Wrath (26 page)

About the Author

Kristie Cook is a lifelong, award-winning writer in various genres, from marketing communications to fantasy fiction. She continues to write the Soul Savers Series, a New Adult paranormal romance / contemporary fantasy, with
Promise, Purpose, Devotion, Power,
and the latest release,
Wrath,
book five, available now. She’s also written a companion novella,
Genesis: A Soul Savers Novella,
which details the compelling history of her Soul Savers mythology. Over 25
0,000 Soul Savers books have been sold, with
Promise
peaking at #54 on the Amazon Top 100 Paid list and at #1 in the Amazon Fantasy category.

The Space Between,
consistently one of the top rated New Adult books on Amazon, kicks off her second New Adult paranormal series, The Book of Phoenix.

Besides writing, Kristie enjoys reading, cooking, traveling and riding on the back of a motorcycle. She has lived in ten states, but currently calls Southwest Florida home with her husband, three sons, a beagle, and a puggle.

Connect With Me Online

I love to hear from and connect with readers. Please don’t be shy.

Email:
[email protected]

Author’s Website & Blog:
http://www.KristieCook.com

UK Fan Site:
http://www.kristiecookfansite.co.uk

Soul Saver Series Website:
http://www.SoulSaversSeries.com

Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/AuthorKristieCook

Twitter:
http://twitter.com/kristiecookauth

If you’d like to get an automatic email when my next book is released,
sign up here.
Your email address will not be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time!

Word of mouth is very important for any author. If you enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review, even if it’s only a sentence or two. Thank you!

Want more by Kristie Cook?

— Soul Savers Series —

www.SoulSaversSeries.com

Promise

Purpose

Devotion

Power

Genesis: A Soul Savers Novella

Wrath

— The Book of Phoenix Series —

www.TheBookofPhoenix.com

The Space Between

Find the author at
www.KristieCook.com

The Space Between—An Excerpt

LENI

If I could take the form of a bird and fly high above the roofs of the village and soar over the fields, it would feel like this. With me balanced on his hands, Alberto spun across the stage, my arms and legs spread like a bird’s wings. After he gave me a push up into the air, I tucked my limbs in and twisted in a perfect spiral. My stomach dropped and my body followed as I slid down him and became a graceful heap at his feet just as the music came to its tragic end.

The audience exploded into applause, followed by a standing ovation. The thunderous noise reverberated into my bones, and my chest swelled as I took a bow for the very last time. When the audience showered me with white roses and Alberto and the troupe brought me a bottle of vino, I gave a heartfelt grin that hopefully hid the sadness battling within me.
A dream come true . . . but I’ll never dance on stage again.
My heart knew this truth. Tomorrow I would fly home, and this would all be nothing more than a memory.

But tonight was still mine.

I hadn’t been the real star of the show, not by far, but everyone made me feel like I’d been tonight. After the curtain fell, backstage became as loud as the audience as we all congratulated each other on a great show. I glided on air as everyone gave me farewell hugs and shouts of “Bravo!” and “Eccelenté!” Tomorrow, the dance company would move on to the next town, and the professional dancer who I’d been filling in for would join them. I, on the other hand, would be headed back to reality.

“Move on, move on! Take it to Alonzo’s,” the stage manager finally ordered in Italian. The lights over the stage went dark to emphasize his point. The theater owner was ready to shut down for the night. We all scurried to our dressing rooms.

I pulled out my cell phone right away and texted a message to Uncle Theo as I had every night after a show. I frowned at the phone when he didn’t immediately reply. Since he’d lost nearly all his hearing, I’d taught him how to text and email before I left so we could communicate while I was gone. He’d been a trooper at using the “silly gadgets” up until recently. He hadn’t responded to either my texts or my emails in three days now. A day or two was normal—sometimes he simply forgot. But three days?
There are many possible reasons. Maybe the battery died and he forgot to charge it. Maybe he knows you’re coming home soon and is done with the “damn buttons.” Maybe he’s just too busy with Mira
.
This last one was more like my Uncle Theo.

“Beautiful as always,
cara mia
,” Alberto said to me in strong English heavy with an Italian accent as he stood in the doorway to my dressing room, distracting me from my phone. He’d already changed out of his costume into street clothes. With dark curls hanging to his shoulders, eyes like onyx sparkling with life and a perfect dancer’s physique, he was a sight to behold, even in jeans and a tight white T-shirt. He knew it, too.

“
Grazie
,” I said with a wide grin. “You were amazing, too, as always.”

“Of course I was. You come to Alonzo’s to celebrate, no?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it. I need a little more time than you to look beautiful, though,” I said as I wiped a trickle of sweat off the back of my neck. “And I still need to change.”

“Bah! You should wear that,” he said, flipping a hand at my skimpy costume. “So
sexy
.”

I laughed as I pushed him out the door. Alberto was nothing but a tease. After all, he truly had eyes for only one person—Bruno, the sound technician.

Alone in my tiny dressing room with the sounds beyond the door quieting as everyone headed out, I pulled off my golden leotard and the scrap of shimmery material that passed for a skirt. I left my tights on and slipped into a white lacey smock and faded red cowboy boots. My chest tightened and my eyes burned as I folded my costume with deliberation and tucked it into my duffle bag. I’d never again wear it. I’d never again be in a dressing room like this, overhead lights flashing as the theater owner gave a final warning he was about to lock up. I’d only used this particular room a couple of times, but it represented all of those in the last month as I’d made my way across Italy with this dance company. Not exactly what my dream had been, but pretty damn close. As close as I’d ever get.

This is it
, I thought as I slipped on my collection of bracelets and rings. My final farewell to any hopes of a dance career.

My eyes followed my hand as it caressed the old, abused vanity before looking up into the lighted mirror. With a sigh, I pulled off the band keeping my wild curls in a tight bun. They sprang from my head in every which way, celebrating their freedom. I smoothed my hands over the light brown spirals, trying to control them, but as always, they refused to cooperate. The best I could do was what looked like a curly lion’s mane. I dabbed at smudged mascara under my green eyes, rubbed some of the excess make-up off my cheeks and decided I was as good as I’d get.

The overhead lights fell dark for the last time when I opened the dressing room door. The rear exit stood open at the end of the hall, and the streetlamp spilled dim light down the corridor, the scuffed wooden floor dully reflecting its glow. I inhaled slowly, cherishing the musty smell of an old theater mixed with the rancid odor of dancers’ sweat and the sweet fragrance of roses. I silently said my goodbyes as my feet carried me outside.

“Thank you, Uncle Theo,” I whispered as I left the theater for the last time. Only because of him did I even have this opportunity. I couldn’t wait to tell him all about it.

A large, muscular body flew at me, swept me into his arms and twirled me around as though we were still on stage. Laughter bubbled out of my chest.

“You ready to celebrate,
cara mia
?” Alberto asked as he set me down.

“Celebrate that you’re finally getting rid of me?” I teased.

He clapped his hand over his heart, and his face fell into an exaggerated expression of pain. “Oh, Leni, you do not know how I will miss you and your mane.”

He swatted playfully at the bottom of my curls. He had no idea how I would miss the way he said my name, drawing out both syllables, “laaaay-neee,” like only an Italian could do.

“But you won’t miss my heels on your toes or my arm in your face?” I said in mock disbelief.

He took my hand and danced me down the cobbled street toward the plaza at the center of town. “You are a stunning dancer,
cara mia
. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He spun me under his arm, my duffle bag smacking against my butt the whole time. “Of course, you have become much better since becoming my partner. But everyone does.”

He winked at me before dropping me into a dip. My bag slid off my shoulder and a hand darted beneath me to catch it. Alberto swung me up and around, bringing me face-to-face with the most unbelievably stunning vision I’d seen my whole time in Italy. Which was saying a lot. His eyes—blue, I thought, though the light from the corner post wasn’t enough to be sure—enraptured me. He held my bag out with a small smile that hinted at dimples.

“
Grazie
,” I said breathlessly as I wrapped my hand around the strap of my bag. He gave me a nod almost deep enough to be a bow, his shaggy blond hair falling in his face. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away. My mouth fell open. “How rude.”

“Must be American,” Alberto said. I punched him in the arm.

“Who goes out of their way to catch a falling object and then can’t even say ‘you’re welcome’?” I asked absent-mindedly as I stared after the retreating body that rivaled Alberto’s. No, scratch that. It totally beat out Alberto’s even on his best day.

“What an ass,” Alberto muttered.

“Rude, yes, but I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

“No, I mean what an
ass
that man has.” He let out a low whistle.

I laughed and admired the view as well. “I
can
agree with that.”

“He’s going to Alonzo’s. Lucky us.”

Alberto held out his arm, I looped mine into it, and we sauntered toward the club, the heels of my boots clacking on the cobblestones. Discotheque music pounded from inside, drowning out the noise of my steps and even the fountain as we crossed the center of the plaza. Bruno waited for us outside. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and took my other arm. We made a scene as the three of us squeezed through the door, and then the party swallowed us whole.

We drank and danced and drank some more. Since I couldn’t take it on the plane tomorrow, I opened the bottle of wine my fellow dancers had given me, took a swig and passed it around. It never found its way back to me. Almost all of the fifteen dancers and five crewmembers had come, including Bruno and Alberto, who was also the director.

I found this funny, in a drunken kind of way. Up until tonight, Alberto and Bruno had pretty much been the only ones to provide any kind of friendship. The rest of the dance company had grown from hating me to barely tolerating me to finally accepting me, on a temporary basis, anyway. I was American, I didn’t speak Italian well enough, I was too short, too round, too pretty but not pretty enough, and definitely didn’t dance at their level. In other words, I wasn’t one of them. Tonight, however, they acted as though they might actually miss me.

Dancing with them at the disco was much different than our dances on stage. Maybe this difference was what had finally brought them all around to me in the last week. Throughout the tour, we’d traveled every night, crossing the countryside to get to the next town in the wee hours of morning, grabbed some sleep, performed, then boarded the train again. But for this leg, this village had been our home base, centrally located between the six towns we’d visited this week. We’d taken bus trips to the dance theaters for our performances, returning each night early enough to let loose for a little while at Alonzo’s. And that meant dancing how we wanted to, and I was much better at modern freestyle than the structured ballroom numbers Alberto had us doing on stage. The other dancers finally saw how I could
move
.

“Our little Dirty Dancer,” Alberto teased me as he moved around me and another girl on the dance floor. I twisted and swayed, my hips writhing to the beat, and I became lost in the music and the way it slid over me like a silken gown. Alberto pressed against my back and ground his pelvis against my butt.

“Like you should talk,” I murmured without pulling away.

“Just making you look sexy and desirable,
cara mia
.”

I looked over my shoulder at him for meaning. His eyes glanced to our right, to a table by the window. The man from the plaza sat by himself, and his gaze was locked on us. His eyes shifted away as soon as he caught me catching him.

“Me or you?” I asked.

“Trust me—he’s not my type. And I’m definitely not his. He’s straighter than a nun’s ruler and can’t take his eyes off you.”

On its own volition, my gaze returned to the guy who could have anyone in this bar, but sat alone. He stared out the window now. Alberto had to be mistaken. He was too pretty to be straight. And even if, by the smallest chance, he was into girls, it didn’t matter. The intriguing thought of a one-night-stand on my last night here made my stomach do an excited little flip, but I shut the thought down immediately. Thinking like that would get me in trouble, as it always did.

Throughout the night, however, he proved Alberto right. Every now and then I’d feel the burn of someone watching me, and when I turned, his eyes would flit away. The one time they didn’t, I began to make my way to his table to ask him to join us, but he gave a slight shake of his head and turned to gaze out the window. I hadn’t caught his eye again the rest of the night. Probably for the better. The way my body reacted to him meant not only trouble, but Trouble with a capital T.

“I believe the sun rises soon,” Alberto said some time later when the bar had essentially cleared out. We sat in a booth, his arms spread out on the seatback across from me, over Bruno’s shoulders. Bruno’s head lolled a little to the side as he obviously fought the desire to pass out. “You finally succeeded in closing the bar down, Leni.”

“You worked my ass off, Alberto. I deserved one night to party.”

“You forget about Rieti and Pizzoli?” he asked, referring to the couple of Saturday nights we partied in our hotel. “And last week, right here at Alonzo’s?”

I giggled. “Okay, okay. But still. My last night here, and I don’t want it to end.”

“Ah,
cara mia
, it’ll always be here,” he pointed to my forehead, “and here.” He pointed to my heart.

“Thank you, Alberto,” I said solemnly, “for taking the chance with me.”

“No, thank
you
, Leni. You did me a favor.”

I rolled my eyes, knowing this wasn’t exactly true. He could have found a much more qualified replacement if he hadn’t been pressured into taking me. I picked up my martini glass and raised it in a sloppy toast—half my drink sloshed over my hand.

“To you, Alberto, for making my dream come true. And to Uncle Theo.”

“Who?” he asked as he clinked his glass against mine, more sticky liquid spilling over my hand.

“Uncle Theo, of course. The one who made you bring me on.”

Alberto’s brow wrinkled, as if he’d never heard of the man.

“My great-uncle. Your father’s best friend from way back. He talked you in to giving me this chance, remember? Probably even paid you to do it.” I tried to remind him of how he couldn’t stop talking about Theo when I’d first arrived, how much he admired him and would do anything for the man, but Alberto shook his head. I laughed as I stood on unsteady legs. “Okay. I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“And you have a train to catch in a few hours.” He stood and pulled Bruno out of the booth. With one arm holding Bruno up, he gathered me into a hug. “Take care, Leni. It has been a true pleasure.”

“You, too, Alberto. And I mean it. Thank you for everything. I’ll tell Uncle Theo you were an outstanding host and a terrific boss.”