Excerpts

Fiction allows me to explore the depths of human emotion and craft narratives that linger long after the last page. These excerpts showcase my voice, style, and the immersive storytelling that has connected with readers worldwide.

The Saints Have Fallen | Genre: Fantasy

My lume disappeared when I was 16 years old. The violet glow that marked me as a chosen vanished overnight, and I’ve been lying to the Gods ever since. They said that Mathias, the God of Peace and Faith, never abandoned his chosen. But mine was gone, and no prayer could bring it back.

The market street of Cher buzzed with its townsfolk filling their bags with food, offerings, and floral-scented gifts to celebrate the Goddess of Beauty tonight. The Rose Masquerade was annually held in her honor, a festival my cousin eagerly awaited. Her yellow hair danced as she hovered over the nearby stalls, searching frantically for the perfect mask. Her ruby gemstone glowed feverishly after selecting a pink and gold, floral-painted mask, and reached for a red silk dress

Daylight was dying, and my grandfather grew heavy in my arms. Or what was left of him. My heart thumped with a heavy ache as I forced myself to look at the urn. I had to get his ashes to the town’s temple before sunset so his soul may rest in peace.

“Isabelle,” I called out to my cousin, reaching her side. “We have to leave.”

She spun on her heels, as if I’d said the most absurd thing, glaring at me under her long, thick lashes. “Then, go.” Her voice was sharp, bitter, edged with splinters. “The old pig is dead, Ana. Either set him aside and live your life in the present, or be a stupid little saint and follow in his footsteps.”

Her words seeped through me like acid, but I knew better than to argue with her. She was too headstrong. Too unreasonable. Too selfish. The Goddess Syrena may have blessed her with beauty, but it was only skin deep. I turned, sharp on my heel, biting my tongue from spilling lewd curses at her, and tightened the urn in my arms. I was a fool to think she, nor my aunt, would care. They never did. And they never would.

The Old Book of Saints stated that the remaining families must carry the dead to the temple, but I was all the family my grandfather had left. My elbow grazed against strangers as I pushed through the sandwiches of bodies. Laughter and murmurs tangled in the air. Overhead, the sky blushed into shades of pink as children darted between skirts and boots. Their tiny flames flickered, one almost catching onto my dress, as they lit one candle after another. Red silk fell, draped from balconies like rivers of wine, licking the glow and bleeding scarlet across the cobblestone streets.

My muscles yelled in protest as I climbed the porcelain stairs before me. Two priestesses dressed in crimson robes descended the staircase, their eyes hovering over me. I sucked in a breath, pretending like nothing was wrong. When deep inside, everything was. My heart plummeted, remained at the base of my stomach, taunting the empty hollow within my chest. Festering. Sprouting thorns of unease, sharper as the seconds go by. I clutched onto my gemstone. Mathias Amethyst. The fake. My breath was shallow, but I dared myself to peer down. Comfort never reached, because my stone was flickering. It’s light, faint, fading, almost gone.

My breaths were choppy, and I knew it had nothing to do with the flight of stairs I just climbed. Fear slithered like a snake before me as a wave of Priestesses busied themselves in the temples. Some cleaned altars, offered prayers, and others baptized younglings born with their souls glowing with their respective gemstones. And I… I was standing before them, before the Gods, deceitful.

Too afraid to tell the truth.

Too afraid to face the High Priests.

Too afraid of Sinner’s Belt.

My gaze snagged to the right. From the slope of the Temple hill, the Belt stretched into view. It was vast, merciless, its great grey gates ready to swallow the blessed-less, the lume-less. Me. A tremor pulled at my mouth, my throat seizing as I tried to swallow. The spit clung stubbornly, thick as paste, forming a rock at the base of my throat, and left me choking on my own fear.

For four years, since my lume disappeared, my grandfather had been secretly sneaking into the Belt to obtain counterfeits. It was an act against the righteous, against the Gods, against the Priests and Priestesses who governed the land of Lumora. It was a sin, but to me, it was nothing but an act of love. And now, he was gone, and I needed to find a way to survive. To stay out of Sinner’s Belt, even if it meant going in.

Fatal Alliances | Genre: Thriller

Victoria was dead. I stared at the deep, oak-coloured coffin as it lowered into the grave, and her soul, I was sure, had sunk far lower. Perhaps her killer would be going there with her as well. The thud of wood against damp earth echoed through the drizzle. The air smelled of wet soil and iron, thick enough to taste. Raindrops slid down my lashes, and for a dizzy second, it almost looked as if I were crying. But it was hard to feel sorry for a woman like Victoria.

Mourners clustered around the grave while Xavier’s father stood like stone, rain streaking down his face, though none of it looked like grief. His gaze burned past the coffin, cold and calculating, as if even death had become a business arrangement, and he already suspected who the killer was.

October raindrops darted into the earth like angry bullets. I used to think the Gods cried from Heaven when someone died, but which God above would cry for Victoria? Not even those standing at the grave had shed a tear. Their rock-hard faces held more fear for their own safety than grief for Victoria’s death.

Some said she was killed by a burglar when she was alone at home. He sl*t her throat in her bedroom after she caught him stealing her jewellry. Others said she was poisoned, found on the floor of her bedroom with cloudy eyes and frothing at the mouth. Xavier’s hand tightened in mine as his gaze darkened on the box. I wanted him to say something—anything—but the silence between us grew louder than the priest’s prayers. It was a silence thick with memory, with things he’d never confess, and it hollowed me out to keep pretending I didn’t notice. I’d give anything to read his thoughts now, but he never opened up about his assault, nor about any evil Victoria had done. At first, it hurt—I thought he didn’t trust me enough to let me in. But I reminded myself this wasn’t about me. It must have been painful even to remember, let alone talk about. So, I respected his choice. All that mattered was loving him hard enough to soften the pain.

And ever since her murder, he’d been keener on protecting me. A killer was on the loose, after all. I’d ask him about her death and what really happened, but he wouldn’t tell me. Genevieve suspected him, but I knew he wasn’t a monster. He couldn’t be. Victoria’s death, as they say, was sudden and unfortunate. And surreal, like a fever dream. And dreams like that, too often, turn into nightmares. And this time, the nightmare was all me.

Mademoiselle | Genre: Psychological Thriller

I pulled the sleeves of my soft pink cashmere sweater away from my wrist and flicked the speck of dust that landed on my baby blue jeans away. Thomas Hardy’s work sat on my lap with its spine still intact. I was about to christen the words when a voice interrupted.

“Cette place est-elle prise?” Is this place taken? 

Looking up, I soak in the individual before me, a tall and slender-built man whose blue eyes, much like the colour of the deep sea, pulled me in. The type of blue that demands attention in a room, regardless of whether it’s unwanted. His dark shirt was covered with a black bomber jacket, in contrast to the paleness of his skin. I pictured him as a character straight out of a Jane Austin’s books. I truly had my head stuck in a book for far too long.

“Est-ce que ça va?” Are you okay? He asked again. This time, his voice was a little clearer and deeper than the first time he spoke. There was a richness to it, like thick caramel entwined with an accent.

“Uh, yeah- oui. Tu peux,” You can I said motioning to the empty seat next to me. “Vous,” I continued, trying to correct myself, “Vous pouvez.” You can.   

A hint of a smile tingled at the corner of his lips but dissipated within the following second. He must have thought me to be such an idiot. I mentally slapped myself. As he sat, strands of his long, dark hair spilled over his ear against his elegantly sculpted face. I turned away, looking outside the window, with a soft exhale. Maybe I wasn’t asexual after all.

“You aren’t from here, I suppose.” He began in a matter-of-fact manner as the train took off to its destination.

“Gloucestershire,” I smiled, “England.”

“Ah, British girl,” he replied whilst leaning the back of his head against his seat, “Not too far from home then.”

“I don’t suppose I am.”

It was a bit comforting to think like that. I was glad I wasn’t too far away from home. The stranger next to me continued his journey without speaking, as did I. However, I had to admit I wish he did, it was nice to converse with someone a little in the language I was comfortable with. Again, I attempted to give Hardy a go and reopened the book to continue after the first chapter. In a soft voice, I began. “His Christian name was Gabriel, and on working days he was a young man of sound judgment and—dear God,” I whispered, noticing from the corner of my eyes a large bug flew and sat on top of the stranger’s shirt beside me. He was asleep with his earphones in. What if I shook him and the insect flew on top of me? Fear ate at my insides. My blood curled viciously as the bug turned towards me. Its eyes spilled with evil and spite. I held my breath and clutched Hardy’s firm spine in my hand. It crawled a few steps closer to me. Its wings- extended.

“No!” I panicked, swinging Hardy onto the bug. Seconds kicked in before I realized what I had done. The bug flew the other direction.

“I’m so sorry,” I breathed, feeling the embarrassing flood to my eyes, “I- there was a bug and I-”

“Allez-vous pleurer?” Are you going to cry? he asked in disbelief, staring at me.

“Oh God,” my eyes widened, “Is this considered assault? Am I going to jail?” My heart flip as I leaned into my seat and stared ahead, “I don’t want to be locked up abroad, in a foreign country I don’t even know how to communicate in properly. I’m allergic to shell-food and I don’t even know how to say shell-food in French.”

“You’re not going to jail,” he answered in a curious sigh, “Tell me you at least got l’insecte.” 

I turned to him with an apologetic expression. “He’s a survivor,” I shrugged.

The train suddenly stopped. I hadn’t realized how quickly the time went by. The stranger next to me gathered his items and gave a little nod goodbye as he stood. I turned back to Hardy and frowned at how the cover was crinkled, “Sorry, Thomas.”