Posted by Maddie James | Posted in The Cult | Posted on
The Cult, the Legend of Blackbeard's Chalice, book two....
Ms. James intertwines historical data and legends of the pirates of the East Coast and specifically of Blackbeard in a fashion that renders these individuals lifelike and viable. I also particularly enjoyed the way in which she drew out the character of Colton, expressing his background as the source of his choice of writing genre. For Colt, writing horror is his salvation from mental instability or worse. He can only express the pain of his past through the demonic horrors he creates on his pages. This is a remarkably insightful glimpse into character.
Victoria Porter knows a good man is hard to find on Ocracoke Island in the year 1746. So, curious of the ways of the flesh, she seeks out male affection in a drunken sailor’s lap—but that sailor puts a bullet into her brother Jeremiah’s back, killing him. Jeremiah’s ghost, however, comforts and guides her on an uncertain task—to find their missing brother, Jackson Porter. Pitched from a ship during a violent storm, Tory washes up on a beach, soon to be rescued by a man on a strange mechanical beast who whisks her away into a world she could never have dreamed.
In 2007, Colt MacKenzie is tormented by demons of a troubled past and a failing writing career. He fears he has written his last bestselling horror novel until he discovers the The Cult of Teach and a tantalizing nymph wandering the shore on his way to Ocracoke Village. Fascinated by the history of The Cult that surrounds the Legend of Blackbeard’s Chalice, he seeks to learn more about these modern-day pirates, and hopefully write a best-seller using the premise. He’d planned on riding this ride solo until the strange little waif on the back of his Harley touches him in ways his demons hadn’t let anyone touch in a long, long time….
The Excerpt:
The village on Ocracoke Island, 1746
A calloused hand inched up Victoria Porter’s thigh beneath her chemise. A shiver of anticipation rattled through her as large as the fingers that plundered nearer to the tender flesh of her center. Eyes closed, she threw back her head and listened to the sounds around her: the clatter of dishes in the back room, the bawdy laughter of women, the snorts of men who long ago forgotten the wives they should be heading home to. The tavern smelled of fish, the malodorous stench of randy sailors, and stale ale. A hint of rum. And the salty permanence of uncounted men who passed through those tavern doors on their way to and from their first love—the sea.
Tory brought her head up with a bubble of laughter and a wicked grin. She was glad for the darkened corner of the tavern that hid her from view and the faint flicker of the oil lamp that softened the craggy features of the sailor on whose lap she sat. His fingers inched between her thighs and parted them slightly. She felt wanton and wild. Nary a care in the world. The dreaded and sought after tingles that a woman wasn't supposed to feel churned inside her belly. She wiggled a little on the sailor's lap and realized quite readily that he liked it. The rigid member next to her bottom grew harder at the movement. His free hand grabbed a handful of her behind, pushing her closer as he chuckled deep in his throat. His lustful gaze fell upon her face and then lowered to her bosom, where she tucked the top of her chemise low into the corset rim earlier that evening.
Her sailor groaned and then lowered his head to her breast, the rough stubble of his beard grazing over her plump mounds. Deep inside her, the tingles grew stronger. His fingers parted the opening to her drawers. Two short pants of breath exited Tory's mouth. His ridge pushed harder into her hip. His lips brushed the outside of her chemise and her nipples grew pebble hard; the tingles shot up to the points of her taut breasts.
His hand cupped her naked flesh. His fingers plunged.
Tory gasped. The quivering surged lower...
With a gust of salty sea air and a hearty shout, the tavern door burst open. At once, the room stood noiseless. Heavy footfall crossed the floor. The sailor withdrew his fumbling fingers and abruptly pushed her off his lap.
Tory fell to the floor. The sailor stood and backed away.
Stunned, she shook her head to right her world, and then took a deep breath. “Damnation.”
There was but a second's hesitation before the voice boomed through the musty atmosphere in the dimly lit tavern.
“Amabel Victoria Porter!”
Tory's gaze shot up to the man looming over her. Jeremiah! Good Lord, no. He found her. Again. How would she explain?
Dark Angel Reviews
5/5 Pixies for The Cult
Victoria Porter knows a good man is hard to find on Ocracoke Island in the year 1746. So, curious of the ways of the flesh, she seeks out male affection in a drunken sailor’s lap—but that sailor puts a bullet into her brother Jeremiah’s back, killing him. Jeremiah’s ghost, however, comforts and guides her on an uncertain task—to find their missing brother, Jackson Porter. Pitched from a ship during a violent storm, Tory washes up on a beach, soon to be rescued by a man on a strange mechanical beast who whisks her away into a world she could never have dreamed.
In 2007, Colt MacKenzie is tormented by demons of a troubled past and a failing writing career. He fears he has written his last bestselling horror novel until he discovers the The Cult of Teach and a tantalizing nymph wandering the shore on his way to Ocracoke Village. Fascinated by the history of The Cult that surrounds the Legend of Blackbeard’s Chalice, he seeks to learn more about these modern-day pirates, and hopefully write a best-seller using the premise. He’d planned on riding this ride solo until the strange little waif on the back of his Harley touches him in ways his demons hadn’t let anyone touch in a long, long time….
The Excerpt:
The village on Ocracoke Island, 1746
A calloused hand inched up Victoria Porter’s thigh beneath her chemise. A shiver of anticipation rattled through her as large as the fingers that plundered nearer to the tender flesh of her center. Eyes closed, she threw back her head and listened to the sounds around her: the clatter of dishes in the back room, the bawdy laughter of women, the snorts of men who long ago forgotten the wives they should be heading home to. The tavern smelled of fish, the malodorous stench of randy sailors, and stale ale. A hint of rum. And the salty permanence of uncounted men who passed through those tavern doors on their way to and from their first love—the sea.
Tory brought her head up with a bubble of laughter and a wicked grin. She was glad for the darkened corner of the tavern that hid her from view and the faint flicker of the oil lamp that softened the craggy features of the sailor on whose lap she sat. His fingers inched between her thighs and parted them slightly. She felt wanton and wild. Nary a care in the world. The dreaded and sought after tingles that a woman wasn't supposed to feel churned inside her belly. She wiggled a little on the sailor's lap and realized quite readily that he liked it. The rigid member next to her bottom grew harder at the movement. His free hand grabbed a handful of her behind, pushing her closer as he chuckled deep in his throat. His lustful gaze fell upon her face and then lowered to her bosom, where she tucked the top of her chemise low into the corset rim earlier that evening.
Her sailor groaned and then lowered his head to her breast, the rough stubble of his beard grazing over her plump mounds. Deep inside her, the tingles grew stronger. His fingers parted the opening to her drawers. Two short pants of breath exited Tory's mouth. His ridge pushed harder into her hip. His lips brushed the outside of her chemise and her nipples grew pebble hard; the tingles shot up to the points of her taut breasts.
His hand cupped her naked flesh. His fingers plunged.
Tory gasped. The quivering surged lower...
With a gust of salty sea air and a hearty shout, the tavern door burst open. At once, the room stood noiseless. Heavy footfall crossed the floor. The sailor withdrew his fumbling fingers and abruptly pushed her off his lap.
Tory fell to the floor. The sailor stood and backed away.
Stunned, she shook her head to right her world, and then took a deep breath. “Damnation.”
There was but a second's hesitation before the voice boomed through the musty atmosphere in the dimly lit tavern.
“Amabel Victoria Porter!”
Tory's gaze shot up to the man looming over her. Jeremiah! Good Lord, no. He found her. Again. How would she explain?
*****
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