Miracles are funny things. Many people don’t believe in them. They ascribe a sensible explanation for every event, but that isn’t me.
I see miracles every day. The birds sing at sunrise and it’s a miracle. The bulbs I planted in my garden last fall came up in a splash of Spring color. My neighbor has a beautiful baby girl. And my husband survived a severe heart attack last summer.
I think it’s a miracle that I have the talent to write a book. It fits my definition of a gift from God and I’m really thankful.
I finished a short Christmas story and have a contract even though I never wrote a sweet romance before this one.
Today I submitted Ancient Curse, the third book in my Rhodes End series, to my editor. After a long year of weird health issues, I think that’s a definite miracle.
With a smile, I’m posting an excerpt from Ancient Awakening, the first in the series. Enjoy.
Ancient Awakening by Barbara Edwards
Eastern Europe, 1000 AD
The terrified servant fumbled her armload of logs as she eased the laboratory’s paneled door open. The pounding of her pulse shredded his concentration. Hunger stabbed through his gut. His fingers flattened the quill’s nib against the parchment and ink smeared the last entry like blood. Saliva pooled in his mouth while she built up the fire, then scuttled to safety.
His low growl muffled the soft snick of the latch. Once again, he had resisted the impulse to rend, to carelessly feed. A frustrated sigh heaved his chest. The only way to keep good servants was to reward them richly and let them live. That lesson had been difficult to learn.
He held the parchment to the fading light streaking through a slit in the thick stone. The pale glow outlined his almost fleshless fingers before a freshly penned phrase caught his attention. He threw the broken quill into the fire and selected another. The correction had to be made, and he bent over his desk to take care of it.
Satisfied with the change, he straightened and stared into the dancing red and orange flames until his stiff muscles eased. He had to eat, but he resented interruptions. His latest research into a cure had been so promising; the details so fascinating, only the relentless blood hunger forced him to stop.
Although he had searched the world, he had never found a remedy for the curse he had inflicted upon himself. He eased erect and rubbed at his blurred eyes, before slowly stacking the parchment sheets, aligning the unused quills, and corking the ink well with shaky hands. He was weak, but the priests would have his nourishment ready. They always did.
A snapping log showered glowing embers onto the slate hearth. He pondered the coals for a moment before he swept them aside with his bare hand. His changed flesh didn’t burn. Along with his soul, his body had surrendered its ability to feel pain, to age, or scar.
Legend gave him many names, but the wide halls of his mountain retreat no longer echoed with countless worshipers. He could have ruled the world had his ambition not died with the passage of time. The endless whispers were from the cold winds and the few praying priests. He didn’t care that he couldn’t remember his real name or birthplace.
For an eon, he’d regretted the loss of softer emotions. Love had been the first feeling to die, along with the woman who had insisted he would never harm her. He couldn’t recall her features, just the merry tinkle of her laughter and the bright smile she had greeted him with every morning. He licked his lips. She’d tasted sweet.
Fierce need flared in his gut and he sniffed the air. Outside his chamber, a single acolyte in long, brown robes waited to escort him. His mouth curved with a mirthless smile. The silent servants had ignited the flickering wall torches. Shadows jumped and shivered in the drafty halls like nervous virgins.
Hope you enjoy my writing.
Please visit my website at www.barbaraedwards.net