Tuesday Tales is a weekly blog featuring diverse authors who post excerpts from their WIPs based on word and picture prompts. Today’s prompt is sandwich, and the snippet is from a work in progress temporarily called Soul Double. Please visit the other fabulous authors at Tuesday Tales.
Threatening growls rumbled low in the darkness. She stumbled back a step, envisioning the dripping jaws of one of the hellhounds purported to guard the warrior’s enclave in the Underworld. A bramble pricked the soft flesh on the side of her hand. She squeezed off a spate of profanity that threated to spill from her vitamin E enriched lips. What had possessed her to slather on the Blackberry Babe lip gloss for a jaunt to hell?
Edging around the thorny bushes, she encountered a tall obelisk. The cold stone echoed the stillness of eternity under the warmth of her searching palms. In the darkness she couldn’t make out the inscription on it. Her pen light would only draw attention to her intrusion into the outskirts of the Underworld. The marker probably commemorated some ancient battle or other. How the God of War kept up with all the endless skirmishes was beyond her. Thank the goddess she hadn’t been tapped for that particular job.
No, all she had to do was rescue said god from the mutinous minions that had taken him prisoner.
And reunite him with his lost powers so he could corral the zombie like creatures before they managed to escape quarantine and overrun the earth world.
No pressure there.
As she rounded the obelisk, the warning growls grew louder and more raucous. A hellhound had nothing on her. In her current mood, she just might emit a few well-chosen snarls herself.
She veered left toward the spot marked X on the map she followed. Its high quality velum and blood infused gold ink notwithstanding, she had stuffed it into a pocket of her cargo pants, along with the low carb power bar she’d only got to taste. By the time this ordeal was over, puny power bar be damned. She’d be ready for fries, a thick steak, and a double shot of bourbon.
Sharp teeth grazed her booted foot, and she kicked out at the source of the attack. A high pitched yelp echoed in the cavernous space and sent chill bumps skittering over her skin. Growls mixed with enraged barks had her scurrying back a few steps, and she whipped out her revolver. Nothing jumped on top of her. She slipped the pen light from her pocket. Shining it toward the blood curdling sounds, some of her mustered bravado oozed out into a feckless puddle.
It was a three-headed hellhound all right, but not exactly what she’d been expecting. First, it was quite a bit taller than her five foot three. Second, its girth extended to elephant width.
No kidding—she had never imagined she’d have to fight or outwit an elephant sized hellhound.
An icy claw clenched her stomach.
What kind of crappy business had Atropos stuck her with? She was sick and tired of being given all the bullshit jobs, while her three half-sisters lounged in their luxury quarters, sandwiched between thong attired, ripped cabana boys. All those lazy cupcakes had to do was spin and cut, and spend their time sipping chocolate mojitos and munching salt and vinegar chips.
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Flossie Benton Rogers, Conjuring the Magic with Paranormal Fantasy Romance