The Summoning is a book, like many others, about good versus evil. It’s not a romance alone. The story evolves around this central theme—the misguided Shaman against the hero and the heroine, who is a witch but is unaware of that fact until she summons Eryael from his dimension. I wonder if another dimension is a fantasy element, don’t you? I’ve touched on that question in another post on my tour. In the excerpt, from Eryael’s point of view, he hears Heather calling him across and responds.
I am sitting in my office at 4:30 AM writing this short post. I hope you enjoy the excerpt and are intrigued by what you read. The language in the book is a bit stilted but that’s the way Eyrael speaks. I’d be interested in your comments on this.
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I published The Summoning myself because my editor at The Wild Rose Press currently had another of my books to review, and I didn’t want to wait for her to work through at least one other book while this one languished in my computer. I don’t know the meaning of patience. So, here is The Summoning.
Heather Morique is a witch. The problem is she doesn’t know it. Her husband Jahill was a refugee from an obscure branch of the Arawak Indians. After his death, mysterious whispers lure her to his homeland of Jamaica. Soon, she finds herself in a web of secrets, lies and illusions.
Jahill’s people worship Eyrael, the God of Wind and Sea, and his brother Sofiel, the God of Fire and Earth. The new Shaman has pitted brother against brother, and these two powerful spirits from an alternate universe fight to become the tribe’s ruling deity. Will light or darkness reign?
When Heather unwittingly summons Eyrael, these two unlikely soul mates face a dangerous fate. The chemistry between them is more disturbing than the long-buried secrets.
His name vibrated through his entire being. The intensity of the call shocked him. A sudden, unreasonable fear chilled him despite the warmth of the surrounding air. As he collected himself to respond, again another being’s panic seized him. Impossible but he was falling!
He was shrinking, compressing. It was a pleasant feeling, not painful, not frightening but interesting—a hugging together of his nebulous self. Disorientation should have alerted him that he was growing small enough to pass through, but it had been so long he’d forgotten.
This side of the curtain, time had no meaning. He remembered nothing of the other dimension—except that it existed in some vague, prickly memory.
Sofiel was with him, riding high on the crystal winds. His dark brother shot him a puzzled frown. He, too, felt the pull of the Summons. Chants echoed through his being, distant drums beating a seductive rhythm. A high-pitched scream—that of a woman—pierced him. Vague recollections of this tearing apart surfaced. The Summons was not for Sofiel. It was for Eyrael alone. Darkness blinded him, and he imploded.
Eyrael’s next awareness was the caress of a warm liquid holding and supporting him as the air had done moments ago. Not only the water, but he was changing shape, forming, drawing tighter together. He tried to expand, met solid resistance. He found himself inside a grid work of bone and flesh. A flash of light sizzled from the sky to the sea, thunder booming in its wake. Every detail of his previous visits to this place manifested at once. Strange the way that happened. It was always the same. One minute, he recalled nothing; the next, he knew everything. Memories waltzed before his eyes, beckoning him deeper into the mortal fold, the place where the People lived.
Their drums resonated in his blood, chants welding him to their realm. They had named him God of Wind and Sea, but commanded him to their will.
He concentrated on the shape of the People, flexing his arms, stretching his legs. Both too long, he had to adjust. The beach seemed far away, those gathered around the ceremonial fire stick figures. He blew out a breath, and the wind howled. He rethought his height. Finally, he achieved the Eyrael they expected to answer their Summons.
The sea played with his shoulders and his hair. Eryael smiled his Pleasure.
A scream gurgled in the waves ahead. A head split the churning ocean. One of the People. I must rescue. He shook the mane of hair back from his face and considered that, perhaps, he had too much hair. The tiny being reappeared frantically battling itself, spouting water from its mouth. Its cries stabbed him like splinters of darkness, and the pain, as much as any sense of duty, tugged him toward the drowning creature.
“Eyrael!” His name split the night sky, reverberating off the pinpoint stars.
He hated the mortal engaged in a hopeless skirmish with the water. Eyrael was irritated that its despair had somehow torn the curtain between the worlds and brought him over merely to sustain its brief flicker of life.
Silence. She no longer cried. Facedown, the waves washed a slender body toward the shore. A thrill shivered over his entire body. A woman, giver of the utmost Pleasure.
On the beach, dark shapes formed a half-circle around a blazing beacon fire. As one, they dropped to their knees and bent from the waist, their foreheads on the sand. A lone figure remained standing. The primal rainbow of feathers in the Shaman’s headdress danced in the wind of Eryael’s passage. Taino, young and virile, wiseman, witch doctor, a powerful magic user. The Indian sorcerer pinned Eyrael with eyes cold and hard as onyx.
Ah, the woman is a sacrifice. But not to me.
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