Rynlee's Song (Daughter of Time, #1)
Release Date: 02/2015
Summary from Goodreads:
Rynlee Nalis is a demon hunter. She is a Purator, belonging to an organization who slay demons to serve their King. Even though she's a candidate to succeed the High Purator, eighteen-year-old Rynlee doesn't want the responsibility.
Her entire world is turned upside down when Jeynen shows up at the temple that is her school and home. She thought he died five years ago.
And he has no idea who she is.
When an assassin comes for Jeynen and he manages to flee for his life, Rynlee rushes after him. As she tries to discover the truth about him, she stumbles onto an ancient prophecy and challenges those who want to destroy the balance of magic.
Her entire world is turned upside down when Jeynen shows up at the temple that is her school and home. She thought he died five years ago.
And he has no idea who she is.
When an assassin comes for Jeynen and he manages to flee for his life, Rynlee rushes after him. As she tries to discover the truth about him, she stumbles onto an ancient prophecy and challenges those who want to destroy the balance of magic.
Excerpt:
Rynlee stood in the middle of a battlefield, with bodies lying mangled all around her; the bloody light of a full crimson moon lit the scene with a gruesome integrity. Moans of anguish from the dying and a pregnant silence from the dead met her ears. The smell of it all nearly made her gag; decaying flesh with mud and smoke filled her lungs.
Confused and caught into believing the scene to be real, Rynlee walked forward, stepping over and around the crumpled forms littering the ground. Suddenly she saw a familiar face, stained with blood and missing an arm. Bending down for a closer look, Rynlee covered her mouth in unmasked horror. Her apprentice's eyes were unseeing, staring up at the black sky, her mouth frozen in an expression of pure terror. Mud and blood painted Cherylt's custard-colored curls, matted to her head.
Rynlee stumbled away in shock. Cherylt wasn't dead. She was safe back at the complex, wasn't she? Rynlee felt dread creep up on her, mingling with panic and disbelief. She came upon another person she knew. It was a woman with silvery black hair that she couldn't quite put a name to, lying face down, and a deep slash across her back. As she was about to crouch down and turn the woman over to see her face, Rynlee heard a low rumbling and suddenly a cloud of dust rose all around her, lessening her vision to only a few feet. She choked and coughed, waving her arm through the air to try to clear it. Dust still hung in the air as a dirty mist, cloaking the dead and dying bodies with a suffocating hold.
Confused and caught into believing the scene to be real, Rynlee walked forward, stepping over and around the crumpled forms littering the ground. Suddenly she saw a familiar face, stained with blood and missing an arm. Bending down for a closer look, Rynlee covered her mouth in unmasked horror. Her apprentice's eyes were unseeing, staring up at the black sky, her mouth frozen in an expression of pure terror. Mud and blood painted Cherylt's custard-colored curls, matted to her head.
Rynlee stumbled away in shock. Cherylt wasn't dead. She was safe back at the complex, wasn't she? Rynlee felt dread creep up on her, mingling with panic and disbelief. She came upon another person she knew. It was a woman with silvery black hair that she couldn't quite put a name to, lying face down, and a deep slash across her back. As she was about to crouch down and turn the woman over to see her face, Rynlee heard a low rumbling and suddenly a cloud of dust rose all around her, lessening her vision to only a few feet. She choked and coughed, waving her arm through the air to try to clear it. Dust still hung in the air as a dirty mist, cloaking the dead and dying bodies with a suffocating hold.
About the Author
This is the website of author Eliza Marie Jones. I'm a writer, gardener, nail polish junkie, and artist. I live with my husband in Alberta, Canada. I took website programming and graphic design in college, which comes in very handy doing all the non-writing parts of being an author.
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