Prophecy's Language: Prophecy Series, #4

By Brenda Dyer

She'll need persistence to break through to his heart

 

Author Eleanor Donavon's life is finally going her way. She kicked her mentally abusive ex-husband to the curb, and her writing career is taking off. But her contented world changes when a stranger, who's the spitting image of one of her fictional vampire warriors, appears in her home on the pretense of whisking her away on a vacation. Believing him to be a cover model sent by her agent, Eleanor takes him up on his offer in hopes of getting to know him better. When she learns the truth about who he is, and the reason behind her imprisonment, her existence is rocked to the core. Now caught in the brutal politics surrounding vampires, her only hope of surviving is to trust Sin. To complicate matters, she's spellbound by the fierce warrior and falling for him hard. With her heart at stake, she must somehow break through his icy defenses to the man inside or forever lose him to his haunted past.

 

Her love gives him the faith to live again

 

Sin lives by his own code: don't care for anyone and you won't let them down. His past actions taught him that valuable lesson. When he receives the mission to abduct Eleanor, a beautiful author writing about the Vampire Prophecy, his heart jolts awake. For the first time in years he yearns to go against his principles and make her his forever, but fear won't allow it. When she becomes a target of the Sacred Order, Sin risks his career to save her, but the real danger lurks when he realizes he can't stop his head-on collision with love.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda Dyer
• Release date: Jun 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201146542

Book preview

Prophecy’s Language

77 Pinterest ideas | lil kodak, kodak black, kodak black wallpaper

Book Four in The Prophecy Series

Brenda Dyer

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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All Rights Reserved

Copyright March, 2015 by Brenda Dyer

http://www.brendamdyer.com

Cover by Designs By Duff

https://www.facebook.com/DesignsByDuff/

Prophecy Series:

Love’s Prophecy: Book 1

Prophecy’s Child: Book 2

Prophecy’s Power: Book 3

Prophecy’s Language: Book 4

Prophecy’s Healing: Book 5

Prophecy’s Awakening: Book 6

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This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The copying, scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Dedication AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

To my husband, Paul, for being so wonderful. Thank you.

To my sons, Tyler and Trevor. Thank you for being so awesome.

And thank you to all who’ve read and enjoyed my stories.

Vampire Prophecy

In the depth of time

when all sorrow shall climb

The gods shall send

the ones to help bring about the end

From these shall spring

The saviors to whom all shall cling

From light and dark

look for the mark.

The time will come

when the two shall make one.

Small warriors of light

dark warriors of might

From light and dark

look for the mark.

Chapter 1

Thursday, February, 06th, 2:08 p.m.

Squamish, British Columbia, Canada

I’m having a little...trouble with my latest book, Eleanor Donavon admitted to her agent as she trapped her phone against her shoulder and tried to rub the tension from her forehead.

A little trouble? More like woolly mammoth-sized trouble.

You’ll figure it out. You always do, Jackie said. I have complete faith in you, as does your publisher.

Eleanor nodded, listening as her agent reminded her she needn’t worry. There was plenty of time before her next novel was due to hit the stores. A year to be exact. But Jackie didn’t know Eleanor suffered from writer’s block for the first time since she began writing five years ago.

Jackie’s confident voice traveled the airwaves from her office in New York. Take a few weeks off—do a little traveling. Rest your brain before you burn yourself out. You’ve written three full-length books this past year. And your new series is burning up the charts.

Eleanor shifted the phone to her other ear, then sighed. I hope you’re right.

The sound of a lighter rasping, then a deep inhale told her Jackie was lighting up. From out of nowhere, the urge to smoke blindsided Eleanor, which was strange. She’d left that filthy habit in the cigarette-butt-filled ashtray years ago. And like most reformed smokers, she hated it now. The need to smoke had to be caused by the stress of her writer’s block.

Of course I’m right, Jackie said with a laugh. Have I ever steered you wrong?

No, but— Words jammed in her throat like logs down a narrow river. She couldn’t put a voice to her worries in case that cemented the block good and tight. Forever.

Eleanor picked up her glass of wine and took a sip.

But what?

Best to keep this block business to herself. For now, anyway. But she had to get off the phone, and the quickest way to achieve that goal was to tell Jackie what she wanted to hear. Nothing. And you’re right. I do need a break. Maybe I’ll take a trip to England and visit my sister. Wasn’t going to happen. Eleanor and Becky hadn’t spoken since their father’s funeral three years ago. And before that was their mother’s funeral, nine years previous.

There you go. Listen, doll, I gotta go—have to pack for my trip to Paaaris. Jackie let out a squeal of pure delight. Frank and I leave tomorrow at five in the morning. Tiffany will take over for me while I’m away, so if you need anything, she’ll take good care of you. Though, since you’ll be on vacation, I suspect Tiffany won’t hear from you, right?

Right. And Tiffany wouldn’t, even though Eleanor had no plans for a vacation. She had to work through this bloody writer’s block even if it killed her. She’d come too far in her career to allow a silly thing like that to destroy her dreams.

Good. I’ll talk to you in a couple of weeks, Jackie said.

Have fun in Paris. Send me a postcard.

Jackie laughed. Who wouldn’t have fun in Paris? Toodles, doll.

"Au revoir." Eleanor ended the call, then drained the rest of the wine in her glass. She gazed around the modern, airy elegance of her condo living room in hopes the beauty would help calm her nerves. She loved the sandy, neutral wall color, the dark flooring, the white area carpet, and the sunlight streaming through the large windows. Trailing her fingers over the white leather sectional and oak side table, she made her way to the sliding glass doors and gazed out at the city. With the condo situated on the fourth floor, she had a decent view of the shops below, and the pedestrians as they enjoyed the rare sun-filled February day.

In the distance, the tall structures of downtown Squamish filled the skyline, and towering above all were majestic mountains, capped by the pale blue sky.

She loved this city. She’d moved here after her divorce, picking Squamish not only for its beauty, but because it was far enough away from Abbotsford where her ex lived and worked.

When Thomas ended their marriage, the thought of moving back to England had rattled around her brain for two seconds before she’d tossed it. There was nothing left for her; hadn’t been since she met and married Thomas at the ripe old age of sixteen. Against her parents’ warnings that she was making a huge mistake, she’d waved goodbye to family, friends, and all that was familiar to her to follow him to Canada. Obviously, her Mum and Dad had seen through Thomas’ facade to his cold, money-driven, selfish core. Not like they’d been any better. Guess like-minded people saw similar traits in others.

But like the love-struck, immature girl she’d been, Eleanor had risked all to be with the man she’d loved.

And where had that love got her? Thirty-one and divorced, staring down the rest of her life alone and childless, parents who’d disowned her, and ten wasted years as she’d worked her guts out at a go-nowhere office supply store—shelving her dreams of becoming a writer—so her husband could pursue his dreams of becoming a doctor. To add more salt to the gaping hole where her childish fantasies and pride once resided, Thomas had booted her to the curb a month after her father’s funeral. Oh, he would never admit the reason, but she knew damn well why he finally had the balls to end their relationship. Her parents had written her out of their will, due to the fact she had defied them. Her not-so-loving—cheap—husband finally had the proof his wife would not inherit a substantial amount of money, no matter how many times she had warned him of that fact.

Funny part of the whole mess was neither the divorce nor her parents’ final display of we-don’t-recognize-you-as-our-daughter had hurt all that much. She’d filed both away in the well-life-can-sure-be-a-bitch drawer. Her marriage had been a joke for years, and the relationship with her parents had been strained since she could remember.

A hummingbird hovered in front of the patio door. Eleanor smiled and pressed a finger against the cool glass. The little bird drew closer. The sun illuminated the shiny green feathers covering the tiny creature’s head. Black eyes regarded her before the bird flew to the hummingbird feeder filled with red sugar water.

Birds had it made. If life sucked, they could take off to new destinations whenever the mood struck them, unlike humans.

She sighed then faced the room. Her home. The home she bought with her own money—money she’d made through her writing. A sense of pride filled her chest as she stared at the three movie-sized posters of the covers to her latest novels hanging above the gas fireplace: Prophecy of Love. Child of the Prophecy. Power of the Prophecy.

Though she had written and published ten books to date, her latest vampire series finally made her a household name in the romance book world.

Take that, Thomas, you...Doubting Thomas. She laughed. You said I couldn’t do it. Well, look at me now.

Her sense of wellbeing evaporated. Fear and anxiety took center stage again. Two words flashed through her mind: writer’s block.

Crap. If you don’t get yourself together and leap over this hurdle, you’ll lose everything.

I won’t lose anything, she muttered. I’ll conquer the block.

Right. Eleanor walked into her kitchen and snagged the bottle of wine off the marble counter, then marched back into the living room. Normally not much of a drinker, she filled her glass to the brim. Today, the effects of alcohol were needed to keep the screaming fears and doubts at bay.

Taking a large sip, she savored the bitter yet sweet liquid before swallowing. Raising her glass, she said, Forget about Calgon. Wine, take me away.

Her cell phone jingled.

Grrr. She pulled the phone from her sweater pocket and checked the number. Annoyance pounded through her. Her nerves were already strung tight, and this conversation would surely send her over the edge. What does he want now?

Don’t answer. Yeah, but if she didn’t, he’d just keep calling, over and over, leaving increasingly annoying messages.

She downed the wine before perching the glass on the coffee table, then clicked talk. What?

Well, hello to you too, sweetheart, Thomas said on the other end. His voice was tight, and she knew full well he was pissed at her, but was struggling to hide his anger.

Eleanor closed her eyes, trying to control her temper. She knew what he wanted, but he could go fly a kite and hopefully get electrocuted. What do you want, Thomas? I’m busy writing. You’re such a liar. And I don’t have time to play games with you today—or any day.

Isn’t that nice? You don’t have five minutes for your husband? His control slipped, and the true Thomas came through. His tone was hard and edged with rage, ready to explode.

And she was buzzed enough and tired enough of all his crap to not bother trying to placate him. "I believe you have your wives mixed up. I’m Eleanor, your ex-wife. You’re looking for Tanya, your current wife." She smiled at his hissed curse, picturing his face reddening, and the veins in his neck bulging.

I told you we split up last month. I’ve already started the divorce proceedings.

She rolled her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Heaving a deep sigh, she added a smug smile to her voice. Good for Tanya. So, what do you want?

What do you mean, what do I want? The edge in his voice became sharper. Are you deaf or dense? I’ve been telling you for the past month what I want. He cleared his throat. I’d like for you and I to patch things up. I miss you, Ellie. Now his voice was smoother than a silk sheet, bordering on whiny.

Eleanor covered her mouth, holding back her laugh of derision. No point sending the old boy into a rage-induced cardiac arrest. His insult bounced off her, as did his sickening sweetness. She had been down this road with him too many times for it to bother her. And as for his declaration of missing her, she had two words for him: Fuck off.

But instead, she replied, "I told you last night, the night before, and every day this past month that we will never get back together. If you need it in writing to get it through your thick skull, then I’ll be glad to type something up and mail it to you."

A sharp draw of breath filled her ear. You bitch!

If she had a nickel for every time, during and after their marriage, that he’d called her a bitch, she’d be a billionaire. But what he failed to understand was he didn’t have any power over her anymore. Thomas, I’m hanging—

Who the fuck do you think you’re talk—

Bye, she said over his ranting.

Don’t you dare hang up on me.

You forget I don’t have to listen to your shit anymore. Toodles, doll, she said, mimicking her agent. She pulled the phone from her ear, and just as she was about to click end, his shouted demand made her pause. With the phone back against her ear, she asked, What did you just say?

You owe me money. His words were spoken in a calm tone, but she wasn’t fooled. The more composed he became, the more enraged he was.

Shocked, she couldn’t speak for a second.

You still there? he asked.

Finally, she found her voice. In what universe do you think I owe you money?

You owe me for the two years I supported your lazy ass after you quit working to write. You weren’t making any money. I paid for everything. I figure twenty thousand for both years should do it—and don’t say you can’t afford it. I know better.

Rage slowly wound through her body. Her muscles tightened, and tremors lit off in her legs. You’re crazier than even I imagined. What about the years I supported you while you went to med school? The way I figure it, you owe me money.

I paid you out after our divorce, so don’t think of trying to get another dime from me! The volume of his voice rose, and his breathing became labored.

Was he serious? Even for Thomas, this conversation was out there, surfing the Outer Limits. Though as strange as it was, it made sense why he’d been trying to get back together with her since he split from his wife. He didn’t miss or love her. No, he must have found out how much money Eleanor made from her writing. And the money-driven bastard wanted in on it. Well, not in this lifetime.

Ten thousand dollars, Thomas. That’s all you gave me after ten years of shit and abuse. And I didn’t contest it—and my lawyer begged me to, believe me. I just wanted out. So, let me make this clear so even you’ll understand. You. Will. Not. Get. A. Cent. From. Me. Ever.

He must have heard the conviction in her voice because his attitude changed. He sighed. What happened to you, Ellie? You used to be so sweet and giving. You’ve turned cold.

Because of you, Jackass. I’ve changed, Thomas. I’m not the naive woman you married.

Yeah, I noticed. Gone was his playacting. The true Thomas was back in action. I saw your picture in the back of your last book. I must say, you looked like a whore.

Of all the crap that had fallen from his mouth, this remark sent her anger soaring. A whore? She barked out a cold laugh. Coming from you, that’s a compliment.

Yes, a whore. You were well on your way to being a whore when I met you, but I thought you’d changed. Obviously not.

His smug, condescending tone and words almost drove her over the cliff. Fury built inside, swirling around, looking for a way out. The strong emotion crawled up her throat and burst through her lips. Fuck you, you controlling bastard.

And now you’re talking like a slut. You never used to swear before.

Oh, I swore before, just did it behind your back. If you could have heard all the names I called you. She laughed again. Whatever. The days of me listening to you are over—thank God.

I always knew you were a worthless slut. Even your parents knew that, and cut you from their lives and will.

If he stood in front of her, she’d happily strangle him. Suddenly, her inner self spoke up. What are you doing? Why are you allowing him to get to you? Hang up the damn phone!

She gripped the phone tight, then snarled, I’m done talking to you. Oh, and just so you know, I’m shutting off my cell and turning the ringer off on my landline.

This isn’t over, Eleanor. You owe me—

I owe you nothing. With that, she clicked End, powered down her phone, then tossed it onto the white matching chair next to the couch. The phone bounced once then landed on the floor.

Eleanor stormed across the length of her living room, down the short hallway, past her bathroom decorated in light greens and off white, turned around, and marched back, as she tried to get herself under control. Standing in the middle of the living room, she sighed. Stop letting him get to you. He’s mental—you know that. And more importantly, he isn’t your problem anymore. You have bigger problems. Like writing your next novel.

She stared up at the book posters. Shit.

But damnit. His callous remark about her looking like a whore in her new author photo had hurt. No, it pissed her off. She was proud of that picture—proud of her new look.

Her gaze cut to the bookshelves flanking the fireplace. Without thinking, she moved to the tall mahogany shelves and scanned the book spines until she found her last novel. She pulled it from its resting place and flipped to the inside back cover.

A black and white picture of her standing under a large oak tree smiled back at her. She wore a knee-length, form-fitting black skirt that hugged her slim but rounded hips. Sexy high-heeled pumps made her legs look long and shapely, even though she stood only five foot three. The classy blue blouse she’d chosen brought out the blue in her eyes, though the picture was devoid of color. Her long, auburn hair with blonde highlights was cut in a seductive style. Her makeup was tasteful, enhancing eyes, lips, and cheekbones.

I don’t look like a hussy, you stupid pinhead. She glared at her cell phone lying on the floor, thinking of Thomas. You’re pissed off because you can’t control me anymore.

From the deep recesses of her mind, a thought bubbled to the forefront. Then shame skittered up her spine before settling like a lead ball in her belly. If Thomas hadn’t ended their marriage, she’d probably still be with him. He’d had her completely reliant on him. From the start, he isolated her from family and friends while slowly destroying her self-esteem. And she allowed it—all of his demands and psychological abuse—making excuses for his bizarre behavior because she’d been too frightened to leave him. She’d chosen to put up with his angry, insane tantrums rather than face a life alone.

Forget it. Thoughts like this will get you nowhere. The point is, you are free of him, and doing well on your own. And if you want to continue doing well, you better figure out your next book.

She shoved Thomas from her mind and then made her way to the computer. Once seated at the desk, Eleanor opened the document titled: Working Title: Unknown.

The blank screen mocked her. The blinking cursor seemed to say, loser, loser, loser.

With her elbows on the sleek black desktop, she closed her eyes and tried to get into the zone; tried to think of possible characters, plot, and conflict, but nothing formed. It truly felt like a wall had been erected in her head.

Anxiety rooted and spread its doubt-filled fingers throughout her head. Her heart sped up and her legs felt rubbery.

Jumping up, she paced in front of the patio doors. What’s the matter with me? Why can’t I write? She tunneled her fingers through her hair and pulled.

Thomas. He was the reason. All his damn phone calls. All his bullshit about loving and missing her were screwing with her mind and motivation.

Or maybe this wall was created by her disheartened view of relationships and men.

It wasn’t like she didn’t believe in love, because she did. Believing in true love was a necessity when writing romance novels. But she didn’t trust her instincts anymore when it came to matters of the heart. With Thomas, she’d fallen completely under the spell of his blond good looks, brooding blue eyes, toned body, and take-charge, controlling attitude. She’d been a terrible judge of character and was freaked she’d repeat the same mistakes by falling for the wrong type of man again—another alpha male.

Alpha men were fine as fictional characters in romance novels, but not in real life. The next time she fell in love, it would be with a beta male.

Chapter 2

February, 06th, 4:10 p.m.

Surrey, British Columbia, Canada

Mel, wake up. You’re not going to believe this.

Breeana’s urgent voice penetrated Mel’s sleep-filled mind. He grunted, but didn’t open his eyes.

Wake up. She whipped the covers off his face and gave his shoulder a hard shake.

He peeled open his eyelids and squinted against the light coming from the table lamp next to the bed. His wife’s lovely face hovered above him; her long brunette hair hung down, tickling his cheek.

Panic filled her hazel eyes.

Christ, the baby!

Adrenaline shot through his veins. He jerked up and seized her upper arms. Are you okay? Is it the baby?

No—and I’m fine. But look at this. She thrust a book an inch from his face.

He stared at Breeana as his fear abated. If anything happened to her or the baby, he’d...

Stop it. She’s fine.

Once his heart ceased its wild, erratic dance, his attention readjusted on the book so close to his face that his eyes couldn’t bring it into focus. He took it from her hand and studied the glossy red cover. Written across the top in large black lettering, it read: Prophecy of Love. Below, a black-haired man kissed the throat of a beautiful brunette.

Confused, he cocked a brow at Breeana in a silent question. Okay. Nice...book.

She heaved a sigh, grabbed the paperback, and flipped it open. She shoved it toward him.

The moment he read the page header, his heart jackknifed and plummeted to his feet. Slowly, he clasped the book and read the familiar fourteen short sentences. His gaze dropped to the picture of a crooked dagger then snapped back to his wife. He read her shock and puzzlement easily. What the hell? This is the Vampire Prophecy, word for bloody word—and the symbol.

She nodded. I know.

Where did you get it? He flipped it closed and stared at the author’s name. Eleanor Donavon.

Breeana sat on the bed and placed her hands over her very pregnant belly. From Barcley’s bookstore in the mall. Katherine and I were shopping, and I stopped in to browse the romance section. I was excited to see new books by Eleanor—she’s one of my favorite authors. Plus, she’s local. Anyway, you could imagine my shock when I checked inside and saw the Vampire Prophecy. I...I can’t believe it. Fear filled her eyes. How could this have happened? How does she know about the Prophecy? Could she somehow know about vampires?

Mel studied the author’s photo on the back inside cover. She was a pretty, petite woman, with an engaging smile. I have no clue.

He tossed off the brown comforter and placed his feet on the carpeted floor. After handing the book back to his wife, he scraped his hair back from his face. This was trouble—big trouble. Was the author a vampire? Somehow, he doubted it, but how the fuck did she know about the Prophecy?

Shit.

Mel faced Breeana. She continued smoothing a hand over her protruding stomach. Even with the frown scrunching her forehead, she never looked more beautiful. Her shiny brunette hair cascaded around her shoulders in loose curls, and her front teeth worried her full bottom lip.

Forgetting the book for a moment, he cupped the nape of Breeana’s neck and pulled her lips to his. I didn’t kiss you hello.

Her hazel eyes darkened to green, and her smile grew seductive. No, you didn’t. But under the circumstances, I’ll let it slide—this time.

As her fingers tangled in his hair, Mel groaned, then claimed her lips with gentle yet urgent need. Their tongues lazily danced, fueling the fire in them both.

Although Mel sensed her desire, he also sensed