Violin Song Excerpt

Chapter One

August 12^th, 1999

Mahayla glanced at the calendar with a cynical eye and wondered just how accurate the prediction was that she only had seven days to live. It didn't really matter how crazy-psycho she thought the Society of the Nines was, it mattered that so many of their predictions came true.

It mattered that she'd witnessed one of the events herself; a human sacrifice that still left her sick in the pit of her soul. Emma was dead, Elliott was missing, and she was ninety-nine percent sure there was a cover up of some kind under way. She didn't know who she could trust beyond her father, her ex-lover, a notorious hacker and her best friend.

Four people stood between her and annihilation. If she managed to live past August nineteenth—and she would, because she was tenacious like that—then she had three weeks to find Elliott before the Society used him as their next human sacrifice.

In her four years as a private investigator, this was her most complicated, dangerous case. It bled over into her personal life: her office had been burned down, her hotel room trashed, and her house desecrated by those wishing to end her. She'd been run off the road, stalked and had her dreams invaded by some menacing bastard who liked to play games. While she toyed with the pages of the calendar, Mahayla mused over the dreamwalking.

She didn't know what else to call it.

Someone showed up—uninvited—and helped themselves to your nightmares. Caused the inescapable terror that led to night sweats, chattering teeth and a thundering heart. She didn't like being held hostage in any particular scenario, especially one like that. Where she couldn't wake up, couldn't react, because if she could, she would most certainly kick that creep's ass.

The whole thing made her more volatile than usual. Mahayla liked to keep her cool, enjoyed the control she had over her emotions and reactions.

Right this second, she wanted to beat something until it screamed.

Very un-Mahayla like.

If her mother was still alive, she would have spent several hours purging the vitriol she'd built up over the last couple of weeks. But she wasn't, and her father, the ex-military-turned-CIA agent, thought she should just let all this drop.

Because of all the places the Society had hit—hotel room, house, office—she'd caved to her father's demands that she move back into his place. The expansive, well maintained home felt comfortable and safe.

She knew it was just an illusion.