Wait Until Dawn Bailey Bradford (best ereader for academics TXT) 📖

Table of Contents

Legal Page

Title Page

Book Description

Dedication

Trademarks Acknowledgment

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

New Excerpt

About the Author

Publisher Page

Wait Until Dawn

ISBN # 978-1-78430-771-4

©Copyright Bailey Bradford 2015

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright September 2015

Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz and Rebecca Scott

Pride Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2015 by Pride Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

Southern Spirits

WAIT UNTIL DAWN

Bailey Bradford

Book four in the Southern Spirits series

Beware of what follows you back from the dead…

Detective Rich Montoya was attacked by Sheriff Stenley’s stalker in When the Dead Speak. A year later, Rich is having a rough time, haunted by a malevolent spirit that’s making his already fragile existence hellacious.

Rich, who’s kept to himself for the past year, is scarred more than physically. The last thing he thinks he needs is a lover, little does he know…

Chris Neeland is a big guy who drives a big rig, and all it takes is one look at the sexy, wounded man driving the cute little Miata and Chris is sunk. His mystical mother always told him love would hit Chris like a bolt of lightning, fast and hard and not without pain, but he kind of hadn’t believed her until he meets Rich.

Dedication

Death doesn’t mean the memories or the love is gone. To those who have lost someone they loved.

Trademarks Acknowledgment

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Jack Daniel’s: Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc.

Mazda Miata: Mazda Motor Company

Cliffs Notes: Cliffs Notes, Inc.

Scotchgard: 3M

Syfy Channel: NBC Universal

LoneStar: Navistar, Inc.

Stetson: John B. Stetson Company

“I see dead people”: The Sixth Sense, Buena Vista Pictures

The Exorcist: Warner Bros.

Chapter One

So much anger. Rich Montoya squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the nerve endings in his fingers and toes burned, sending pinpricks of pain up his limbs. He tried to will back the evil he felt roiling inside him, but as had happened every time before, it hammered away at his control until bright spots danced behind his closed lids and the foreign presence that haunted him wreaked havoc on his body and mind. It exploded inside him like a geyser, pressurized hatred shooting up and spewing throughout him, splattering his soul with inky black streaks of the malevolent being that tormented him.

“You know who I am.”

Rich grunted as he fought the crushing waves of fury, the twisted desires and memories that forced themselves into his mind. Images of mutilated bodies—his own and another man’s—seared into his memory. A whimper slipped free as Rich pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, trying to push out the hated invader. If he could pop his head right open and put an end to this now, he’d do it.

Screams of pain, dark eyes filled with horror, the sadistic glee as the invader forced helpless victims to bear the brunt of his twisted games. Rapist, victim, murderer, victim—Rich was shunted back and forth, experiencing each. His own shouts mixed with the ones shared by the invader, filling Rich inside and out with sounds of terror and denial. Rich’s body jerked at the vision of a brutal penetration, agony ripping through him as if he were being torn into with the force of a jackhammer. His back bowed as he cried out, his hands alternately pulling at his hair and pounding at his head.

“S-stop it! Jesus, God, oh fuck, help me…” Rich pleaded, knowing it was useless. His fears and begging only ever spurred the invader on. Curling into a fetal position, Rich trembled, his teeth chattering as he was mentally subjected to more atrocities. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t experience this again and again and stay sane. And if he didn’t keep his sanity, then the invader would win, maybe even take Rich over and have a willing body in which to act out the sick desires.

“No,” Rich whispered, then yelled as his own fury erupted, “No! You won’t win!” He rolled off the bed and hit the tiled floor with a loud smack. The pain of the fall helped center him, giving him something physical to focus on when his mind was in such turmoil. Pushing himself up to his knees, Rich pried his eyes open, unsurprised to find himself shrouded in darkness. The invader always came in the early morning hours—the witching hours, Rich’s grandma would have said.

On the nights the invader didn’t come, Rich was always wide awake, unable to sleep for fear of having his mind hijacked and filled with horrors no one should ever have to see or experience. He’d wait until dawn, then try to catch a few hours’ sleep. It was a pattern that drained him of his energy—and his will to live. What was the point of living if he no longer had a life of his own?

Even without the presence that insisted on shredding Rich’s mind, his nights were filled with his own memories of pain and fear, the glint of light off a sharp-edged knife, the searing, fiery agony as it sliced into his skin over and over again. His skin was striped with his