On Tour with Prism Book Tours
From Bestselling & Award-Winning author Ammar Habib comes this brutal tale of redemption!
Men Die. Legends Don’t.
Decades ago, Grayson Wolf locked away the demons inside him. Once a legendary assassin named after Mors, the Roman embodiment of death, Grayson is now a shadow of the man he was before. He suffers every waking hour, haunted by his past as he begs for death to end his torment.
However, Grayson is pulled back into the shadowy world of espionage when an old comrade shows up at his front door with a young girl he is trying to rescue from sinister men. Suddenly hunted by an army of deadly mercenaries, Grayson is left with no choice but to protect the girl. But deep inside, something happens. He finds a light in the darkness, a light he thought was dead. The demons Grayson chained up–the legendary Mors–will be unleashed. And anyone standing in his way will have hell to pay.
The storm returns by the time night washes over Blackbrook. It’s worse than before. Fast falling rain breaks against my bedroom window like rocks. The howling wind mirrors the screams of ghouls and goblins. The thunder and lightning shake the very walls of the room and illuminate the sky in blinding flashes.
I have a ritual for nights like these, nights where the drinks and pills aren’t enough to put me to sleep.
It’s been hours since my home lost power. The muggy and still air grows warmer with every passing moment. Accompanying the blackness is dead silence, save for the splattering rain and chaos raging outside.
My head hangs low. Sittin’ on a weathered and bare chair in the darkness, I feel it in my right hand: the cold grip of my aged Colt Dragoon. After all these years, the grip has seemed to mold so that it perfectly fits into my hand. This gun is the only friend I have, the only thing that shares even a sliver of my pain.
I open my eyes, my gaze cuttin’ through the abyss as I stare down at the weapon. The weapon is just as battered as I am. This model is an antique and would be put on display in any museum. But I have a much better use for it.
The gun speaks to me through the silence. It grows heavier with each passing moment as it comforts me, letting me know that everything will be alright. It will only take one moment for it all to end, one moment to escape the prison. The longer I listen to the words, the drunker I become on ‘em—the more I accept them as the truth.
With a quick motion, I pop out the cylinder. All six chambers are empty. I look over at my opposite hand. In it is a single round. The bullet is as old as the gun. Its once shining metal is rustin’, and its smooth surface has grown coarse.
Taking a deep breath, I load the bullet into the pistol’s cylinder without a second thought. My thumb runs over the back of the loaded bullet.
One bullet. Just like always.
I spin the cylinder and look away. It spins around and around and around on its hinges. This is the same sound I hear almost every night. It’s not the sound that haunts me; it’s what happens next. The spinning starts to slow after a few moments. I slam the cylinder back into the gun, not seeing where the bullet ends. With a gradual motion, I cock back the cold hammer. My grasp around the pistol’s wooden grip tightens. I don’t hesitate. I lift the gun up and roughly shove the muzzle against the side of my head.
How many nights have I done this? How many nights have I wanted it to all end? Maybe it’ll be tonight.
A sudden flash of lightnin’ brightens up the entire room, revealing who is sitting right across from me. She’s here for this ritual. Like always. Arms crossed, the woman’s hollow eyes are locked on me as my finger touches the trigger. A shiver runs up my spine. It’s not because of the gun. My hand starts to shake as I meet her gaze.
Ophelia. She won’t leave me. She won’t stop haunting me. The more I look into Ophelia’s eyes, the more I beg God to kill me.
The rain grows louder and faster. The air turns cold. The heavens again light up and tremor. The brightness reflects off of her once-beautiful face. Ophelia’s skin is pale, nearly just as colorless as the last time I saw it. Her gaze leaves my eyes and focuses on the gun as its muzzle stays pushed against my skull.
For the first time all day, she smiles.
She always smiles when she sees me like this. The expression is sickening, crueler than anythin’ else I’ve ever seen. That wicked grin is the one thing that haunts my every waking moment. It tempts me to pull the trigger. To put an end to this hell of living.
My vision begins to tunnel on Ophelia as the storm outside is pushed to the crevices of my mind. I can hear my own breaths. Even my heartbeat. Her expression grows crueler the longer the rain pounds against the window. I can’t tear my eyes off of her as my soul itself seems to tremble faster. Her eyes begin to turn black, mirrorin’ those of a ghoul. Lifeless. Dead.
Those hollow eyes taunt me. They know I want to die. They’re tempting me to pull the trigger. On the other end of this hell I’ve lived in is a hell waiting to punish me for all the things I’ve done. But…I don’t care. I just want it to end.
Ophelia’s gaze is intoxicating. Her mocking eyes spear my soul, but it feels too good. Pain is reassurance, and anguish is comfort. I’ve lived with this intoxication for too long, I’ve carried the torment for too many years to know any different. Now the torment is the only thing I live for…and it’s the thing I’ll die for.
Lightning illuminates the dark heavens once again. My grip tightens as my hand starts to shake more feverously. My gaze stays on Ophelia. Let today be the day this ends. God, let this end tonight.
I pull the trigger.
No bullet is fired. I lose…again.
I keep the gun pressed up against my skull, tempted to fire off another shot. But that would ruin the game. That would ruin what this is about. I’ve waited years for God to send me to my death; I’ve waited for Him to send somebody to punish me for my sins, but He hasn’t answered my one prayer.
Ophelia mockingly shakes her head. Her cruel smile only grows, knowin’ that I will have to live through another day of self-torment. If the gun goes off, my soul goes to hell. If I live, then I go on haunted by the demons inside. She wins this game either way, and I’m left to pick up the pieces.
With the next strike of lightnin’, she disappears.
About the Author
Ammar Habib is a bestselling and award-winning author who was born in Lake Jackson, Texas in 1993. Ammar enjoys crafting stories that are not only entertaining but will also stay with the reader for a long time. Ammar presently resides in his hometown with his family, all of whom are his biggest fans. He draws his inspiration from his family, imagination, and the world around him.
One winner will receive a signed copy of Habib’s national award-winning novel, Memories of My Future (US only). Memories of My Future is an historical/inspirational novel that was published in 2016. It received several accolades after its release, including the Independent Press Award in May 2017.
Ends September 4, 2019