Soul Rebel

Death's Kiss Book 1

Pinard House Publishing, LLC

Copyright © 2014-2022 Pinard House Publishing, LLC & C.J. Pinard

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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Cover Art and graphic design by Kelly Dennis @ Book Cover by Design

Copyediting: Amabel Daniels

DEATH'S KISS SERIES:

Soul Rebel

Soul Redemption

Soul Release

Kovah: Soul Seeker

"The most powerful weapon on Earth is the human soul on fire."

~ Ferdinand Foch

Chapter 1

Proposals & Perfidy

The last time I could remember sweating this much was when I played football in high school. The motorcycle I had been restoring just didn't want to start. Who the hell buys a 1999 P.O.S. Kawasaki crotch-rocket and expects it to run, anyway?

I used a red oil rag to wipe the sweat from my forehead and tossed it overhand into a nearby bin. I had my coveralls stripped off before I reached the men's room. Those too went into a bin, and I scrubbed my hands as best I could. After drying them off, I looked at my grimy fingernails, the dirt and grease a smear under them. I could vaguely remember my older sister's warning when I told her I wasn't going to college, but was going to restore old motorcycles instead.

"Your hands will never be clean," she had scolded as she made a face. "No girl wants to be touched by hands that look filthy all the time."

But I had proven her wrong. I'd been told many times that my hands looked strong and protective, despite the permanent half-moon of black under each nail.

I grabbed my backpack from the grungy locker in the men's room of the small motorcycle restoration shop and fished out my keys. My red and white Ducati Monster was parked right out front. I looped my arm through the other strap of the backpack and mounted my bike. It started with what passersby probably thought was an obnoxious rumble, but sounded more like a purr to me. I was shoving the matching red and white helmet on my head when I heard my name.

"Nolan!"

I slid the helmet back up and whipped around to face the direction of the voice. "Yeah, boss?"

The shop's owner, Archie Ross, a man in his late fifties who lived hard and fast like he was still in his twenties, came lumbering out, waving an envelope. "Got the pay done early due to the holiday weekend 'n all." He gimped up to my motorcycle, a wad of dip in his bottom lip.

I took the envelope and smiled at him. "Thanks, boss. This'll come in handy this weekend."

Archie reached up and scratched his head, the gray in his hair shining under the setting sun, a diamond stud glinting in his left ear. Archie was still in his coveralls, but I knew he would be in his leather vest and pants later tonight when he met with his motorcycle club. Archie walked with a limp from a stab wound to the thigh he'd received in the 1980s during a bar fight—or so I'd been told.