Vigilati
Series
Book
3
J.K.
Hogan
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Word Count: 100,000 words
Cover Artist: KHD Graphics
Cover Artist: KHD Graphics
Book Description:
Can a traumatized
veteran-turned-mercenary who is tormented by voices in his head be saved by the
love of a wayward single mother with demons of her own? Afflicted by PTSD from
serving in Afghanistan, and tormented by a childhood trauma, transient veteran
Matthieu Rousseau struggles with the choices he's made in his life. Estranged
from his family, Matthieu drifts from one mercenary job to the next, until one
thing stops him. Fate.
In hiding from her abusive
ex-husband, musician Fate Callahan lives in New Orleans with her seven-year-old
daughter. She remains in constant fear of being found, and her worst nightmare
comes alive when a dark, dangerous stranger tells her he’s been hired to locate
and kill her—but wants to save her instead.
Fate and Matthieu find themselves
on the run together, fleeing from the hitmen and an unseen evil worse than
anything else they’ll face. While just trying to stay alive, they become
entangled in the battle between the Vigilati and the Lochrim; an archaic sect
of witches and the evil creatures they are bred to fight. Unbeknownst to Fate
and Matthieu, they are more deeply connected to the Vigilati than either of
them could ever imagine.
They must join family and allies
of the Vigilati to help save the human world, possibly saving each other along
the way. Matthieu teaches Fate how to trust in love again, while she gives him back
the one thing he never thought he deserved—family.
Excerpt:
Fate
shot upright in her bed, on instant alert as she looked around the dark room.
Something had woken her, she was sure of it. But there was nothing there. Her
room, seemingly the whole house, was dead silent, yet she knew she had to have
heard something.
While
her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she climbed out of bed and put on a thin
robe over her tank top and shorts. She crept towards the door to her bedroom,
treading lightly while still listening for anything out of the ordinary. Her
hand froze on the doorknob as she remembered Matthieu’s whispered plea to keep
the door locked.
She’d
planned on obeying—but what if their pursuers had made their way into the
house? What if they’d taken out Matthieu? Fate wasn’t about to wait in her
bedroom for them to come and get her, the perfect gift-wrapped sitting duck.
She
had to make a quick decision. Turning the lock, she stepped out into the hall
and listened. Finally, she heard it…a pained moan coming from somewhere in the
living room. It was barely audible, yet excruciating—as if someone were gasping
out their last breath. Matthieu.
Fate
hurried into the open living room which was washed in pale moonlight from the
large picture windows. She didn’t see anything at first so she started to turn
toward Matthieu’s bedroom, when she heard the sound again, much more faint.
It
came from the couch. Panicked, she rounded the end of the overstuffed sofa and
looked down; sure she was going to find Matthieu bleeding out on the supple
leather. He was there, but with no physical injuries that she could see.
His
body was completely tense, back bowed off the couch but arms and legs straight,
as if they were bound. But his face...his face was screwed into a twisted mask
of indescribable pain—jaws clenched, teeth bared, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
She
watched as he seemed to struggle against the invisible bonds, and he let out
another one of those death-moans. The sound tore at her and she was drawn to
it, helpless to do anything but try and stop his pain. Yes, he’d made her
promise never to wake him—but maybe she didn’t have to. Maybe she could soothe
him, ease his pain, while he still slept. It was worth a shot.
Climbing
onto the couch over him, she straddled his hips and stared down at his pain
stricken face. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered, and grabbed his thick
wrists, one in each of her hands.
She
felt her body convulse as she was violently ripped from her own consciousness
and thrown, head-first, into Matthieu’s.
I’m
in the dream, Fate thought. She was in Matthieu’s nightmare and, more than
that, she was Matthieu. For that moment in time, she had his thoughts, his
memories. She was inside him.
She
found herself strapped down by the arms and legs to a metal table, surrounded
by men chattering in a language she’d never heard, but somehow
understood—because Matthieu did. Looking down at her body—Matthieu’s body—she
saw that it was covered in blood that oozed from dozens of open wounds. They
were too shallow to be fatal, but enough to cause immeasurable pain. No wonder
he’d cried out.
Finally,
the men stopped yelling, and one who seemed to be the
ringleader—Patang—approached her. He gestured to one of the other men, who
opened the door of the dank, dungeon-esque room. A third man came through
tugging a bound soldier, an American, and pushed him to stand in front of them.
Fate
felt Matthieu’s stomach constrict and his heart begin to pound. A name
flickered through her mind, just a whisper – Striker, one of Matthieu’s team
members—a brother in arms. Striker’s captor kicked at the back of his knees,
forcing him to kneel in front of the leader, before taking out a wicked looking
knife.
“Last
chance, Sergeant,” he said in that guttural language. “Who sent you? Who’s
pulling your strings?”
Matthieu
hesitated, and the man holding Striker pressed the knife closer to his jugular.
Fate could hear Matthieu’s thoughts racing as he stared at his friend in what
could possibly be his last moments alive. Striker knew that Matthieu wouldn’t
give up his unit—in fact, as Matthieu’s eyes connected with the other man’s,
Striker stared him down and gave him an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
You
were trained for this, Rousseau, he told himself. They couldn’t sacrifice the
entire unit, the entire mission, for two men, and they both knew it. Slowly,
with his heart clenching in his chest, Matthieu turned his face to the leader
and glared, then looked back at Striker.
The
leader obviously took it as confirmation that neither soldier was talking. With
a stiff nod to his subordinate, Patang stood there, detached, as the man pulled
the sharp knife across Striker’s throat and let him drop.
Fate
felt Matt’s pain, but also his conviction. He wouldn’t grieve much for Striker,
knowing the man had died the way he lived, protecting his country. But he would
grieve the rest of his life for Riksa.
She’d
had enough. She wanted to be back to herself. I need to be me, she repeated,
and concentrated on pulling her thoughts from Matthieu’s. Finally, she felt
herself separate, but much to her disappointment, they were still in the dream.
The
insurgents had gone and left them alone with Striker’s cooling body. Fate
cringed and tried not to look. Instead, she concentrated on Matthieu. She could
see him now as she stood beside the torture table. He was strapped down by his
arms and legs, covered in blood from the agglomeration of wounds that marred
his body.
His
face was turned towards her, but his eyes were on Striker. She wasn’t sure if
he’d be able to see her anyway—then again, she didn’t really know the rules of
invading someone’s dream. It had never happened before.
Matthieu’s
body was racked with violent tremors and tears were running down his face,
mingling with the blood to create ghastly red streaks from the corners of his
eyes. After a few moments of silence, he threw his head back and let out an
anguished roar.
Fate
had had enough. No one deserved to suffer this much. Heedless of the blood, she
stroked his face with a gentle hand. “Matthieu, it’s time to wake up. Let it
go, for now.” She was startled when he stopped screaming and grief-stricken
eyes locked onto hers.
Fate
was slammed back into her own body with the force of a freight train. But it
didn’t dislodge her from her perch on Matthieu. Her hands remained wrapped
around his wrists. Good thing, too, because he came up swinging.
Well,
he would have, but Fate concentrated all of her energy on holding him down. His
body raged and bucked beneath her as he tried to dislodge whatever was weighing
him down. She just held on as tight as she could.
“Matthieu,”
she said in a calm voice that belied her trepidation. She repeated his name
over and over until his violent motions stilled and his eyes began to focus. A
deep, dark chocolate, his eyes finally rested on her face and widened. While
still cautious, Fate let go of his hands but kept her position on top of him.
Matthieu
looked disoriented as his eyes bounced around the room, likely trying to get a
handle on exactly where—and when—he was.
“Hey.
It’s me. You had a bad dream, but you’re here in New Orleans. La Maison de
Rousseau, remember?” she asked with a quirk of her lips.
Finally
he nodded and threw a heavy arm over his face. She couldn’t see his eyes, but
the tears that seeped down his cheeks were clear as a bell. His muscles took up
that full body shudder he’d had in the dream, and his big chest began to
convulse.
Swallowing
down her fear, Fate lifted his arm away from his face and held his head still
so that he was forced to meet her eyes. She stroked his scarred cheek—realizing
that the injury had to have happened before the torture—and spoke softly to
him.
“Matthieu,
you have to let it go.”
“How
can I?” he said. His voice cracked as his body was shaken with another brutal
shudder.
“Tell
me,” she answered. Without a thought, she ran her fingers through his hair and
found it softer than she would have imagined. He tensed and she was sure he
wouldn’t speak, but then he did.
The
whole story poured out of him in stuttering gasps and sobs—he told her about
the mission, the bomb, the civilians who’d been killed. So that was who Riksa
was. He told her about his injuries, to his eyes, ears, and throat—and, yeah,
that explained the voice.
He
told her about getting captured, and being tortured by Patang and his crew. She
was horrified by what they had done to him, but she forced herself to keep
calm. Finally, he told her about Striker—SFC Vincent “Striker” Perelli—and how
he’d essentially signed the man’s death warrant.
When
it was all done, he looked so destroyed, so miserable, that her heart went out
to him. She leaned forward and took his face in her hands. “You were doing a
job and still, you did everything you could to try and save Riksa. And you did
exactly what Striker had wanted—expected—you to do. You have to let this go,
and forgive yourself.”
“I
don’t think I can.”
“Try,”
she said, and leaned over to touch her lips to his.
About
the Author:
J.K. resides in North Carolina,
where she was born and raised. A true southern girl at heart, she in the
country with her husband and young son, a cat, and two champion agility dogs.
If she isn’t on the agility field, J.K. can often be found chasing waterfalls
in the mountains with her husband, or down in front at a blues concert. In addition
to writing, she enjoys training and competing in dog sports, spending time with
her large southern family, camping, boating and, of course, reading! For more
information, please visit www.jkhogan.com.
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