Page 1 of Heir of the Beast

Chapter 1

The pits of hell belch and cloud humanity with the pungent smell of rotten eggs that harbors the fiery embers of Hades.

Bleeding hearts.

What is it? Two-hundred degrees?

I wipe the beads of sweat from my brow and take a labored breath of humid air that seems to suffocate me like meaty fists gripping my dainty throat, watching in evil delight as I sputter for air, fighting for my life. If the musty air manifested into an illusion of flesh and blood, I’d be trying to gouge out its eyes, fighting like a wildcat, trying to break its firm grip on my neck.

I’m not sure what gender this musty, humid demon is, but I attempt a kick to the groin anyway. No good, this phantom creature is not fazed as we crash against the wall in a battle that I’m losing quickly.

But I don’t die. The damp, nasty air lets me breathe just a little, just enough to keep me alive to continue the torture.

The loud whine of my air conditioner seems to morph into high-pitched laughter, revealing its true self—one of the bad guys the whole time! It never meant to cool off the room.

The lies. The betrayal!

Am I dramatic?

Let’s say you compare me to a first-class ~Karen~ dining at a restaurant, who just received her bill, not realizing ~ranch ~was an upcharge, then I’m perfectly normal.

Really though, I’m half tempted to turn on the news to see if the sun is due for impact. New Orleans has always been two steps from hell in the month of July. And it doesn’t help that I live on the top floor of an old Victorian house either.

It’s almost like the old, haunted wood has a deal with the devil, to claim the souls who inhabit this furnace.

But back to the real problem at hand. This is bigger than the floating inferno currently surrounding New Orleans.

I’m holding a letter—a golden, sparkly letter, mind you—that was pushed under my door this morning. When it was still dark outside. We’re talking ~early~, people!

The last time I checked, the postal service did not deliver at four in the morning under said person’s door.

Why? Because that’s creepy, and that’s not how they conduct their professional business. They work at normal, suitable corporate hours.

Only mentally unstable people deliver letters at four in the morning by sliding letters under your front door, probably followed by heavy, excited breathing.

You know what I’m talking about. Stalkers, serial killers, rapists.

Freddy.

The letter would read, “~Peek-a-boo, I see you…”~ or something else alarmingly sinister, and then that would be the start of a B-budget horror movie.

I would be running, cleavage all over the place, and I would shockingly trip over nothing, resulting in my brutal death by the ax. But no, that’s not what it says, not even close.

It radiates light. For a fleeting second, I’m sure that I’m being invited to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, holding the golden ticket. But it’s way weirder than that, trust me.

This letter is why I now doubt my ability to function in polite society.

I shift my weight as I stare down at the ghostly missive that lights my fingers and half my arm. The paper is feather-soft, and I can hear a faint jingle, like if you erratically shook Tinkerbell.

Apparently, folks, the Fairy Godmother herself felt the need to write to me and invite me on a romantic fantasy of vast proportions. A charming prince of Fate’s choosing.

I place my hot hand on my burning forehead and read the letter again, to confirm my slow-boiling hysteria.

~Dear Viola Del Vonsula,~

~Congratulations to you.~

~If you are standing, I might suggest you sit. You have been chosen at random to take part in the two-hundredth anniversary of Fairy Godmother Inc.~

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