Dying Ember, Olden Ash

By River K. Scott

A secret guild protects the living. Will a young guardian break the rules to save doomed souls?

Seventeen-year-old Emily Mars would give up purgatory patrol in a heartbeat if it meant digging up some normalcy. So when a moment of compassion gets her banned from service, she takes the time off to focus on securing a cross-country scholarship. But just two days before the championship race, the sidelined spiritual warrior is approached by a ghost desperate to find his missing sister.

Defying orders, Emily sets out to assist the dead teen before he morphs into a ravenous killer. But with her dreamy running partner and fellow Ranger refusing to help, her solo journey could destroy her future… and her life.

Will Emily’s courage and skill keep evil at bay, or will her impetuous rebellion bear deadly consequences?

Dying Ember, Olden Ash is the first episode in the binge-worthy Rangers of the Rift YA urban fantasy series. If you like action-packed suspense, supernatural mysteries, and a splash of romance, you’ll love River K. Scott’s thrilling tale.

Buy Dying Ember, Olden Ash to fight against darkness today!

⚠ Horror elements, atheism, mild language, teen drinking

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guard Tree Publishing
• Release date: Jan 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951899004

Book preview

Dying Ember, Olden Ash

DYING EMBER, OLDEN ASH

RANGERS OF THE RIFT | EPISODE 1

RIVER K. SCOTT

Guard Tree Publishing

RANGERS OF THE RIFT

3 SEASONS

I’m Emily Mars, a girl made of darkness.

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In my world, only the dead can walk the Limen—and Rangers, like me, who guard the way there and back again.

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I didn’t choose this life. But I sure as hell choose who I fight for.

CONTENTS

Dying Ember, Olden Ash

The Adventure Continues

Note from the author

Bonus Episode

Also by River K. Scott

Acknowledgments

About the Author

To Connie. In the beginning, I wrote for you.

DYING EMBER, OLDEN ASH

EPISODE 1

⚠ Content warning:

Horror elements, atheism, mild language

‏‎ ‎

The way to the beyond is secured by a snow-white sheet. Through this, the pure in heart like the thornless rose will pass unhindered. But woe the barbs made by hate, or the guilt of unforgiveness, prejudice, rage. These will not pass but tear.

HIGH ORDER TEACHING

1

________________

Someone has died in these woods. Dread prickles between my shoulder blades.

Not here. Don’t you dare. Muttering to yourself makes you look crazy. But I’m not talking to myself. I wish I were.

I hang back as my family continues along the dry, pebbled streambed. The maple leaves are ablaze, the air chilly. This should be an exciting evening. Mom and Dad, everyone rooting for me. I should be able to breathe—not this sipping at the air, spooked by shadows.

Ahead, my family chatters; my sister sings and giggles.

I’m here to run a race. That’s all. I’m just a girl this weekend.

The prickling eases.

I sigh in relief, but my attention stays riveted to the ground as I continue slowly along the course. I’m watching for hazards: smooth river stone can twist an ankle; loose sandbank can cost precious seconds; snaking tree roots can take me out of the race altogether.

There it is. The tight curve where last nationals I gave up first place. Someone has removed the partially hidden log. I guess they don’t want another runner out for the season. My left Achilles twangs in reminder.

I squint through the trees into the dying sun. Leaves sift over the arid creek bed, whisper of another loss.

Uphill, Em! Starts here! My dad calls out from ahead where the track winds back into the forest. He toes the orange pin flag and pumps his fist into his open hand. His game face is flushed. He always gets embarrassingly enthusiastic about my track meets. And this is nationals. His adrenaline must be popping. Mine is. Just not for the same reason.

He gestures at the hill.

Got it, I yell back.

Coach calls this reconnaissance. Usually, I arrive a few hours early to walk the 5K track and get the lay of the land. For nationals, Dad drove us up two days in advance.

Of course, I know this track already. Walking it again only flings the doors open for more accidents. I told my parents that; they said I was being superstitious. But they don’t understand. As long as my mind doesn’t take over, my body knows what to do. It’s what I love most—the way all thought washes away in the heat of pumping blood, pounding feet, oxygen deeper than bone. Wind and earth. Knowing the track too well can make you rely on that knowledge. That’s when you’re in real danger from hazards you don’t know are lying in wait.

As we reach the forest I stay back once more. Yes, here’s the steep incline. The last hill to the finish.

Up ahead, Lillie’s and Mom’s conversation is muffled by trees. Alone, I inhale the sweet, woodsy softness of turned earth and try to feel optimistic. This is paradise compared to being home in Sand Dollar, swamped by the humid fishiness that pervades beachfront Florida. They don’t tell you that in travel brochures.

Come on, Em. You can conquer this track for good.

It’s my chance to overcome the fall that has haunted me every race since.

The forest is hushed. I peel a scab of paper bark from the trunk of a birch tree, close my eyes, and listen to the silence. It’s weird, but it’s almost like the forest is holding its breath. Almost as if it’s been waiting for