Prologue
There comes a time in everyone’s life where they make a decision that changes the very fabric of their existence. For some it is an obvious life changing decision, such as getting marrie d, having children, or some other choice of that nature. For others, the decision is disguised as an unassuming event such as choosing to have coffee with breakfast, or in my case, deciding so go to sleep. A little unfair if you ask me.
What I had thought would happen when I went to bed that night was what happened almost every night of my life. I would go to sleep and have sweet dreams of winning the lottery, being famous, and of course meeting Mr. Perfect. Afterwards I would wake up, drink coffee, and go to work.
That is not what happened.
I went to sleep alright, but I dreamed of the end of the world, horrific, bloody, and not at all peaceful. And what I woke up to was the mark of the chosen on my forehead. Not that I knew exactly what the mark meant when I woke up with it. Just that I was late for work and no amount of makeup was able to cover the markings that looked like a five year old discovered how to finger paint, on my forehead. My only thought was that I was going to kill my roommate for drawing on my forehead, a practical joke was one thing but this was beyond the pale, except he wasn’t the one who had marked me.
At the time I had no clue but the vague recollection of a dream over what was about to happen. The path that I was destined to walk was still hiding in my subconscious chilling with the lottery dreams and the mythical Mr. Perfect.
But Let me back up and start at the beginning by explaining the events prior to being marked, and everything that led to me sitting in the middle of a pile of corpses waiting for the sun to come up.
Chapter 1
I was your typical twenty four year old. I went to college, got my own place, and proceeded to gain an entry level job making barely enough for me to eke out a living and pay my student loans back. I was living the modern version of the American dream complete with pumpkin spiced lattes with a side of debt, go me.
I lived in Tulsa, Ok. Yeah, I know, not the coolest place to live but hey, it’s not quite the backwards cowboy and Indian place people make it out to be. With over 300,000 within city limits it gave a fair imitation of being a big city with all the bells and whistles. My apartment was in a neighborhood known as Cherry Street. Cherry Street is an area of Tulsa full of locally owned shops, artsy things, and hipsters in skinny jeans. While I was not a hipster, seeing how my job was to promote locally owned businesses it was a great location for me.
As far as looks go I am nothing special. I know , I’m the heroine of the book. I have to look like Angelina Jolie or Jessica Alba or some other Hollywood hottie, but alas my genes hate me and I do not look anything like either of them, even after one has had a few shots of vodka. I do have some charms though; I’m not a goblin after all. I have a dark red hair, not the coppery ginger hair, but a deep red that looks like fire in the sunlight. Green eyes framed with thick lashes are I think my best feature, and I have curves, lots of them in fact. But overall when it’s all smashed together and added with some self-depreciating humor and above average intellect it makes me, Siria Zander.
I grew up in a typical family for the most part. My parents are divorced; my biological sperm donor wasn’t in the picture for the most part having bailed out before I was two. However, I did end up with the best step dad in the whole world so it probably was a blessing . My mother is a lot like me and I get my tenacity from her. I have an older brother and sister as well, both married with a passel of kids who would likely give Rosemary’s baby a run for its money over being the true spawns of Satan. But I love them all nonetheless.
I also live with a roommate. His name is Keane, and he is the life of the
There comes a time in everyone’s life where they make a decision that changes the very fabric of their existence. For some it is an obvious life changing decision, such as getting marrie d, having children, or some other choice of that nature. For others, the decision is disguised as an unassuming event such as choosing to have coffee with breakfast, or in my case, deciding so go to sleep. A little unfair if you ask me.
What I had thought would happen when I went to bed that night was what happened almost every night of my life. I would go to sleep and have sweet dreams of winning the lottery, being famous, and of course meeting Mr. Perfect. Afterwards I would wake up, drink coffee, and go to work.
That is not what happened.
I went to sleep alright, but I dreamed of the end of the world, horrific, bloody, and not at all peaceful. And what I woke up to was the mark of the chosen on my forehead. Not that I knew exactly what the mark meant when I woke up with it. Just that I was late for work and no amount of makeup was able to cover the markings that looked like a five year old discovered how to finger paint, on my forehead. My only thought was that I was going to kill my roommate for drawing on my forehead, a practical joke was one thing but this was beyond the pale, except he wasn’t the one who had marked me.
At the time I had no clue but the vague recollection of a dream over what was about to happen. The path that I was destined to walk was still hiding in my subconscious chilling with the lottery dreams and the mythical Mr. Perfect.
But Let me back up and start at the beginning by explaining the events prior to being marked, and everything that led to me sitting in the middle of a pile of corpses waiting for the sun to come up.
Chapter 1
I was your typical twenty four year old. I went to college, got my own place, and proceeded to gain an entry level job making barely enough for me to eke out a living and pay my student loans back. I was living the modern version of the American dream complete with pumpkin spiced lattes with a side of debt, go me.
I lived in Tulsa, Ok. Yeah, I know, not the coolest place to live but hey, it’s not quite the backwards cowboy and Indian place people make it out to be. With over 300,000 within city limits it gave a fair imitation of being a big city with all the bells and whistles. My apartment was in a neighborhood known as Cherry Street. Cherry Street is an area of Tulsa full of locally owned shops, artsy things, and hipsters in skinny jeans. While I was not a hipster, seeing how my job was to promote locally owned businesses it was a great location for me.
As far as looks go I am nothing special. I know , I’m the heroine of the book. I have to look like Angelina Jolie or Jessica Alba or some other Hollywood hottie, but alas my genes hate me and I do not look anything like either of them, even after one has had a few shots of vodka. I do have some charms though; I’m not a goblin after all. I have a dark red hair, not the coppery ginger hair, but a deep red that looks like fire in the sunlight. Green eyes framed with thick lashes are I think my best feature, and I have curves, lots of them in fact. But overall when it’s all smashed together and added with some self-depreciating humor and above average intellect it makes me, Siria Zander.
I grew up in a typical family for the most part. My parents are divorced; my biological sperm donor wasn’t in the picture for the most part having bailed out before I was two. However, I did end up with the best step dad in the whole world so it probably was a blessing . My mother is a lot like me and I get my tenacity from her. I have an older brother and sister as well, both married with a passel of kids who would likely give Rosemary’s baby a run for its money over being the true spawns of Satan. But I love them all nonetheless.
I also live with a roommate. His name is Keane, and he is the life of the
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