Happy St. Patty’s Day.
I’m feeling the luck of the Irish. I went to bed last night as Kim, mother of two, wife of one, housecleaner (cough sometimes cough), pet caretaker, laundress, cook…
This morning I rolled out of bed and fell into a pot of gold. After twenty odd years of chasing my rainbow, I’m Kimberley Troutte, the published author. Man, that has a nice ring to it.
Soul Stealer, my debut novella hits the cyber-streets today. And me? Well, the sometimes housecleaner is putting her feet up, sipping a mocha java and savoring her bliss. Those darn dishes can wait.
Soul Stealer: When Death falls in love with a saint, there’s holy hell to pay.
Sara Lane expects to die young, but when the time comes, she’s not ready. She needs two more weeks to finish a homeless shelter before winter sets in and people die on the streets. Who does a girl have to sleep with to live a few extra days?
How about the sexiest, most dangerous of all bad boys—Death himself?
Cain’s job as a designated death dealer is clear. Kill and move on. Don’t get attached. Don’t feel. But when Sara pleads to cut a deal for more time, Cain is tempted by an unexpected craving for this beautiful, courageous woman. As their lips meet, her life force shakes him to his bones, seals the bargain—and breaks all the rules.
Keeping Sara alive is a dangerous proposition. The Powers That Be are furious and unleash bloodthirsty demons to steal Sara’s soul from Death—the one man who’s hell-bent on saving her life.
Warning: This book contains the sexiest of all bad boys, a woman desperate to get what she wants, deadly soul-sucking demons, surprise visits by Biblical characters, frog grenades, very bad dogs, sacrifice, redemption and eternal love.
Excerpt: Soul Stealer
The sun disappeared behind buildings that had seen better days. It was the seedy side of town and she was hurrying to make one more trip before the streets turned dangerous. She was alone, a perfect target.
Watching from the shadows, he noticed how easy it would be to pick her out of a crowd. She wore a yellow T-shirt that reminded him of Easter, blue jeans that flared over her pink tennis shoes, and carried an armful of donated clothing. But all that color and the awkward bent-back way she balanced the clothes weren’t what made her stand out. No, it was her face. It had been ages since he had seen such a sparkling face, full of hope, life.
He planned to take it all away.
She could not see him, or know his intentions, but her legs picked up speed as if trying to outrun him. He shook his head. If she hoped to make it to safety, she was sadly mistaken. She would never be safe again. The woman he followed was a hairsbreadth away from Death. She just didn’t want to believe it yet.
He knew the truth. The discomfort pinching beneath her breastbone was not heartburn from the chili-cheese dog she’d eaten for lunch. And the occasional twinge in her left arm related less to the load she was carrying than to the ticking bomb that was moments from exploding.
He was there for her, but not to pick up the pieces. His job was more about lighting the fuse. As she came toward him, concentrating on balancing the stack in her arms and not where she placed her feet, he grinned. This was going to be easy.
Get it done and get gone was one of his better mottos.
“Hello, Sara.” He stepped into her path.
“Oh.” She stopped quickly and a jacket slipped off the top of the pile. “Do I know you?” With her eyes on him, she squatted, trying to retrieve the fallen article without dropping the rest.
“Allow me.” He shook the dirt off the jacket with a loud crack and replaced it on top of the pile.
She cocked her head, squinting at him. “I sometimes forget faces, but yours…I’m sure I’d remember if we’d met.”
He didn’t smile. It went without saying that women found him attractive. His father was made in God’s image, after all.
He moved closer, blocking the sun from her eyes, and let her see him for who he was. “How about now?”
She peered into his face and her eyes widened. “My gosh, it’s you!”
“Ah, you remember after all.”
“You…“she gulped.”…were in my brother’s hospital room, five years ago, just before he—
All the clothes fell out of her arms. The acidic heartburn bloomed into breath-stealing pain. Clutching her chest, she pressed down hard against the invisible hand that squeezed her heart like a stress-releasing ball. She rocked forward in misery.
“Do not fight it. In a few minutes it will be over,” he said softly.
“Oh no, please, no!”
He shook his head. “Or, you can fight me, as you are doing now. Believe me, it’s worse this way, but I will win either way.”
Her mouth fell open and she panted for air. He knew she was experiencing the most intense agony of her life. It was only going to get worse.
“Please…a minute…to talk,” she ground out through clenched teeth. A fine sheen of perspiration beaded on her upper lip. Her bright blue eyes were ringed with darkness, and yet, she seemed determined to speak her mind.
He gave her the minute.
The pain subsided completely. She bent at the waist, as athletes do after a great race, and took deep breaths, exhaling each one slowly, fearing it would be her last. Finally, she stood straight and looked him in the eye. “That’s better.”
She had been ignoring the pain for so long that the absence of it must have felt like rebirth. “Don’t get used to it. I’ve given you one minute. Say what you must.”
“I…I knew you would come. Not you, exactly, but, you know, The End.” Words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush. “My family is cursed with this genetic heart defect. Very rare, always deadly. My brothers, mother, aunts, all of them died young. I guess I’ve got it too. I never got tested. I mean, who wants to pay two grand to see those lab results?” She tried to laugh, a bitter puff of air came out instead. “So now that you’re here…for me…you can’t be.” Her hands flew up and she cried out, “I’m not ready.”
He growled with disgust. “Lady, no one ever is.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not going.” She stamped her tennis shoe against the sidewalk. “I need more time.”
He smiled. She was a feisty one, all right. Normally the lively ones perturbed him because they made his job difficult, but he found Sara Lane intriguing. Naïve, but intriguing.
“Death is the price to pay for life. There’s always a price. You are going, Sara.”
She blinked and tears clung to her dark eyelashes. When her pretty young face contorted with the deepest expression of sorrow he had witnessed in a long time, something stirred within him. Pity? No, he wouldn’t allow it.
Never let them get to you was another one of his hard-fast rules. A flash of anger overtook the pity and squelched it with one fiery blast.
“No offense, but what can I say to make you go away? Pleeease?” She lifted prayer hands before his face.
“Here it comes.” He rolled his eyes. “The begging.”
It was always the same. Kings, paupers, saints, villains—his victims never surprised him. She was no different.
“I just need more time. City hall has given me to the end of the month to finish the shelter. If I…” She couldn’t say the words. “…am not around, hundreds of people will be sleeping on the streets again this winter. If only you could see how hard I’ve fought for this.”
And suddenly he could. Damn it! He hated this part of the job. One of the punishments for his crimes was to stand sentry each time a soul sheared from its body. He was forced to watch a replay of childhood, birthdays, first kisses, humiliations and fears. Fragments of the dying person’s lifetime would swirl before his eyes like a film spliced together by a lunatic. He’d learned to shrug it away.
Until he met Sara Lane…
Copyright © 2009 Kimberley Troutte
Samhain Publishing, ltd.
One more thing: Thank you Deborah Nemeth! I wouldn’t be here today without you.