One year ago today, the first book in the Angel Eyes trilogy hit shelves. It’s been a whirlwind of writing and activity since then. Three months ago, book two released and in three more months, the conclusion, Dark Halo, will be out and about.
So, in honor of all these little milestones, I thought some Show and Tell was in order. No Dark Halo spoilers, I promise, but for those who haven’t read Broken Wings, here’s a snippet. This is our first look at the Prince of Darkness. And, since we’re celebrating, let’s do a giveaway too. Three winners will receive a trade paperback copy of Broken Wings, and one lucky winner will receive an advance reader copy of Dark Halo! I’ll pick my winners on Friday, June 7th. Read the excerpt below and use the Rafflecopter to enter.
Silence consumes the assembly now, imposed on them by the sight of an icy white figure dropping into the hall from above. His wings, spread wide, are white save the tips, which retain a char he’s never rid of.
Black-tipped wings for the Prince of Darkness. Healthy wings. Strong wings. His skin shines like polished marble. His hair lies in curls of midnight around his face—still fresh, still bright, still retaining the beauty that seduced a third of the angels. Human eyes would have a hard time distinguishing the Prince from a Warrior like Michael. But the absence of light behind those pale blue eyes hints at the creature’s true nature. And they are pale, so pale the blue seems buried far below, glinting like coins at the bottom of a well.
He’s exquisite. Majestic.
And he’s afraid.
Celestial light has been banned from this place, but even here among the arctic shadows, fear cannot hide. Its blackness swirls in a controlled spin down his right arm, over his well-formed bicep, around his elbow, circling around his forearm and sliding from his palm down his middle finger where it puddles beneath his throne. Tendrils branch out across the stone floor seeking, seeking.
He cups his hand, allowing the fear to pool there. His fingers close around the sticky substance and he prods it, molds it like a human child playing with a handful of clay. All the while, his eyes rip into the demon before him.
After a slow descent, the Prince’s feet touch upon the seat of his throne—the graven dragon behind him. His legs and waist are wrapped in cords of white. His torso and arms are bare. Very little separates him from the other archangels. And yet so much.
Pearla watches the Prince. The Creator gave him beauty—a beauty unrivaled—and he’s taken great pains to preserve it. His time here in Abaddon has kept him from the damage his hordes have suffered in the light of the Celestial. Pearla’s heard stories of the Prince venturing above, but his untarnished appearance alone is proof that his time to heal greatly exceeds that of his minions.
“Sit.” His celestial lips are still, unable to vocalize anything but animalistic rages—like those assembled, like the demon chained to the floor, like every angel he led astray—but they all hear. They all obey. It’s sad, really. His song, like his face, was far superior to all others. Now his mouth is good for nothing.
Wings rustle and talons scratch as countless demons crawl and flap toward rough shelves cut into the cliffs surrounding the hall. The demon chained to the floor drops to his knees.
Humility, even false humility, is appreciated here.
The Prince doesn’t sit, though. No. He stands on his throne, his legs spread wide, looking down at the demon trembling on the floor.
“It’s unfortunate, brother, to see you in chains. Again.”
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