The Sorcery Code (The Sorcery Code #1)(73)
The story of Gala, Blaise, Augusta, and Barson continues in The Spell Realm, which will be available soon. Additional works in progress include Mind Awakening and The Thought Readers. Please sign up for my newsletter at www.dimazales.com to learn when the next book comes out.
I love to hear from readers, so be sure to: -Friend me on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/DimaZales
-Like my Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/AuthorDimaZales
-Follow me on Twitter https://twitter.com/AuthorDimaZales
-Follow me on Google+ https://www.google.com/+DimaZales
-Friend or follow me on Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/DimaZales
Thank you for your support! I truly appreciate it.
And now, please turn the page for sneak peeks into my upcoming works . . .
Excerpt from Mind Awakening
Author’s Note: Mind Awakening is a science fiction novel. The excerpt and the description are unedited and subject to change.
*
Ethan remembers being shot in the chest. By all rights, he should be dead. Instead, he wakes up in a world that seems like futuristic paradise . . . as someone else.
Who is the real Ethan? The computer scientist he remembers being, or the world-famous genius everyone appears to think he is? And why is someone trying to kill him here, in this peaceful utopian society?
These are some of the questions he’ll explore with his psychologist Matilda—a woman as beautiful as she is mysterious. What is her agenda . . . and what is the Mindverse?
*
Ethan woke up.
For a moment, he just lay there with his eyes closed, trying to process the fact that he was still alive. He clearly remembered the mugging . . . and being shot. The pain had been awful, like an explosion in his chest. He hadn’t known one could survive that kind of agony; he’d been sure the bullet had entered his heart.
But somehow he was still alive. Taking a deep breath, Ethan cautiously moved his arm, wondering why he wasn’t feeling any pain now. Surely there had to be a wound, some damage from the shooting?
Yet he felt fine. More than fine, in fact. Even the pain from his rheumatoid arthritis seemed to be gone. They must’ve given him a hell of a painkiller in the hospital, he thought, finally opening his eyes.
He wasn’t in a hospital.
As soon as that fact registered, Ethan shot up in bed, his heartbeat skyrocketing. There wasn’t a single nurse or cardiac monitor in the vicinity. Instead, he was in someone’s lavish bedroom, sitting on a king-sized bed with a giant padded headboard.
The fact that he could sit up like that was yet another shock. There weren’t any tubes or needles sticking out of his body—nothing hampering his movements. He was wearing a stretchy blue T-shirt instead of a hospital gown, and the black pants that he could see under the blanket seemed to be rather comfortable pajamas.
Lifting his arm, Ethan touched his chest, trying to feel where the wound might be. But there was nothing. No pain, not even a hint of sensitivity. All he could feel was smooth, healthy pectoral muscle.
Muscle? Was that his imagination, or did his chest seem more muscular? Ethan was in decent shape, but he was far from a bodybuilder. And yet, as ridiculous as it was, there appeared to be quite a bit of muscle on his chest—and on his forearm, Ethan realized, looking down at his bare arms.
In general, his forearms didn’t look like they belonged to him. They were muscular and tan, covered with a light dusting of sandy hair—a far cry from his usual pale limbs.
Trying not to panic, Ethan carefully swung his legs to the side of the bed and stood up. There was no pain associated with his movements, nothing to indicate that something bad might’ve happened to him. He felt strong and healthy . . . and that scared him even more than waking up in an unfamiliar bedroom.
The room itself was nice, decorated in modern-looking grey and white tones. Ethan had always meant to furnish his bedroom at home to look more like this, but hadn’t gotten around to it. There also seemed to be some kind of movie posters on the walls. Upon closer inspection, they were more like theatrical production ads—ads that depicted a stylized, buffer, and better-looking version of himself.
What the hell?
In one of the posters, Ethan’s likeness was holding rings on a pencil very close to his face. The rings were linked like a chain, and the image was titled Insane Illusions by Razum. In another ad, he was wearing a tuxedo and making a woman float in mid-air.
Was this a dream? If so, it had to be the most vivid dream Ethan had ever experienced—and one from which he couldn’t seem to wake up. Ethan’s heart was galloping in his chest, and he could feel the beginning of a panic attack.
No, stop it, Ethan. Just breathe. Breathe through it. And utilizing a technique he’d learned long ago to manage stress, Ethan focused on taking deep, even breaths.
After a couple of minutes, he felt calmer and more able to think rationally. Could this possibly be his house? Perhaps he’d suffered some kind of brain damage after being shot and was now experiencing memory loss. Theoretically, it was possible that he’d gotten a tan and started exercising—even though his rheumatoid arthritis usually prevented him from being particularly active.
His arthritis . . . That was another weird thing. Why didn’t his joints ache like they usually did? Had he been given some wonder drug that healed gunshot wounds and autoimmune disorders? And what about those posters on the walls?