Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Release Day Blitz & Giveaway: Sacrifice (Dylan Hart #3) by R.M Gilmore



Fear. Fear above all else is the driving force behind every negative emotion I own. Heart pounding, skin slick with sweat, mouth sticky, rage and fury building upon oneself until it's forced from every pore. Fear, my darling, is the end all be all of Dylan Hart.

Evil has descended upon me and it's ripe with death. Death from me. By me. For me. My penance. My ultimate retribution for the sins I've committed. My pound of flesh. My sacrifice.


Chapter One

 "What in the fuck?" my voice screeched out as the wood of my front door splintered and shattered, leaving a gaping hole that lead to the blackness of my porch.

I held my pistol, and aimed steady at the black hole in front of me. The steel warming under the heat of my skin. Nothing came. The unseen force that busted my door made no attempt to make itself known. Reluctantly, I lowered my aim toward my lush carpet.

My gut churned with nervous vomit, but I released my breath and allowed my shoulders to relax, even if only just a bit.
From the darkness, a streak of white moved quickly, then nothing. My eyes trained on the hole in the door, I waited. Again, a movement of white through the black, but nothing more. My stomach roiled again. A stark white leg stepped through the human-sized gape in my door. My eyes went wide, but I didn't let the fear overtake me. My hands came up pointing the barrel of my gun at the hole. Fuck, through the hole, passed the hole at whatever was attached to that ghostly white limb. The leg pulled the lower half of a body through the hole, exposing the rotten flesh of an inner thigh and pubic area.

Fight or flight, bitch.

I gagged and forced myself to stay where I was. Gun trained. Fight engaged.

The torso followed, bare boobs smooshed together between bound arms. I knew what was coming then.

"Oh, fuck this shit." Without a further thought, my finger squeezed. The recoil sent shock waves up my forearms. Fear had blocked my brain from hearing the shot, but the telltale ringing in my ears told me the gun had fired without a hitch.

Standing in my living room, a naked girl oozed rusty dead blood from the hole I'd put in her belly. The nub of a neck that was left on her shoulders was dull with death and decay. I waited for the walking corpse to fall dead, or dead-like, leaking decayed ooze from her wounds. It never happened. Her feet shuffled forward toward me in an awkward cadence. Hands, wrapped in her black hair, reached in my direction. My ass left the edge of the couch as quickly as I could force it, and I stumbled away toward my room.

"What? What am I supposed to do?" I screamed at the corpse. Spit flew from my mouth with little control as the words came.

Movement at the door. A leg. A torso. Bound hands and boobs. Another headless body came through my door.
"Stop! Please!" I wanted to run. I wanted to hide, to leave and never come back.

You have nowhere to go, idiot. Out the hole the dead things were coming through? I don’t fucking think so.

Gun in hand, I pointed out at the thing in front of me. I heard the shot this time. It rang in my head like a marble bounced on glass. Another wound oozed, but nothing hindered the endless shuffle of dead feet toward me. At the door, a leg, torso, boobs, hands, matte blood atop of white shoulders. A third corpse breached the hole in the door.

"Why? Why are you here? I helped you! I killed the men who killed you!" I screeched at the dead girls in my living room. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

A leg, a torso, boobs and hands. Again. Again. Again. Seven decaying headless bodies shuffled through my living room. My feet moved back farther and farther until my back slammed into the jamb of my bedroom door.

"What do you want?" I screamed at the headless things. They couldn't answer me. Chopping a bitches head off, proved better than duct tape.

Fourteen hands reached out for me. Seven muted red stumps met my eyes where seven faces should be.
Eight. There should be eight.

At the door, a leg, a torso, boobs and hands bound with purple strands of hair appeared. Regina's living corpse came into my home uninvited. Eight dead things inched closer and closer. My heart felt like it'd flip out through my open mouth if I hadn't already been swallowing back bile compulsively.
"Stop!" Sliding backward, I maneuvered into the sanctity of my room. My trembling hands made music with cold steel and Azelie’s crucifix, which was still wrapped around my palm. My front door didn't stop them. Why I thought this cheap hollow core would save me, I didn’t know. I just wanted the fuck away from all those dead girls.
Locking myself in, I backed deeper into my darkened room. Never taking my eyes from my door, I backed and backed until the backs of my knees hit the edge of my bed. My butt automatically sat, giving my shaking legs a much needed break. Finally, sitting and breathing, sort of, I was able to hear small whimpering sounds. Disgusting images of gurgling blood stumps trying to form sounds ran through my head. This terrified me more than the bodies as a whole, merely because they had no natural source. Things with no heads should make no vocal sounds, theoretically. I swallowed hard and realized they were my whimpers. My short sobs. My fear seeping out.

The noises from my throat stopped, and with it my breath when my bedroom door began to rattle. The dead things on the other side were trying to get in. "No." My soft pitiful voice caused me to wince with anger, but it didn't change anything. My fear was too strong. I was just too terrified for the rage to build in me. "Stop," whining sobs filled the abyss that was my lonely, dark room.

My legs pulled me from the edge of my bed and backed me against the wall farther away from the rattling door. "No more," I sobbed. "Please. No more." My hands trembled, gun rattling in my clutch. My back flush with the cool wall, my legs shrunk. I slid to my ass on the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry they did that to you."

The rattling persisted and I thought then of Azelie. She'd done this to these women. These dead girls at my door were here because of her. Dead because of her. She'd killed them with her greed and refused to let them rest in her quest to punish me for inadvertently foiling her plans. For spilling blood that didn’t belong to me.
Fuck that cunt.

Fear remained, but I fought it with all my might. "I'm sorry they killed you!" My voice still shook but the sobs were gone. "But I'm not sorry I killed those boys." The door shook fiercely with my revelation. "And I won't be sorry when I kill that voodoo bitch either!"

The door shook and the knob creaked under pressure from something on the other side. Azelie sent the dead things for me. She sent the bodies of eight dead girls to relentlessly crawl through my front door. They weren’t going to stop. It was never going to stop.

I took a deep, ragged breath and lifted my gun.

It's never going to stop. 

Image of R.M. GilmoreLiving in the dead center oCalifornia, R.M. Gilmore writes mystery thrillers with a supernatural twist.
Drawing from people and places in her life, she brings us the irreverent character Dylan Hart, the Dylan Hart Odyssey of the Occult series, and sweet Lynnie Russell, the Lynnie Russell Trilogy.
Gilmore has contributed to numerous anthologies, as well as, short story and stand-alone works-in-progress.
Gilmore also creates original artworks in various mediums including paint and clay. Her home is filled with eclectic About the Author: R.M. Gilmoremusic memorabilia, horror flicks, and droves of complete Lego sets. R.M. shares a home with her husband, kids, and more than thirty animals including a Labrador, frilled dragon, and gargoyle geckos.
When she's not insane with writing, household junk, and animal care, she loves to watch movies, digs detective shows, and imbibes in alcohol more than one person should.
R.M. Gilmore lives to laugh and will likely die laughing.
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