CROSSING THE CHASM is the sequel to GIVEN TO THE PRINCE.
A botched abduction by a local terrorist group at a Middle East airport leaves Jessica imprisoned in a sweltering desert camp awaiting execution. She needs a miracle--but the Devil will have t...
While Crossing The Chasm reads well as a stand-alone book, It would best be enjoyed by reading Given to The Prince first, since Jessica and Califar first meet in that story.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
NOTICE to readers: Crossing the Chasm has been moved to a commercial platform. I'll leave the buy link here for those who are interested in purchasing the story for $1.99. I'll also leave the story synopsis, Prologue, and Chapter One so that those who are interested can get a feel for the story before purchasing.
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Jessica squinted her sore eyelids and focused a bleary gaze on the black scorpion meandering toward her bare feet. She wondered at her lack of dread as the large bug drew closer and climbed over her toes. Scratchy little feet executed a tap dance routine on her instep as the dancer twirled and swayed to a rhythm unheard by others.
With a jerk of its body, the visitor ceased its antics and lifted both head and tail. The lethal tail curled tighter as her desert companion wasted no time in abandoning the new territory.
She turned her throbbing head, allowing her gaze to follow the scorpion's retreat. Scampering in a straight line toward the side of the tent, it slipped under the canvas cloth to disappear into the hellish desert beyond. In a strange way, she missed the creature's presence, regretted its desertion.
Her chin sunk closer to her chest, her eyes closed. Though her lips moved, the plea she uttered barely echoed through the chambers of her heart. Just let it be over.
The sound of approaching male voices challenged her last remnant of endurance. They were coming for her. She would be number four...the last one to die.
Her arms, bound at the wrist and secured to a pole over her head, ached unbearably as she straightened her back. She tried fisting her fingers, but their swollen size prevented them from curling into her palms. The wire that coiled around her wrists and bound her to the overhead pole cut deeper into her skin with every movement.
Pushing up with her toes, she sought to temporarily relieve some pressure on her hands and arms. Weak leg muscles quivered and released, dropping her to her heels with a jarring pain that shot through her arms like flaming darts.
The foul taste of bile started to rise in her throat. It hurt to keep swallowing, but she couldn't vomit-not again. The crusty evidence of her last failed effort to control her nausea stained the front of her black robe. The repugnant odor added another level of stench to the tainted air in the stale confines of the sweltering tent that had been her prison for... How long had it been? The nightmare merged into one agonizing eternity until she could no longer remember.
More than anything, in these last moments of life, she wanted to retain a shred of courage, to keep a fragment of dignity that no one could take from her.
In her head, echoes of her Father's voice opened a cache of past regrets. She remembered his baritone voice, his scorn for her weakness, his unrelenting demand that she stand and fight, and her pathetic reply. Dad, he's twice my size. I'm just a girl. Her excuse, as he'd labeled it, hadn't mattered then, nor would it matter now.
The angry tenor of the approaching voices confused her. Previously, the guards checked on her without speaking, as if a word spoken in her hearing would foul them in some way. The verbal contention made their approach even more threatening. She barely stifled a scream as the tent flap flew back-exposing her to the sun's fierce light.
Three men entered through the tent's opening, their robed silhouettes rippling in waves of heat. A heat so intense, it had long since drained her body of even the cooling relief of sweat.
Fighting back an overwhelming wooziness, she focused on the trio standing just inside her prison. Two were familiar, their hate-filled eyes permanently inked on the pages of her mind. The third man stood a little apart from the other two and spoke to them in a guttural tone as he stabbed at the air with his fist.
Another memory of her father's perpetual nagging mocked her weakness. Stand up straight Jessica. Why can't you be like your brothers? A weak female is useless. If you don't shape up you're going to find yourself on the street.
The remembered threat sent the same cold shame through her heart as it had done when she was thirteen. She shifted her body weight in an effort to stabilize her trembling legs. A painful groan slipped through her lips. Fresh blood oozed from the cut on her wrists-wrists that felt like they would tear from her arms if she dared to move again.
Jessica looked up to see three pairs of dark eyes rivet their gaze on her before the gusty desert wind blew the tent flap across the opening, obscuring them in the tent's filtered light. The new man stood rigidly still. An aura of authority rang in his voice as he barked something in his native tongue. Then, he took two steps in her direction.
She refused to lower her eyes in submission to this cowardly murderer. She poured every drop of contempt she could siphon from her exhausted willpower into the gaze she lifted to his. The snarl on his lips showed clearly the disgust he felt. But there was something more.
Were her senses playing merciless tricks on her mind? Could he really have found her? Had he come as executioner or savior?
Califar Cadin, the man she'd used every contrivance to avoid-the last man on earth she'd ever expected to see in this place, stared at her with pitiless disapproval.
Hope and humiliation were strange partners, but both stole her breath as his gaze enveloped her in one long, silent command that she stay in the land of the living. At least, she hoped that was what he wanted her to do.
Her emotional numbness shattered just before the heavy mantle of unconsciousness covered her in darkness.
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