Re-Release Day Blitz: 'Black-Winged Tuesday' by A.B. Rayn
Unlucky in life, twice as unlucky in the after-life? When Tuesday dies and becomes a guardian angel, he's sure his luck has turned. Little does he know he'll have to face were-beavers, old sweethearts, archangels, and even Lucifer himself. Nevertheless, Tuesday's death may turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.This is a re-release of a previously published book. New edition is expanded and includes a new cover.
Black-Winged Tuesday
by A.B. Rayn
Series
n/a; standalone
Genre
Paranormal & Urban Fantasy
Publisher
Independent
Re-Publication Date
June 28, 2016
Black-Winged Tuesday Excerpt
On Tuesday, a jet engine fell out of the sky and crushed Herman Morrie and all his worldly possessions. The jet engine was unexpected, but as Herman looked down on the smoking crater, he had to admit he wasn’t surprised. He had a long history with Tuesdays.
His mortal remains, now somewhere at the bottom of the hole, were probably pressed into a man-shaped stain on his off-white corduroy couch, which was now an ember impacted into whatever remained of his living room wall. The entire scene looked as if he’d opened a jar labeled “Black Hole,” and his life had compressed in on itself, taking him with it. And perhaps it was for the best, he thought. Future Tuesdays might have wrought havoc on innocent bystanders. He wouldn’t have wanted his bad luck to hurt others.
But maybe it already had. His father, Carl Morrie, had been a soft-spoken man, but also wise and kind. And one hell of a mechanic. Working with him at the garage had helped Herman discover his talent for putting things back together and had led him to study engineering.
But his father hadn’t lived to see Herman get his degree. A massive stroke had taken him early one Tuesday morning just as he was starting to break down the engine of a 1976 Ford pickup.
Herman had come home from college to bury his father in the local cemetery in Hattiesburg, Tennessee, in a quiet, godly service befitting a quiet, godly man.
He’d put both the garage and the old house up for sale and, after graduating with honors, moved to California. He remembered having some idea that location was the problem—that if he left Tennessee, his luck could only get better.
Apparently not. He didn’t live anywhere near an airport, but a stray airplane part had just cast the deciding vote. California was not his lucky state.
Down below, the accident had roused his neighbors, and they were pouring into the street to meet the flashing police cars. A few more seconds, and a fire truck joined the fray.
***
“At least you went out with a bang,” a voice said from Herman’s left. He turned to see a gray-clad figure standing about ten feet from him—if standing was the right word to describe what a semi- transparent being did when looking down from the clouds.
It appeared to be a young man with wavy brown hair wearing a gray robe, but Herman had never seen the likes of either. The young man was, to put it simply, beautiful to behold. Herman’s first thought was that Michelangelo should have used him as the model for David or else not have bothered.
The robe served the purpose of covering parts of the young man’s body from view, but otherwise, it was as unlike cloth as anything Herman could have imagined. It was more like tiny bits of light or smoke—or both—that shifted, slipped, and swirled as the man moved, covering him in an ever-changing cloud of luminous gray.
“What are you?” Herman asked.
“I am a Neutral,” the young man responded. “Neutrals like me escort people like you once they’ve… passed. It’s my job to get you to the judgment chamber.”
A bolt of fear lit Herman’s insides. He’d lived a decent life, but he hadn’t been to church in years. Would the big man hold that against him?
Of course, he would, Herman decided. It was Tuesday.
His mortal remains, now somewhere at the bottom of the hole, were probably pressed into a man-shaped stain on his off-white corduroy couch, which was now an ember impacted into whatever remained of his living room wall. The entire scene looked as if he’d opened a jar labeled “Black Hole,” and his life had compressed in on itself, taking him with it. And perhaps it was for the best, he thought. Future Tuesdays might have wrought havoc on innocent bystanders. He wouldn’t have wanted his bad luck to hurt others.
But maybe it already had. His father, Carl Morrie, had been a soft-spoken man, but also wise and kind. And one hell of a mechanic. Working with him at the garage had helped Herman discover his talent for putting things back together and had led him to study engineering.
But his father hadn’t lived to see Herman get his degree. A massive stroke had taken him early one Tuesday morning just as he was starting to break down the engine of a 1976 Ford pickup.
Herman had come home from college to bury his father in the local cemetery in Hattiesburg, Tennessee, in a quiet, godly service befitting a quiet, godly man.
He’d put both the garage and the old house up for sale and, after graduating with honors, moved to California. He remembered having some idea that location was the problem—that if he left Tennessee, his luck could only get better.
Apparently not. He didn’t live anywhere near an airport, but a stray airplane part had just cast the deciding vote. California was not his lucky state.
Down below, the accident had roused his neighbors, and they were pouring into the street to meet the flashing police cars. A few more seconds, and a fire truck joined the fray.
***
“At least you went out with a bang,” a voice said from Herman’s left. He turned to see a gray-clad figure standing about ten feet from him—if standing was the right word to describe what a semi- transparent being did when looking down from the clouds.
It appeared to be a young man with wavy brown hair wearing a gray robe, but Herman had never seen the likes of either. The young man was, to put it simply, beautiful to behold. Herman’s first thought was that Michelangelo should have used him as the model for David or else not have bothered.
The robe served the purpose of covering parts of the young man’s body from view, but otherwise, it was as unlike cloth as anything Herman could have imagined. It was more like tiny bits of light or smoke—or both—that shifted, slipped, and swirled as the man moved, covering him in an ever-changing cloud of luminous gray.
“What are you?” Herman asked.
“I am a Neutral,” the young man responded. “Neutrals like me escort people like you once they’ve… passed. It’s my job to get you to the judgment chamber.”
A bolt of fear lit Herman’s insides. He’d lived a decent life, but he hadn’t been to church in years. Would the big man hold that against him?
Of course, he would, Herman decided. It was Tuesday.
About A.B. Rayn
I write paranormal fiction across the genres of erotic romance, fantasy, and mainstream vampire fiction.
In addition to writing fiction and reading, I enjoy painting, travel, restaurants, movies with monsters and/or explosions, and hanging out with my husband and my dog.
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