A devoted fashionata and practical New Yorker, Skylar Blackwell doesn’t believe in the supernatural—until she inherits Summerwind Mansion. . . .
When her uncle is brutally murdered, and the cops seem uninterested in following up the case, Skylar journeys to California to seek answers. Her search for clues is soon overshadowed by haunting nightmares of a young woman also murdered in the house.
Now the inhabitants of Summerwind are mysteriously dying, leaving no evidence as to how or why, and Skylar finds herself in a deadly race against time to expose the killer—before they strike again.
Armed with only wit and Pradas, Skylar begins questioning the servants, but the growing list of suspects includes the sexy and brooding caretaker, Dorian Delacroix, a man desperately trying to forget his tragic past. And a major distraction for Skylar.
Determined to play detective—instead of the fashion police—and unravel the dark history of the mansion, Skylar is plunged into an otherworldly mystery that not even she can explain away. As the boundaries between reality and dreams blur, Skylar’s greatest challenge is to stay alive long enough to learn the truth.
5 of 5 Immortal Eclipse
Listen up all you Fashionista's in the world this book is for you! Man can I say that Sherry is AMAZING because this book has it all in it. She has murder, mystery, romance, and fashion! Dam what girl would not like fashion in their lives! Plus there is mystery and murder and a new book boyfriend Dorian Delacroix Holy HADES he is CALIENTE HOT!
Immortal Eclipse is a story about a girl Skylar who is a fashionista living the life in New York until one day she gets a call that her uncle is murdered. Skylar learns that she has inherited her uncles mansion Summerwind. Skylar decides she is going to move into the mansion and try and solve her uncles murder. Only Skylar gets more then she bargains for when she moves into the mansion. She starts to have these haunting nightmares of a woman being murdered at the mansion. Skylar soon realizes that she needs to solve the mystery behind her uncles murder in order to figure out the mysteries of the mansion Summerwind.
As Skylar talks to all the people that work in the Mansion she realizes that there is more at the mansion than meets the eyes and she is also curious about the grounds caretaker Dorian Delacroix. Skylar is intrigued by him but she has to focus on the murders that are happening at the mansion. She needs to figure out what is going on and who is killing people at the mansion before it is to late.
What will she find? Will she be killed before she solves the mystery? Will she and Dorian be together? Will she be able to handle the truth when it comes out? This is a must read because Sherry has created this world where things are not always as they seem.......
At the first thump, I finger the handle of the Glock 19 under my pillow. A girl living alone in New York must be careful, even in the Upper East Side. My fingers are clumsy and moist as I slide the safety off, the cold metal heavy in my hand.
I sit up slowly, listening hard, my body tense. An eerie sensation batters my senses, like a sixth sense awakening, blooming, and soaking through my bones. As the distinctive reaction intensifies, the pulsing beat of urgency clears my head, pouring strength into my taut muscles. I try to swallow, but the lump of dread in my throat won’t let me.
This isn’t the first time I’ve felt such a sensation, but right now it’s off the charts. My weird intuition often shows up right before I bump into an old friend, hear a knock on my door or a phone ringing, or worse, when I’m about to find myself knee-deep in shit. My own personal warning device.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The thumping noise is replaced by a scratching on the other side of my apartment, sounding like fingernails grating down a chalkboard. The apartment responds, crooning under a blanket of wind.
Every so often when I’ve been on assignment for photography gigs or with my grandma—and I’ve been to some decidedly obscure locations—the weather transforms once darkness falls, ushered in by the wind. Grandma said that whenever something bad is about to happen, the wind has a distinctive hum, a keening with sharp-edged teeth. Tonight the wind has that insidious howl.
I fumble to switch on the bedside lamp, and soft white light illuminates the room. Staggering to my feet, I stare at the closed bedroom door.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Hunching my shoulders, I take a tentative step toward the door. The hardwood floor is icy, and gooseflesh rises stiff and fast on my arms. A board groans sharply under my weight. So much for being quiet.
And the blinds are open, making me feel vulnerable, naked. Beyond the street lamps, lights blaze from towering skyscrapers and a sharp gust bends the trees. Even the brownstone is grunting and whining against the biting winds of approaching winter.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The hiss of chilling menace teases my spine as I force myself to move. I pop the clip out of the gun and check it. Still loaded. Whoever’s out there is messin’ with the wrong chick.
I swallow hard and ease forward, my bare feet shuffling closer to the door. I press my ear to the wood, motionless.
Then a new sound—this time closer. Something’s at the window. Tapping. Pinging. The fluttering of wings. The noise jangles my senses. Illuminated by a full moon, dozens of huge, furry black moths dive-bomb the glass, as if they’re on a kamikaze mission.
Moths in New York in October? Super weird.
A sudden draft moves through the room. It resembles sticky breath laden with foul odors, close and oppressive. That weird psychic sensation hits hard again, and suddenly it feels like I’ve shut myself in a dark closet with a hundred vipers.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
I freeze in place; the big muscles in my thighs wobble as though I just ran a marathon. The little hairs on my neck prickle as I wait for the noise to repeat, my body alive and alert to every sound.
This is stupid. I have a freakin’ gun. I wrench open the bedroom door and peer into the living room and adjoining kitchen. With the Glock held out in front of me, only a little unsteady, my eyes sweep the room. There’s no visible sign of anyone, no one hiding in the dark corners beyond the heavy furniture. Not many places to hide in a small New York apartment.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The noises are coming from the front door. Something or someone is trying to get in…or just trying to scare the hell outta me.
It could be a tree scraping in the wind. Or a guy in the next apartment coming home. But I know in my gut that it isn’t either of those things.
I turn on the floor lamp and hurry toward the front door.
Before I make it across the room, shadows shift beneath the door, and I skid to a stop on the waxed floor. He’s still there. I grip the gun tighter and for a moment, and neither of us moves. Whoever it is, he’s in the hallway, waiting.
My mouth goes dry. The Glock, squeezed tight in my shaking hand, gleams dully. My French manicure stands out starkly against the sleek black weapon. If I have to shoot, please don’t let me hit an innocent person.
The floorboard squeaks out in the hallway, the sound rocketing over the brownstone’s casual mutterings. Footsteps thump, fade then return, as though he’s pacing.
I debate calling a neighbor or the police, but my stubborn pride tells me I can handle this myself. And I’ll feel stupid if I call them for nothing.
I tilt the gun up, relieved it has a fresh clip. Go away. I really don’t want to shoot anyone.
The scratching stops. I frown.
Thwack! A force bangs on the wood with an angry fist. My heart jolts, and one hand flies up to clutch at my throat. The door shakes so hard, I recoil to a corner near the couch. Then the doorknob turns, the metal creaking as something takes hold of it.
A faint rattling jiggles the doorknob.
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. Who the hell’s out there?
Every muscle in my body coils, and tension ripples in my shoulders. My brain stops working, stalled like a choked engine. Then I straighten and try to remain calm. Get a grip, Skylar!
My ears strain to sift past the barrage of insignificant stirrings of the building and the deafening thump of my pulse. With one hand, I grab my BlackBerry off the kitchen counter, my thumb hovering over the keypad. If he touches the door again, I’m calling 911.
Adrenaline fuels me as it races through my system, and I clench my teeth.
Then the rattling goes dead. Silence.
“Stop being such a friggin’ drama queen,” I mutter, my voice raspy, deeper than usual.
Those brave words don’t halt the foreboding touching my spine with frightening intensity.
The hardwood floor in the hallway creaks.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
Screams of frustration build at the back of my throat. Unable to stand it any longer, I charge the door. “Leave now! The cops are on their way!”
From under the crack in the door, dozens of large black moths spill into the room, churning in a sinister dark mass. They swarm near the doorway, but some fly about the room, their soft fluttering wings unnerving against my cheek. I jump back and brush them away in revulsion.
Where are they coming from? I want to shoo the ugly black things back outside, but I don’t want to go that close to the door.
I’m struck with the strong urge to escape back to the warmth of my bed, but I stand frozen in the middle of the apartment until I’m certain there are no more noises.
Everything is numb silence now, the world swathed in cotton. Even though the noises have ceased, my stomach flips over hard and sour.
Guess your freaky markings worked, Grandma. No more boogeyman.
I inherited this rent-controlled apartment from my grandmother, and I spent months redecorating it. She had painted strange runes on the walls, saying they kept the bad things out. After moving in, I painted over most of the hieroglyphics. Yeah, she was a batty old woman.
The prickling sixth sense buzzing over my skin like an electric current slowly retreats.
The midnight intruder is gone. No crazed murderer at my door.
Relief so powerful it drenches my entire body allows my heart to settle into a more normal rhythm.
After putting my BlackBerry on the counter, I click the safety back on and set the Glock next to the phone. I swat at the flickering moths with a tattered copy of Elle to shoo them into the night and close the window.
While I stand quivering and wondering about the midnight visitor, my gaze rests on the cream envelope lying on the kitchen table. The one I’d first thought was a wedding invitation. Yet another nail in my unmarried-still-tragically-single coffin.
Why does being single equate to being tossed in the bargain bin at Target? I’m a sophisticated and independent New Yorker—dammit.
Except lately I’ve been feeling so lost and lonely.
Moving closer, I run my fingers over the paper, feeling the bulge in the center from the car remote.
Not the wedding invitation I’d feared, it was an offer to visit my uncle’s remote seaside mansion in Carmel, California, complete with an airline ticket and car keys for his BMW parked at the airport. Sounded awesome.
But Uncle Gerard mysteriously died three days after I received it, his body carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey, bizarre markings sliced into his chest.
My favorite long-distance relative.
I don’t have the heart to throw it away, and I’d been staring at it for the last two weeks. I close my eyes and try not to dwell on the fact that I should’ve visited my uncle sooner, but I tremble all the way to the core of my belly.
Poor Uncle Gerard. My chest is hollow, as if someone punched a hole right through it. I miss my uncle and my family something awful. A weird feeling sits heavy on my chest, sinking into my bruised heart. I can’t shake it off. It’s a sudden tiredness that seeps deep into my bones, eating at my insides like a cancer. More than depression, it feels like suffocating loneliness. I haven’t experienced this kind of deep sorrow since Grandma died.
A day doesn’t pass that I don’t miss my overly superstitious grandmother. She was a travel writer and after my parents died, she’d dragged me around the world. It’s what started my lifelong passion for photography. The magazine she’d worked for even used a few of my photos in her articles. Our life together had been fun and adventurous, although the nomad lifestyle gave me a longing for a real home and a sense of stability.
That same restlessness still haunts me, like an obsessive itch I can’t scratch. As if I’ve been searching most of my life for a lost part of myself, an elusive piece I need to complete me. The emptiness grew worse after I heard that my uncle died.
Guilt turns my stomach into knots and I flop into a chair. I haven’t seen my uncle since he moved to California after his wife died. That was shortly after my high school graduation. Gerard wasn’t just my favorite uncle, he was my friend. Though he’d grown distant over the last two years, we still stayed in contact through emails and texts. Messages were basic, sometimes cryptic, but nothing that hinted he was in any sort of danger.
But I don’t want to think of any of that now.
I swallow hard and return to the bedroom, where a lavender duvet covers the queen-sized bed. I sit on the rumpled comforter and wrap my arms around my knees. The closet door is open, clothes peeking out. I’ve always considered the spacious closet the keystone of the apartment, revealing my distinctive character: amour pour la mode. Everything looks serene and normal, no monsters waiting to jump out at me.
Maybe Grandma’s cyphers had kept me safe tonight.
But my thoughts are still whirling, as though I’m teetering on a ledge, fighting not to fall. A headache attacks as the adrenaline finally powers down and crashes. If I can just stop thinking about the creepy noises, my midnight visitor, and the eerie moths, I might be able to drift off. Or at least stop jumping at every little sound.
Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.
What caused the scratching noise and what had heightened my senses?
It seems the nightmares plaguing me nightly are now bleeding into reality.
The red digital numbers of the alarm clock flash midnight.
A sour taste fills my mouth, and another pang of remorse hits me. I should’ve tried harder to stay in closer contact with Uncle Gerard over the last year—instead of being so busy with my career—he was family. And Grandma had raised me better than that.
Sure, he was unconventional, but most people have an odd relative hanging from their family tree. When I was a child, he’d skulk the halls of my grandparents’ elegant home in the Hamptons, wearing tweed jackets and flat caps, resembling the typical nerdy college professor. But he always had time for me.
I faintly smile, remembering Uncle Gerard had been the subject of one of my first photo shoots, wearing his trademark corduroy knickers and a beanie cap, and posing for a teenager who thought she knew it all. Actually, I didn’t have a clue about artistic lighting and creative angles.
Grandma never understood why he moved out West to write a book on the occult after his wife’s funeral. But reasons don’t matter anymore because they’re all dead now, including my uncle.
The Grim Reaper apparently wants to be my best friend, staying in touch on a regular basis.
I relax and snuggle into my pillow.
Outside the window, I hear a whisper, “I’m waiting.”
I shiver and squeeze my eyes closed.
Must just be the cold, October wind. . . .
Welcome! I am a published Adult and YA novelist that writes thrilling tales with kickbutt heroines. This blog is where I shamelessly promote my books.
My debut YA series, Spellbound was published August 2011 by Disenchanted Publishing. My adult novel, IMMORTAL ECLIPSE published April 30, 2013.
Now that you're here, please haunt my blog. I promise to update often with quirky posts, contests, book giveaways, and chat about my adventures as an indie author. You can find me lurking daily on Twitter @WriterSherry and Facebook I know! I know!—I should probably spend more quality time on new stories. he he
On a more personal note, I’m snarky with a twisted sense of humor. I heart vampires and zombies. And I spend way too much time on Twitter.
So, you have been warned...
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