Awakening: Goddess Kissed Novel, #1

By Ivy Carter

Living in a world never truly meant for her, Ella Reese has tried her whole life to fit into the mold her parents wanted, and not stand out in a small town where gossip reigned supreme. Despised for what she is, she will be lucky to make it through her senior year alive.
However, Ella suddenly finds herself thrust into a journey where she not only discovers she is a powerful True Witch but a life mate has also been chosen for her. Slowly falling for her soul mate,Jaxx.
Ella is reunited with a family who accepts her for exactly who she is. Ella starts to find comfort in this new life and love she has found, right before her world is ripped apart. As she travels the path Fate has set her on…
Chances must be taken.
Decisions must be made.
Death stalks her every step, but she must uncover the secrets hidden from her or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ivy Carter
• Release date: Sep 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393258155

Book preview

DEDICATION

To my love, my biggest fan and my best friend.

Content Notes

This book contains strong language, violence, and some sexual overtones. This book also contains dark content in a variety of forms, including depictions of abuse and bullying. It is intended for older teen readers and up.

This book is sold subject to the condition that is not b way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior written consent.

©Text Copyright 2019 Tasha Gwartney

All Rights Reserved

Prologue.

How could you have let that fanged louse get you with child, Morgana asks her sister with seething anger lacing her voice. How is it even possible for you to get pregnant? Goddesses don’t have spawn...We must get rid of it. We will fling this thing inside of you to the wind and hope that it doesn’t come back to haunt us later in life, Morgana orders her sister who is crying tears of pain and despair.

Laying beyond the veil, mourning the loss of her lover, her potential mate. Hekate realizes that her sister is right. She can’t give birth to an abomination. A crossbreed. But she realizes that she can store the light. Store it until the right time, implant it into a loyal mortal, then guide it...Make it into something that will seek revenge upon the one that spurned her and the gifts that she bestowed upon him. Hekate lays her hand upon her stomach and feels the light there, it is a tiny thing. But it burns oh so bright. Like a star trapped within a darkened shroud.

You will become my own, then I will turn you into my ultimate weapon little one, Hekate tells the light glowing within.

Morgana smiles a wicked smile once she sees the malicious intent written upon her sister Goddess’s face.

Let the games begin...

Chapter 1.

I am sitting in the back of our tiny white church, in a pew all to myself, as usual. Being the preacher’s kid doesn’t exactly make you Miss Popularity. I have listened to my father go on and on about the sins of the flesh so many times that it all sounds like static white noise anymore. But just then, smack in the middle of the climax of his sermon, the back doors of the chapel swing open with a huge bang. The noise fairly vibrates throughout the whole congregation. The look on my father’s face is comical. I bet he wishes he could catch everyone’s attention that well.

Everyone swivels in their seats to get an eyeful of the latecomer. I’m not the only one with my chin hitting my knees. He is a beauty, the purest form of male beauty that I have ever looked upon. I nicknamed him the Nordic god for posterity’s sake.

There he stands with the sun shining behind him, looking around our gloomy existence. I’m gaping in utter shock at what I am seeing in front of me. He is the man from my dreams. I have been dreaming about him since I was a small child. The dreams always carry me into different worlds or different times, but there is always one constant. Him.

I don’t know his name, but his face is as familiar to me as my own. And now he is standing there looking around as if he is searching for someone.

I am sure I can picture what he is seeing. Sardines. Mediocre Sardines. That’s what our congregation reminds me of, so why not him? He continues to look from right to left as if he is searching someone out. Then his eyes meet mine. I swear I am struck by lightning. Hair standing on end. Electroshock. That’s what that first glance feels like.

When his eyes meet mine, his facial features don’t change. He just simply stops looking for anyone else. He just pauses, lifts a brow, in that annoying way that only hot people can pull off, and he smirks at me. Like there is something on my face. I lift my hand, searching for whatever it is about my face that he finds so amusing. I find nothing. I guess it is just me.

I do what every self-respecting eighteen-year-old girl should (notice I don’t say would) do. I flip him the bird, smirk right back at him, and turn my humorous ass around in my pew. Yup, I am quite proud of myself at this moment. I hid my shock at finally seeing this man in the flesh quite well if I do say so myself. And I didn’t fall to the floor like a simpering fool. The man is that gorgeous. Judging by the other gaping sardines surrounding me, I am not the only one to think so.

My reaction elicits a booming belly laugh from the Nordic god. It sounds kind of rusty, so he probably isn’t used to laughing. Or maybe he just isn’t used to a member of the female race not simpering. I give myself an inner shrug and struggle not to turn around and watch what he might do next. As I said, nothing interesting ever happens here. It is almost painful to make myself refrain.

About two minutes into my staring at my father’s flabbergasted face, I hear another slam. One I assume is due to the doors closing. I wonder what would make someone want to announce their arrival in such a way. Interrupting a conversation was one thing, but a closed assembly? The boy has stiff biscuits, I’ll give him that. It takes my father all of three seconds after the interloper’s departure to call the attention, once again, upon himself. Pffffft. And he calls me an attention whore.  I’d wondered where I got it from.

My mother moves to my pew and hisses something in my ear that I don’t quite hear. Until she pinches my arm to get my attention.

Why can’t you just pay attention for once, Ella? It shouldn’t be that hard. You have been listening to your father lead his flock since you were in diapers.

I turn to her and stare blankly, thinking that maybe if I wasn’t subjected to the same wonk, wonk, wonk of my dad’s voice day in and out, I wouldn’t have a problem hearing or at least pretending to be interested in what he had to say.

Mom, I wasn’t the only one distracted by the commotion. I think you might have a bit of drool on your chin. I point. Just there.

She gives an offended huff, straightens in her seat, and pretends, just like the rest of us, that my father is God’s gift to seminary.

Once the droning on and on is finished, we all file out of our seats and down the aisle like the good little Chiclets that we are. We shake hands at the front doors and half heartily invite various other sardines over for Sunday brunch. In a small town like ours, you always attend church on Sundays. It doesn’t matter if you are a true believer or if you are pretending to believe. You show up. If you don’t, you get blackballed. No one wants to be the person that gets sneered at for being honest about what they believe. I wish I was that brave.

The next morning, I wake up to my mother’s screeching. This isn’t the first time that I have woken up to her screaming like that. I am sure it won’t be the last.  

.

Ella! It is my mom yelling for me to get my lazy bum out of bed and not my alarm making the annoying sounds. The alarm clock doesn’t give me headaches in the mornings. She does. I turn over and try to squeeze fifteen more minutes out of my sleepy time, or at least wait for my alarm to go off at the time I set it for. Nope, it isn’t going to happen this morning.

Ella! Get out of bed before I get the ice water, she screeches. Yes, she really would dump ice water on me. What a loving maternal figure. I roll my ‘lazy’ ass out of bed, reaching for the alarm. It starts to buzz right before I touch it, then sizzles to a stop as soon as I touch it.

Well, another one bites the dust, I think to myself.

I wish I knew why I have this static electric thing stuck inside me. I fry or shock myself on pretty much anything metal that I touch. Thank goodness I have learned to hide it well. Sometimes I don’t even notice it anymore.

I stumble for my shower, hoping against hope that I won’t bang my toe against something on the way. This is the first day of my senior year at the high school here in town.  I wish I could be more excited, but I am just expecting the same clichés, the same who is wearing what, and what great stupendous things they try to play off that they’d done over break. There is one bright spot, I think. Maybe the Nordic god will be attending, or maybe I need to stop with the wishful thinking already. I laugh at myself and roll my eyes. I just am not that lucky.

I stay in the shower until the water starts to run cold, then jump out and towel off, wondering what I am going to throw on to wear that will pass muster. My parents won’t let me leave the house unless I look like something from an Amish settlement. Well, they can try at least. I am technically an adult, being eighteen, so they can’t say much as of my last birthday. They can hem and haw about whatever they want, but I can also move out of this hell hole that has everyone fooled into thinking that we are the perfect fifties, sitcom family. We must keep up appearances after all.

I stand in front of my mirror and look at myself. It isn’t the first time I have noticed that I don’t look anything like my parents, who are both short with mousey brown hair and simply boring features. I, on the other hand, topped off at 5’11" last year, have long, stick-straight black hair that falls to the middle of my back, and a slender body with curves in all the right places. But the feature that stands out the most is my eyes. They look green even from a distance, but up close they are a startling jade, and when I am angry, they fairly glow.

When I was three and decided to throw a fit because my mother wouldn’t let me go out and play with the other kids at the playground outside the church, she shrieked as if Satan had just poked her in the ass with his giant fork. My eyes had glowed like I was possessed by a demon; at least, that was Mother’s account of what had happened. She and my father tried to have a Catholic Priest perform an exorcism on me. That didn’t quite work out like they had hoped, considering the priest had laughed until he was crying after he met me. Such loving parents I got saddled with. I have always wondered if I was adopted. Hoped really, but they always clam up and deny it.

What draws attention, aside from my eyes, is my face, although I don’t see what the big deal is. To me, it is just a normal face, just simply me, but my best friend, Jessa, says otherwise.

"Wench, you have a face that could launch a thousand hard-ons. And you don’t even see it. It just makes the masses of jock-strap swinging boys at our old school want you even more," she always says.

Speaking of Jessa, I hear her blaring the horn from the front drive of our two-story craftsman-style home. She refuses to step foot in my home. Not that I blame her. Not in the least.

I stop scrutinizing myself, run for my closet and pull out the first thing I find. I throw on a short, light-washed denim skirt that is frayed around the edges and a gray fitted tee. I start searching the mound of shoes at the bottom of my closet for my red chucks, and once I put them on, I slap on some deodorant, grab my Coach Messenger bag, spray on some Tommy Girl, and run out the door. I’ll just have to braid my hair and spackle on some make-up in Jessa’s car. I hope she drives decently, or I am going to lose an eye trying to apply my eyeliner. I have always loved Mondays, and this is the perfect start to one.

My mother stops me on my way out the door.

What on God’s sacred earth are you wearing, Ella? She is practically screeching again. Does she always have to make her voice so shrill? I think.

"Listen, I’m running out of time. I’m well and truly late! I can and will wear what I want and how I want to wear it. If you don’t like it, Mother, then please make a scene. I’m sure your cronies down at the quilting circle would love to hear all about it!"

You are truly a child of sin, she accuses.

And what does that make you, Barbra?  I’m your child after all. Aren’t I, I reply.

I am pretty sure by this point that my mom is going to blow chunks. She looks sweaty and grayish. This is my cue to leave. I book it out the door as fast as my chucks will carry me and jump in Jessa’s clunker, banging the door closed. I sit in the passenger seat panting, wondering what the next thing to jump out at me this morning will be. Jessa is looking at me like I’m crazy.

Drive this thing. She’s in a mood this morning. You should have seen her face when I tried to leave just now. She looked like she wanted to claw my eyes out for not wearing the Amish clothes she bought me over the summer. Ugh, I explain in exasperation.

We are seniors now...Why is she still trying to buy your clothes for you? I swear that woman gets more controlling every day, Jessa tells me in an exasperated voice.

She guns it out of our drive and squeals her tires as she shoots down my quiet little street. I am sure our neighbors are probably on the phone with everyone they know, exaggerating everything they saw out their windows this gosh-awful morning.

Jessa nods to herself.

Your momma is seriously crazy, she says, explaining it as only Jessa can.

I can’t help but laugh. This is why she is my best friend. Like me, she doesn’t come from the best home either. Her mom died of cancer when Jessa was ten and her father works all the time. Sure, he buys her whatever she wants, but what she really and truly wants is a parent that gives his time, not one who writes a check and calls it a day.

I met Jessa when we first started junior high. We had lockers next to one another and I had been blocking her way. She called me a wench and told me to move my Amazonian ass so she wouldn’t be late for her next class. And I have loved her blunt, brash bum ever since that day.

In the looks department, we’re opposites. I’m tall and mostly slender, but she’s short with banging curves, topping off barely over five feet. And while my hair’s coal-black and stick straight, hers is short, curly and golden blonde. When you see her, you see a Monroe look-alike, until she opens her mouth. Then you have to wonder what trucker crawled up her bum and took control of her speaking functions. Some of the most outrageous things can slip out of her mouth at the most inconvenient times. The girl truly doesn’t have a filter. It’s one of the many things I love about her.

We pull into the student lot, careening around like we are on a race circuit. Didn’t I tell you the wench can’t drive? Well, she can’t. Every time I ride with her, I make good use of the ‘oh crap’ handle. Trust me; it could make the least religious person start to pray with her behind the wheel.

We swerve into the only open space near the front of the lot with smoking, squealing breaks. I look over at Jessa and give her the stink eye.

What? You know I know what I’m doing, girly. Stop being such a priss and just go with it. Yeah like that is going to happen.

Have you ever heard of Driver’s Ed? Yeah, well your mini-me bum needs to enroll ASAP!

Don’t call me short, glamazon. You know you wish you looked like this.  She looks herself up and down. She is wearing black leather leggings, an off one shoulder sparkly yellow top, and the highest black booties I have ever seen. They must be at least six inches high. I just roll my eyes, step out of her death trap, shrug my bag across my body and wait for her while she gathers her things from the front of the car. I seriously don’t have a clue how she can saunter in those shoes. They would trip me up with every step. When she finally makes it over to where I am standing, strutting the entire way, she pulls her new schedule out of her faux Gucci bag.

So, how many classes do we have together for this semester, she asks as we start walking through the hordes of other students toward the front doors of our tiny in town, local high school.

Pinewood High School has an amazing student body count of only twelve hundred. Everyone knows everything and everyone’s business. Again, the joys of living in a small town. Nothing changes. Everything stands still. Stagnant. I reach into the back pocket of my skirt, take out the schedule that I had gotten at orientation, and hand it to her. She had gotten hers at the same time. But my guess is that she forgot to ask to compare them then because she was too busy checking out the local male specimens.

Squeeee, she suddenly bounces like a little kid at Christmas. We have five out of seven classes together and we both break at the same time for lunch. GO US, she shouts.

I’m so glad we’re going to be here together, Ella. Seniors!! Can you believe it? I wonder if we have any fresh meat that I haven’t seen yet. The buffet around this town can use some new. Ya know?

That’s when I see him, the Nordic god, standing off to the side almost directly in our path. I look quickly down at my feet, trying but failing to fight the full-body blush that I can feel coming on. Keeping my head down isn’t going to work, so I peek up through my eyelashes to check that he hasn’t caught me blushing. That would seriously be cringe worthy. To be caught fawning over him like some simpering, stuttering schoolgirl, I think.

What I see when I get another clear view of his smexiness makes me huff inwardly. Of course, he is surrounded by all the beautiful people that take up the top shelf of our tiny town, but he seems to only have eyes for me. Again, he is staring at my face like he knows me or like there is something stuck on it. I try to discreetly wipe away whatever has caught his attention once again. He just smirks at me and continues to lock eyes with me. Today he has his long, almost-white hair tied back with a leather band, is wearing light wash jeans that probably cost more than three times what Jessa’s car did, a black faded rolling stones tee that hugs his massive arms and chest, with leather cuffs on his wrists. It makes me wonder what he rode to school in or on.

As we pass by, I can’t help but snark in his direction.

Stare much?

He just does that annoying eyebrow lift and leers at me. I swear his eyes are as familiar to me as my own. They have haunted my dreams for years. Not that I would tell anyone else that bit of news.

To hide my inner turmoil, I roll my eyes and stroll on as if I have all the confidence of a supermodel. Jessa is watching all of this and stays silent for once. I can’t wait to hear what she has to say about him once we reach a quiet space. It is so not normal for her to be so closed mouthed about anything. Maybe she is struck mute by his seemingly physical perfection. I wouldn’t doubt it. He seems to be charming the masses, judging by the horde of giggling priss-bots surrounding him like a lynch mob.

When we reach just inside the front doors,

Reviews for Awakening

[Charlene Baker · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I should give this only 1 star. I have read plenty of books that end without an actual ending but this goes beyond that. Both books I've read by this author just end like someone ripped out the last pages.