Title:
Seasons of Time
Author:
Miriam Khan
ISBN:
978-1-62420-227-8
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Excerpt
Heat Level: 2
Book
Heat Level: 1
TAGLINE
Seventeen-year-old Lara Voight is forced to spend the summer with her
stepmom's grandmother, but a ghostly boy in the woods and tales of a nineteenth
century murder at the mansion aren’t exactly what she expected.
BLURB
With
her father and his new wife busy with their career, seventeen-year old Lara
Voight has no choice but to accept her trip to Spring Mills, Pennsylvania. Her
host, Gracen, is as cold and devious as her granddaughter, and Lara continues
to experience a burning sensation. The only thing to soothe the horrid pain is
the phantom scent that is familiar but hard to recall. When a local girl
befriends Lara, she informs her of a girl named Penelope Le Rose who was
murdered at the mansion. It turns out it was once known as Montague house.
Lara
explores the story further. Gracen is even willing to help, going as far as to
reveal a portrait of Penelope who looks just like Lara. Searching for further
clues, Lara finds Penelope’s diary and becomes haunted by visions of a ghostly
boy who seems angered at her growing affection for Sheba's brother, Will.
The
more Lara reads the diary, the more she begins to realize that certain people
resemble those described. One of whom could be Penelope’s killer; back to
finish her look-alike.
EXCERPT
The sun shifted to the
right and I could see the miles of dusty roads and fewer cars up ahead.
My step-mom, Susan,
who now even controlled Dad, had insisted I stay with her grandmother Gracen
for the summer. My trip to Pennsylvania was a command I had to adhere to. My
teeth had been gritted throughout most of the drive from Delaware.
She had practically
packed my bags and shooed me out the door this morning. Dad, as usual, wasn’t
there to argue in my defense. Not that he would have anyway. He was a renowned
surgeon and was probably placing a new kidney donor as I chugged out of our
driveway; my suitcases packed and my date of return unknown.
Ever since Mom left to
be with her personal trainer five years ago, Dad barely looked at me. He just
noticed the poodle haired blonde he liked to call Flick. The matchstick woman
he rushed all the way home to have candlelight dinners with as I sulked in my
room.
I had to stop at the
nearest gas station that looked as if it hadn’t been visited since the
seventies before setting off again. It wasn’t long before dotted aspens and
maples stopped concealing the entryway to Gracen's large estate. Terra-cotta
stone and the edges of a lavish roof were just about visible. I had been told
Gracen came from a long line of successful merchants and oil diggers. It must
have been why she considered herself a cut above the rest of the residents of
Spring Mills. Her inherited wealth was the only thing to keep me from pulling
up and fisting the back seat.
I parked my cherry red
Mustang in the pebble driveway and took in the place. The mansion was breathtaking,
complete with a cylinder roof crowned and decorated with a golden leaf detail.
It reminded me of a centerpiece to a castle.
But the smile
plastered on my face vanished when I got out of the car. I sensed I wasn’t
alone. It felt as though someone was watching me, and closely, as if from right
behind. When I spun around, there was nobody. I rubbed the goose bumps popping
up all over my arms and shivered, gasping when a fiery heat crawled from my
feet to my neck. The air turned sour as if the flowers in the crescent shaped
garden were decomposing. The added smell of ash and smoke stung my eyes, and
somehow the driveway darkened, the ground became paved. Horse hooves clamored
and large wheels of a carriage creaked to a halt just as screams echoed from
the nearby forest. Flames then licked at my waist. I tried to scream.
“Lara. Lara Voight!”
I turned and almost
stumbled. The flames left me as a man in a black tuxedo came ambling down the
stone steps: rake thin and with a silver goatee. I finally managed to swallow.
"Lara
Voight?" he repeated, getting closer.
"Y-e-s," I
stuttered.
“Where are your
things?" he asked, looking at my beat up car.
I tried to catch my
breath. It was if the wind had been taken out of me. My legs shook.
What happened? Was it
heat stroke?
Five hours on the road
could probably do that to a person. I could sue Susan. After all, it was her
idea I came all the way to Pennsylvania while she “worked things out” with Dad.
I was so easy to manipulate.
"In the trunk,” I
muttered.
The weary man shook
his head, not caring that I was panting.
“Who are you
anyway?" I asked.
"Henry." He
held out his hand. His long, boney fingers reminded me of the creature from
Alien. “You can give me the keys. I’ll take care of your luggage."
I shakily did as he
asked. It wasn’t like I had anything to steal.
“You need to go and
see Mrs. Miller before she takes her afternoon nap,” he added gruffly. “You're
late as it is."
His aggravated tone
wasn’t appreciated, but it was helping me to feel less disturbed by what had
just happened.
Who was he? Why was
there a strange old man in Gracen’s home? Was he a live in lover no one knew
about?
"Who are you to
Gracen?" I queried, trying to match his clipped voice.
"Her
chau-ffer," he said, as if I was too dim to know what one was. He
carelously dragged my luggage out of the trunk and waved me away. Actually
waved.
What a jerk?.
With a shake of my
head, I ran up the stone steps to blow off steam before I said something I
could regret. I couldn’t make an enemy on arrival.
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