Title: Hades: Modern Descendants
Author: Elda Lore
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Release Date: October 24
Persephone Fields is just an average girl: beloved daughter and loyal friend. One night decides her Fate, when the prince of The Underworld becomes her savior and her kidnapper.
Hades has lived centuries in darkness and sin. When he decides to save the blonde goddess, he doesn’t consider the ramifications of his decision to bring her into his realm.
Two worlds divided struggle to find friendship in a history of family discord beyond their control. When attraction blurs the line, questions result in choices of love or loyalty.
A modern twist of the classic myth: Hades and Persephone, this version incorporates the sensual tension of opposites divided by contemporary humanity and mythical underworlds. Also reminiscent of Romeo and Juliet, this is a love story ripe with desire.
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Author’s note: This book contains scenes of sexual intimacy.
Welcome to the alter ego world of L.B. Dunbar.
Was this a dream?
What was this strange beast we rode?
Who was this strange man behind me?
Could this be happening? Was I destined for a fate worse than the creep at the river?
The only thing keeping me from full-blown panic was when I recalled he had saved me, and the fact that his fingers were woven through my hair, as if trying to protect me from the rain. Suddenly bone tired, my eyes drifted shut in despair. My hands ached. My feet cut. My heart raced while the bike below me vibrated between my thighs. My stomach dipped as the bike catapulted toward the river. The front wheeled up and my captor yelled: “MORPH!” Metal tore apart as the head of the stallion reappeared. We hit the riverbed with a hardly thump, pitching us both forward as the rear of the horse returned. The result rose us up several feet. I lurched forward then sprang upward like a bobblehead toy. My head knocked his shoulder and an arm encircled my waist to steady my body. I was pressed back against a firm chest.
“Where in hell are we going?” I yelled over the splashing hooves and thudding rain.
“Exactly,” he shouted next to my ear.
“What?”
“Hell,” he barked. My neck twisted and it caught his nose. He sniffed my hair above my ear. I spun further, my brows pinching, my eyes questioning. Those cobalt gems remained forward, focused. His face was a mask, stone-looking and bluish. Glancing down at the hand flat against my stomach, his nails were black and pointed, almost like talons or claws. Sensing my appraisal, he clenched his fingers into a fist, but it caught my thin tank and scratched against my belly. I cried out. Instantly, his hand removed from me and I noted the now shredded appearance of my shirt. I quivered again in fear, convinced death awaited me. My shoulders hunched forward in reaction to the sharp scrape.
“My apologies.” His formality sounded ancient and strange. My first glance would have placed him roughly the age of Tripper, but the cadence of his voice sounded years older. Thoughts of Tripper shifted to Swanson and Veva.
“My friends are waiting for me.” The statement seemed weak. “They’ll call the police, but I won’t tell anyone what happened, if you just take me back. No one would believe all this anyway.” Doubt for my own sanity crept through my brain.
“I cannot.” This man was clearly on a mission, and it was taking me in the opposite direction of home. While he’d been my savior in one instance, I suddenly realized he was a captor in another.
Ready to protest, or plea for my life, my voice faltered as a large building loomed before us. The entire structure stood black, metallic and foreboding. Not a single light shown from its glassy windows. The rain subsiding, water trickled down its sleek sides, like snakes writhing in escape. We headed for a tunnel ahead arched in limestone block. What should have been white brick was dark and dank looking, wet from the sudden storm and encased in crushed mud. We slipped under the arch, my captor ducking his head. Chilly air surrounded us. His breath brushed over my cool skin, enhancing the sudden cold. It was as if he’d eaten ice cream, his mouth frozen and exhaling to tease me. His grim face and clenched jaw proved he wasn’t kidding. Our faces were so close we nearly rubbed cheeks. If he turned his head, he’d kiss my jaw. My mouth watered at the disturbing thought.
The horse slowed, prancing wildly as his nostrils flared and his flanks spread from the excursion of a hard run.
“Whoa, Killer,” my captor soothed. “Home, boy.” Home? “What is he?” I asked instead, staring down at the mane of the creature that evidently was more than a horse.
“Up,” The horse’s master called out, ignoring my question. The gate rose, methodically slow, into the heavy stone above it. Sharp points on the ends accentuated the frightening structure that screamed stay away, danger lives behind here. I gripped the horse’s mane harder in my fists, finding no comfort in the coarse hair as I typically would in my own horse, Greece.
What was this place? One moment I faced a modern skyscraper, but in this tunnel a heavy gate stood guard like you’d see as the barrier to a castle dungeon or a hidden lair. My eyes scanned the moist cement walls, dripping with condensation. Gate barely risen, we ducked under the iron structure. It fell instantly with a clanking thud behind us. Echoing off the stone corridor, the sound solidified my imprisonment. I was trapped. Once the noise settled, a new one arose. We cantered up an incline, exiting the river enough that only a thin layer of water trickled over the stone flooring. A second sound echoed down the walls: a moan, a whimper, a sharp cry. What was that noise? I tilted my head as if I could distinguish it better. Its intensity grew as we pressed forward.
A moan, a whimper, a sharp cry.
“What is that?” I questioned. My voice, barely a whisper, trailed off. The sounds increased.
A moan, a whimper, a sharp cry. Then a wail.
I spun into the rider behind me and ducked my head. Pressing my cheek firmly against my savior-captor, my fists rose and clenched his open hoodie, soaked through like me.
A moan, a whimper, a sharp cry, a deepening wail.
My eyes pinched shut and I pressed harder into his chest. The hand that had scraped me released the reins, then rubbed hesitantly up my back. I peeked up at him as his tender touch surprised me. His hair was swept back in our haste through the rain. His face illuminated in the darkness of this cavernous space, that bluish tint reflected from intermittent torches. A scar curled from his forehead to his jaw near his hairline. Another scar crossed his strangely dark blue lips: a perfect line from nose to chin cut both curves. His jaw clenched in concentration. The moan, whimper, and sharp cry murmured throughout the cavern, calling and responding from all sections in a dull volley, and pulled me away from my observation. The elongated sound of each vibrated almost sensually throughout the tunnel. A sharp cry caught my breath as we drew near the end of the tunnel. I sat up straighter and inhaled. The stench was a mix of saltwater, fish, and rot. The irony—this was Nebraska. I shifted to question my fellow rider and without a word escaping my lips, he answered.
“Welcome to Hell.”
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A writer of mythical worlds in modern times, I'm the alter ego of contemporary romance author, L.B. Dunbar.
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