The life of deadly Russian slayer, Trace, has always revolved around death and preventing humankind from learning about the legendary creatures of the night. But now his position as a Watcher has become a prison, and dealing death for the Nation isn’t as prestigious as he once believed it to be.
Published: February 8th, 2016
Known as Trace to his enemies and friends, this lethal Dhampir leaves no trace of his victims behind.
The life of deadly Russian slayer, Trace, has always revolved around death and preventing humankind from learning about the legendary creatures of the night. But now his position as a Watcher has become a prison, and dealing death for the Nation isn’t as prestigious as he once believed it to be.
College dropout Bessina Darrow has witnessed things she isn’t permitted to see, a simple case of wrong place at the wrong time puts her life in danger. When Bessina becomes his new mark, Trace is prepared to eliminate her—until he discovers a way out for them both.
Protecting Bessina means defying the leaders of the Nation, an act that has them both running for their lives. The more Trace fights to disappear from danger, the more he unravels the secrets surrounding his world of lore—secrets he must unveil to finally save a life, instead of destroy it.
EXCERPT
TOUR SCHEDULE
Trace entered the hospital behind the girl. He waited outside of the room for the nurse and officer to leave, so he could get his mark and go. The police believed she’d been pranked, which was good for Trace.
The officer stepped out of the room, grumbling under her breath. Trace quietly eased his way in just as the girl was turning around with her clothes in her hand. The sound of her gasp filled the room, along with the soft scent of vanilla and the spicy scent of warm, rustic woods. Her scent was mysterious and enticing, yet wholly mystifying. How did a human smell so exotic, pushing his primal urges to the surface?
Trace held her gaze, allowing her to see his face completely. Recognition lit her eyes. Her hard panting breaths and racing heartbeat signaled her fear, but her wild frantic eyes told another story. They were an odd combination of honey and cinnamon, and held him in a state of unease. She felt familiar, as if her blood was similar to his.
Was she immortal? He scented the air and deduced nothing from her scent but more confusion. Her eyes bore into him. It was as if she could see him for the creature he was. Trace hardened his features, unwilling to allow this woman to see how she affected him.
Her dark hair reached just past her shoulders in wavy layers of inky black and honeyed copper tresses. Her chocolate-colored skin shone from a thin sheen of sweat, and her supple, blood red painted lips formed the shape of an O as he closed the door without breaking their stare.
Even though he had no desire to admit it, her nervousness excited him, as well as the wild beat of her heart, the scent of her fragrant blood coursing through her veins, and the vanilla and woods aroma saturating the air.
She swallowed several times. “I think you have the wrong room.” Her voice was a husky drawl he wasn’t used to hearing. He’d stayed north the majority of his life. Her light twang sounded like an escape from the norm.
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About the author:
Inger Iversen lives in Virginia Beach with her overweight lap cat, Max and her tree boyfriend, Joshua. She spends 90 percent of her time in Barnes and Noble and the other ten pretending not to want to be in Barnes and Noble.
1 comment:
Thank you!
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