ABOUT BEYOND
THE PRECIPICE
A YOUNG MAN WITH A DARK SECRET MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN HIS
FAMILY AND THE GIRL HE LOVES.
For six
years Bret Killeen is trapped by the wishes of his dead father, blackmailed by
his brother, and rejected by his uncle. Meanwhile, he watches his mother
descend into the depths of poverty.
As Bret
wrestles with guilt over the death of his father, he is helped by Nicole, a
young cello player with big dreams. She stirs the embers of his longing both
for music and for her - and ignites a fire he can't extinguish.
But can he
brave his past in order to seize his future?
The award-worthy debut novel by Eva
A. Blaskovic is a riveting blend of suspense, dark humor, and compelling
inter-personal drama. Once you engage this roller coaster read you won't be
able to stop.
PURCHASE THE BOOK:
Amazon Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-Precipice-Eva-Blaskovic-ebook/dp/B00C3NZAU2/
Paperback:
http://www.amazon.com/Beyond-The-Precipice-Eva-Blaskovic/dp/0988163810/
Ashby-BP Publishing:
https://ashby-bp.com/product/beyond-the-precipice/
AUTHOR BIO
Eva
Blaskovic was born in the Czech Republic, grew up in Ontario, Canada, and moved
to Alberta in 1988, where she raised four children. Eva has worked in science
labs and has taught literacy, writing, math, and science. She is both an
accomplished writer and editor of non-fiction articles on business, education,
how-to, parenting, and travel. She is also an author of short fiction. Beyond
the Precipice is Eva Blaskovic's first full length novel, but it has already
received rave reviews from literary professionals and aficionados the world
over. When Eva hasn't buried herself in writing or editing, she may be found
taking her teenagers to Taekwondo, exploring the Farmers' Market, listening to
Celtic music, or sipping a latte.
Visit her:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/BlaskovicWriter
**Tour sponsored by Worldwind Virtual Book
Tours**
Excerpt from Beyond
the Precipice
by Eva A. Blaskovic
Chapter Twenty
Beneath the Surface
by Eva A. Blaskovic
Chapter Twenty
Beneath the Surface
Bret’s chest had heaved that same way in the barn, his heart pounding
into his ribs–exactly six years ago. Just three weeks after the funeral, his
mother, as executor of his father’s will, went to Ontario.
Pale and drawn, she had driven him and Drake to Galan’s hobby farm south
of the city. “You’ll have to stay with your Godfather until I get back.”
But when Drake made plans to stay with a friend at a neighboring farm,
and Galan perched a large bottle of Vodka on the coffee table, Bret dared not
sleep.
A creak in the floor and a turn of his doorknob forced his heart into
his throat.
“There you are.” Galan’s slurred words oozed into the room as he
approached the bed. “It’s your
fault.”
Eyes bugging out against the darkness, Bret watched the shifting shadow
come closer. He rose to his knees.
The black shape seized him. “It’s your fault! You killed my brother!
He’s dead because of you!”
Galan struck him.
His mind raced, instinct driving him to find a way to escape. What had
Drake told him?
“I didn’t–I didn’t mean to–”
“You didn’t mean to?” Galan’s breath was rank as he shook him. “That
makes it okay?”
“No–no–”
Galan’s hulk blocked out the last hint of light. “I’ll make you pay for
what you did to my brother!”
Bret shoved his arms up between Galan’s and broke his hold, but barely
got off the bed before Galan caught him. His chin smacked against the floor as
his uncle’s fingers dug into his arms. They scuffled amidst the nauseating
stench of liquor, the hardwood groaning beneath them.
The moment Galan’s inebriated limbs faltered, Bret struggled free and
made his escape, running outside in his socks over tufts of grass that sprayed
snow each time he landed, and headed for the empty barn. Panting in the
darkness as clouds of breath swirled around his face, he listened. There were
no sounds except his own breathing, and only then, as his sweat chilled him,
did he feel the wounds for the first time and taste the blood in his mouth.
Forcing himself to think, he knew he must get out of the cold. He
remembered the hay in the barn that Galan stored for his neighbor, and crept
through the dead grass to the barn door. He found the hay and burrowed into its
pungent protection, shivering.
Drunk or not, Galan was right. And now two people knew. Two people,
other than himself. Both now despised him.
He waited for several hours before attempting to approach the house.
Blocked from view in the doorway of the barn, he watched for
movement–anything that would break the eerie stillness. Finally, he set out
through the November blackness, the field yielding like sponge beneath each
labored step, the powdered snow all but lost in the dead grasses–until the
clouds shredded apart and a bluish moon whittled features into the landscape.
No lights were on inside the house, and he hoped Galan had either passed
out or gone to bed. He slipped in through the window of the bedroom, and peered
out into the hallway. There was no sign of his uncle. At first, he wondered if
Galan was waiting for him, but then, to his relief, he heard him snoring on the
couch, oblivious to everything.
In the bathroom, he used what little light leaked in from outside and
ran only a thin stream of water. He looked at his face in the mirror–a murky
form with wild hair and points of captured moonlight for eyes.
In the morning, would Galan even remember?
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