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Are you ready to fall into the world of Phoenixes and Wraiths who guard the gates of the beyond? Ashes to Ashes Series Volume One includes the first three books in the Ashes to Ashes series by Annie Anderson.
He took everything from her, but she needs him if she wants to live. Rock, meet hard place in Scattered Ashes. She’s missed the last fifty years in prison, he’s on the proverbial death row in Falling Ashes. She’s the Queen and he’ll be her King – if they can live that long in Rising Ashes.
About Scattered Ashes:
Aurelia Constantine is having a rough century.
Plagued by visions of murder, death and destruction, she has resigned herself to the nightmare her life has become. When an enemy from her past comes to her rescue, she must let go of old wounds and heal the breach so she may survive the evil poisoning her mind.
Rhys Stevens is guilty.
Murder. Betrayal. Treason. Take your pick; he’s guilty of them all. On the path of redemption, he must beg for forgiveness from the one person he fought to save – the woman he has always loved.
Thrown together in the trenches of war, they must work as a team to stop a monstrous puppet master from pulling their strings. Ashes, ashes. We all fall down.
Get ready to burn.
About Falling Ashes:
Mena Constantine is pissed off.
Finally freed from her fifty-year imprisonment by a maniacal leader, she is desperately trying to recover and get her life back. Problem is, the life she had is long gone. Struggling under the weight of her memories and healing from the wounds of her captivity, she can’t seem to catch a break. Every waking moment, death seems like a relief she would welcome.
Asher Crane is a dead man.
As a Guardian to the King, his only purpose in life is to keep the King alive. And he’s failing. Miserably. With the King ill, the Queen dying, and zero plans for a successor, he’s pretty much screwed. Because if the King dies, the law says Asher dies, too.
As these two wounded souls collide in a series of bloody and unfortunate events, they will clutch to the last shreds of life before death beats down their door.
About Rising Ashes:
West Carmichael is not my real name.
It is the name I pulled from thin air over five hundred years ago. I don’t come from royalty—I come from the dregs of the ethereal. As the King’s assassin, I have more blood on my hands than most. I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve anyone.
But I will keep her safe.
Even if I die trying.
My name sounds like the heroine of a historical romance novel – not that I read those or anything. My life so far: Dead parents? Check. Broken heart? Check. Evil mistress of darkness, hell-bent on power and thirsty for my death? Big. Honking. Check. But this mess won’t get cleaned up by itself.
I’ve got a job to do.
As these two reluctant hearts fight their pull, they must decide if they want to fall apart in the midst of the chaos swarming around them or yield to their hearts…
Aurelia – 1855
The mulch-like growth and rocks on the forest floor crunch and squish together under my feet as I scramble through the bedrock and finish climbing the first foothill.
Stupid skirt. Stupid slippery shoes.
I’m not moving fast enough, but in my state, I’m surprised I can move at all. The stitch in my side is cutting off my breath.
Where are they? I stop and search the sky, but I know it’s too late. The sky is rapidly turning the inky black of evening in the early Fall, and with no moon out tonight, I’ll never see the sky as properly as I should.
The first blow comes, and I cry out in agony as a wound splits open on the back of my forearm. But there’s no one here.
I hear no one and see no one, but a large gaping wound has torn open my arm from wrist to elbow. I smell the coppery bite of blood as the warm, sticky stream seeps down past my fingers and drips onto the dirt, swiftly devoured by the dry soil below.
Blackness clouds my vision for a minute, but I force myself to forget the constant pulse of my wound and pull myself together. I rip a swath off my billowing skirt and use the fabric to bind my arm in an effort to stem the bleeding. The navy blue patterned fabric turns indigo from the blood quickly oozing from my wound.
I pick myself up off the gritty forest floor and start walking, rather than the panicked pace of before. I can’t run with this wound. I’m already pushing it with this silly corset, especially in my condition.
There. I hear it, and I know I was right. They are clashing together somewhere in the distance.
They are going to kill each other.
© Copyright 2016 Annie Anderson
My brain seems to split in two. I want to maim and murder, but I also want to comfort her. I can almost taste the bitterness of her distress, how much she must hate people looking at her, talking to her after so many years of captivity. I want to see her eyes. I want to know what she’s thinking. I can’t take the waiting, and I move Ian out of the way and then West and then Evan, making my way to the left side of her bed.
I hear the faint sounds of protests and shouts beyond the harsh buzzing in my ears, but I don’t care. I know my hands are taloned, but I can’t think about reining in my phase. I reach out to touch her fidgeting fingers and in surprise, her head finally rises so I can see her face. Her eyes are wide and fringed in black lashes that make her beautiful olive green irises pop. Her forehead and the left side of her face are covered in bruises, and her nose is pert and cute, even if it’s a little swollen. Her cheekbones are high and sharp, and as soon as I can, I’m making her eat until she bursts.
Those eyes that just a second ago were startled, swiftly turn from surprised to angry and in a flash her irises turn from green to gold. The last thought of consciousness I have before she shocks me stupid is how pretty her eyes are when she’s mad.
© Copyright 2016 Annie Anderson
Evan – 1928 – Los Angeles, CA
I was alone – finally alone even in this sea of people– after so much time with the ones I loved breathing down my neck. It was like a vacation. I needed something of my own. A secret, a life, something to break away from my family. Something that didn’t say princess or royalty.
Something that let me just be me. Singing was it for me.
I was ending my five-song set with a favorite of mine, an old Jane Greene song when I saw him. I’d seen him around town a few times, when I was shopping by myself or when I watched a boxing match at the Olympic Auditorium, a scandalous activity for an unchaperoned young lady.
But we’d never met.
He was handsome. I even daresay beautiful, if you can call a man like that beautiful. He was tall – taller than anyone in the room by nearly a whole head –and built so powerfully he made the other men look like pitiful adolescents dressed up in their daddy’s clothes. It was difficult to tell if his hair was as dark as it seemed in the low light of the secret club, but it appeared black in the dim. Dressed to the nines in a brilliant black suit, he moved with grace through the crowd until he found his seat at the only open table in the joint, folding his huge frame into the chair with the grace of a jaguar.
Papa had taken me to Brazil when I was just a little girl, and we saw the big cats roam the rainforests. He moved just like those jungle cats, scanning the room for prey and threats, watching everything with disinterest, as if he could take or leave the sights and sounds and people. As if he were bored in this raucous party that seemed to never end.
© Copyright 2016 Annie Anderson
Meet The Author…
Annie Anderson is a military wife and United States Air Force veteran. Originally from Dallas, Texas, she is a southern girl at heart, but has lived all over the US and abroad. As soon as the military stops moving her family around, she’ll settle on a state, but for now she enjoys being a nomad with her husband, two daughters, and old man of a dog.