Beyond
Every Mirror
Anachronistic
Dimensions Book 1
by
Christine Church
Genre:
Paranormal Romance, Fantasy
His
death is the only thing that can save the life of the woman he loves.
Diana
Gabaldon meets Anne Rice in this fast-paced time dimension paranormal
romance that will blow your mind.
Beside
his own image, Dane Bainbridge sees another; a ginger haired
beauty--behind her, red mountains and clouds as if from another
world. He's seen her his entire life, a life filled with glamour and
fame... and loneliness. For the woman in the mirror is his one true
love. But, this he does not know, not until he is dragged into her
world--one of beasts and lands beyond imagination. One where his
sacrifice is the only thing keeping her and the world in which she
resides alive.
Once
they are together, he remembers it all, and that knowledge means his
doom for all eternity. But if he escapes her world, she will perish
as will all others behind the looking glass. He is the key that keeps
her alive, and she is the key that gives him hope. Can they break the
curse that keeps them separated by torture and death? Can they escape
together from a world that exists beyond every mirror?
December
20, 2014
He
remained perfectly still as the chains were wrapped around his body.
The metal cooled the heated flesh of his bare chest. All around him
echoed a cacophony of screams, bellows and stomping of feet that
almost crushed him beneath its weight. The air tightened with the
chains and a rush of collective exhilaration and nervousness swirled
through his senses. He glanced quickly at the red-faced, muscular
man standing beside him, who finished fastening the chains and
stepped away.
He closed his eyes and drew
a deep breath. And then he waited, anxiety pounding in his breast.
The air was thick with heat and sweat and smoke, but he'd grown
accustomed to it through the years, as with the rest of the ritual.
The one thing he could never get used to, however, was the flip-flop
in the pit of his stomach that occurred as the platform he stood on
slowly lifted into the air, revealing him to the anxiously awaiting
crowd that crushed nearer. Starving animals before a feast. He
looked straight out, refused to look down, lest the vertigo take him.
How he hated heights.
He listened for the eerie
orchestration of strings and organ that marked the beginning of his
leisurely descent back to earth. The notes began with a rhythmic
resonance that was almost conquered by impatient bellows that quickly
turned to a roar of frenzied excitement. As the platform lowered, a
muzzy sensation circled Dane's mind and his throat felt as though
his stomach had been hoisted up into it.
He held his breath in
anticipation.
An amplified voice echoed
over the din. "Ladies and Gentlemen. Through the misty storm they
come. Battles rage and blood is spilled and tonight you will feel…the
rage of the... Dark Myst!"
The
crescendo of notes rose with the screams and soon the vast crowd,
shrouded in the mist of machine smoke and lighting from the trusses
above, came into view. The platform touched the stage simultaneously
with a deafening blast of canon fire, blinding light and searing heat
from the pyrotechnics.
Dane thrust his arms outward
in an ostentatious display of feigned strength and released his long
held breath as the chains fell free of his body. As he leaped
forward the crowd crushed against the stage, nearly 20,000 screaming
fans all at once a serried mass swarming towards him.
Tingles of excitement clawed
at his spine, a feeling that never waned with the years. He ran to
the front of the stage and grabbed up the microphone as Bruce struck
the first hard note on his Strat. The music pounded out its heavy
rhythm and the audience's cries warred with its volume. Sharp beams
of laser light cut a zigzag through the haze. Dane twirled around and
his heart jumped.
Oh what fresh hell!
He was staring at himself!
The stage had been set up
like a room in a lover's palace; giant mirrors everywhere-behind,
to the sides, even above, stretching as high as the trusses. Due to
a severe snow squall the truck carrying an important part of the
band's stage set had gone off the road and gotten stuck. No one was
injured, but the set had not arrived in time to be set up in the
sold-out Target Center. Someone had decided the light show would
look better reflected. Dane, however, was aghast. Not only was their
stage set designed to coincide with most of their songs, but the
effects of the colored lights continuously bouncing from mirror to
mirror would inevitably result in the whole band plagued with a
throbbing headache by concert's end.
Their manager had to have
approved this-someone had to have approved it. No one had told
Dane! The mirrors must have been erected last moment. Everyone
associated with the band knew how Dane hated mirrors. But now, no
matter which direction he turned, he saw himself in his black costume
and ragged-edged cloak; which portrayed him as the yin to the band's
yang. They were the mist, and he the dark storm.
To keep his attention from
the mirrors, Dane fixed his gaze on the audience and the speckled
glow from thousands of cell phone flashes, resembling a sparkling
star-filled evening that stretched out before him. But he knew he
would eventually have to turn around.
By the third song it became
maddening, not able to dance around as he normally would for fear of
what might be hidden in those mirrors. But, thankfully, half way
through the song he spotted one of the girls he'd met the last time
he was in town. At last, something to keep his mind and eyes busy.
In the front row she stood, arms raised toward him. The bulldozing
horde had her pressed against the stage, long auburn hair flittering
about as she bobbed her head to the beat of the music. He smiled in
her direction, despite his sudden dread at remembering the promise
he'd made to her the year before. A promise-ashamedly-he had no
intention of keeping.
He had never seen her before
that night a year ago, so she hadn't been a regular. Conquering
new territory was always fun. She'd displayed the looks normally
reserved by the group of girls who always seem to know just how to be
chosen above others and handed backstage passes. This one, however,
had taken a different approach. She had approached him on the floor
of his hotel as he made his way to his room. Fortunately he had been
alone-a rarity. He had invited her in. Ample breasts and a nice
round bottom offset by a perfectly slender waist. Dane knew he would
be having a good time that night.
She had wanted too much,
however, a commitment he couldn't give. Teasing him and denying him
her favors until he'd made the vow. What else was there to do? And so
he had said exactly what she wanted to hear. And, as naïve as she
was, she had believed him. He couldn't, after all, say no. Not when
she lay there in his hotel bed displaying all her luscious charms.
But he couldn't keep his promise, either. There were plenty of women
in countless towns, women the band's crew knew were his type. Women
who would be offered passes just so he could meet them, drink with
them, bed them. And there would be more waiting in the next town
after that.
Now, a pass with the name of
a local radio as sponsor dangled around her neck. So, she had won
backstage passes this time. There would be no avoiding her tonight.
What would he say to her? He could not even recall her name. As her
fiery glare burned through him, he absentmindedly turned away,
catching Bruce's smug grin as he looked from the girl to Dane. He
mouthed the words "there she is," as he switched guitars with an
assistant for the next set of songs.
Dane smirked, shook his head
at his friend, then strutted to the other side of the stage as the
next song began-one of the band's trademark tunes that he wrote
about a medieval land of lords and knights. He wielded a sword, one
of many from his collection, and proceeded to dance around in
choreographed mock swordplay as the hired orchestra played their bit.
At this point, his
disappointment surged that the integral element of their regular
stage set had not arrived. The video wall depiction of a castle and
rolling green hills was installed. However, mirrors now replaced the
large faux-stone steps that were to lead to the balcony above the
stage, giving Dane the appearance of riding atop one of two red-eyed
dragons that should, at that moment, be gazing menacingly down at the
crowd, smoke, laser and fire effects erupting from the eyes and
fanged mouths. Those that came for the show would be fervently
disappointed.
During Bruce's brief
guitar solo near mid-song, Dane closed his eyes for a moment and
raised the sword high, drawing in the deep odor of sweat and heat.
Machine-created fog crept along the stage and curled around his feet
like a chill mist in a graveyard. The lights were so dim he could
scarce see even the front row of the audience as the laser lights
sliced through the stadium and across his body like sharp-edged
blades.
In accordance with his
routine, and without second thought, he twirled around-and was
suddenly staring right into one of the tall mirrors that littered the
stage. The lights brightened. His craggy-hemmed cloak billowed as
he spun from the ghastly reflection of his own sweat-soaked face only
to catch the same image in the mirror beside that one. His gut
wrenched and he tried to turn away, back to the front of the stage,
back to the audience. But he froze as movement caught his eye and
when he turned his head, she was there-the "Mirror Lady." His
illusion. His own delusion.
Onstage.
As real to him
as his own reflection.
No!
Not here!
Her thigh-length ginger hair
was loose, rather than pulled back in the usual braid. The shining
tresses poured over her shoulders like a rushing waterfall and
cascaded down a beautiful gown of burgundy velvet that hugged her
slim form. The tears in her golden eyes told a tale of sadness that
wrenched at his heart, and he felt himself take an involuntary step
forward. More familiar to him than Martha or Lance or Sir Kori, the
sight of the "Mirror Lady" twisted his gut, a tornado rampaging
through him, a tangled enrapture of perplexity and fear, love and
pain-as if he had known her for more years than his life was long.
And that familiarity drove him somewhere beyond her presence in some
glass.
His dilemma with the redhead in the front row
disappeared. The girls he'd met in the past or would meet in the
future no longer mattered. It was this stranger, this illusion. She
alone meant everything-and she scared the hell out of him. But
deeper than fear lie an unbearable urge to leap into the mirror and
gather her into his arms.
Protective impulses tugged
at him relentlessly and he was suddenly frightened not of her but for
her. Terror seized his heart, and refused to let go, pounding through
him harder than the music that continued to fill the stadium,
confusing him profoundly. Passionate emotions thrashed at his brain
and his head ached with the need to bring them to the surface. But
he couldn't. A mental barrier walled off the needs screaming for
release. Why couldn't he just go to her; feel for her the love
he'd been missing his entire life?
Behind him, the glass'
surface reflected a flurry of activity; lambent light bounced from
one mirror to the next, heightening the pain in his head. The small
section of audience visible moved and swayed, their images like
dancing ghosts in the dark mist of the stadium. Stephan's long
strawberry hair swayed as he bobbed his head up and down while he
plucked away at his bass. He hadn't seen her. At the time Dane
didn't think anyone else saw her, but her form was as solid in the
mirror as was his own, as she had been in every mirror throughout his
life.
Concentration became
impossible. He faltered, his voice cracked and he missed the chorus
altogether. Familiar with the music, the mistake must have been quite
obvious to the crowd. But he couldn't turn from that damn mirror.
Dane tried to force his mind
back to the song when a searing bolt of pain sliced through his head.
The clank of the sword and the microphone sounded loud to his ears,
even above the music, as they dropped from his hands and crashed to
the stage. Feedback screeched from the monitors and the music
stopped. The burden of emotion and conflict pressed him downward and,
like Alice, he found himself falling. Down. Down. The spotlights
swirled like shooting stars and agony screamed through his shoulder
as he hit the hard stage floor.
The fog consumed him.
The
stadium went dead silent. Bruce and Stephan rushed towards him.
Adrian leapt from behind his drums. Road crew members and strangers
circled above. The audience pressed closer to the stage, security
guards frantically tried to hold them back. Their lips moved, their
hands pounded the stage. He saw them all, yet he heard nothing. And
then he was forced into a vacuum of darkness.
Christine
Church has been writing since she was 9 years old. As a kid, she
wrote and drew her own picture books, then moved on to short stories
as a teen. By her 20's, she was writing full-length novels, but her
first success in publication was a nonfiction book about the care of
indoor cats, Housecat, published by Howell Book House in 1998.
Several more nonfiction books followed, including the major award
winning book, Indoor Cats (TFH publications), which won the Iams
Responsible Cat Ownership in 2001. After a broken hand, she took a
hiatus from writing for quite some time, then returned to find
everything had changed and her world turned upside down. She decided
then to take a stab at self publishing. Her first novella, Sands of
Time, Fate of the True Vampires won Finalist status in the 2016 Next
Generation Indie Book Awards. Her second book, as well as Beyond
Every Mirror, have won five-star status on Reader's favorite.
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