Published by: eXtasy Books
Word Count :49573
Publication Date :2019-08-02
Series : Storyteller#1
Heat Level :
- Product Code: 978-1-4874-2353-7
Some conspiracy theories are really true…
Imagine a drug that creates a false reality in the mind of its user... then imagine that the drug’s creator is the government itself. Scientists and politicians combine to unleash untold devastation upon the world. A lone computer programmer learns the truth and fights feverishly to supply survivors—if any—with the information they need to combat Earth’s desperate plight. His legacy—the powerful AI computer known as 001—may be Earth’s greatest hope for survival.
Prejudice continues to exist, even in the year 3500. Jasarah is half-elf, which condemns her to a life without a proper education, her only prospect the certainty of becoming an outcast from her village in her ninetieth year. Luckily for the young girl, her parents have defied convention to teach her the best technical skills they can.
Dumped into the strange world of Denver, Jasarah quickly finds herself working at a bar filled with unusual types, outcasts such as herself. Among these is another half-elf by the name of Ghost—a devil-may-care sexy hitman with dangerous eyes and skills. He’ll kill anyone at any time, and he isn’t picky about the reason why.
When idealism meets skepticism, will the shit hit the fan? Who is the teacher, and who is the pupil? Together, will they become an unstoppable force?
Four human men wearing gang colors sat at the next table. “We need four pitchers of brew.” The leader leaned back. “And you, babe.”
Jasarah shook her head. “I’m not on the menu, but I’ll return with your order in a minute.” She turned towards the bar, but the gang leader seized her right hand, causing her to stop right on the spot. She looked at the human. “Sir, it would be wise if you let me go so I can get your order. Other customers are waiting.”
The gang member sneered. “Let them wait. I was here first.”
“You’re not giving me much choice.” She tugged on the hand he held but failed to break his grip. Quickly sliding the tray onto the elves’ table and bringing up her left leg, she slipped her free hand down and pulled out the small dagger hidden in her boot. She turned the point toward him. “Now will you let me get your order?”
With a laugh, he tried to grab the knife, but the blade sliced his palm.
Jasarah tried to pull her right wrist free from his grasp as she tightened her grip on the dagger in her other hand.
The gang member slowly turned his hand over, his face darkening at the sight of the blood. Looking up, he clenched his fist and glared at her.
She shook her head in hopes of warding off what was to come and caught lightning movement from the corner of her eye. She glanced around.
Ghost now stood at the elves’ table, his raised hand motioning the dwarfs to stand down. “Now.”
Jasarah stared in awe as a well-oiled machine acted in multiple directions around her in the span of a single breath.
Now beside her, the Ljósálfar avoided her dagger, drew his own, and sliced the back of the wrist of the gang leader’s insistent hand, setting her free. The click of nearby gun coincided with the Dökkálfar’s smile. The bar thumped as Oscar settled a slender rifle into view, and a half-elf—with a wavy chestnut ponytail—aimed a gun on the remaining gang members.
The dwarfs shifted to get a better view.
“Would you like to walk away with your life,” Ghost purred, his voice low and dangerous as he moved ever closer. “Or end it here?”
The gang leader raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, stepped close to her, and sneered, “Someday, bitch.”
Stepping around her, the Ljósálfar slammed hard enough into the human to knock him back several steps. He lowered his voice, his tone liquid-silk, “That’s no way to speak to a lady, sir.”
The Dökkálfar stood, his weapon in full view, the gang leader his target.
The human spat on the floor. “Elves are worthless.”
The Ljósálfar tipped his head slightly and glanced at the floor. Slowly looking up, he eyed the human and shook his head. With a mutter under his breath, he drew back a fist and quickly punched the man in the stomach. The human fell to his knees and grasped for air, a telltale sign the wind was knocked out of him. The Ljósálfar grabbed the man’s shirt collar and hauled him out the door.
The Dökkálfar eyed the three remaining humans, slowly holstered his weapon, and sat. The dwarfs continued their conversation. At the bar, the half-elf with the ponytail returned his gun to its place and turned to finish his drink. Oscar returned the double-barreled shotgun to its place under the counter and finished serving the drinks.
Stunned by what had happened, Jasarah complied as the half-elf walked over, collected the tray, and directed her to a barstool.
“Sit,” Ghost encouraged.
She stared as, ever gentle, he took her dagger, wiped the blade on a rag that appeared at the edge of the bar, then carefully sheathed it in her boot.
He sat beside her. “I never saw them before.”
Jasarah stared at him. “Huh?”
“They’ve never been here before.” He pointed. “Those dwarfs, that half-elf, those elves, and that half-orc are regulars. They like trouble about as much as Oscar and I do.”
A gunshot resounded from the alley.
Jasarah jumped, her breath catching in her throat.
The Ljósálfar entered the bar and made his way over to her. “Just doing my job. My apologies about the earlier introduction, lady.” He bowed and offered his hand. “My name is Dodger.” The elf was five-foot-eleven with a very defined muscular build. His straight dark-blond hair, held in place by a black headband, reached his shoulder blades. He had crystal blue eyes and wore a deep green shirt, faded blue jeans, and navy-blue leather boots.
As she shook his hand, she noticed its coolness.
“Hey, Oscar,” the half-elf with the ponytail called cheerfully. “Are you crazy?” He strode toward them. “Letting those brutes in here. Oh yeah, I forgot who was working the door.”
Ghost chuckled. “Mouthy, aka, Cutter.”
“Miss Jasarah.” Cutter took her hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He stood six-foot-two with a well-muscled stocky build and was slightly shorter than Ghost. Pulled into a ponytail by a silver band, his wavy chestnut hair reached past his shoulder blades. He had clear brown eyes. He wore a tan shirt and brown pants with shiny black boots. He released her hand and nodded to the elf still at the table.
The Dökkálfar stood, grinned at the three remaining gang members, and walked over to join the foursome.
Ghost motioned. “The quiet one is Raz.”
Raz offered a sincere smile and shook her hand. “I’m more appropriately known as one of the rarer races, often referred to as a Dökkálfar. Cutter is half my race, as is Ghost. Most elves prefer the true term, however, most half-elven prefer the term half-elf.”
Jasarah noticed his hand was cool and very soft.
He stood five-foot-nine with a lean and lanky build and a very dark tan complexion. His straight platinum blond hair touched his shoulder blades and, proud of his heritage, he pulled it behind his ears. His eyes were a deep, dark midnight blue. He wore a royal blue shirt and black pants with black leather boots pulled to his knees. A midnight blue cloak brushed the tops of his boots.
Ghost smiled. “What do you think of our little group?”
She looked at them. “What does it do?”
The three remaining human gang members raced out the door.
Cutter redirected his attention to her. “Anything you can think of.”
Jasarah mumbled, “Like slap sense into my brother?”
Dodger leaned close. “Always be careful what you wish for, lady, you might get it.”
Jasarah brushed the comment off and looked straight at Ghost. “Well?”
Ghost queried, “Why?”
“He’s a jerk. He’s done things like threaten—”
“No. My father never tolerated his…” Jasarah searched for the word. “Cruelty around me. I mean, Jim hasn’t killed anyone and maybe he’s not as bad as those guys, but he has threatened an elder, and he’s one of the meanest people I’ve met.”
Ghost shifted to face her. “What was happening when he made the threat against the elder?”
“It was past curfew and the elder told him to get home. Rather than listen, he scarred the elder’s cheek with a dagger. I know he had the tendency to get ugly when Father wasn’t around.” She softened her voice, “And I don’t like the way he makes me feel when he looks at me.”
The front door slammed open.
“Where’s that little bitch? I want to talk to her about this.” Her swaying brutish slob of a brother threw a small female body to the floor.