Jim Bronyaur's
Fellow writer and good cyberspace friend, Jim Bronyaur, is releasing his new novel The Devil's Weekend at the same time as my Deadly Intent so we decided to feature each other's offerings today.
This multi-talented man (he's a musician too!) has authored several other stories, including the award-winning serial Pulsate. Go browse around his website (you can also read my first chapter of Deadly Intent over there today) and see what he has to offer.
The Devil's Weekend is available right now as an ebook at Amazon, BarnesandNoble and Smashwords and will soon be out in print.
Here is the first chapter:
Part One: TGIF
1-
He follows her without care. He doesn’t need care, he needs to satisfy the urge raging through his blood. When it hits, he has no choice but to satisfy it.
Behind him the sun hangs low, waiting for the earth to turn just a tiny bit more. He waits for this moment too – no matter the urge, things need to be done in proper order.
In fact, the proper order of things keeps him in the shadow against millions of others. And it has done so for years. The system he follows allows him enjoyment that nothing else could bring – no woman, no material possession.
She turns left, when he expects her to turn right. She’s turned right for the past eleven times he followed her.
This move is something new.
A change.
He does not like change.
A week ago if this happened, he would stop and retract his steps. He would just go home, draw the hottest bath the faucet could spit and soak his body. He would tape a picture of his mother to the wall of the tub and plead to it. For love.
But now, with the urge moving like its own force – like nothing he’d ever experienced before – he can’t stop. Even when he tells his mind to tell his legs to stop, it doesn’t happen. He’s no longer in control. Part of him fears this moment, most of him enjoys it.
He finds himself moving faster.
He turns the corner and sees her.
She’s standing outside a restaurant.
She looks nervous, tapping her foot, arms crossed.
She looks guilty.
The street’s not busy, but not quiet.
Again, he knows in other times he would just walk away.
His eyes scan the scene, faster than anything he could ever understand. He knows he’s not stupid and never was, but when you don’t fit the normal standards of society, it’s easy to get lost in the shuffle of normal and not normal.
A man in a suit stands a few feet away from the woman. The man’s eyes look past her – that’s a good thing. The man has no interest in the woman. This pleases him, as he now finds himself walking towards her. He wants to stop, things were building in the background, the walls beginning to crumble. Then he makes a possible connection, maybe knowing subconsciously it was all going to come to an end soon. So why not try to get the most out of it…
She looks at him. Dead in the eyes. Her eyes open wide. He feels ugly, out of place now. He looks directly to his hands, like he always does when he feels inadequate. His hands are large and misshapen… his left pointer finger stretched longer than his middle finger. His thumb on his right hand is flat from a self inflicted hammer hit when he was a kid. That of course remains as a time of discovery, long before he realized how to take care of his urges.
Upon the sight of his hands, his heart races and anger boils. His brain, heart, and soul remind him that he isn’t like everyone else. Voices scream freak, kill yourself!
Her eyes are still on him. She doesn’t look away.
She knows.
She senses it.
He can’t look away either now, he refuses to show any sign of weakness. He’s in control – even when he’s not.
The woman checks her watch again and then says something to the man in the suit. The man nods and the woman begins to walk away.
She walks fast, close to a jog. She doesn’t even take the time to look back.
He knows now; no matter the urge; no matter the timing; no matter the people, this woman is going to die.
His name is Oliver Ignis and he is a serial killer.
