Title:
Seasons of Time
Author:
Miriam Khan
ISBN:
978-1-62420-227-8
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Excerpt
Heat Level: 2
Book
Heat Level: 1
TAGLINE
Seventeen-year-old Lara Voight is forced to spend the summer with her
stepmom's grandmother, but a ghostly boy in the woods and tales of a nineteenth
century murder at the mansion aren’t exactly what she expected.
BLURB
With
her father and his new wife busy with their career, seventeen-year old Lara
Voight has no choice but to accept her trip to Spring Mills, Pennsylvania. Her
host, Gracen, is as cold and devious as her granddaughter, and Lara continues
to experience a burning sensation. The only thing to soothe the horrid pain is
the phantom scent that is familiar but hard to recall. When a local girl
befriends Lara, she informs her of a girl named Penelope Le Rose who was
murdered at the mansion. It turns out it was once known as Montague house.
Lara
explores the story further. Gracen is even willing to help, going as far as to
reveal a portrait of Penelope who looks just like Lara. Searching for further
clues, Lara finds Penelope’s diary and becomes haunted by visions of a ghostly
boy who seems angered at her growing affection for Sheba's brother, Will.
The
more Lara reads the diary, the more she begins to realize that certain people
resemble those described. One of whom could be Penelope’s killer; back to
finish her look-alike.
EXCERPT
The woman who was lying on her bed
was beautiful, with hair a reddish gold and a face as pure white and soft as
ivory silk. Although bestowed with love and cherished by those who knew her
well, she lacked what most would have called "blessed with substantial
wealth." Even so, she imagined she could win the affections of an
honorable prince, perhaps a count, a true royal, one who could sustain her
heart and flourish within her dreams.
She laughed at her foolishness and stroked the
small painting of her beloved, decorated in twine and rose petals she had
weaved throughout the night. As she placed a finger to his lips, she marveled
at the likeness, wondering if she truly was a gifted artist.
But it was inevitable she would
paint him so. He was etched to her mind. Even with her eyes closed, she could
see every curve of his exquisite face, the deep earthly heaven of his eyes and
sensuous lips. He had betrayed her, yet she still hungered for his touch, she
still longed for the press of his lean physique that made her feel light and
feverish.
Of course, the wench he craved was
rich and that helped her in gaining his attention.
But Elias was hers. Only hers. Not
Penelope Le Roses'.
The young woman sat up and
grimaced, distorting her cumbersome features.
With her mind set, she knew what
to do. She would cast her spell and severe the bond he'd declared for the
imposter once and for all.
Chapter One
The sun shifted to the right and I could see
the miles of dusty roads and fewer cars up ahead.
Susan, my step-mom, who now even controlled
Dad, had insisted I stay with her Grandmother Gracen for some of the summer. It
was why my trip to Pennsylvania was a command I had to adhere to. It was why my
teeth had been gritted throughout most of the drive from Delaware.
She had practically packed my bags and shooed
me out the door this morning. Dad, as usual, wasn't there to argue in my
defense. Not that he would have anyway. He was a renowned surgeon, and had
probably been placing a new kidney donor as I chugged out of our driveway; my
suitcases packed and my date of return unknown.
Ever since Mom left to be with her personal
trainer five years ago, Dad barely looked at me. He just noticed the poodle
haired blonde he liked to call Flick, the matchstick woman he rushed all the
way home to have candlelight dinners with as I sulked in my room.
Stopping at the nearest gas station that looked
as if it hadn't been visited since the seventies, I took a short break then set
off again. It wasn't long before dotted aspens and maples no longer concealed
the entryway to Gracen's large estate. Terra-cotta stone and the edges of a
lavish roof were just about visible. I was told Gracen came from a line of
successful merchants and oil diggers. It was why she considered herself a cut
above the rest of the residents of Spring Mills. Her inherited wealth was the
only thing to keep me from pulling up and hyperventilating.
After parking my cherry red Mustang in the
pebble driveway, I took in the place. The mansion was breathtaking, complete
with a cylinder roof crowned and decorated with golden leaf detail. It reminded
me of a centerpiece to a castle.
My smile vanished though as soon as I got out
of the car. I sensed I wasn't alone. It was as though someone was watching me,
and closely. When I spun around, there was no one around. I rubbed the goose
bumps popping up all over my arms and shivered, gasping as a fiery heat crawled
from my feet to my neck. The air turned sour next, as if the flowers in the
crescent shaped garden were decomposing. The added smell of ash and smoke stung
my eyes, and the driveway darkened. Slowly, the ground became paved, horse hooves
clamored and large wheels of a carriage creaked to a halt. A barrage of screams
erupted from the nearby forest as flames licked at my waist.
"Lara. Lara
Voight!"
I turned and almost
stumbled. The flames disappeared as a man in a black tuxedo came ambling down
the stone steps: rake thin and with a silver goatee.
"Lara
Voight?" he repeated, getting closer.
"Y-e-s,"
I stuttered.
"Where are
your things?" he asked, looking at my beat up car.
I tried to catch my breath. It was
if the wind had been taken out of me. My legs even shook.
What had happened? Was it heat
stroke? Five hours on the road could probably do that to a person. I could sue
Susan. It was her idea I came all the way to Spring Mills while she
"worked things out" with Dad. I was so easy to manipulate.
"In the
trunk," I muttered.
The man shook his
head without a care for the way I was panting.
"Who are you
anyway?" I tried to ask.
"Henry."
He held out his hand. His long, boney fingers reminded me of the creature from
Alien. "You can give me the keys. I'll take care of your luggage."
I shakily did as asked. It wasn't like I had
anything to steal.
"You need to go and see Mrs. Miller
before she takes her afternoon nap," he said gruffly. "You're late as
it is."
His aggravated tone wasn't appreciated, but it
helped me to feel less disturbed by what had happened.
Who was he? Why was there a strange old man in
Gracen's home? Was he a live in lover no one knew about?
"Who are you to Gracen?" I queried, trying to match his clipped tone.
"Her chau-ffer," he said, as if I
was too dim to know what that was.
He carelessly dragged my luggage out of the
trunk and waved me away. He actually waved.
What a jerk.
I ran up the stone steps to blow off steam
before I said something I would regret. I couldn't make an enemy as soon as I
arrived.
Inside, the house welcomed me with a cool
draft that helped me to breathe a lot easier. The interior was less ambient
than expected, with a dark hallway and distressed wood on the floor that was
partially bordering the empty walls. My name was
called out and I flinched, spinning around. Henry was nowhere in sight.
"Make yourself
at home," a nasally voice said from behind me, making me jump.
An old woman in a
wheelchair zoomed my way. Salt and pepper curls bounced on broad shoulders. My
heart stopped thumping when I realized it was just Gracen. She wasn't overly
wrinkly for someone close to her eighties.
"Stare all you
like." She harrumphed.
"Sorry. I
was—"
"I'm not
seventeen, but I have my uses," she added seethingly, parking her wheelchair
in front of me and lifting her chin. "As you can see, I'm Gracen
Miller."
"Nice to meet
you, Mrs. Miller."
"You may as
well call me Gracen for now." She grimaced. "Follow me, Lorna."
"It's
Lara."
"Same
thing."
Balling my hands
into fists, I watched her wheel away from me. The woman was reminding me of
Susan already.
The rectangular
room we entered had mismatched furniture cluttered like bonfire piles on either
side. Collectable items such as tribal masks, globes of the world, and ceramic
Chinese figurines, confused the theme that might have been in mind when
decorated.
Unlike the foyer,
the walls were lined with watercolor paintings of naked damsels and huntsmen
clasping large rifles. Beneath these were pleasant enough antique tables and
cabinets. A chessboard beside a mustard leather couch, though, clashed with the
pea green walls. It looked like someone hadn’t a clue how to coordinate.
"My husband,
Charles, was a prideful hunter," Gracen said as if to explain. "Would
you care for a drink?" She began to pour a murky orange concoction into a
tall blue glass.
I was suspicious of
the act of kindness. It wasn't like I got along with her granddaughter to be
made to feel welcome. No. I felt extra wary. It was totally unfair of Dad to
make me stay here in some stranger's home. I was even more wary of Gracen's
choice of beverage. But the last few hours in my non-air conditioned cocoon had
dried out my throat too much to care in the end.
I waited for her to
hand me my drink. Gracen supped it herself before pouring herself another
glass. I tapped my fingers on my pants as way to a hint that I was getting
impatient. Gracen made the effort to glance at me before pouring a third drink,
yet only halfway before roughly handing it to me. Then off she wheeled again, almost
riding over my sandaled toes.
"Sit,"
she commanded, pointing her crooked finger at a biege leather couch.
I sipped what was
thankfully just ice tea.
"Let's start
with a few questions, shall we?" She eyed me.
I nodded, hoping to
get on her good side; if she had one that is.
"Susan tells
me you're a spoiled brat."
I almost spat out
my drink but somehow kept smiling. "It depends on what you think is
spoiled."
She harrumphed in
that horrible, condescending way of hers. "Do you bathe often?"
Seriously? "Um. Yes."
"Do you smoke,
drink excessive amounts of alcohol, dabble in drugs?"
Maybe this was literally a test. "No."
Her bushy eyebrows
rose in insinuation. "Are you promiscuous?"
My jaw dropped.
"Excuse me?"
"Just answer
the question."
"No."
"No, you won't
answer the question, or no you're not promiscuous?"
"No, I'm not
promiscuous."
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