Synopsis
Devious. Dangerous. Demonic.
Damien.
People were either slavishly
devoted to Eric Damien or they jealously hated him. Sometimes even both.
Eric Damien hunted and fed off
shyness and innocence. Ali Spencer was a sitting duck.
Buy My
Heart to Fear Here
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
~Welcome to Hell~
The two women, one blond and one
brunette, stood in the gallery of the Colorado University Art Museum gaping at
the depictions of hell in front of them.
“Damn, this triptych is scary.
I’m going to have wicked nightmares,” the pretty blond woman named Shea
exclaimed as she stared at the Hieronymus Bosch painting.
Standing right beside her, Ali
shuddered as an icy chill tore straight up her spine. “Nightmares maybe, but,
oh my God, Shea, these are unspeakably beautiful, too. I never thought I’d be
able to see them up close and personal.”
Shea shook her head at Ali’s
assessment of the paintings and looked around. Noticing an elderly man with a
sourpuss face give her a dirty look, she dropped the volume of her voice to a
whisper. “It’s amazing that the curator was able to round up so many of them in
one room—they’re normally all over the world, right?”
Ali nodded. “Yeah, I know. The
Prado in Spain loaned Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights” although I think I’d
rather have an excuse to go to Madrid, frankly,” Ali whispered back, unable to
tear her eyes from the work. Her grandparents had a place in Madrid and she’d
been aching to go there for a long time.
“Now you’re talking! Hey, we
should plan a trip this summer together.”
Ali smiled. “I told you art can
be fun.”
Grimacing, Shea retorted, “Yeah,
especially when it’s being taught by a sizzling hot bloke like Blake.”
Ali hiked an eyebrow. “I like
that alliteration. See, you can be trained.”
Holding up a perfectly manicured
finger in protest, Shea said in a loud whisper, “I’ll admit that the liberal
arts holds its fair share of hotties, but I happen to like the corporate kind.
Nothing says man-candy like a well-cut suit filled out perfectly… and enormous
power is the most potent aphrodisiac.
But Ali was not paying attention
to Shea prattling on and on because she was riveted to the painting, a study of
Dante and Virgil in Bouguereau’s hell, bearing witness to the damned stealing
each other’s identities through vicious biting.
“You’re not even listening to
me, are you? Ali!”
“Sorry, what?”
But now something had distracted
Shea and she was craning her head to scan the large gallery. “Is the professor
here? I see a commotion by the entrance.”
Ali again didn’t respond.
Shea elbowed her. “Do you think
he actually believes he’s related to the Blake who created the Divine Comedy
illustrations?”
Ali giggled at the idea. “I can
almost hear the Aeolian harp accompanying him as he strolls about the gallery.”
Shea looped her arm through her
friend’s, as Ali continued to gaze at the painting. “Are we meeting Sal for
dinner tonight?”
“Not sure. He said to call him
when we were done here. He had a big exam today in his civil and environmental
engineering class that he was totally angsting over. I’m sure he’ll ace it—he
always does. The man is annoyingly brilliant.”
“Is that why he’s in love with
you, Ali?” Shea hip-bumped her friend.
The dark-haired young woman
shook her head dismissively.
Ali tugged on Shea’s blond hair
affectionately, as they moved on to the next painting. Shea was working toward
her MBA while Ali was about to attain her prized MFA, so they were never in the
same class but Shea had an elective to burn and took the art history class with
Ali for fun. They both wanted in on Professor Blake’s Hell in Art seminar, if
only to gape slack-jawed at the divine beauty of the professor. The man was
incredibly handsome but also easily the most arrogant snob on campus: erudite,
even brilliant, true, but sorely lacking in personal charm.
In truth, though, Ali would have
taken the course if anyone decent were teaching it. The topic fascinated her,
stretching across centuries from the Renaissance to the nineteenth century,
focusing on depictions—the most terrifying ones—of hell and the demons who
inhabit it. This seminar was actually predicated on this specific exhibit at
the museum so students would be able to view all the works in question in a
single room, a coup in and of itself amazing. In one gallery stood the
masterpieces of Blake, Bosch, Bouguereau, Grunewald, and Goya.
Shea turned and confided in a
theatrical, singsong voice, “Speaking of crushing on you, look what the cat
just dragged in. He is so ogling you, Ali.”
Ali rolled her eyes. Shea always
believed that all the men were panting after her. Ridiculous, especially since
Shea herself resembled a beauty queen on steroids, with a killer body and long
corn-silk hair hanging in soft waves down her back.
“Incoming,” Shea whispered,
“don’t look now but he’s at two o’clock and approaching.
Geoffrey Blake strode directly
toward the two young women as Ali’s heartbeat took flight when she saw him.
“Ladies,” he nodded. Keen eyes traveled over both girls. Blake’s eyes were so
light and eerie they defied description, even one as basic as color. Were they
blue? Green? Gray? The answer to all three questions was yes. Depending on how
the light hit them, they appeared to change hue. One female student, in a sorry
attempt to flirt with the man, had the temerity to ask him in front of the
other students exactly what color his eyes were. Blake’s expression turned
sardonic, his lip curling in sneering contempt, and he proceeded to rip her a
new one.
“If you’re so blind as to be incapable of discerning
the difference between green and blue, what are you doing in a graduate art
seminar where color is a most important consideration when assessing and
appreciating the art in question. Might I suggest you take up accounting?”
With that, he turned on his
heel, gathered up his class notes, and stalked out of the classroom, leaving
the poor girl standing there, mouth hanging open, and her cheeks ruddy with
humiliation. Once she collected herself enough to move, she marched directly to
the registrar’s office and promptly dropped the class.
Now he eyed Shea and Ali, his
attention fixated on the students instead of the art with which they were
engaged. “What is your opinion thus far, ladies?”
Ali blushed: when he looked
directly at someone, the haughty professor seemed to focus entirely on that
person to the exclusion of all else and now that intensity was trained on her.
Clearing her throat, she answered his question. “Definitely planning on having
some nightmares tonight.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his gaze locked on the slim
brunette student. Lately he’d been having a very difficult time looking at
anyone or anything else when Ali Spencer was in his lecture hall. The girl was
simply exquisite, easily competing with all the masterpieces dedicated to
feminine beauty. Her friend wasn’t half bad either, but Blake gravitated to Ali
as if by siren call. He sighed when he realized that nothing could come of his
infatuation, as it would violate the college’s fraternization policy. More’s
the pity, he thought, as he wondered if the near-flawless peaches and cream
skin on her face was repeated all over her body, and other much dirtier
contemplations. It was time to leave.
The professor’s arm gestured
across the gallery. “I hope all my students realize how exceptional is this
exhibit and the level of difficulty the curator faced in procuring all of the
works to bring it to the adoring public.”
Ali nodded, a small smile
gracing her lips. “Yes, Shea and I were just speaking to that accomplishment a
few minutes ago.”
Shea was staring at the
professor. “All this evil in art. And what does evil truly look like anyway? Is
it Goya’s interpretation or Bosch’s?” asked Shea.
“Very good question,” Blake
said. “What do you think the devil looks like?” He directed his question at
Ali.
She chuckled. “I think the devil
comes in many forms. Then there are all the impostors.”
Blake looked at her, eyes
discerning. “Yes, beware the many impostors of the dark prince. They come at
you from every direction. We’ll actually be referencing that very idea in our
next lecture. Enjoy the exhibit, ladies.”
Shea turned to look at Ali,
raising her eyebrows and they both giggled. “Do you think he has a tiny dick?”
she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.
Ali giggled again but then
groaned. “Thanks for putting that image into my head,” she snapped at Shea but
her friend only grinned in delight.
Meet Lulu Astor
Lulu Astor is a New York City girl, born and bred. She met
her husband at a doggie play group in Tribeca in the ‘90s and together they embarked
on adventures, moving first to Chicago, where their first son was born, then on
to Santa Fe, New Mexico, followed by Los Angeles, Cali. Eventually they headed
back to NYC where their second son made his debut shortly thereafter.
Beginning her writing career with nonfiction, she began
writing short fiction (her first love) in grad school, moving on to longer
works shortly thereafter. She wrote the Complements series in 2010, and it was
published on KDP in 2013. Three and a Half Weeks was initially conceived as a
short story but evolved into a full-length (very full) novel as time went on.
Immersing herself in fiction (whether reading or writing)
every minute possible, she also teaches writing and literature as an adjunct
professor in the New York-Connecticut area where she currently resides. Her
books are available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, and Goodreads.
You can follow her on Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter (reluctantly).
Check Out This Awesome Giveaway!
HOSTED BY:
No comments:
Post a Comment