Flock of Wolves
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I should be dead.
The doctor flashed her penlight into my eyes, and I blinked against the bright ray. My dog Blue sat on the floor next to me, his head resting on my knee. My fingers curled around the edge of the exam table, gripping onto the seat, hoping I could hold onto reality.
Robert Maxim stood by the door, his arms crossed and face shadowed. He watched us, reminding me of a simmering pot, one just on the cusp of a rolling boil.
The sound of thunder rumbled in the back of my brain. The stringent scent of the hospital tickled my nose. My heart echoed in my chest, pounding out Mulberry's name.
He'd changed my life, Mulberry—helped me when I needed it and when I didn't. Touched me when I asked and stayed away when I insisted. Now, if my mind was to be believed, his life teetered on the edge, his leg blown off, the veins opened, his blood spilled onto the battlefield, rushing away from him.
The doctor stepped back, a woman in her early 40s with straight black hair and big glasses that slipped down her elegant little nose. "You've suffered major trauma."
Thanks Captain Obvious.
"I think…” She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes, inspecting me like a gardener might a plant that refused to grow toward the sun. “We need to get you back to the States." She turned to Robert.
Thunder rumbled louder, crackling in my ears and blotting out her voice. Lightning sizzled across my vision, and I blinked against the bright, white light.
A woman's voice whispered through the storm…You are a miracle.
I shook my head, trying to shake free of the hallucinations, but they clung to me like fog hovering over a harbor—thick and dangerous, but intangible, impossible to touch or avoid. There and yet not.
Had my worst nightmare really come true? Mulberry, the man I loved, in dire danger. Me, powerless to help.
I stayed away to keep him safe.
Everyone I love dies.
P.S. The dog does not die in this series.
**Beware: If you can’t handle a few f-bombs, you can’t handle this series.**
평점 및 리뷰
저자 정보
I write because I love to read, but I have specific tastes...
If I was offered a job as a professional reader with no strings attached, I would take it. Getting paid to sit around and read while drinking tea all day—I'm there. Since that’s not possible, I became an author.
I write the books I want to read—stories that give me the immersive reading experiences I crave. When a series grabs me, and it's all I can think about, I'm SO happy. When my inner dialogue starts sounding like the protagonist of my current read, I think, Oh yeah, this is IT. This is what I love.
When I finish a book, and I NEED to immediately grab the next one in the series, that’s the intensity I crave. When I binge read an entire series, I want to feel like my own reality changed—as if the stories I read affected the real world just a little. After a great series I'm a little wiser, a little more grateful for my everyday existence, and a little more aware that my personal perspective is not everyone's.
Personally, I like to spend time in fictional worlds where justice is exacted with a vengeance, even though good and bad are not always black and white. Give me raw stories with a main character who occasionally makes me laugh, is flawed like we all are, and feels like a friend by the end of the first few chapters. They don’t have to be a friend I always LIKE, per se, but a part of me has to root for them.
For me, the sentence structure is important. Too much passive voice, and I'm out. I do not mind four-letter words at all though. Sex in books can go either way—fade to black or show me the details, but either way there has to be a reason it’s in the story. I'm also into heroic pets, plots that seem totally unhinged but all come together in the end with a BANG, and long series so I always have more to look forward to.
Those are the types of stories I love reading, so that’s how I write. If you’re into some or all of the above then I think we are going to get along fantastically.
www.emilykimelman.com
