Hi peeps, we have Nash Summer stopping by with the cover to her upcoming release Poison Tongue, not only do with have that stunning cover but we have some exquisite teasers and a very tempting excerpt! So peeps, check out the post and enjoy! <3 ~Pixie~
Levi Bell can see a person’s soul just by looking into their eyes. In Monroe Poirier’s eyes, he sees the devil himself.
When Monroe moves back to the small Southern town of Malcome, Levi is repelled by the darkness of the stranger’s soul. But Levi is cursed to love things dark and wicked, and he’s seduced each time he looks into Monroe’s eyes—and drawn to the swamp behind the old Poirier house.
As strange occurrences begin to happen when shadows and visions visit him in the night, Levi sees a flicker of something good in Monroe’s soul. But the need to submerge himself in the swamp’s murky waters grows stronger as Levi’s desire for Monroe becomes unbearable.
In his struggles to help Monroe save his soul, Levi will have to decide if it’s worth losing his own.
GRAN HAD always told me that wicked things came to me during the night.
A purple haze swirled and danced in front of me.
When I laced my fingers through the mist, it twirled between them, leaving no warmth or coolness against my skin. On its touch, images of horror kissed at my cheek, caressing my consciousness and soothing my aching need to wonder about the differences between reality and make-believe that pulled at me. The haze toyed at the back of my mind as though it were a young child playing, beckoning. But this child was not sweet. Terrible, horrific pictures flickered in front of my eyes, and just as quickly, disappeared.
Sleep rarely provided any rest for me, as proverbially for the wicked, and now alertness prickled against the sweat on my collarbone.
Still, I knew better than to question what I saw in dreams. Dreams are the truest part of me, my gran used to say. She said dreams were my soul talking to me in pictures and feelings, and I knew few things to be truer.
Smoke wrapped itself around my neck, my waist, my arms, my legs. Loose, white pajamas fluttered sentry against the breeze.
That was strange.
Breeze rarely ever affected me in my dreams, and even though I couldn’t feel it, it streamed through my hair, pressed against my face, fluttered against my clothing. It poured against me as real wind would.
All around, the trees cried. The wind blew heavy against their swaying vines and low-hanging branches. While awake their hugeness had never bothered me, but here, in the darkness of my slumber, they loomed taller than ever, surrounding me from all sides.
Up above, the midnight sky filled with gloom. The navy blanket held a few dark clouds, allowing almost none of the moon’s rays in through the tall trees of the swamp. Still, a few strands of light managed to push through the cracks, illuminating the water around my bare feet.
The water was up to my ankles, but it was rising.
The purple haze grew thicker than fog. When I reached out, I felt as though I could wrap it around my wrists like a silken ribbon. Its smoothness ran along my skin gently, like the touch of a lover.
No critters of the night chirped. No animals howled in despair. All was silent, all but the heavy sound of my breath—and a voice in the distance.
The voice screamed. The mere sound of it was paralyzing. I tried to put my hands up to cover my ears, but I couldn’t. My muscles were stone, my eyes unblinking. I could do nothing but stare off into the dark abyss, toward the screaming.
Strands of mist closed around my wrists. As I watched the translucent shackles form, an unearthly sense of dread crept up my spine. Slowly it tightened until the skin beneath its grip turned red and tingled. And when the thick haze began to pull, trying to drag me into the depths of the swamp, I gasped.
No sound came out.
Something wicked pulled me into the darkness—some kind of horror that made the sick feeling in my stomach want to pour out of my mouth.
The swamp water turned to tar around me, thick and heavy like molasses. Any translucence it once held became solid black. One by one the few strands of light peeking through the willows snapped away, like lightbulbs shattering against a concrete floor.
The tar kept rising.
The voice in the distance shrieked louder.
My eyelids began to flutter.
It was only as I started to slip from my deep, dark sleep that I heard what the voice was screaming.
Nash Summers rarely has any idea what she’s doing. But when she likes to pretend, she pretends by writing stories at the pace of drying paint. As if that wasn’t exhilarating enough, Nash also enjoys absolute silence, general politeness, and waiting her turn in line.
Needless to say, she’s a bona fide hell raiser.