Release Date: July 11, 2016
Genre: Young Adult
About the Book
Rinnie Noelle would rather kick some creepy villain butt than go on a date. As a Psi Fighter trained in the Mental Arts, she can't be distracted by emotion. Her nemesis, Nicolaitin, is manipulating students from her school, using them as puppets to carry out his new plan to find the infamous Morgan Girl, and he doesn't care who becomes collateral damage in the process. People's lives are depending on Rinnie's ultimate focus.
But Mason Draudimon keeps slicing into her soul sharper than a Thought Saber, and her feelings for him knock her off her game with the strength of a psionic War Hammer. Mason insists on helping Rinnie take down Nicolaitan for his own reasons—to avenge his mother—and the closer they get to the truth, the more dangerous the dance between mind and heart, life and death, logic and love.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, pointing at Scallion with my Thought Saber. “That’ll happen.”
I wasn’t nearly as confident as I tried to sound. I scanned the field for Tammy, but she was nowhere to be seen. A swarm of Knights surrounded Dalrymple’s prone body as the goal post toppled over, shooting flames and sparks into the night sky. Drake had stopped moving, and I was exhausted from battle. Worst of all, I didn’t know where Mason was.
“I’m afraid it will,” Scallion said. “Unless you’d prefer I kill this one.”
One of the Proletariat was shoved brutally to the ground in front of me. Scallion stooped down and plucked the mask from his face.
Mason. He grinned at me then turned to Scallion and gave him a you-are-so-dead glare.
I had to act quickly.
“Why should I care if you kill one of your own?” I asked as though the very thought bored me to death.
“You know very well that this is the mayor’s son.” A misty hand burst from Scallion’s palm.
“Now, young lady. Remove your mask.”
“Handless Death?” I said. He didn’t know what Mason and I knew. “You must be joking.”
“That stupid hand won’t hurt me, Skeletor,” Mason said, pulling himself to his feet. Like a striking cobra, Mason’s fist crashed into Scallion’s jaw, knocking him backward. “But you can’t say the same for mine.”
I slashed the two closets Knights, dropping them before four others caged me in with War Hammers.
“Hold them!” Scallion bellowed with rage as two Knights pinned Mason’s wrists behind his back. Before I could move, Handless Death shot from Scallion’s gauntlet, and he forced it against Mason’s chest. The ethereal hand fizzled and sputtered, rolling off Mason’s body like fog. Scallion jerked his palm away and stared at it as if he had never seen it before.
“I guess Nicolaitan failed to mention that little tidbit, huh?” Mason said. “How’s the jawbone?”
Scallion slammed his real fist into Mason’s stomach, driving him to his knees. “I never liked your father, and I don’t like you. Now, Psi Fighter, remove your mask or the Draudimon boy dies.”
“Do we need an instant replay, or did your dried up brain miss the fact that Handless Death can’t kill him?”
“Perhaps not,” Scallion said in a menacing tone. He pulled a gun from his robes and pointed it at Mason’s head. “But this will.”
“Since when do Knights carry guns?” I asked, thankful that the electronics in my mask filtered out the panic in my voice. “I thought that was too uncivilized for Nicolaitan.”
“I follow my own rules,” Scallion said. “Your mask.”
“Don’t do it,” Mason spat. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“You should be.” Scallion placed his pistol against Mason’s forehead. “Three, two—”
“Okay,” I said. I extinguished my Thought Saber and returned my Amplifier to my belt. “I’m yours. Just don’t hurt him.”
“No,” Mason said. “You can’t.”
“I believe the boy knows your identity,” Scallion said.
“I guess we’re even” I said. “I know his.”
“Your mask, Psi Fighter.” Scallion pulled back the hammer. “I won’t ask again.”
“Okay, put the gun down.” I pulled my hood back slowly, revealing my mask’s blond hair. My hand shook as I reached to unlatch my mask.
About the Author
D. R. Rosensteel writes clean action-adventure fantasy. He grew up devouring Marvel and DC comics. He is a Batman aficionado (1960s television version) and über-fan of the television series Supergirl. He planned to be a comic strip artist but dated a girl in college with a very scientific mind, so he became a chemist instead. Fear of genetic mutation caused him to leave that field and start a consulting business so he could charge obscene fees, giving him plenty of time to write. Rosensteel lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, two daughters, and a cat. Also female. The extreme estrogen levels in his house contribute to his writing voice, and the high-pitched whining that destroyed his hearing has given him an almost supernatural ability to tune out everything and concentrate on his characters.