Revealing the cover for Warrant for Damnation today. Special thanks again to Rebecca Treadway at Atrtink. Below is chapter 1 of the book.
ENJOY!
Who in his right mind goes home with a stranger he met on the highway like I did last night? Then again, it’s not the stupidest thing I’ve done over the past four days.
I peek outside the bedroom where I’ve tossed and turned the last few hours. At nearly five in the morning, the second-floor hallway is deserted. Perfect for a speedy getaway. But there’s no telling who or what lurks behind the oak doors that break up the flowery red-and-gold wallpaper.
On an ordinary workday, I’d rush off to my courier job for Hell. Yes, the literal Hell. Then I’d spend half my day pissing off my demon boss Margery, although not on purpose.
No work today though. As of yesterday, life is…complicated.
While I’m innocent, Margery managed to convince Satan that I sabotaged his plan to open the Gates of Hell. And God believes I sacrificed hundreds of His white warriors to get the job done. Worst of all, Margery’s Minotaurs took off with my friend Nina before we were able to escape together.
Floorboards creak under my skater shoes as I duck into the hallway, my messy brown curls brushing under the doorframe. The smell of pancakes rises from the first floor and awakens my senses in a bad way. Fruity flavored cereal and gin are more my breakfast of champions, but it doesn’t matter. No time to eat. I’ve got to sneak out and save Nina from the seven levels of misery that Margery’s likely inflicting on her.
A doorknob clicks to my left.
Damn!
Pete exits a bedroom with a smile. “Morning, Barry. Able to sleep?”
He’s the stranger who brought me to this old farmhouse, and he’ll try to convince me to stay. Pete professes to be a miracle worker for the Catholic Church and can smooth things over with God. He’s also promised to nullify my contract with Satan and provide protection against Hell’s bounty hunters. Boy, I want to believe him, but the mosh pit of butterflies in my stomach warn to trust no one.
My grip tightens on the wood-carved railing. Get out. Find Nina.
On impulse, my feet take off, descending the stairs at hyper-speed, as if I’m The Flash in the comic book series. Unable to control this ability attained during a trip to Hell’s refugee camp, all I can do is tuck and go into a double somersault to put on the brakes. I land on something rigid at the bottom of the staircase, pain erupting in my ribs.
“Damn!” I shiver at the sight of a wooden shard from the broken coat rack piercing my t-shirt and torso at my side. I grit my teeth, grab the protruding spike, and yank. Cupping the gash is no help. Bright red blood oozes between my fingers and drips onto my baggy jeans.
Seems everything I do lately turns to shit or a fountain of gore.
Pete descends to the first floor, my body twitching with each heavy step of his cowboy boots. He’s more wrinkled than I remember. Maybe his jet-black pompadour concealed his age.
He sweeps back his tan tweed jacket and slides a thumb into the front pocket of his jeans. The way he dresses, the guy could be a cowboy professor.
“I’d ask how you feel,” he says, “but that wound is answer enough.”
While struggling to pick up my glasses and stand on unsteady legs, I clench my jaw tighter and suck air between my teeth.
“Hold on, Barry.” Pete skips down the last few steps. “Let me help.”
Still clutching my ribs, I recoil, suspicious of anything he’s offering. “It’ll heal in a few minutes.”
“Let’s at least get you tidied up,” he says, “and into clean clothes.”
“Thanks, but no time.” I face the front door, decorated with panes of yellow-stained glass. “Besides, I shouldn’t be here. I have to find Nina before Margery turns her into a demon chew toy.” My gaze drops, knowing what a gutless loser I am for leaving her behind.
“Two seconds outside and you’ll have Hell’s bounty hunters fighting to take you in for closing the hellhole. At least stick around long enough to break your contract with Satan. They won’t be able to track you.”
“You saw me move. I’m too fast to catch.”
“But not very coordinated.” He lifts an eyebrow and half grins.
After a brief pause, I sidestep toward the door.
“Nina’s fine.” Pete pulls a cell phone from his blazer pocket. “Oscar’s keeping an eye on her at the warehouse. Call him. He’ll let you talk to her.”
“He hates me, not to mention he’s Margery’s lackey.”
“Like I told you. Oscar’s a double agent. He’s been feeding me information for years and has always been reliable.” Pete waves the phone. “Go ahead. His number’s the last incoming call.”
I blow out a long sigh, reach for the cell, and grasp it with blood-soaked fingers. Instead of contacting Oscar, I flip through the call log and find the names of people close to me. I glare at Pete, feeling more guarded than ever. “Why’ve you been talking to my mother and Father Timothy?”
“She’s worried…” he stutters. “They’re worried, Barry, and I’ve been watching—”
“Watching Margery take my soul and turn me into a wanted man.”
“Remember last night, when I mentioned Margery blamed me for closing the Gates of Hell the year you were born? I understand what you’re going through. It’s why you should stay. Barry, please, there’s so much more you need to know.”
The phone slips out of my hand and falls to the floor. My only thought, No one can be trusted, not even Mom. I’m out the door at hyper-speed, my side erupting with pain.
