to study the broken form of Senovia. Victory—the thought rose before I could
squash it, and it made me nauseous though the blood had not. I turned from the
body with a jerk.
The jerk took me
to the edge of my bed, startling me. I awoke screaming and choking, my hair
plastered to my face with sweat. I tried to untangle my hair, but the thick
waves were strangling me.
“Galine! Galine,
it’s okay!”
The sound of my
sister’s voice drew me back from my nightmare. I was in my bed, my sister was
safe in the room with me, and our mother, still alive, was several miles across
town. My pulse began to come down to a reasonable level. However, now that I
could think, the guilt came. Not only did I commit matricide in my sleep, but I
woke Katja in the process.
I blinked,
trying to adjust my eyes to the sudden light of the lamp between our twin beds.
I propped myself up on an elbow to get a better look at my sister. Kat sat on
the edge of her bed, her long legs crossed. The oscillating fan shot a burst of
air in my face. It didn’t make the stuffy air that much cooler, but it brought
me out of my stupor.
“Kat, I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.” The words croaked out, my throat
raw from screaming.
“Was it the one
about Mom again?” I nodded. Katja ran her fingers through her long dark hair.
Her brown eyes studied the tips for split ends with an intensity that betrayed
her uneasiness. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“It’s okay if
you need to cry or something.”
After having had
the dream for years, I couldn't muster that depth of emotion. With my mother,
it was best to strive for indifference. She wanted a reaction, and I refused to
give it to her, even dream versions of her. “Really, Katja. Go back to bed. I’m
fine.” She studied me for a moment and saw that I was at least no longer
hysterical. Pulling the sheet over her, she lay back down.
I tried to think
about something else, but the nightmare was still banging around in my head.
The clock on the nightstand informed me that it was forty minutes until my
alarm went off anyway, so I crept into the bathroom and showered. I scrubbed my
hands raw. The water began to run cold, and still I remained, shivering until
my skin grew numb.
My teeth
chattered as I finally stepped out of the shower. I wrangled my mass of curly
hair into a towel on top of my head, and stared at Katja’s hairdryer with envy.
She had straight hair that took five minutes to blow dry, and then she looked
perfect. But every time I tried to blow dry my hair, it looked like I had a
massive dark red shower pouf attacking my head.
Maybe it was the
nightmare, which always put me on edge and made me depressed, but I felt frumpy
as I pulled on my threadbare hospital scrubs. They made cute scrubs in pretty
fabrics and flattering cuts, but I could only afford the basic blue ones. My
scrubs already looked sad with their fraying hems, and they didn’t do my ample
figure any favors, either. I could almost hear my mother pointing out all of my
problem areas—hips, rear end, thighs, stomach. I shook my head to clear it.
Nope. The days of listening to Senovia’s criticism were over.
I marched myself
into our tiny living space that held the semblance of a kitchen and dining area
and poured myself a bowl of cereal. I ate standing up, leaning my back against
our hideous mustard yellow counters. No one should have to look at that color
before noon.
I should have
opted for looking at the counters, because what I saw on the wall in front of
me was much more disturbing. If I hadn’t choked on a stray off-brand Cheerio, I
would have screamed. A cockroach the size of a toddler was crawling up my
kitchen wall. Guessing that a can of Raid would only anger it, I inched toward
the coat closet to locate our broom. As I grabbed my weapon, I kept an eye on
the monstrosity. It didn’t move. Wait a second...
I marched up to
the Guinness world record sized roach. It was a painting of a cockroach.
“Katja!”
She stumbled out
of the bedroom with narrowed eyes. “What?”
“Why did you
paint that thing on our wall?”
“Oh, you mean
Zeke?” She smiled at the painting with pride. “Didn’t he turn out great?”
Oh good grief.
The thing had a name. “Yes, Zeke’s very life-like. Perhaps too life-like. His
point?”
“Well, you know
how sometimes we get roaches coming over from the neighbors? And the landlord
is never going to do anything about it? Well, I thought Zeke here might scare
them off. You know, like this place is already claimed by the big guy.”
“I wasn’t aware
that roaches were engaged in turf wars. Tell me, is Zeke a Crip or a Blood?”
She shrugged.
“Hey, you don’t know. It could work.”
“What if
instead, Zeke becomes some sort of cockroach deity and all the roaches in
Durham start making pilgrimages to our apartment? Did you think of that? Huh?”
Kat crossed her
arms over her chest and gave me her best defiant teenager face. “Listen, if you
want me to paint over it, just say so. You don’t have to get all snarky with
me.”
“Listen, even if
it did work, I’d rather see an occasional small roach than Zeke here every day.
Paint over it.”
“Fine.” Her
mouth was saying yes, but as she studied her nails, I was pretty sure I was
going to pay for my lack of tact.
“Kat, you know I
love your paintings. The windows, especially.” I threw my arms wide to gesture
at all of her work around us. Our landlord was notorious for never returning
deposits, so I had given Kat free reign with the walls. I didn’t always
understand her more abstract stuff, but I did love those windows.
In our entire
apartment, we had only two actual windows: one that was a mere foot square in
our bedroom, and another one just three feet by eighteen inches in the living
room portion of our one big room. The little light the windows let in seemed to
highlight just how dismal the place was, so Kat had painted dozens of fake
windows all over the apartment. The scenery they displayed changed depending on
her mood. Right now, most of them looked out on various Nordic fjords and
glaciers. It was supposed to help us think cool thoughts since our window AC
unit was struggling to keep up in the August heat.
“Whatever.” Kat
turned in the doorway and headed for the bathroom to get ready for school.
I sighed and
picked up my bowl of cereal, then glanced down at my watch. If I didn’t leave
in two minutes, I was going to be late. I shouted a goodbye to Katja and ran
straight out the front door.
I hustled down
the apartment stairwell and headed for the bus stop, careful to avoid the
obstacle course of trash and the loose step the super was never going to fix.
Once on the bus, sweaty and out of breath, I plopped down on the first
available seat and zoned out. I would have stayed that way, but at the third
stop a passenger demanded my attention.
She was short
and anorexic thin, with light brown skin and eyes so dark they looked black. I
would have guessed she was from some place in the Middle East, but her hair
threw me off. Man, I didn’t even want to think about how much that dye job had
cost. I counted at least six different colors in her hair—red, burgundy,
copper, orange, yellow, gold, and I swear I saw flashes of blue. As she passed
me in the aisle, she reeked of cigarette smoke. She was an odd sight, but as
soon as she passed, she fell off my radar. Thinking is not a top priority for
me until I’ve had caffeine.
I closed my eyes
and leaned against the bus window in hopes of squeezing in a few extra minutes
of sleep, but then I felt someone yank on the corner of my shirt. I turned
around and saw the woman with the strange hair gripping my scrubs. “Medicina.
Gorod medicina,” she muttered.
I froze. That
was not normal bus behavior. “What did you say?” I couldn’t believe what I
heard. She released my shirt and scurried to the back of the bus.
That woman had
spoken Russian. Durham was full of transients, and one of the city’s running
jokes was that no one was from here. I was one of the few people at work that
was born and raised in Durham. Russians were rare, though.
Still, I had
made out what she said, even if it didn’t make any sense. Who went around
muttering Durham’s motto—City of Medicine? I gave the woman one last hard look.
She was still murmuring to herself, or perhaps to an imaginary friend. The rest
of the passengers on the bus gave her the wide berth reserved for those
reluctant to use deodorant.
I was trying to
decide if it was worth asking her what she meant when the bus reached the
hospital, and my decision was made for me. I couldn’t afford to be late. I had
to run a little, but I arrived at Durham Memorial on time and reported to the
nurses’ station with three minutes to spare.
My best friend
Harper Carlisle arrived right behind me, twirling the keys to her silver Audi
on one French manicured nail. “You okay, hon? You look wrecked.” Her Southern
accent drew out the vowels in a sleepy way that made me even more tired.
“Thanks. We
can’t all be glamorous, you know.” I shouldn’t have snapped at her. I knew she
was just worried, but I always felt frumpy around her. Who wouldn’t feel frumpy
next to Harper’s glossy blonde hair, model-thin physique, and dazzling blue
eyes? All that perfection would have made me hate her if she weren’t so darn
nice.
“I meant you
look exhausted.” She smiled at me and patted my hand.
“I know. Sorry
I’m such a grouch. Rough night.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.
Couldn’t sleep.” I decided not to tell her why.
Harper frowned
at me and then began to dig through her Coach purse. When her hand reemerged
with her checkbook, I sighed. “It’s that horrible bed of yours. I told you not
to buy a used mattress. You’re probably being eaten alive by bed bugs.” She
retrieved a pen flashing with gold and filled out my name on the top line. “Let
me buy you a decent bed, Galine.”
When I didn’t
disagree with her she smiled and added, “Of course, in that neighborhood of
yours even if you do buy something nice, you could have bed bugs again by the
end of the week. I don’t suppose you and Katja would reconsider moving in with
me?” By this point I couldn’t help an eye roll, so she added, “You could pay
rent. A little bit. If you feel it’s necessary.”
“No, Harper.”
She gritted her
teeth, but refrained from pushing the issue of moving. She tore off the check
and handed it to me. I didn’t bother to look at the amount, but I’m sure it had
an excessive amount of zeros at the end. I tore it in half and handed it back
to her.
“Galine!”
“I said ‘no.’ I
meant no to everything. My bed is fine.”
“You are so
stubborn!”
“True. But
you’re too trusting.” I couldn’t recall how many times we’d had this argument.
Harper had a big heart and an even bigger bank account, and people waited in
line to take advantage of that. “Quit flashing your money around.” I did a
quick survey of the area to make sure no one saw us.
Now it was her
turn to roll her eyes at me. “This isn’t the Murder Mart, for heaven’s sake.” I
stiffened at the less than flattering nickname for my neighborhood. “We’re in
one of the nation’s top ten hospitals. I think I’m safe. Besides, I’m standing
in the Carlisle Wing. I think the word is out that my family’s loaded.”
“You two going
to stand there yakking all day, or are you going to work?” Selene, the charge
nurse, yelled at us. Little bits of the Bojangles chicken biscuit she was
eating spewed out as she talked.
Harper and I
made matching faces of disgust as we moved off in separate directions to begin
our rounds. Harper followed the line of nurses and I split off with the CNAs
when I heard Selene bellow my name again.
“Galine!” She
emerged from around the corner looking annoyed. “Gal—oh, there you are. The
fourth floor psych ward called for a nursing assistant. Trouble with one of
their patients. I thought immediately of you. You’re so good with the difficult
ones. Kindred spirits and all.” Her smile was so wide I thought her face would
crack.
“Sure, no
problem, Selene. I’ll head over now.” Psych did not scare me. Compared to
living with my mother, it was a cake walk. Selene was still sputtering, trying
to figure out how her plan had backfired. I headed for the elevator.
After what
Selene told me about this patient, I was expecting things to be hectic when I
got off on the fourth floor. Instead, I found the charge nurse sipping coffee
and flipping through a magazine. I could hear a TV laugh track coming from
somewhere, but otherwise the floor was silent. I pulled my ID badge forward to
present it to the nurse at the desk. “Karsavina. I was told you needed help
with a patient.”
“Karsavina,
right. We need a full time babysitter for this one.” She slid a chart over to
me. “The police just brought in a Jane Doe. Picked her up on Holloway for a
‘drunk and disorderly’ but tests showed no alcohol. Suspected paranoid
schizophrenic with intent to harm herself and others.” The nurse rattled all of
the information off in a bored tone, but I was alarmed. “Oh, and she speaks
Russian.”
I looked up from
the chart. “Russian?” What was with the sudden influx of Russian speakers?
“Yes, that’s why
you’re here. We think she might just be refusing to speak English, because she
seems to understand us when she wants to. We’d prefer to send in someone with
medical training instead of an interpreter if possible.”
“I don’t know
what you’ve been told, but I’m out of practice. There aren’t many opportunities
to use Russian in Durham, and my family stopped speaking it when my Dad died.”
“Well, some
Russian is better than none.”
I nodded like I
was okay with all of this information, but I wasn’t sure that was true. I
walked down the hall toward the room number indicated on the chart and tried to
take some deep breaths. I hadn’t counted on an angry woman shouting at me in
Russian. The experience was familiar enough that my palms were starting to
sweat. Why did I have to have that stupid nightmare last night? I stood up
straight in what I hoped looked like a commanding posture and knocked once on
the door before entering.
The cigarette
smoke choked me. That was familiar, too. I waved my hand in front of my face to
clear the air in the dark room, and spotted her leaning against the window
ledge staring into space. The cigarette was burned down to her fingers, but she
made no move to snuff it out.
For causing so
much trouble, she was a tiny bit of a thing, not much more than five feet tall.
She was also much younger than I had expected; I would guess in her twenties.
At first I didn’t recognize her, but then the light from the window caught her
hair. The strands were shimmering red, as if on fire. Maybe they were,
considering the amount of smoke in the room. She was, I realized, the strange
woman I had encountered earlier on the bus.
Apparently my
Russian wasn’t as rusty as I thought, because all the tirades I used to give
Senovia on how smoking was both unhealthy and inconsiderate (and in this case
illegal) came pouring out smooth as glass. The woman gave me a condescending
smirk, then she trashed the cigarette. In the fake ficus.
“Feel better now
that you’ve gotten that off your chest?” Her English was perfect.
“Yes, thank you.
I’ll feel even better once you’ve handed over the rest I’m sure you have
squirreled away some somewhere.” I held out my hand. She gave me a dirty look,
but placed two more cigarettes in my palm. “All of them.” I flicked the fingers
of my palm, demanding more. “And the lighter.” She swore at me, but I got the
actual pack this time, with four left in it, and a grungy Bic lighter.
As she stretched
out her arm to hand over the contraband, I noticed thin scars running along her
wrists. The coloring and level of fading alternated between white and a faint
pink, suggesting two distinct suicide attempts—she’d meant business. My stomach
lurched. She caught me staring and yanked her hand back.
I cleared my
throat and looked away. “Now, why don’t you start by telling me your name?” I
sat down in one of the hospital’s molded plastic chairs. It was a super
tasteful chartreuse. If I was going to be here awhile, I might as well get
comfortable.
“You can call me
Manya.” Her lips curled into a sneer. Her tone was as bitter as the word’s
definition in Russian.
“Something tells
me your mother didn’t name you that.”
She gave one
short, coughing laugh. “No. And what is your name, O Sharp Tongued One?”
“Galine.”
The effect of
that one word was astounding. She turned the full force of her wide black eyes
on me and grabbed both of my arms. “What did you say your name was?”
“Ow! That hurts!
Ease off my arms, will you?” Her nails left little half-moon marks. She
collapsed onto the floor, muttering.
“It’s not
possible,” I heard her whisper. “I gave up. It’s been so long. You weren’t
coming. He said ‘no.’ I was sure He said ‘no.’ I was being punished. After
everything, why now?”
“Hey, uh, Manya,
what’s going on? Are you okay?” I got out of the chair and sat next to her on
the cold, industrial floor. Her behavior was starting to worry me.
She came out of
her daze. Turning her focus back on me, she grew brighter, almost like that
crazy hair of hers was starting to glow. She spoke again, and this time the
tone was pitched deeper. Every word vibrated through me. I don’t know how I
knew, but I was certain what she was saying was important, and that it was
true, even though it made no sense to me:
“In the city of
healing you will find your rest,
The one God has
redeemed will take your burden from you,
From exile He
will bring you,
And you will
suffer no more.”
And now I was
freaked out. “Manya, what are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry, my
dear. I wouldn’t wish what is coming to you on anyone, but I am selfish enough
to still want it.” With that, she kissed me on the cheek and died.
About the Author:
Lara Chase was born and raised in rural Indiana surrounded by corn fields.
Finding her environment somewhat boring, she spent most of her childhood with her nose buried in a book or writing stories in her head to entertain herself. Eventually she decided she should probably start writing some of them down.
After graduating high school, Lara decided a change of scenery was in order. She lived in Oklahoma, Minnesota, and Illinois picking up the first bachelor’s degree she doesn’t use and a husband. The husband she’s quite fond of, but the states she wasn’t as taken with. She moved again, but this time she was smitten. It would likely take an act of Congress to remove her from Durham, North Carolina. Since relocating, Lara has acquired another bachelor’s degree that has proven to be merely decorative.
She still gets restless at times, though, so she and her husband swap houses with families in other countries. Lara wrote some of the first lines of her current project hanging precariously out of a third floor apartment window in Italy trying to get a wireless signal. Luckily, writing at home is usually less dangerous. Her greatest threat there is the disgruntled cat who keeps sitting on her keyboard.
Website/blog: http://laraschase.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/laraschase
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