The Lost Souls (The Holy Trinity #2.5)(53)

Mom



Hmmm, ok. That’s strange, to say the least. I snap the red ribbon, suddenly feeling solemn and eager to know what information could lie inside. I hold my breath as I remove the crushed top of the box and exhale when I see the brown, leather bound book. Feeling silly at my angst, I open up the aged book, revealing a letter written to me on the first page. Anxiety again floods the pit of my stomach and I focus on the faded words scrawled on the yellowing page.



My Dearest Gabriella,

If you are reading this, you have reached your 20th birthday. I am so happy for you yet so incredibly sorry that I cannot be there to commemorate this day with you. I can only imagine how bright and beautiful you are. I want you to know that you were born out of immense love. Love so deep that it is worth dying for. You were born to be an incredible force. I know it may not seem like it now, but you will change the course for countless lives in the near future. Because of this, my child, it is important for you to know exactly what great responsibility this entails. In these pages, you will find the story of your past and your present. Only then can you write the story of your future. You are more valuable than you could ever know, believe me my sweet child. And giving birth to you has been my greatest honor. I love you so much. Thank you for choosing me.

Love always in this life and the next,

Natalia



What. The. Fuck.

It’s from my birth mother.





Sneak Peek: The Devil's Reprise


By Karina Halle


Copyright ? 2013





Prologue


There comes a time in every man’s life where he must face his demons.

It sounds cliché, I know.

But I break the mold.

Because I’ve faced my demons.

In the flesh.

And I’ve won.

But it’s the ones inside your head that don’t die.

They keep living.

My personal demons? They’ve gotten worse since the incident.

They’ve grown now.

They own me.

When I was fifteen years old, I made a deal with the Devil—or at least one of his spokeswomen—on the muddy red banks of Lake Shasta, California. I wanted talent, fame, and fortune. The demons upheld their end of the bargain. They gave me everything I ever wanted. I joined a band called Hybrid, made my way to guitarist, and propelled the band into stardom. We gave Led Zeppelin a run for their money. We got * galore (no, not Honor Blackman). We had everything.

Including the final thing. My final wish. That Hybrid go down in history.

We did. There was a music journalist brought on by Creem magazine to cover the whole event. Our last tour (unbeknownst to anyone but me and our manager, Jacob). Her name was Dawn. She was young, beautiful, and our biggest fan.

Dawn saw it all. She recorded it all.

And, somehow, she saved me.

First it giveth, then it taketh away. The band broke up. The unthinkable happened. People died.

I should have died.

This was all supposed to end before I turned twenty-eight.

Yet I lived. Dawn lived.

And I was given another chance at life. To live free of the Devil’s shadow. To live my life the way it should be lived.

I really should be the luckiest S.O.B. on the planet. The fates that took away Morrison and Joplin and Hendrix—that wasn’t my fate after all.

Somehow, I won.

But victory is as bitter as the Quaaludes on my tongue. How can I really live with myself when my whole life has been loaned? I lost the people closest to me. They died, they suffered, for my selfishness.

How dare I be allowed to go on, to run free, when I brought this upon them and myself.

And so I haven’t.

I’m not free.

My name is Sage Knightly. One of the few surviving members of the metal band, Hybrid. I’m about to embark on my first solo tour, to be the rock star I was always meant to be.

But something tells me I’m not coming out of this alive.

And neither is she.





Chapter One


Sage – April, 1975



The pink lips at the end of my dick were some of the nicest I’d ever seen.

But the chick’s tits were even better.

I put my palm against her forehead and pushed her head back until my dick bobbed out of her wet mouth.

“Lie down,” I told her. “On your back. Grab your tits and get ready for me.”

I was being commanding and a bit of an ass.

It wasn’t like me.

But nothing was like me lately.

And I didn’t really care.

She did as I asked. She was a pretty young thing, a few years above jailbait, with long brown hair she probably ironed every day. I didn’t remember her name, and I didn’t bother asking. I just called her ‘Babe.’

I called the other one ‘Sugar.’ Sugar had Farrah Fawcett hair, blond and teased and frosted like a cake. Sugar was in the same Detroit hotel room as us, currently on the other bed, riding my bassist, Tricky. And by riding, I mean f*cking him senseless, reverse cowgirl style. All she needed was a hat in her hand. Tricky was even more f*cked up than me, from our nightly cocktail of vodka, beer, and cocaine. Sometimes we’d throw Quaaludes in there, too. Tonight, though, we wanted to make sure our dicks were working.