- Publication Date: August 16, 2019
- Genre: Dark Fantasy
- Cover Design: Atlantis Book Design
- ASIN: B07TN1R7VQ
A Sisterhood to Die For.
Some bonds begin in the womb. Others are forged in the heart. What happens when the bond of sisterhood threatens to tear apart the fabric of the union formed between a witch and the man she loves? Can both bonds survive, or must one be sacrificed for the other?
Love or Hate.
Destiny or Self-determination.
Revenge or Peace.
Kúmaa and Pánin must decide their future before a dangerous foe determines it for them.
Pánin hurried past the main lobby of the Mirage Hotel, eyes cast down, and away from Melea Cross—the front desk clerk and hotel owner. At the thought of the other woman, she snorted—low and with malice. Melea would get what was coming to her, the same as everyone else. Once Pánin was free, and she would be free, blood and death would be her reward to them all.
Before turning the corner, she chanced a glance in Melea’s direction. Soulless, dusky eyes stared back at her, no pupils, just twin holes of inky blackness that seemed even darker the longer her warden held her bold gaze. Wanting nothing more than to dig a sharp blade into Melea’s sockets, gouging and cutting and making the bitch scream her agony, she turned away. It wasn’t yet time. Melea, at six feet and with a dangerously high magic level she didn’t bother to conceal, was far too powerful for her to challenge. But Pánin was a patient woman. Besides, this piece-of-shit hotel couldn’t hold her forever. Soon there would be a vacancy at the Mirage.
Pánin stormed away from the clerk, who’d already begun speaking to herself. Melea did that often, whispering, laughing, and even arguing on occasion. But there’d never been another person on the other end of Melea’s odd ramblings. Just as no one else worked at the Mirage Hotel.
No matter the day or time, Melea was always there. In the main lobby and at the front desk. The scents of cinnamon, hickory, apple, and hibiscus hovered about Melea, a distasteful shroud of smells that clung to the woman’s toffee-soft skin, shoulder-length braids, and days-old tunic dress.
Sighing, she made her way down the drab and piss-scented hallway, passing the rooms of other inmates. The wind howled--a daily screech that splintered already cracked windows. The glass wouldn’t break, though, no matter how harsh the wind bellowed or how hard fists banged against the panes.