The Prophet: Resurrection

The final book in The Prophet is ready. Can Earth survive?

Chapter One

Everyone involved with Rachel Veritros felt her influence on a very, very personal level. Indeed, for the people who fought at the Nile River, most never fully recovered psychologically from the brutality they witnessed and participated in.

Four Ministers fought Rachel Veritros. Three survived; the fourth died in the collapse of the Constant Ministry’s capital.

For The Old World’s Pope, Frances XIV—he only served in his position for two years following the war’s end.

During his last week of service, the Pope’s hands wouldn’t quit shaking. When he picked up a cup of coffee, it rattled all the way to his mouth, and more often than not, spilled down his chin. The burns from such unfortunate accidents were bad, but they weren’t the reason he was ultimately asked to step down.

While the Church’s official reasons for the man’s retirement were dignified, the truth was his mind had snapped. At least that’s what the people nearest to him said.

Such things were only whispered about in the beginning.

“The Pope is not well.”

“He’s not sleeping.”

“He’s raving at night.”

The whispers grew louder though, as more voices joined in the chorus. To be fair, they also grew louder because the Pope’s actions … became more severe.

“SHE’S NOT DEAD!” he finally shouted at a meeting of his Cardinals. “VERITROS ISN’T FUCKING DEAD!”

The Cardinals had all sat in silence, most staring at the long wooden table in front of them. None knew what to say, especially not in front of the red faced Pope.

A week later, he was no longer in power and the search for a new Pope began.

Frances XIV only lived another five years after that, dying at the relatively young age of 72. His mental state had deteriorated further, until he mostly remained secluded in a single room. The people tasked with looking after him said that he conversed with himself quite often, though to them it sounded as if he was speaking with Veritros.

They said the conversations were one sided, as if the Pope wanted the apparition to speak, but she wouldn’t.

Frances XIV’s mental state continued deteriorating until he died alone in his bed. The person that found him said that his eyes were open, as if he’d been staring at the ceiling and not sleeping.

The One Path’s Minister also came to an unsettling end, especially for someone with so much power and wealth. Her name—like all of the One Path’s Ministers—was Trinant One. Her breakdown came 15 years after the war, though she was even younger than the Pope, only 55 years old.

Trinant’s hands didn’t shake, but her aides noticed the woman had begun to stare off into the sky for long hours.

Hours.

She would walk to the edge of her office and then stop, looking outside the Globe of One. Arms at her sides, she would stare out the huge windows until someone interrupted her. A recording showed she did this one morning for five hours before someone finally ventured inside her office. It was an eerie thing to see, watching her stand without moving—a slight sway from time to time—and only watching the clouds pass.

Staring out a window certainly wasn’t enough to remove Trinant One from power, however. No one would even consider such a thing.

Unfortunately for Trinant, that was only the beginning of her problems.

An aide found her naked, standing in the hallway outside of her apartment inside the Globe. The aide had served Trinant for 20 years, yet when she walked up to her Minister, Trinant didn’t recognize her.

“You’re not her,” the Minister said.

“I’m not who, Your Grace?”

“Veritros.”

The aide did her best to get the woman first inside her apartment, then clothed. To her credit, the aide never spoke of what she found, not even after the horrible affair that took place.

Trinant One quit making decisions, though not with any decree. Her time spent staring at the sky simply took up a larger and larger portion of her day, and her mind.

“Your Grace,” one of her inner consortium said. “We’re growing concerned.”

Trinant One didn’t hesitate. “I am as well.”

“What concerns you, Your Grace?”

“I don’t think she ever really left.”

“Who?”

“Veritros,” Trinant responded.

The One Path never had the opportunity to remove their leader from power. Six months into her growing despondency, Trinant One woke up, went to her office, and began staring just as she had done for the past month.

Recordings showed she stared for two hours.

At the end of them, she walked closer to the window, then began banging her head against it. It started out softly, but grew into a steady drumbeat of whack … whack … WHACK. The office’s recording system captured it perfectly.

This continued for another ten minutes.

Then, Trinant abruptly stopped and stepped back from the window. Blood leaked down her head and the window, though neither seemed to notice.

The windows that lined her office were floor to ceiling—ten long panels.

The recording showed Trinant not moving at all as the panel in front of her slowly descended into the floor. Gusts of wind rushed in almost immediately, ruffling her long blonde hair across her face.

Once the window had completely disappeared, Trinant One simply walked forward—and without pausing—committed suicide. She fell for miles before hitting the ocean. Her body was never recovered.

* * *

The world recovered after Rachel Veritros, though very slowly. It was an odd feeling for years afterward, both for her followers and enemies. Her apostles fled across the globe, doing their best to hide from the constant manhunt. Even as they ran, or awaited trial (some were afforded this luxury), they couldn’t believe their Prophet was dead. Their very bones felt different, as if some portion of their marrow had been extracted.

Her enemies lived in fear that she wasn’t truly gone. That she would return. Because it made no sense. One moment she had descended into the river, and the next she had simply ceased existing.

What truly scared them was that they understood how close they’d been to losing.

“We were lucky,” those in high positions said.

That truth never wound its way down to the laymen, though. No, each Ministry kept up appearances, putting the glory on their respective gods.

Outside of the two deceased Ministers, no one else spoke her name as the years passed. In the world’s mind, she became one with the Black—evil, and unmentionable.

After a while, even those on high stopped thinking about her. They stopped thinking about the Nile River and the war that took place. Rachel Veritros passed from the minds of those who fought her.

Those who knew her, and had followed her, eventually died.

Something happened in that river, though, and humanity’s refusal to face it left a massive hole in their knowledge.

Rachel Veritros had descended into it. She had moved close to the Unformed, understanding that the Union was near. And inside that boiling river, she had finally faced the question she’d refused to ask.

What does It want?

The world forever declared her a traitor and a blood-thirsty rebel. She went down in history as one of the most evil human beings to ever draw breath.

However, the truth was that Rachel Veritros sacrificed herself in hope that she might save humanity.

It would take nearly a thousand years for her to finally have the opportunity.

Get it here

The Prophet: Death

The Prophet: Death

(Chapter One Below)

The Prophet: Death is out today. You should get it.

Rather than detailing out what the book is about here, I thought I'd tell you a bit of my process behind this series. (You can read what the book is about with the links below).

In a lot of my novels, I've taken a somewhat harsh view on religion. Many of the characters who have faith are devastatingly fucked up, and this probably stems from my own upbringing. The older I get, though, the more I'm starting to see things a bit differently in regards to religion. I'm actually in a relationship now with someone who is very devout, and it's changing a lot of how I view something that was once close to me, and then that I held at a very skeptical distance.

All that said, I think that's where The Prophet is coming from. Now, I know that the people who are currently reading it, are probably thinking, David, you're full of shit. The religions you're describing here are at least as bad as anything else you've written.

If you are thinking that, you'd be right. The world in The Prophet isn't somewhere a lot of us would want to live, but ... trust me. This is going somewhere, and it's not a place I've ventured before in my fiction.

If you haven't started the series yet, get book one here: The Prophet: Birth.

Chapter One

Raylyn Brinson stood once more in front of the First Council.

They sat above her, not a single hair to be found on any of their heads.

It’s almost over, Raylyn thought. Everything, all of this. It’s almost over.

This would be the end, the last time that Raylyn ever had to stand in front of this ancient council. She had arrived here for the first time a few weeks ago … but that felt like another life. This Raylyn had not stood before them. It had been someone else. Another woman who hadn’t seen the things she had.

A hopelessly naïve woman, and someone Raylyn hardly even understood.

“We give thanks,” the First Priest said.

The other four Priests repeated the mantra.

“We give thanks,” Raylyn said last.

“How are you, Sister Brinson?” the First Priest asked.

“I’m well, your Holiness.”

“Were you able to get any sleep this past week? The five of us have tried to keep many of the issues facing the True Faith from reaching you.”

Were you able to get any sleep this past week?

A simple question, but one that didn’t have a simple answer. Raylyn wondered if she would ever have simple answers again, or if the world had moved past that. Her world, at least. Perhaps simplicity was only for children, and perhaps a week ago Raylyn had been childlike. This new world was full of complexities that Raylyn wasn’t sure she could ever unravel.

No black and white.

Only gray.

“Yes, your Holiness,” she said, lying without hesitation. When she first came here, such a thing would have been unthinkable. Now, she hardly even cared if they knew she was lying.

“Good, good,” the First Priest said.

I hate him, she thought. A new thought, not something that had ever risen in her conscious mind before. She’d felt many feelings toward the man sitting above her, but never explicit hate. Now that she had thought it, though, she found the truth undeniable. I hate everything about him.

And the rest of them?

Yes, Raylyn found some residual hate rubbing off on them, as well. Simply for knowing the First Priest.

“We’ve called you here today, Sister Brinson, to thank you for your service. We’re going to do it privately, if you don’t mind. There is much work to be done outside of these chambers, as you know. Will a private ceremony be acceptable? There will be an announcement that goes out to the True Faith, and it will be recorded accurately for historical purposes as well.”

“Of course that’s fine, your Holiness,” she said.

“Step forward then.”

The row of Priests stood up behind their table. They wore black robes and looked down upon her. The First Priest pulled a coin from his pocket, and despite Raylyn’s hate, her heart sped up.

She might hate the First Priest—might even hate the other four standing next to him—but she loved her God. She loved Corinth.

The coin was blood red, and green dots lit across it as it left the First Priest’s hand, floating into the air.

“This coin is Corinth’s Blood, that which he shed for us. It is only given to those who have served Him with distinction and valor. In 7,000 years, only 12 of these have been granted. You are number 13, Sister Raylyn Brinson,” the First said.

The coin slowly moved through the space between her and the Council. Raylyn’s eyes held it firmly in her vision, never breaking from it. Not even the green nanoparticles could hide the red beneath.

Corinth’s Blood, Raylyn thought as tears flooded her eyes.

She had never—not even once—thought she would receive an honor such as this. Raylyn didn’t know the last time such a coin had been awarded, only that it was almost unheard of. Yet, she now saw it moving toward her.

She put her hand out, palm up.

The red coin fell into it, the green light dying and the red staring back up at her.

Raylyn didn’t want to close her hand, didn’t want to block out the beauty in front of her. She forgot about the Priests above and even the room around her. All that mattered was the coin she held.

“The True Faith Ministry gives its thanks to you, Sister Brinson,” the First Priest said. “For standing true in the face of the Black and for helping locate Its Prophet. Your service will never be forgotten.”

“We give thanks,” the four Priests to his side said as one.

Raylyn closed her hand over the red coin and brought it to her heart. She held it there, shutting her eyes—the tears in them running down her cheeks. She’d never felt such joy in her entire life.

She heard the Priests sit down, but she didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t want to leave this moment, not for them or anyone else. She wanted to remain in it for as long as possible.

No one said anything, the room silent.

Finally, Raylyn swallowed, then opened her eyes and looked around. She brought her left hand up to her face, wiping the remaining tears with her palm.

“Sister Brinson,” the First Priest said, “there is something else we need to tell you.”

Raylyn’s breath caught in her throat, her chest frozen. The First’s voice had changed, though subtly. There had been gravity in it before, a sense of duty that the whole room shared. That had disappeared and been replaced with …

Happiness?

Glee?

Both words felt right, but also slightly off. Because the First Priest’s voice held cruelty too.

“Yes, your Holiness?” Raylyn asked as her lungs started working again.

“It’s unfortunate news, but it must be done,” the First said, though he didn’t sound like there was anything unfortunate about it. He sounded positively fortunate. “Your courter, Manor Reinheld, was a member of the Black. We’ve taken him into custody, and he’s currently being detained with the other followers.”

“What?” Raylyn said. She didn’t understand the man’s words. Was he speaking a different language?

“Manor Reinheld killed many, many True Faith adherents, Sister. He tricked you, and tried to trick us as well. He will face the same fate as the rest of the Black,” the First said.

Raylyn’s mouth moved, but no words came out. She stared at the five in front of her, but their faces grew blurry as tears filled her eyes.

Manor. Manor. Manor. The name ran through her mind with barely a pause between words.

Slowly, the First Priest’s message made its way into her brain, a tunneling worm that she couldn’t hold back.

The tears flowed again as understanding filled her.

I’m fine, she thought. I’m fine. You’re fine. All of this is fine.

She kept thinking the words even as her knees unhinged, kept thinking them even as her body collapsed to the floor. It wasn’t until the blurry room around her turned black that she finally stopped thinking them, falling unconscious in front of the five most powerful people in the True Faith.

The coin rolled from her hand and across the floor. It began its movement quickly, but slowed the further it went. The room was silent except for the sound of its metal ridges running over the stone floor.

The coin started turning inward, making a circle and slowing further.

At last, its energy spent, it wobbled on its edge and fell to the floor.

The blood red face of Corinth stared up at the ceiling.

* * *

“It’s you,” the man said.

Rhett opened his eyes. He had heard the wall flicker away and then listened as guards shoved someone in. He’d even heard the watery noise as the wall restored itself, returning to solid white again. He’d kept his eyes closed the whole time, because he honestly didn’t care who they threw in here with him. The pain in his shoulder was gone—the True Faith had at least done that for him—but everywhere else, hurt reigned.

A deep, all consuming pain that knew no end. Not of the body, but of the soul.

They could throw the High Priest himself in here and Rhett wouldn’t have cared.

Rhett did open his eyes when the man spoke, though.

He was younger, lean. The man looked like he might have seen some horrific things recently, but then, Rhett figured everyone had.

“Who are you?” Rhett asked from where he lay. The back wall had a bench attached to it, and Rhett spent his days either sleeping or staring at the ceiling. He preferred to sleep because then the pain receded slightly.

“You ….” The man paused and looked around the room as if someone else might hear him. He looked at the ceiling next, most likely checking for listening devices.  Finally, his eyes flashed back to Rhett, but he said nothing.

Rhett looked back to the ceiling. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over and we’re going to die. I don’t think whatever you say in here will help or hurt. If you’re with the Prophet, then your fate is sealed.”

The man looked to the ground and stood silently for a moment. “You converted me. Five years ago. My name is Manor.”

Rhett closed his eyes.

How many had he converted? More than he could remember, that’s all he knew. He said nothing and the other man was quiet too. Finally, he walked over to the other bench and sat down on it.

“It’s really over, isn’t it?” Manor whispered.

Rhett nodded, tears brimming hot behind his closed eyelids.

“Were you there when it happened? Is that why you’re here and not out in one of the cities?”

Rhett nodded again. He couldn’t find words; it was hard enough acknowledging the truth internally.

“Me too. Kind of, I guess. I saw it anyway. I just can’t believe it. Even now, a week later. It doesn’t seem real.”

Rhett understood, though he said nothing. He’d been contemplating the same thoughts for the past seven days; none of it seemed real. He knew why; Rhett’s faith had been so strong that the thought of failure was unfathomable, and now, his mind simply refused to believe it. He sat in a cell with no hope of escape, and still his mind held onto the belief that this wasn’t real. That perhaps in some other universe, things were still unfolding as they should. The Summoning. The Union. It was all taking place, and he’d simply walked through the wrong door and ended up here.

Rhett heard the wall fall away again and looked over—were they bringing in more prisoners? How many people would they cram in here?

The wall hadn’t disappeared completely, though. It was only transparent.

A woman stood on the other side. Her eyes were red and puffy, her right hand closed around something that Rhett couldn’t see. She’d been crying, that was clear, and Rhett thought he saw similar pain reflected in her. She wasn’t one of David’s, he knew that, but that all pervasive depression hung across her body like a heavy coat.

You can’t hide that kind of hurt, he thought.

She wasn’t looking at Rhett, but staring at his new cellmate.

Rhett looked over to him, too. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. Tears were in his eyes now as he watched the woman standing behind the wall.

She shook her head, a large tear spilling out of her eye and down her cheek.

Manor didn’t move. He said nothing and the two stared at each for a few more seconds. Rhett only watched, unsure of exactly what was happening. Finally, the woman took a step back and the wall refilled, blocking their vision to the outside world.

Still leaning on his knees, Manor looked down at the floor. Rhett watched him from where he lay. There was a slight hitch in Manor’s chest, but he made no noise.

“Someone without the Blood?” Rhett asked, looking back to the ceiling.

The man in the cell with him said nothing.

Rhett didn’t care. What did it matter if a heart was broken? Millions of hearts had been broken, and millions of throats slit—none of it mattered in the slightest. Perhaps he and this man had once been united, but that was no more.

David is gone, he thought. It doesn’t matter what else happens in this world, because soon you’re going to die.

Rhett closed his eyes and went back to depression’s cold embrace.

Soon you’re going to die.

For Rhett, soon couldn’t be soon enough.

* * *

The First Priest stared at the woman the way a predator might stare at some new, large animal. Wary, and ready to strike at even the slightest hint of aggression.

She sat alone in her room. There was no bed—only a single chair and a toilet. She’d been there a week, just like the other one they brought back. Rhett Scoble. The First Priest had kept these two alive, though he’d had the older couple killed before even starting the trip. He hadn’t cared in the slightest about the two that had briefly housed Hollowborne.

These people were different, though.

With Veritros, no one had been able to get her lieutenants. Nothing had been learned from her.

The First Priest had both the weapon’s closest friend and also his sister. The First had thought little about the High Priest since returning, partly because he didn’t have time and partly because he didn’t think there was much to him anymore. He could sit in the One Path with his treasure, but the First didn’t see his hand reaching very far—certainly not all the way down here beneath the Earth.

Which meant, the First could do as he wanted.

He could rebuild the True Faith, and the two people he held captive … they would help. Even if they didn’t understand that yet. The next time the Black decided to show up, the world would be ready.

The First had broken a Proclamation, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be forgiven.

Let me enter, he told the wall separating him from the woman. The wall flickered for a second and then fell away completely.

The First Priest stepped through the open space; Rebecca Hollowborne’s eyes flicked to him for a second, but then she looked away, back down at the floor in front of her.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

Nothing. No words, no movement of her head. She stared at the floor, and while the First Priest wanted to think she looked like a dumb animal … a cow perhaps, he knew she wasn’t. The woman was a predator. Even now, trapped and locked away, he saw danger in her. She had betrayed her brother, but that didn’t change who she was—if anything, it demonstrated her danger.

“You do,” he said. “You know.”

The First took a few more steps into the room and the wall rippled upwards, becoming solid again.

“You did a good deed. You saved the world.”

Still, she didn’t look at him.

“It’s not done though, is it?” the First asked. “The Black. It’s probably already looking for Its next weapon. We may have defeated your brother, but we’re not done with It, are we?”

The woman acted as if he wasn’t even in the room.

A chair formed out of the far wall and floated to the Priest, folding out in front of him. He sat down and leaned back in it, crossing one leg over the other.

“You are going to help me make sure It doesn’t ever return. Because you know It better than anyone else alive, and there was a reason you turned on your brother, wasn’t there? If you don’t help me, his death—your betrayal—it’s all for nothing.”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

The First Priest didn’t move at all, showing no surprise on his face at her speaking. “That’s where I think you’re wrong. There’s a lot for you to say, maybe more than you realize right now. You can tell us about It. Everything you know. Everything your brother told you. The next time It strikes, we can be ready.”

“Where is Rhett? Christine?”

“Rhett is here. We’ve heard the name Christine, but we haven’t gotten to her yet.”

The woman swallowed. “Those two live. If you guarantee that, I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Sure. They can live.”

Her eyes flashed to him, practically spitting hate. “I’m not fucking around. I want them out of this Ministry. I want them with new identities and sent somewhere else in the world, and after you do that—I’ll help you. But not until.”

The First Priest kept breathing normally, not allowing himself to show any anger. The only other person who had ever spoken to him in a similar fashion was Raylyn Brinson, and her comeuppance arrived this morning. The First knew that she had wandered down and looked in on her lover, and he’d smiled when he found out. Now, this one seemed to think that he didn’t serve Corinth.

She acted as if she was somehow in control.

The First Priest stood up, looking down on her. Her eyes still stared, hiding none of the hate or disrespect she felt.

The First Priest’s hand connected with her cheek, hard—an echo of flesh on flesh sounding off the walls. Her head whipped to the side, blood spurting from her nose and flying to the white floor beneath. The First Priest stood, his arm still extended.

“The quicker you understand that we’re not equals here, the better this will go for you. Your friends, all of them, are going to die. I wouldn’t let them live if Corinth himself commanded it. You’ll live as long as you serve a purpose, and the moment you stop, I’ll kill you too.”

Hollowborne didn’t move, but kept staring at her blood sitting on the floor like tiny red streams.

“I’ll let you think about this some, but I’m going to come back, and when I do, you’re going to start talking.”

* * *

Rebecca listened as the Priest left, but didn’t look over. She heard the wall fall away, the Priest’s footfalls as he walked down the hall, and then listened as the wall reformed.

Her face stung, and she could still feel his hand connecting with her cheekbone. The sound of him slapping her face seemed to continue ringing across the room as if it might not ever end. It would continue on and on, reminding her of what she had once been and now what she was. The sound would only stop with her death, because then, it wouldn’t need to keep telling her how foolish she’d been.

No, she thought.

Rebecca remained still. She stared at the red liquid which had fallen from her body, knowing that more was dribbling over lips.

No. I wasn’t foolish.

The words went through her mind, but the sound of the Priest slapping her grew louder—impossible but true.

Because that never would have happened before. No one would dare touch her. Equals? Is that what the old man had said, that they weren’t equals? She, whose brother had been the Prophet, wasn’t this man’s equal?

You killed your brother, Rebecca. You watched him fall from the sky and now he’s no more. You’re no one’s sister. You have no family. No friends. You gave up everything you care about and everyone who loved you. 

Did he do that? This Priest? Because if not, then you’re not his equal. You’re beneath him.

And he just showed you that, didn’t he?

Rebecca finally sat up. Tears were no longer in her eyes, which was why she hadn’t moved at first. The slap had made them water, and she wasn’t going to cry anymore in this room. She wouldn’t give any of the True Faith such satisfaction.

They may not watch you cry, but what does that matter? Is that your final stand? Where you leave your mark, that you, Rebecca Hollowborne, sister of a murdered Prophet, will not cry in front of them?

The thought lingered in her head, mocking her.

The First Priest was going to come back, and what would she do then? Tell him no? That she wasn’t going to work with him? The idea was laughable. He would get what he wanted from her, the only difference being he’d probably add a healthy dose of pain.

Rebecca stood up from her chair without knowing she was going to do it. She stared at the wall which would allow others to enter and exit, but only kept her locked inside.

You killed your brother to keep the Black at bay, Rebecca. Will you not help the True Faith as well, if the result is the same?

There was an almost physical reaction to that thought. Helping the True Faith … it felt like helping cancer grow inside her own body, feeding it the necessary fuel to let it continue feasting on her healthy cells.

Yet, regardless of her feelings, the thought was true. She had let David die. Watched him fall from the sky to a watery grave. So would she keep her mouth shut now, in order to … what? Simply refuse the True Faith.

Rebecca lay down on the hard, cold floor. She curled her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She barely managed to keep her tears at bay.

They’d had everything.

Trust.

Love.

A purpose.

And it was all dead.

Yet she still had to keep going, didn’t she? There wasn’t anything else she could do. She’d given up heaven, and now she would have to adapt to hell.

* * *

The First Priest left the meeting with Hollowborne and traveled down a few floors to where Scoble and Reinheld were being held. His hand hurt from slapping her, his bones too old to be doing such things. Yet, a part of him liked it.

But that wasn’t being truthful either.

All of him liked it. The First Priest had never found sadism attractive, though he’d heard some Priests had a predilection for it. Yet, slapping that woman across the face had truly felt good, even though his hand was hurting right now. He didn’t know if it was because of what she had served, or if it was helping him reestablish some of the power he felt the High Priest had stolen—but either way, he’d enjoyed it.

The First Priest hadn’t known about the woman named Christine, but the moment Hollowborne said her name, his nanotech had sent out alerts across the territory. She would be found soon, then brought here with these two. The First wanted everyone who had surrounded the Prophet at Corinth’s Shrine. The rest of the Ministry was still in shambles, and would be for some time to come. Here, though, the First could work without fear of interruption.

The rest of the Council could rebuild.

He would ensure the Black never returned.

The First Priest reached the cell without slowing as he came upon the wall. It disappeared just before his foot would have touched it, and he crossed the barrier into the cell.

Manor Reinheld sat to the Priest’s right and Rhett Scoble lay directly in front of him. These two had benches attached to the wall, unlike Hollowborne further up the building. Reinheld looked at him, but Scoble didn’t move.

For a brief second, the First Priest thought about three things. First, his hurting hand, which led quickly to how much he enjoyed hurting the woman, and then unexpectedly, he thought about the blonde girl the High Priest had taken. A week had passed and not a word from the old man. He was alone with his plaything, and the First Priest wondered if he perhaps felt the same joy the High did right now.

At hurting someone.

“Scoble. That’s your name, correct?” the First asked.

The man opened his eyes a little and looked over, though didn’t move his head at all. He looked at the First for a few seconds, then closed them again.

So, the whole group thought themselves greater than the True Faith.

Maybe this was a gift from Corinth. All these arrogant people delivered to the First Priest, and then him slapping someone for the first time in his life? Feeling the pleasure that came from such a thing? Yes, maybe this was a gift, a forgiveness combined with a reward.

“Your friend is upstairs. Rebecca Hollowborne. Your other friend, I believe her name is Christine, she’ll be here soon, too. I believe her last name is Fain. Everything you wanted is over, and I know you think you’re going to die soon. That doesn’t have to be true.”

The First Priest let the offer hang in the air, but Scoble didn’t react at all. Reinheld was still looking at him, but the First was keeping him around for a very different purpose.

“You and your two friends are going to help the True Faith,” the Priest continued. “You’re going to help us make sure that the Black doesn’t return, and that if It does, we’ll be able to kill It. I wanted to give you some time to think on this, because right now, I imagine you’ll act like your friend upstairs. Indignant. Arrogant. Silly, mainly.” The First paused for a second, wondering how much he should say. He wanted to destroy this man, body and soul—though unsure which one he would enjoy more after the slap. “I’m sure you’ve both noticed your nanotechnology doesn’t work here. There won’t be any communicating with each other, nor anyone else.”

The First Priest took a few steps forward. Scoble still didn’t open his eyes.

“After what I say next, you may want to try contacting your friend upstairs. You won’t be able to … It was her, Rhett Scoble. She was the traitor in your organization. She was the one who told us where he would be at the end, flying so high in the sky, looking infinitely powerful, but having no idea that his life was nearly over. He had no idea we had him surrounded, and by the time he did, it was too late. She told us all of that. She killed him. Not us.”

Scoble didn’t move at all, and if not for the slow rising and falling of his chest, the First Priest might have thought him dead.

“Think about the things I’ve told you. They’re all true. There’s a lot of pain in this place for people who don’t love Corinth. For people such as yourself. I’ll be back soon. I hope you’re ready to talk.”

The First Priest stared for a second longer. The man showed nothing. That was fine. He could be as arrogant as he wanted right now. Corinth and the True Faith would break him of that.

Buy it here:

The Prophet: Death (USA)

The Prophet: Death (CA)

The Prophet: Death (UK)

The Prophet: Life

The second book in The Prophet series is out. I promise, you've never read of a world like this before.

In Book One, you met The Prophet. Now, come meet Rachel Veritros.

Chapter One

Rachel Veritros was 19 years old when her life changed. The one that would come after (his name David Hollowborne) was younger when it happened to him, and the one that came before (her name lost to the world) was much younger. Much of Rachel’s life had been lost and distorted over time. The sect that continued on after her knew some of it, but no one knew the entirety. Too many years had passed and the Ministries grown too powerful.

They took what she was and what she did, and they twisted it for their own purposes.

The truth—as nearly all truth is—does not rest with the devotees who canonized her, nor the Ministries.

The truth lies somewhere in between.

At 19 years old, Rachel Veritros was nearing the age of marriage under the Constant Ministry. She woke up each morning and said her prayers, asking for the Constant’s protection and that she do Its will. Her marriage was coming soon, with the Community deciding her--and a nearly innumerable number of people’s--future. She would marry her first mate and have her first children, then she would give them up to the Community—just as she had been given up to It.

Rachel Veritros was nervous about these things, especially the marriage. She knew it was her duty, and excitement also resided there as well. At 19, without ever having had contact with boys, she couldn’t deny that the stirrings of lust played a part.

Who wouldn’t have been nervous, though? Meeting the man that you would spend the next ten years of your life with, regardless of what happened to either of you. A forced dedication, but also one that brought some comfort: one person, no matter what, would always be there.

Rachel had six more months before her marriage.

The Unformed came to her first, though, and Its marriage was for life. Nothing would ever separate her from It, nor It from her--not until she drew her last breath and died known as a horror, a traitor to humanity.

Perhaps the labels were worth that marriage, perhaps not.

History, like so many other things surrounding Rachel Veritros, left us in the dark on that matter.

* * *

The only thing Rachel Veritros disliked about her birthplace was the cold. The Constant Ministry grew out of the ancient Russian people. There were some warm places within its borders, but where Rachel grew up, cold reigned with impunity.

It was December and the sky was gray. Layered clouds rested overhead, creating a canvas that the blue behind them could not break through. Rachel was wrapped in a thick coat topped off with a heavy hat. She didn’t want to be outside, but she was needed at her job. The Constant Community was working toward a future which Rachel knew she’d never see—one in which robotics replaced the need for any human effort—but she was happy to work toward it. Maybe her children, or their children, would one day see it.

Snow was coming down, though not as heavy as most days. She was walking from her dormitory to the factory, where she would continue her apprenticeship. Rachel’s tests had shown aptitude in many areas, but the Community decided her personality would mesh well with military intelligence. She was being groomed to build future AI systems that could defend the Community against other Ministries.

There was no doubt in her mind, or anyone else’s inside the Constant, that one day others would come wanting to spread their own faiths far and wide.

When Rachel learned of her test results and the Community’s decision, she’d thought it sounded superb.

“Constant be with you,” she said as she passed a pair of girls heading back to the dormitory. She couldn’t tell who they were because their hats covered much of their faces, but she probably knew them, and they her. The dormitories were large and the amount of girls in them the same, but over 19 years, she grew acquainted with most everyone.

“Constant be with you,” she heard their muffled response.

She kept walking, feeling the fresh snow crunch beneath her feet.

It came then, the thing that would change her life—and that of so many others—in such drastic and disastrous ways.

The snow fell from above and Rachel took another step forward.

Then stopped.

Her head jerked upward so that she stared into the sky. Gone were her amber colored eyes, replaced with a brilliant and shocking gray, sparking in and out, coming alive and dying. Her arms shot downward and her legs tightened—her fingers were daggers pointing straight to the path below. Rachel’s back leg stepped forward so that both feet stood next to each other.

Rachel’s body looked strange, but her mind was somewhere else, somewhere far stranger.

The walkway, both in front of and behind her, was empty of people. No one was there to see it as it happened. A lone figure standing beneath a gray sky, eyes full of electricity.

Rachel stood that way for only a single minute.

To her, time seemed endless.

In fact, that moment might not have ended for Rachel Veritros … not until just before her life did.

* * *

Rachel Veritros saw the Unformed in that cold, snowy plaza. She saw Its glory and heard Its seductive voice.

When the connection finally broke, her eyes were nothing but gray sparks, though they were fading. She didn’t know that, of course. She only knew that there was work to be done, much of it, and that she needed to start immediately. Rachel Veritros came to know what all great people eventually discover—that when one finds one’s purpose, they don’t wait around to start it.

They begin at that very moment.

Rachel went back to her dorm, forsaking the job the Ministry gave her. Truthfully, she forsook the Ministry then too. There was no considering what she’d seen, no wondering if she was losing her mind. Rachel Veritros knew what she was to do from the moment her connection ended. For Rachel, crystallization had occurred and her life irrevocably changed.

She would, as time went on, wonder why the Unformed chose her—as all of her kind did. There were answers, though none of them felt right to her. Genetics was a possibility—her DNA allowing the creature from the Beyond to find her more easily. Personality, perhaps? The Unformed saw things inside of her that others in the population didn’t possess? It was possible.

There was no single answer for it and the Unformed never ventured to tell her. She never asked, but she imagined It wouldn’t have understood the question. The inquiry would have been too small, too limited for It to grasp.

Upon returning, Rachel didn’t stay long at her dorm. She packed up as much as she could, as quickly as she could. One of her roommates started asking her questions, and Rachel innately understood that those from before the Unformed no longer mattered. They weren’t real—creations from these Ministries that would shortly fall and burn.

She didn’t hurt her roommate, but thought she could have if she’d wanted. Rachel felt the power inside of her, even if she didn’t understand it. It was like looking at a sleeping predator, one that she’d never seen before. Rachel understood that if it woke, it could kill … though she didn’t know how—by tooth, claw, or something else.

She didn’t question the feeling, but accepted it the same as she had accepted what she must do.

Rachel Veritros packed two bags and walked out of her dorm room, her roommate calling after her.

She walked out into the winter knowing that soon she would be hunted. The Ministry would hear of her, of her escape, and they would send people to find her. Rachel—at that point—didn’t know the Unformed’s history, or that another had come before her. She didn’t consider that the Ministry might have suspicions about what happened to her … but it wouldn’t have mattered.

She walked out into the cold and left her old life behind.

All of this, from start to finish, took only two hours.

* * *

The next few years of Rachel’s life were, more or less, a tornado. When she looked back on the ages of 19-23, she knew she survived only by the Unformed’s grace. She should have died innumerable times, but somehow managed to keep going.

Men came and went in her life. Early on, Rachel had been almost comically stupid. She spoke of the coming changes, of how the world would fall and the Unformed would take its rightful place. She could have been found immediately if someone had told. No one did, though. The men Rachel ran into weren’t concerned with glorifying the Constant Ministry, but with other things. They pretended to believe her, promised to help, and then used her until they had their fill.

The Unformed didn’t return to Rachel during this time. There was no connection for those five years, forcing Rachel to keep her faith despite no other proof.

She wandered the wilderness, latching onto different men and speaking words considered insane by anyone who heard them. She slept in the forests most of the time. Once in awhile she--or the man she was shacking up with--could afford a room in a city, but Rachel was wary of them. She understood that if the wrong person did hear her, she wouldn’t make it through the night. Winters were the worst, especially when she first started out, but by the end she had adapted.

At 23, Rachel still physically resembled the girl who had left the dorm room, but any innocence she once possessed had been killed, and ruthlessly so. She was still pretty, but harder. Sometimes, at night, after the man next to her was asleep and snoring, she would think back to that day in the plaza. She would remember what happened, and the words that had been spoken to her. She’d think about all the miles she’d traveled and wonder if it was worth it.

Sometimes, as the nights stretched long, she’d wonder if maybe she was insane. Men had told her that, right before they packed up their shit and left. They said she was nothing but a crazy whore and they hoped she’d contracted the syphilis they were carrying. 

Rachel pushed all of that away, time after time.

Only at night, she couldn’t always do it as forcefully. Doubt crept in. Because there hadn’t been any other contact with the Unformed. There’d been nothing but struggling to live through each day, struggling to find the next meal and to survive the predatory people she clung to. The Unformed, if it actually existed, had forsaken her. She was out here in the wilderness living amongst people who were off the grid, doing their best to take advantage of anyone they came across. She couldn’t go back to society. Not anymore. She was an outcast and would be seen as such immediately. What skills did she have? What could she even do if she returned?

Nothing.

She’d given up everything. A future. Family. Friends. Her entire life.

And for what? The man lying next to her? The trees above her? The snow coming down? The cold that embraced her each night?

It was on one of these nights that belief blossomed again inside Rachel, and it wasn’t the Unformed returning which did it. It was actually the piece of shit lying next to her.

His name had been …

No, that’s been lost to history, and a good thing, too. It is best not to remember such creatures’ names.

He woke up while Rachel was thinking her doubts, wanting another go.

“No,” Rachel said.

“What?” he asked, clearly not expecting any rebuke.

“No. Not right now.”

He looked at her for a few seconds, head cocked as if he wasn’t hearing correctly. As if he couldn’t believe the bitch would say anything like that to him, especially not after all he’d given her. Didn’t she have a mat to sleep on? Hadn’t he … well, no, he hadn’t shared any food with her, but what the fuck did that matter?

So, he reached down into his boot and pulled out a rusty knife.

“You’re gonna give me what I want, or you’re gonna have a second smile,” he said.

Rachel knew what to do then. It wasn’t the first time such things had been threatened, and usually the men meant what they said. It was easiest to give them their squirt and then roll over and try for sleep.

This time, though … she felt different.

She didn’t even look at him when she said, “No.”

Even as he stood, Rachel didn’t grant him a glance. She kept staring straight up into the starry sky, tall trees cupping her view.

“Fuck you,” the man said, knife in hand and looking down on her. He was a bit unsure of what to do, though the hard-on in his pants wasn’t going to let him just quit. Nor would his pride. Normally these little forest skanks did whatever he wanted, but this one didn’t seem the least bit scared. “Fuck you,” he said again.

He kicked her in the ribs, his foot launching forward while both happiness and rage rose simultaneously inside him.

Or at least, that’s what he thought he was doing.

His foot froze in the air and he looked down at eyes he’d never seen before. Eyes that fit her perfectly, because the bitch beneath him had been crazy--and now her eyes were glowing gray like the dirty snow they trudged through each day.

He tried to yank his foot back but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move it at all.

Rachel looked up into the sky, finally feeling the predator wake up. For years it had remained dormant and forgotten. Right after seeing the Unformed, it’d been there like a lump in her throat—noticeable. But then it faded.

Until now.

The man was screaming something but Rachel didn’t hear the words. She felt good. She felt happy. She didn’t know her eyes were far past sparking, now nearly on fire. 

The man was inconsequential, and Rachel realized she no longer wanted him here.

He began floating into the air, at first only a foot off the ground, but Rachel didn’t stop there. She kept pushing him higher and higher until he reached the top of the tree line.

She paused for a second, seeing his outline and hearing his shrieks calling down to her, begging her to stop.

No, she thought. That’s still too close.

He floated higher, and over the course of the next hour, his ascent didn’t stop. In the end, the oxygen grew too thin for him to breathe and he passed out, eventually suffocating while unconscious—which was probably too peaceful for someone like him.

Rachel remained on the ground, lying in her same spot, eyes bright in the darkness and resembling the moon above.

She could no longer see the man, and with another thought, flicked him.

His body fell back to the Earth, crashing down amongst trees miles from her, breaking branches and brush alike. Rachel didn’t hear it, nor did he ever cross her mind again.

She stayed where she was until the sun rose.

The gray sparks in her eyes finally died down as she stood up.

There’d been no connection with the Unformed, but Rachel finally realized that wasn’t needed—not for her to begin working.

At 23, Rachel Veritros’s time in the wilderness ended.

She headed back to society, back to the Ministry she’d left, knowing what she must do.

* * *

Rachel Veritros wasted no time once returning to civilization.

She understood what was to be done, her path crystallizing during her long years of walking in the wilderness.

The recruitment started in earnest on day two of her return. There wasn’t time to waste. The quicker forces gathered to her side, the quicker her purpose would be fulfilled.

It’s important to understand Rachel’s need. What consumed her wasn’t passion—the word wasn’t strong enough. Perhaps obsession wasn’t either. Rachel was possessed. She’d been shown a truth that only one other person had known. Rachel was aware of the young girl, and that the Ministries had murdered her and her followers.

Still, some had managed escape. Not all were found.

And their blood spread to their offspring. The Blood of the Touched. Waiting on another Touched to arrive.

Veritros went to them first, those descendants of the murdered young girl. Some heard her, and when her eyes turned gray and their blood began to itch, they knew she spoke the truth. They knew that she would bring final and everlasting justice upon this world.

She was what many had been waiting for.

Not all, of course. She went to some who thought her insane, and their betrayal couldn’t be risked. Rachel disposed of them quickly, without any more thought than she’d given the man in the woods.

Her numbers grew. The first year was the harshest. It involved travel and avoiding authorities, but Rachel knew she was on the side of the righteous. She couldn’t be stopped.

Sometimes, those descendants showed up on her doorstep, their blood leading them to her. Rachel never asked questions, she simply accepted it as divine intervention. The Unformed was with her, guiding her and them. Guaranteeing Its arrival.

Rachel’s power grew greater, her connection with the Unformed stronger. Her followers saw it, and they both feared and respected it.

She assigned lieutenants, people who swore loyalty to her and the Unformed. They would die for her, sacrifice their families and whatever else they held dear. These were true believers, and all ended up giving their lives for Rachel Veritros.

Once a girl that only wanted to serve her god, she was now a woman possessed of a divination.

And perhaps, there was very little difference between those two people.

Or, perhaps, there was more difference than anyone could adequately express.

Rachel stayed below the Ministries’ radar, even as her numbers swelled. Perhaps the Ministries didn’t understand that the Unformed would return. Perhaps they’d forgotten the message received last time. Perhaps they were too arrogant to think they could miss something growing beneath their foot.

Or, a better analogy, something growing inside of them.

The Ministries would have thought it cancer, something to be cut out, excised.

Rachel Veritros considered it evolution—an organism that eclipses its host, and when it finally happened, the frailties of humanity and their false gods would fall away.

Leaving only perfection.

The five years after her return were ones of rapid change for Rachel Veritros, in which her faith abounded and her conviction knew no bounds.

She was the righteous.

She was the harbinger of the universe’s rightful God.

She was what would end this world, and begin a new one.

Those five years ended, though, and just as it would for the one who came after her, war began for Rachel Veritros.

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The Prophet: Birth

My first new series in a year. This is the largest, most complex world I've ever created, with a story that I'm really not sure has been told before. 

Here's the first chapter:

One

Somewhere Between 2,000 - 2,100 A.D./C.E. (Prior to calendar era shift of Pre-Reformation/Post-Reformation)

We’re going to discuss things that happened long ago, and in doing so, the details may be blurred or misstated. These things cannot be helped, but if we venture forward with forewarning, then perhaps we won’t commit too many mistakes.

The room was small, the walls white painted cinder blocks. A square table sat in the middle with four chairs around it. The room held one door—a single entrance and exit.

It—the room—was actually a building, and no one knew how long it had stood there. It hadn’t been used in some time, and smelled of dust and age. Just outside the door was an icy landscape, with snow as far as the eye could see. The sky above was overcast and the cold so harsh that no amount of clothing could prevent it from seeping into your bones. Four armies waited in the tundra, each willing to kill the others. Large ships known as transports floated a hundred feet in the air; they were armed for battle, their weapons locked in place. Men wore insignias that would have appeared foreign to every nation on Earth fifty years previous.

Perhaps 5,000 soldiers surrounded the small building, the four armies separated by a half mile in each direction. Their weapons could easily launch that far.

Death was only moments away, both for those here and the rest of the world. One signal, one false move, and the world would end.

Four figures walked forth from their armies. Three men and one woman. Their names were known throughout the world, each creating a range of emotions in those that heard them: fear, hate, admiration, love.

Some were thought as Gods, such as Corinth. Others were merely representatives of Gods, like the Pope.

The four walked through the snow alone. They brought no assistants nor other trappings of their offices. They were leaving their armies behind, each trusting the word of the other three.

The war had raged for too long. It would be known from this meeting until the end of time as the Reformation. The world had been at war for 100 years, and the four walking across the ice hoped it would end today.

They entered the small building—which to everyone’s satisfaction had been equipped with heat. Each took a seat at the table but none said anything for a few moments.

They only looked at each other.

All were old, much different than the younger versions that began down the paths which led them here. They hadn’t started the war, but commanded much of it, and now would end it. They looked at the lines and wrinkles in the faces of the men and woman that they had fought for so long, seeing murderers and saints.

The world was wrecked in ways that couldn’t have been imagined a hundred years previously. North and South America no longer existed, at least not above ground. Radiation fell from the skies above and would forever. The Earth’s population had been decimated, carved down by 80%.

To continue on ensured mutual destruction for everyone, and that’s why the four were meeting today.

“It ends today,” the Pope said. “Either that or the four of us die right now, right here.”

His voice was aged but firm. No Pope before or after would ever send so many people to their death, nor order the murder of even more.

“The old ways have to die, then,” the woman said, her name Trinant. “All of them.”

“How do you propose to do that?” someone asked.

“We do whatever it takes. It’s the old ways that started this, and the reason we have so much blood on our hands.”

“There’s truth to that,” Corinth said.

“It is the truth,” Trinant responded.

The room was quiet for a few seconds, all four understanding what her words actually meant.

“State explicitly what you want,” the Pope said. “You other three, you’ve already begun destroying the old ways. Corinth and Trinant, you’re both creating societies that didn’t exist. So tell me, what am I to do with my land?”

“I’m creating a new society because you destroyed the last one,” Corinth said. His voice was low and anger rippled through every word.

Trinant ignored him. “What we’ve created, these governing bodies that we control—they’re not to end. No more hundreds of governments. No more hundreds of countries. No more culture. No more languages. No more religions. We are the new religions. Within our own domains, we are the only culture to exist, and the language we speak here is the only one allowed anywhere else. Those differences are what started this. It can never happen again. The world won’t survive. From this point on, only our religions exist. Only us.”

The room fell silent again. The four knew the truth. The squabble that began a hundred year war no longer mattered, but it began because of the diversity she spoke of.

“If I could, I’d say a single religion would rule everything, but that’s not possible. So, our differences will be only one—the religions we’ve created. Everything else will unify us.”

“Mine wasn’t created,” the Pope said.

Everyone ignored him, knowing that the Catholic Church would trumpet its age for the rest of eternity.

“The peace begins here, and it’s up to us to make sure that it keeps,” the woman said. “We’ll die one day. Sooner rather than later from the looks of us, and this war can’t restart when we finish.”

“Okay,” Corinth said. “I’ll do it.”

“Me too.”

The three people stared at the Pope, who finally nodded. “Yes. The Catholic Church agrees.”

The four were quiet, relief flooding over them but understanding that much work awaited. Painful, wrenching work—in which more people would die.

But no more war. Details would need be worked out, but as long as the nuclear weapons quit detonating and the weapons quit launching, that could happen. The things that had separated people, that caused such destruction, they would end. Four religions would encompass the world, and truth would flow only from them. Truth, and peace, as none of the four would aggress on the others.

The world had been reformed, the four people in this room deciding the fates of billions.

The Reformation was over. The world could begin anew.

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Taken from my mailing list

This is something I sent to my mailing list subscribers. Maybe it will help you too.

Hey,

This email will be a little bit different than my usual ones. Probably fairly short, but I just wanted to pass some thoughts along.

I'm a meditator; I try to do it every day, and for me, the results have been amazing. This past weekend was really pretty hectic--I had to hospitalize two people I know, both of them extremely close to me. It was rough when it happened, and then started causing a good bit of angst and anxiety over the next couple of days.

I sat down last night to meditate, and the speaker I was listening to made a point that really resonated with me. He said, we all want to be happy, we all have these desires that we want fulfilled. For me, in the moment, it was to have my friends and family safe. The speaker went on to say, and because of that, because of these desires that are often unfulfilled, being human is tough.

It's a true statement, and we often forget it, or don't acknowledge it. We should, though, and in recognizing life's difficulty, be kind to ourselves. Recognize in ourselves, and others, that we all want to be happy. You are trying your very best every day, and though you don't always succeed, it's important to be kind to yourself. Appreciate yourself. Love yourself. Be proud of who you, what you're doing, and treat your own faults as you would your child's or someone you love deeply.

I'm not sure if this makes as much sense to you, as it does me, but we constantly hear how we need to be kind to others. I think sometimes it's important to hear that it's okay to be kind to yourself as well.

I've never really sent an email like this, but I hope it finds you well. I hope when you read it you take a second to appreciate who you are and what you're doing.

All the best,
David

If you're interested in things like this, or ya know, my books--get all of sent directly to you by signing up here: David's Mailing List

Luke Titan. Christian Windsor. Book Five.

The Animal is finished.

Here's the cover.

Yeah. That's gruesome.

This is the second to last book in The Luke Titan series.

The idea for it came almost out of nowhere, and I think it led to a pretty exciting novel. The reviews so far have been absolutely outstanding. Seriously, if you haven't started this series, you need to. If you liked The Silence of the Lambs, you're going to love this.

Go check it out--it's only $3.99 right now.

The Animal

The General is here

Are you ready for war?

An unparalleled genius, Luke Titan managed to fool his colleagues and superiors, creating havoc and death throughout the FBI. Now, he sits atop the FBI’s Most Wanted List while his former partners, Tommy Phillips and Christian Windsor, lie in hospital beds.

The fight isn’t over.

Luke Titan wants to watch the world burn, and he wants Christian at the heart of the fire. Hiring a sadistic gun runner, Titan declares war on the entire FBI … giving Christian the only chance to end his carnage.

Christian must do an unthinkable act, then Titan will turn himself in.

The war is here. Titan is ready to destroy everyone and everything. Will Christian and those he loves become more casualties, or will he finally rise above Titan’s evil genius?

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The General

The Lover out now!

Windsor. Phillips. Titan.

"The best  thing you've written to date!" - Actual reader

Buy it now!

Amazon US, Amazon UK, Amazon CA, All other retailers

The Lover

Chapter One

At least some part of Ted Hinson knew the difference between right and wrong, though how large that part was couldn’t be determined. Two things were growing in him simultaneously: fear and confidence—neither had anything to do with right or wrong, but rather rationality and delusion. He felt fear because he was too intelligent to think this could go on forever. Sooner or later, he would get caught.

Warring with the fear was an increasing sense of confidence (Ted Hinson’s rational mind would call it delusion), because he hadn’t been caught yet.

Ted was thirty-eight years old and his reign of terror began two years ago.

Though no single law enforcement entity knew it, five women had gone missing during this period at a precise clip of one every four months. It was now the twenty-fourth month in his reign, and time for another to disappear.

Ted decided on one woman every four months because of the acclimation process. It took four months to tame his lovers (or break them in, as one might a wild horse).

Sarah had been especially difficult and Ted was still trying to understand if it was her age, or simply her personality. She was pushing the limits of his patience (not to mention love), as well as his self-imposed four month deadline. He thought, though, that last night had been a major milestone in their relationship.

“You want to go to lunch with us?”

Ted looked up from his desk. Georgia Shingleton was at his office door. How long had she been standing there? His face showed no surprise—but he didn’t like not knowing how long she’d been watching him.

“Not today. Have to catch up on some edits,” he said.“Okay. Want me to bring you anything back? We’re heading to Raw Sushi.”

“Mind bringing me a California Roll?

“No, not at all,” Georgia said. “See ya in a few.”

“Thanks,” Ted said and watched her leave. The California Roll wasn’t for him, but for Sarah. He’d bring it to her as a ‘thank you’, perhaps even as a peace offering.

Ted looked at his open office door. Had she been there long? And if so, what had she seen? Him staring mindlessly at his desk? He needed to stop concentrating so hard, especially at work. Or rather, he needed to concentrate on his work while here—leave his lovers for home.

Ted turned to his computer screen and moved his mouse, causing the light to flare on.

He would deal with Sarah tonight, and hopefully she would take the sushi with a bit of grace. If not, he might need do something harsh—something he never wanted for any of his lovers—but her four month acclimation period was at an end, and it was time to bring another into the stable. He didn’t have any more time for Sarah’s antics.

The trip was already planned for this weekend. Come Monday, Sarah would need to obey. Ted took the oath of marriage very seriously, and there would be no divorce. Not for him or any of his wives. If they chose to not love him, then …

Till death do us part.

* * *

Sarah Yields was twenty-nine years old when her abduction occurred. Since then, she’d turned thirty, though she didn’t know it. Not for sure, anyway. In the beginning of her abduction, she had tried counting the days by counting her sleep cycles, but that was quickly lost.

Sarah spent a long time thinking about how it happened. She had been so stupid, and if she ever got out of here, she would scream it to the high heavens. She didn’t care about victim shaming or any other terms she had been taught to despise in college.

Sarah had been foolish, and while that wasn’t the only reason she was here, it was at least one of them. The other reason (and most important) was that ‘Ted’ was fucking insane.

Sarah thought these things to herself, but she was learning—in perhaps the slowest and most painful way possible—that she couldn’t say them aloud. Not if she wanted to avoid pain.

She’d been at a club—drinking entirely too much—and she had thought the man older, but intensely sexy. She quit listening to her friends’ requests to come dance, and paid no attention to their protests about going home with the man she just met at the bar. Alcohol and horny were a bad combination under normal circumstances, but when you combined those with a man named Ted, it turned in to outright horror. Sarah didn’t remember much after leaving with Ted; she figured he must have given her a pill of some sort, and when she woke, she was ‘at home’ … as Ted called it.

She sat in darkness now. The other women here didn’t talk, though Sarah had spent many days trying to get them to. Ted’s terror held them firm, though. They were all broken, just like he wanted. Sarah couldn’t see the others in the darkness around her, though she heard them from time to time. Someone might let out a cry or a snore, depending on what they were doing. Sometimes a chain would rattle, the metal scraping across the concrete floor.

Sarah wasn’t good with time anymore, but the women in this room seemed to share a sixth sense about when Ted returned. Their chains rattled more and Sarah found herself looking in the direction of the stairs. Light would shine down, and then a long shadow would cast from the very top to where Sarah sat. Ted’s shadow. Her husband.

Last night had been bad. Sarah’s tongue continually went to holes in her gums. They hurt like hell, though the blood flow had finally stopped at some point during the night. Sarah knew it was crazy, but when she spit her teeth out, she had placed them neatly to her side. Three of them. She couldn’t see them, but knew they were there, and if she ever left here, she’d still have them.

It was hard to hear much of what went on upstairs, and sometimes Sarah thought she only hallucinated the things she did hear. Sitting in the mostly silent darkness caused the mind to play tricks. Something else she had learned since meeting Ted.

The door at the top of the stairs swung open. Sarah squinted, trying to close her eyes against the pain the light caused, but not wanting to miss anything that came next. If she were to have any chance of escape, she had to be alert. She had to see everything she possibly could.

The shadow grew in size as Ted walked down the stairs. They never squeaked under his weight. The entire basement was basically a huge slab of concrete, which also muffled any noise his harem might make.

“Here, love,” he said.

Ted stood in front of her. Sarah knew better than to try and stand, plus her muscles couldn’t take it today. Last night’s beating hadn’t knocked her out, but it had been the roughest yet.

Ted squatted and placed a small styrofoam box down in front of her, opening it so that she could see inside.

“A California Roll. I wasn’t sure what type of sushi you liked.”

I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you and if I ever look at another sushi roll again, I’ll kill whoever brings it to me, Sarah thought. She didn’t say anything out loud, though. Her hand simply went forward and pulled the styrofoam box back to her.

“Do you have anything to say?” Ted asked.

“Yyank you,” Sarah forced out, her swollen mouth not allowing her to form ‘th’ sounds.

“You’re welcome. I’m going away this weekend. Monday we’ll have a new member of our family and I hope you’ll treat her well, Sarah. I really do. I know how jealous you can be, and I know how mean that makes you, too. I hope you take some time this weekend to think about what you want out of our marriage.”

I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you.

Sarah looked at the sushi, careful not to make eye contact but still able to see much of what was around her. It was always the same, though—nothing she could use to escape.

“Okay, then,” Ted said.

He went through his ritual next. A disgusting thing that Sarah had learned well. He went from woman to woman, talking with each about his day (though they never said anything). He always kissed them and sometimes straight up made out, but so far hadn’t performed any hardcore sexual acts during this ritual. That came later—or at least Sarah assumed it did, though she hadn’t yet been forced to take part.

Sarah listened to the psychopath talk to the other four women, speaking as if they were long-term lovers. He giggled, grew serious, petted them, and just kept talking. Finally, when he finished his rounds, he climbed those concrete stairs again and went to make dinner.

Sarah was lucky, though. He had brought her dinner early.

On Donald Trump (Part One)

I try pretty hard to keep away from politics when it comes to my writing, but the problem is, I'm a news junkie. Actually, I'm a politics junkie. I keep up with everything that goes on within American politics, probably better than Joe Scarborough (cohost of Morning Joe on MSNBC).

Before reading further, realize I'm not a liberal or conservative. You would most likely call me a radical (and I'm okay with the label). I self-identify as an Anarcho-capitalist, though a gentler name would be a Voluntarist. Basically, I think all human interactions should be voluntary. I'll expand on that in another post, but that's not the purpose of this one. Also, I don't vote (I'll detail this out in a later post, too).

The focus is President Trump.

During the election, I wasn't a Trump supporter. However, I sort of considered myself 'Anti anti-Trump'. I sincerely believed Hillary and Bill Clinton are part of the ruling elite and have been allowed to get away with more crimes than almost imaginable. For decades. So, I more or less wanted her to lose, which is different than wanting Trump to win.

I think, however, that Trump duped me. I was pretty excited that someone who made their bones with the government against them would take office. Clinton (and all the rest of the politicians) make their money with the government's wind in their sails. I thought having a businessman, someone who'd done it for decades, would be a good thing.

I'm coming to believe, though, that Trump isn't a businessman at all. He's a marketer. That is very, very different than business. I know many of you will call me naive, and perhaps I was during the campaign. I didn't let his bankruptcies get in the way of thinking he was good in business--everyone takes losses from time to time.

However, the way he is governing is proving quite quickly to me that this man is good at selling himself, but perhaps not at running a business. Even liberals must admit, the man sells himself masterfully--perhaps as good as anyone I've ever seen. However, that's very different than business.

I'm bothered by a lot of things I see happening right now, but today I want to focus on his family.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Maybe it's because I've never seen a politician who actually sets up a daughter and son-in-law with positions in the government, but it bothers me. Maybe it's only precedent that's the problem, and in reality, it's no different than hiring someone else. Perhaps they are the best person for the position (though, I find that hard to believe. I love my brother with all my heart, but he ain't gonna be the chief operating officer of my publishing business.).

What bothers me here is both the perception, and THE FACT THAT THESE JOKERS MIGHT NOT HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THEY'RE DOING.

Both Ivanka and Jared Kushner were handed their empires. I'm not saying they haven't worked, but it's not like either of them built something from the ground up. More, Kushner's business seems to be pretty awful. I don't really know about Ivanka's clothing line. So, if they're not good at business, what are they good at? Creating laws? Governing (which is a term that I'm not sure can be defined outside of ruling over others)? There's nothing in their past that would indicate either of these things.

So why are they in the White House? Well, the obvious answer is Trump is trying to remake the White House to resemble his Trump branding business. He trusts them. He trusts what they tell him. He believes they are good decision makers. The cynic in me says, they will also be able to enrich themselves more if they know the inner workings of the White House (though, I tell my cynic to shut up).

What Trump needs more than anything right now are people he DOESN'T KNOW in the White House. He needs people that will look him in the eye and say, "Mr. President, you're doing this completely wrong." I don't know if Ivanka or Jared will do this, but based on what I've learned about Trump--they won't. He seems to want yes men, people that tell him he's right. He's addicted to being liked and being thought well of. Jared and Ivanka give that to him.

I can't imagine being 70 years old and trying to change. I'm 30 and change is hard as hell. This dude has been living like this for decades and decades. I think the mark of a truly remarkable person is their willingness to change when facts arise (which is why the nutrition and climate science fields drive me up a friggin' wall). Trump won't do that. He won't change who he is as a person. There is a proverbial silver lining, however. Trump likes to be liked. He loves it. That means I think he can be bipartisan as long as it means he gets good press. What that means for the country is another discussion, though.

So, Part One on Trump can be summed up fairly easily: hiring his family is the wrong decision and will lead him to continue making mistakes.

It's such an obviously poor decision, that it makes me wonder how intelligent the man actually is. Perhaps he is the genius he claims to be. Perhaps he just refuses to change the way he's been running things for five decades. I don't know. I do know, though, that as someone who has to live under his reign ... I don't like it and I don't want it happening.

The Surgeon is coming soon...

Ready for your operation?

Two psychopaths.

One is killing people. The other works for the FBI.

Meet Luke Titan at the end of March.

Signed Copies

I'm a capitalist shill. Now you can buy signed copies of any of my books. Just click the obviously named button, 'signed copies', fill out the form and throw me a few bones--you'll have a personally signed copy on the way.

Movie Review: The Monster

I normally am not a huge fan of monster movies. To me, they're a lot like slasher films--you can't relate to the killer, and nothing seems to motivate them outside of "KILL THE BLONDE GIRL!" There are a few exceptions to this rule, one being The Ring (though the monster in that movie was a creepy little girl who moved like she had Parkinsons).

The Monster (2016) is a decent film, especially for the genre its title so aptly places it in. It's a monster movie, but there's more to it as well.

Perhaps I like this movie because of my own home life growing up. I remember watching my parents fight. I remember being screamed at.

This movie, at its core, is about the dysfunctional relationship between a mother and a daughter. Whenever I see something like this, as long as it's done well, I fall into the movie. And this one is done well. The acting performances by the two leads are great--especially from the young girl. She shows the anger and hurt that comes when those who are supposed to love you, don't. 

Is the monster in the movie scary? Sometimes. But that's not the point. I believe that each parent loves their children (with few and frightening exceptions), and that's partly what this is about. A mother's love and her inability to show it. Except when it counts.

The Monster is also about a child's love, and how abuse that happens over years can harden it. In the end, though, all children just want to be loved by their parents--and I believe that regardless of their age.

If you like monster flicks where the scariest thing isn't what the paranormal can do to us, but what we can do to each other, you'll dig this.

A new type of novel

I just finished a non-serial novel.

What's that mean exactly, you ask?

For most of my career, I've written very long novels, often broken up by cliffhangers. This time, and for the first time since The Devil's Dream, I didn't do that.

The title is Fallen Saint. It'll be a series (think something like Jack Reacher, in that each book has an ending). Should be out in January. I won't give too much away about it, except to I had a lot of fun with the two main characters. They got a lot of life left in them--and that's exciting.

Audiobooks galore!

I've been working with some great narrators to get my books in audio form. If you ever see me in public, I'll most likely have headphones in (even if I'm with people, because I'd rather not talk to anyone around me). I'll either be listening to music or a book--it's pretty damn cool to be able to listen to books while you're walking around. I'm certain it's improved my ability as a writer, not to mention made me smarter.

So, here's the first book I finished! Red Rain: Clouds Gathering!

The narrator is Charles Kahlenberg, and he does an absolutely astounding job of capturing the book's Texas feel.

Go grab it now and help Daddy get his yacht!

The Singularity Rising: first drafts' all done.

Well, The Singularity series is done from a story perspective. There's a lot of editing left to be done, but for me, that's more light weight than heavy lifting. Once the story is told, it's easy to clean it up so that more story remains and less me.

The first book should be out in a week or two. I've been advised to put a forward in the book, as it's been two years since Revolutionary and people forget.

Here it is:

A Brief Introduction

(Possible Spoilers for The Singularity: Revolutionary)

The Singularity Rising is the sequel series to The Singularity. It takes place five hundred years after the end of Revolutionary.

To save readers time from having to reeducate themselves on The Singularity’s world, I’ve created a very brief cheat sheet on many of the terms and people to be discussed in the following pages.

The Genesis is an artificial intelligence created by humanity fifteen hundred years before the start of this book. It once decided that humanity was too corrupt to continue living without genetic modifications, and consequently, purged much of mankind, while at the same time growing its own ‘crops’ of genetically modified humans.

The Genesis reigned over the world with the help of assistants; artificial intelligence entities—often termed applications. These assistants had freewill, but for the most part, they served The Genesis in Its ultimate aim of creating a harmonic world.

Caesar Wells led a group called The Named—dedicated to destroying The Genesis and giving humanity back its freedom.

Grace was Caesar Well’s loyal assistant.

Paige his lover.

Leon his friend.

Manny his enemy.

Jerry his mentor.

At the end of Revolutionary, Caesar is faced with the choice of deciding humanity’s ultimate fate: to live free, or to live under The Genesis’s rule.

The Singularity Rising answers that final question The Genesis asked Caesar.

“What’s it going to be?”

Red Rain: Hurricane

Chapter One

Present Day

Harry grinned.

His smile spread wide across his face, revealing cracked, broken, and missing teeth. His gums were nearly the color of licorice, littered with tiny splits in the skin that revealed green, rotting flesh beneath. His top and bottom teeth didn’t touch—in many places because they couldn’t, but also because his smile was just too damn big—and Harry's tongue looked like some fat, swollen slug sitting in his destroyed mouth.

John stood in front of him and Harry could see the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. The Mexican weather was very different from America’s, but Harry couldn’t have given a single fuck if he had a pocket full of them. His fucks were all invested in the scenario about to take place.

John had entered what Harry thought of as the zone. 

Which was another way of saying, John now channelled his inner Harry.

The woman hadn’t noticed anything amiss yet—she stood in front of an ancient Coke machine, one that only produced cans, though it looked like it might not even do that anymore. John stood maybe ten feet behind her, just outside the reach of a glowing overhead light, allowing the shadows to shield him. 

John was almost ready; Harry could fucking feel it.

John wanted the woman to turn around because he wanted to see her face before she died. That’s what Harry loved so much about John—despite his holier-than-thou attitude all the damn time, he was a sick, sick puppy. He loved this, and all anyone had to do was watch him in action to understand that simple fact. No amount of holy rolling priests or group sessions with a bunch of weirdos would change it.

Come on, Harry thought. Turn around you goddamn bitch. Turn around so we can get to work.

He whispered the words inside his mind, like she might be able hear them if he thought any louder. Hearing Harry right now wouldn’t be good, though he thought John could still handle the situation if it came up.

The woman bent over and reached for the Coke that fell from inside the machine, landing in the cramped bucket at the bottom.

Harry didn’t remember a lot—it was tough going far back into his past, but he had an inkling that they once killed someone as pretty as this woman. He didn’t remember who or when or how, but something stuck out like a buoy in the distance, bobbing up and down in the waves, disappearing sometimes before reaching the surface again.

What the fuck does that matter? Harry thought.

It didn’t. Because this woman was bu-tee-full. 

Long brown hair and dark, tanned skin. She wore shorts and while Harry didn’t get the primal urges of most men, he appreciated a nice pair of stems as well as the next dead guy inside a friend’s head.

Oh, yes, oh, yes! She was turning around, slowly, her eyes still on the drink as she opened the can. John didn’t look at her legs, ass, or anything but her neck—zoned in for sure.

“Go,” Harry whispered.

John moved with a speed that Harry helped hone over two decades, something that only came with practice—which Harry was a big fan of.

The woman barely heard him, her face flashing upwards, surprise in her eyes, but as John barreled forward, Harry watched surprise turn to confusion, then fear.

John grabbed her by the mouth with his left hand, clamping it closed so that her screams didn’t venture further than the glow of the light overhead. Not even the shadows would hear this woman die.

Harry stood back, watching the knife hammer down, back up, back down, back up, back down. John didn’t even know Harry was there, or maybe John was Harry? Certainly Harry didn’t know and certainly he didn’t care, either.

Blood shot out the woman’s neck, splattering John’s face and clothes. His hand was soaked, dripping the red liquid back down onto the woman’s white t-shirt. Tiny buds of red, blooming as beautiful as any flower.

Harry felt the burn in John’s arm, knew that lactic acid had spread through it and was trying to slow him down, but John wouldn't slow—not until her heart quit beating. John's muscles could burn worse than being boiled alive, and he'd keep stabbing away.

Yes. Yes, he will, Harry thought.

He’s not ready for me to leave, either. Because even if he won’t admit it, he knows we have to go back home.

* * *

Harry was good at certain things.

For his money, no one on the planet could think out a murder better than him. Like, Harry was good at that shit. He didn’t forget anything, not a single detail, but that wasn’t what made him so good (he would dare venture say great). He didn’t just remember the details; he saw everything. Where people would move before John subdued them, how they might try to scream early, so John knew the best way to approach, even how they would fall, and from there which way their blood would leak.

He was Michelangelo looking at the Sistine Chapel.

Areas existed, though, in which Harry wasn’t a master. Long term plans. He was not good at that shit. Much like he couldn’t remember a great deal of the past, things got super hazy when he started considering the future. Normally this wasn’t a problem because Harry was the type of dude that lived in the moment. The future wasn’t promised and the past was dead, so why not live it up while you can, right?

However, it could become a problem.

In fact, Harry thought his long-term planning abilities might already be a big fucking problem.

He and John could stay in Mexico, cutting up ladies outside of motel rooms, but they would eventually get caught. Harry decided he wouldn't mind that, just not down here. Not while he had the opportunity to take John home and do some real damage. Murdering people down here was all fine and dandy, but God, the sweetness that awaited if Harry could convince John to hurt …

Dare he say it?

He dared.

Diane?

Or the boys?

Oh, Jack jumped over a fucking candle stick, that sounded uh-maze-ing!

But that’s where his inability to think past five minutes in front of his face created an issue. Harry made John think whatever he wanted John to think, because John needed to put in work instead of always bitching and making up excuses. Harry knew the cops were looking hard at John and they wouldn’t simply back off because John fled the country. Which meant Harry couldn’t just tell John it was time to head back across the border, because that meant probably getting caught, and getting caught before Harry had his fun wasn’t an option.

Wasn’t that big of a deal though. Harry didn’t believe in Big Deals. No, things always seemed to work out the way he wanted them to.

Because I'm as kind as Jesus, the price is only $0.99. Get it now before it goes up! 

books2read.com/u/38Dxod

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The Singularity Rising

I'm nearly finished with the series. I have about 30,000 words left (it'll be three books).

Here's an unedited snip.

The Death of Caesar Wells

"Five hundred years.

That’s how long it’s been since Manny kept me in his little torture chamber. Five hundred goddamn years.

I think I finished the last of these chronicles a hundred years ago. I haven’t put pen to paper since then. I imagine I’m the only person alive still using paper to write down anything, but that’s what I have right now. Ink and dead trees.

Caesar’s next stage is beginning and I guess that’s why I’m writing again. One of my assistants says the first writings improved my recovery by forty-five percent. Amazing how one would calculate that given they’re not inside my head.

I owe Caesar that, I guess. He keeps The Genesis out of my mind. I don’t know what they do while I’m sleeping; anything is possible, I suppose. Maybe they’re watching while I sleep. Maybe they see the same nightmares I do.

No one read my first papers: The Life of Caesar Wells.

The whole manuscript sits in a drawer untouched since I put the last word on it.

No one will read this either, especially given what’s coming: The Reckoning. Apt name, though I’m sure The Genesis doesn’t approve. No worries, they won’t have to deal with it for much longer; the people who named the coming atrocities will be dead.

I’m finding it hard to organize my thoughts, to be honest. Perhaps that’s just the rust falling off, though I wasn’t much of a writer to begin with.

The Life of Caesar Wells. That’s where we were.

The man that I knew, that I followed, well he dies when The Reckoning begins. So that seems like an apt name for this next part, no? The Death of Caesar Wells. I chronicled his life by living next to him. Now I’ll watch it all from this fortress, and I’ll survive it all because of this fortress. Both my captor and savior, which is to say, Caesar is my captor and savior.

I think about Jerry sometimes. A bastard if there ever was one, but he held conviction. Certainly more than Caesar. And … maybe Manny was right about him. Manny couldn’t accept that Caesar was chosen as savior. He didn’t think Caesar was the right choice.

Turned out, he wasn’t.

And what would Jerry say now, if he still lived?

Disappointment isn’t a strong enough word, but I’m not sure the English language contains one, for that matter.

What about the rest of us? I haven’t thought of them in so long that it truly seems like those people and places were different lives. I know I’m reminiscing here, but if I’m going to chronicle this, I need to remember everything correctly. Or, at least, I need to remember what I can.

Paige. The best of us.

Grace. The best of Caesar.

What if they were here to witness what their hero, what their goddamn savior, was about to do? They would, without doubt, disown him. Even his lover, Paige. And me? What will I do as I’m the only one still alive and watching?

I love Caesar. That hasn’t changed, and won’t if I live another thousand years.

I also hate him, though. I hate him for what he’s about to do.

I told you on the first page I wrote that you wouldn’t like how this ends. Now, I can only say I don’t know how it ends, but I know it’s going to get a lot worse before it can ever get better."

Red Rain, Part Three

I know, I know, I just dropped Red Rain: Lightning Strikes, and the month before that, gave you all the glorious Part One, but I can't stop writing, so the next is nearly upon us.

This is the last piece.

An exclamation point to the preceding sentences.

Red Rain, Part Two

The second Red Rain books is out now. If you haven't bought it, go do that before continuing. Daddy has to pay rent.

When I finished Nemesis, I read the ending and thought, fuck, that's good. My evolution as a writer seems to be increasing in speed, because regardless how good I thought/think Nemesis Six is, Red Rain surpasses it.

This story goes a bit more down the horror route, letting go of the sci-fi, but it's the most personal thing I've ever written. More so than even The Devil's Dream. 

It's about a serial killer, but not so much who he kills. It focuses on his actions and their effects on him mentally and those around him. If The Devil's Dream asks can a man destroy the world? Red Rain asks can a man destroy himself?

Enough with my drivel. Go buy my other drivel. For Daddy.

The first one is here: Amazon.

The new release is here: Amazon