Tempest Sample

THE VEIL CHRONICLES, BOOK I

TEMPEST

C.J. Ca mpbell

Iron Stream Media 100 Missionary Ridge, Birmingham, AL 35242 ShopLPC.com Copyright © 2021 by C.J. Campbell All rights reserved. First printing 2021.

Printed in the United States of America Cover design by Megan McCullough No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Iron Stream Media serves its authors as they express their views, which may not express the views of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

The poem on page vii is from R. A. Stewart Macalister, ed. and trans., Lebor Gabála Érenn: The Book of the Taking of Ireland, part IV (Dublin: Educational Company of Ireland, 1941), 213. Public domain.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021940541 ISBN: 978-1-56309-446-0 Ebook ISBN: 978-1-56309-454-5

Praise for Tempest Secret agents, ancient orders, shadow societies, and Irish folklore—all woven into a world you’ll never want to leave. C.J. Campbell is an incredible storyteller, and Tempest is a stunning fantasy you’ll never want to put down.

Book II, please!

Tosca Lee New York Times best-selling author Tempest immersed me in a world of hidden identities, alternate dimensions, special giftings, forbidden love, and a secret rendezvous that includes brownies.

Campbell’s characters feel tangible. They are relatable and endearing but also slap-worthy at times. I loved watching Lexi grow comfortable in her own skin, buck stereotypical heroine tropes, and embrace who she was made to be.

Dear reader, be warned: You will be begging for Book II! Kristen Hogrefe Parnell Award-winning author of The Revisionary Remember to breathe. I said these words to myself time and again while reading C.J. Campbell’s impressive debut novel, Tempest. This is not a genre I typically pick up, but I’m so glad that, this time, I did. I have now been swept into another world, experienced emotions I’d not felt in far too many years— wounded pride, renewed dignity, youthful passion, loathing, fear, courage, confusion, understanding—all within the pages of Tempest. Whatever Lexi felt, I felt. What she saw, I saw. Her experiences became my own. I read until I forgot I was reading. I simply became. Bravo! Bravo! I anxiously await Book II! Eva Marie Everson Multiple award-winning author of Dust President, Word Weavers International

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Prepare to enter a world where nothing is at it seems. Campbell slows time as her characters are spun into a new life and a forbidden love that appears unresolved even to the last page.

Bethany Jett Award-winning author and novel junkie The fact that this book is not yet a movie is a crime. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in love with characters so quickly. Tempest is flawlessly crafted and steeped in magnificent lore we don’t see often enough in fiction. The story, the dialogue, the descriptions—everything is expertly executed. It’s the perfect swirl of realism and myth to whisk you away to another world. From here on out, every C.J. Campbell book is an auto-buy.

Hope Bolinger Author of the award-winning Blaze trilogy and Dear Hero duology C.J. Campbell’s debut novel is brilliant. Both emotional and passionate, Tempest’s scenes played out in my mind like a movie. I devoured every page.

Themes of brokenness, identity, and discovery weave around epic battles between good and evil, mortals and myths. Might I suggest strapping on a sword before diving into the world of Tempest? You just might need it!

Josie Siler Award-winning author Vice President, Broken but Priceless Ministries From the first few pages, I needed to know how this one would end. Campbell did not disappoint—Tempest is a proven winner. Don’t miss out on this funfilled adventure.

Victoria Duerstock Multi-award winning author and avid reader

This story is for all who believe in the impossible.

Who see magic in everything.

Who pour out love despite pain.

Who find the light even in the dark.

The dreamers.

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It is God who suffered them, though He restrained them— they landed with horror, with lofty deed, in their cloud of mighty combat of spectres, upon a mountain of Conmaicne of Connacht.

Without distinction to discerning Ireland, without ships, a ruthless course the truth was not known beneath the sky of stars, whether they were of heaven or of earth.

Poem from Lebor Gabála Érenn (The Book of Invasions) The story of the Tuatha Dé Danann from the Book of Leinster (c. A.D. 1150)

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The Call My life depends on how fast I can pack. In three minutes, I can fit all I own into one battered case.

It’s a pathetic sight, me and my suitcase huddled in the back of my parents’ rusted Ford Focus. There’s nothing glamorous about life on the run.

Hollywood gets it so wrong.

I roam a hand over the scuffed plastic shell of my faithful case. My fingers trace the collage of travel stickers I’ve collected over eighteen years. Four countries, twelve cities, and seventeen homes have led to this rather enviable collection. It’s my map of memories, proof that I’ve lived.

The newest edition is a Canadian flag vinyl I bought an hour ago at a border service station. It’s stuck next to a “Welcome to the Sunshine State” sticker. We spent one glorious year in Cedar Key when I was thirteen. I loved it. Loved the sun and the heat. It always felt light and bright—a far cry from the long, dark winters of Scottish Highlands or the concrete jungles of English cities. But then we fled north, far into Canada, where light and warmth don’t often visit. I rub a thumb over the fading sunshine sticker. Maybe we’ll go back.

I smile at the memories, then glance out at the spits of rain that streak the backseat passenger window. The inky night sky is shrouded. Not one star glints, not even a glow of moonlight. My smile falters.

“Do you think we can go back to Florida?” I shoulder between the gap of the driver and passenger seats. Mother glances up from organizing our array of forged passports, and I pout for added impact. “I’m sick of the cold, and they’ve got the best beaches.”

Her brows pull into a mock frown. “We’ve talked about this, Lexi. We’ve a safe house secured in Niagara County. You’ll like it. Lots of rivers and the lake.”

I give a dismissive shrug. “I’m just saying that for a woman of your age, you look good in a bikini.”

“She’s got a point, Marie,” my father says, never taking his eyes off the road.

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Tempest “A woman of my age? What’s that supposed to mean?” Mother uses an American and an Irish passport to consecutively smack his arm and bop me on the forehead.

“It’s a compliment.” Father snorts with laughter at her feeble attempt to cause injury. “Besides, we all know who’s the swimwear model in this family.”

A pause of befuddled silence ensues. He points a thumb at himself. “Me, obviously.”

Mother rolls her eyes so far back they almost disappear into her skull.

I snicker and tap my head, twirling a finger, indicating he’s crazy. She hides laughter behind a fake cough all whilst Father mews his injustices at our poor opinion of his physique. In fairness to him, he’s fit for an ex-army dog in his mid-forties, but he’s maybe not Speedo’s next centerfold.

That said, I’m not one to talk. I’ve never worn a swimsuit—never will— not with a body and face like mine. An anomaly in my blood caused a catastrophic mutation. Born half-blind and disfigured, though I do have one interesting characteristic—bulletproof immunity.

Father catches me looking at my reflection in the rearview. The playfulness vanishes from his eyes, and in its place, worry, concern, panic, fear . . . always fear.

“You hungry, sweet pea?”

I nod, despite the fact that I can’t bear to face another drive-thru. Thirty hours of near constant travel has made me appreciate the comforts of a homecooked meal.

“There was a sign for Chinese takeout a while back.” Mother shifts in her seat to face us. “I don’t think we’ve had Chinese food since we left Calgary.”

She starts to tap the screen of her cell phone—consulting Google for directions. Her platinum bob hangs limp around her drawn face. There are lines around her mouth and dark shadows under her eyes. Worry is taking its toll. Each time we leave another home, her navy eyes twinkle less, and each time I perceive this change, I wonder how much longer she can take it.

“Don’t.” Father’s fingers envelope the cell phone in her hand. She surrenders it to him without hesitation, though her shoulders inch upward and her lips purse.

“It’s been three days since the call.” Her eyes dart to mine, expression tight.

Ah . . . that call.

The thing with bulletproof immunity is that it’s rare—one in eight billion, to be exact, and the thing with being that rare is it puts you on a wanted list.

I don’t know the exact details of which secret world-government agency it is that’s after me, but I do know they’ve been relentless about it since my birth.

Sometimes they almost catch me.

2

C.J. Campbell Three days ago, they nearly did.

They called. We were at the store. Things were good, peaceful even, and then Father’s cell phone rang. We don’t get many calls from outside our happy bubble, and I knew by the sick pallor of his skin that I could kiss Calgary goodbye.

Four hours later we were on the road, headed for a new life in the States . . . or maybe somewhere else? I’m past caring. Everywhere starts to look the same after a lifetime of this.

“There’s a sign for a shopping complex.” I point at a neon sign that not even I can miss. “We can get food and new phones, because I legit can’t live without Snapchat.” I heave a dramatic sigh and flutter a hand around my head. “This was made for filter fame.”

This does the trick. The tension between my parents evaporates and they both chuckle. I grin, triumphant in the knowledge that my little selfdeprecating jokes are still enough to make them smile in this endless game of cat and mouse.

Father veers off the highway to follow the directions for a twenty-fourhour Walmart. Or Target. Or whatever. So long as it sells chocolate and caffeine, I’ll survive the rest of this trip. I can live without a phone—I’ve no one to text—but my parents can’t. It’s their only way to keep tabs on friendsturned-foes, and with their current cell numbers identified, we’ll need new ones.

We pull off the freeway, rolling into a somewhat quiet lot, parking up near the gas station and farthest point from busier amenities. There are a few late-evening shoppers pushing carts burdened with groceries, but most of the activity hives around a Burger King and—score—a Starbucks.

“Caffeine money?” I hold out a hand to my father before he lets himself out of the car.

“Lexi, you have an addiction.” He reaches for his wallet. “You need help.”

“I need a double-shot latte,” I say, eyebrow arched.

“And where does it stop?” He stretches me a twenty. “When does a double turn into a triple? Or, heaven forbid, you move to espressos? You need to take control.” He shakes his head at the smirk on my face. “It’s a lost cause. Fine.

Get me one too. We shall all be addicts together.”

“Drama queen.” I roll my eyes and snatch the twenty.

He chuckles as we step out of the car to join Mother, who’s tapping out an impatient tune against the car roof.

“You’re insufferable.” She shakes her head at him but smiles despite herself, looping an arm around my waist to pull me close. “Never fall in love,” she whispers in my ear. “They’re all idiots.”

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Tempest The two of us giggle at Father’s expense, but he’s too busy scrutinizing the gas prices to care. Mother takes his arm and verbalizes her sympathies at the outrageous prices. I observe them, and for a moment, I think that sometimes we’re so normal, we could be any family. But then I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. The ragged, thick welt that cuts across my left eye and half of my face curls around my neck like a noose. I swallow the lump wedged in my throat because I know I’m the thing that doesn’t fit.

“We’ll just be in the store, sweet pea. Straight back to the car after you grab the coffees, ’kay?” My father hands me the keys. He pauses to let that hand cup my disfigured cheek. “Smile, sweet pea. We’re safe. You don’t have to worry.”

I catch his hand in my fingers and smile for him. “I know.”

“The usual for me, please,” Mother says, before I can ask.

“One double-shot latte and the usual, coming right up.” I stick a thumb up in the air and yank my hood up against the rain, then march for the sweet salvation of roasted coffee beans.

The dim light in the coffee shop creates a wonderful ambience, but it isn’t great for the partially sighted. I catch my toe on the threshold of the front entrance and nearly take out an innocent barista carrying a tray of used mugs.

With a huff of an apology, I straighten my oversized spectacles and keep a keen eye on the tile floor all the way to the bar.

Things don’t get much better at the service counter. The barista almost drops the cup when he takes in my face. He’s so repulsed, he can’t even remember the name I give for the order. The whole exchange is awkward, but I try to remember to smile, to be polite, and to even inquire as to his day.

Mother encourages this. She says that people only understand one kind of beauty, and it’s our job to show them that beauty exists in everything, even in one-eyed, swamp-monster runaways.

Once the coffees are made—at speed and with little eye contact from Barista Boy—I pay and ignore how he takes the money from my scarred hand between his thumb and forefinger. He sticks the three cups in a quad-holder and puts the change in the spare space. I duck my head and dart for the door.

Not every person reacts like this; most have the common decency to pretend not to notice, or they just pretend not to notice me. But now and again, there’s an ignorant individual who manages to knock my fragile confidence down a peg—Barista Boy is one of them.

Within the safe haven of the car, I let one tear trickle free, then scrub it away before taking a long, satisfying sip of my latte. The rich, velvety liquid coats my tongue and warms my insides. In an instant, I’m in my happy place, and all thoughts of the barista vanish.

Who needs therapy when you can drink coffee?

4

C.J. Campbell I slide into a slouch and make a happy hum of approval with my next slurp. Resting my head against the window, I close my eyes and listen to the rain pound. The earlier spit has given way to a deluge. This is close to my idea of bliss—coffee, quiet, and the rain.

Between the beats against the car’s chassis, something vibrates. A noise so out of place in the lullaby of rainfall that I sit bolt upright.

Another buzz, and a shiver spider-walks my spine. I squint in the dark, chest so tight it’s impossible to breathe.

A light illuminates the driver’s side compartment. The sound the plastic makes with the third buzz rattles my very bones. I shove my coffee cup into the holder and squeeze my upper half through the gap between the seat and door. Fingers outstretched, I grapple for my father’s cell phone that blurs to life for the fourth time. Once in my hand, I clutch it to my chest and curl into the darkness of the backseat, as if the shadows might somehow protect me.

The screen illuminates for the last time. I peek at the number, but it’s listed as unknown. My heart bangs so loud that I’m afraid it will shatter my ribs. There’s no one outside, at least not that I can tell, but that doesn’t mean anything.

A car pulls into the space opposite, the garish headlights flood the backseat. I gasp and throw myself onto the floor, pulling Father’s jacket over my head. Each second that ticks by feels like an eternity. My breath comes in quick, startled pants, and I shut my eyes to pray. Not that I’m overly spiritual, but right now I’ll try anything.

“Please, please don’t be them,” I mouth, fingernails biting into the plastic of the phone. “Keep my parents inside, please.”

The lights die and doors slam. A second later, feminine laughter bounces around the empty lot and heeled shoes clatter past the car. Relief rushes through every vein in my body until I’m limp as a fish.

“Thank you,” I whisper and rub a hand down my face.

I toss off the jacket and heave up onto the backseat. It takes a full minute before my breathing regulates and I no longer feel my pulse in my ears. All I can do is stare at the phone screen, at the unlisted number, and contemplate what it means.

As if in answer, the phone buzzes in my hand again. I almost drop it, ready to nosedive to the floor, but morbid curiosity keeps me glued to the spot.

It’s not a phone number this time, but a text.

A simple sentence that reads: You can’t protect her forever, Fred. They’ll come for her. She’ll need us. T. I stare and stare, afraid to blink in case it disappears.

The questions flash one by one in my mind until they’re nothing but a hum of panic. Protect me from whom? Who’s T, and why will I need him?

What’s coming?

5

Tempest My palms are slick with sweat, and I’m not sure I’m breathing. It’s a struggle just to hold on to the phone and remain upright.

The door handle rattles. I launch at the door, ready to hold it shut, ready to scream until my lungs give out. I’m not going anywhere, not with T, not with anyone but my parents.

“Sweet pea? It’s me.” My father’s voice shatters the delusion. I drop back against the backseat and press the lock release on the key.

“Lexi.” Mother swings open the back passenger door and pauses. Her eyes widen at whatever she sees in mine, and a heartbeat later, her arms circle me. “Love, what is it?”

“Who’s coming for me?” I blurt out, voice hoarse and rough.

She glances between me and the phone. Her nimble fingers work the old, silver cell out of my grasp. She studies the message for a second, then hands it straight to my father; a look of sheer fury passes between them in the exchange. “No one.” Mother grips me tighter, folding my head under her chin; her lips graze my crown. “No one is going to touch you.”

Father reads the message, his face a hard mask. A second passes, and he drops the phone on the ground, smashing it with the heel of his boot. He slides into the front seat and starts the engine, then gives Mother a silent nod, and she slams the door closed behind her.

“Who-who is coming?” I push for an answer as those tears start to trek my cheeks. Mother’s hold on me turns viselike. “Why wouldn’t you be able to protect me?”

Father twists in his seat, his blue eyes bright and fierce, illuminated by the dash lights. His whole presence alters so much that it’s not my father in front of me but a trained killer. I know he has a past, I just never ask about it. I don’t want to know why he carries guns and knives the way I carry art supplies and paintbrushes.

“No one will touch a hair on your head,” he says in a voice laced with promise. “No one is coming, and if they even try, it’ll be the last thing they do.”

“Fred, you’ll scare her.” Mother rocks me a little too fast to be soothing, but I cling to her anyway. “Love, no one is coming. That message was just meant to scare us.”

Father doesn’t correct her. Instead he sinks his foot on the gas pedal until the car squeals out of the lot. We disappear into the night and speed toward a new safe place, except I don’t feel so safe.

There’s a new kind of frantic fear in my parent’s eyes. Shadows nip the corners of our happy bubble like ice claws. They tickle the back of my neck and run a chill down my spine—a warning.

Something’s coming.

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