A Beast Among Gods (The Mac Tire Chronicles)
Note From The Author
This book is a work of fiction. Names. Characters or likeness, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination pr are to be used fictitiously for an element of the book. Any mention of mythological characters are based solely for fiction and are not to be considered as true mythology.
Copyright © 2021 by Garnet Davenport
Cover design by Fantasia Cover Designs
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission by the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Love is pure.
Love is kind.
Love is more.
Love is death.
Thank you for picking up A Beast Among Gods. This is the first novella in The Mac Tire Chronicles series. This book should be read after Emerald Secrets. Before you read on this book is about Striker. It is only from his perspective and as you know he has gone through a lot during his time on earth. Hints have been given to the trauma that he has had to endure along the way. He’s strong though and will keep fighting. A few secrets are revealed during this novella that have a lot to do with how the series will end. There’s a lot of death. It’s not pretty. There’s ugliness. There’s tears. There’s strength and loneliness.
Obsidian Secrets, book 4, will reveal it all. Then A Slave Among Gods will release to explain the rest. You may even see other point of views and a spinoff series later on. So, I hope you enjoy.
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➣ Chapter 1
In the Dark of Night
“William.” The faintest whisper tickled the hairs on the back on my neck. I know I opened my eyes, but I couldn’t let anything come into focus. “William, Sweetie. We’ve got to go.” I opened my eyes and rolled over to look my mom in the eyes.
I rubbed the back of my finger in my eye to clear the fog. “Mommy?” She finally came into full focus.
She nodded. “We’ve got to go.” She stood and grabbed my Captain America backpack from the doorknob and started stuffing clothes into it. I realized this was it. She was finally going to leave my abusive father and run. This was what she was whispering about to Aunt Gloria the other day. She planned this. The day we would escape.
I jumped out of bed. I was wearing my green Hulk pajamas and grabbed my favorite action figures from my night stand. She wouldn’t make me leave them, would she? She looked over her shoulder, probably to make sure I was out of bed, and shook her head.
“Only one baby, we don’t have the room.”
Tears built up in my eyes, and I started to cry. If I was going to leave my home, I wasn’t going to leave without my action figures. She came to me and bent down in front of me, “William, we can’t. Only what’s necessary.”
“They are necessary,” I explained with staggered breaths. She looked around my room as if she didn’t have time to deal with my emotional reaction to just some toys. I knew they meant more to me than just toys. Every year on my birthday, I got a new action figure, and so now I had five of them: Captain America (my favorite), Hulk, Iron Man, Hawk Eye, and Superman. Superman is DC and not Marvel. But he’s still really cool. My Uncle says Superman is the shit. Whatever that means. I thought shit meant doggy poop. My father had yelled at the gardener one day about a dog shitting on the grass. Shit was definitely dog poop, which subsequently meant that Superman was dog poop.
My mom spots another backpack, just my size, and held it open for me to stuff everything inside of it. After I got them all in, I grabbed the soft brown puppy stuffed animal off my bed and barely crammed it into my backpack. I took a look around my room for the last time, and my mom grabbed my hand and we walked out of my room. She kept me close behind her while she peered around corners and looked for my father’s guards. They had a schedule, and I knew they would stick to it. We would be able to leave. Then we would be on our own. Just the way she wanted it. My father wouldn’t find out until morning that she was even missing. That I was missing. They haven’t slept in the same room in years. At least that’s what the maid says to the housekeeper.
This moment should have been frightening for a five-year-old. But my father was the frightening one. Everything about the man terrified me. His dark hair and almost black eyes bore into me when he watches anything I do, and his voice was the deepest voice I’ve ever heard. It sounded like a lion roaring when he whispered, which wasn’t often, in fact, never.
My mom pulled me down the hallway toward the back door. The alarm had already