I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE MIRRORS BY WHICH I END THE WORLD by Kira Blackwood Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Kira Blackwood

Pub. Date: January 16, 2024

Publisher: Epic Publishing

Formats: Paperback, eBook

Pages: 232

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/u/bajRPQ

From debut author Kira Blackwood comes a captivating and engaging urban fantasy thriller that will leave you breathless.

Instead of celebrating being the youngest in her PhD graduating class, Chelsea is suddenly mourning the death of her parents. And worse? No one knows who did it. Until she meets him, with her world turned upside down, the last thing she needs is a dark-haired stranger with hypnotic eyes to distract her. But when he tells her he knows who killed her parents, she believes him. But can she trust him?

Today, his name is Michael. But tomorrow? He could be anyone because Michael didn’t exist. Burdened by the memories of everyone he touches, he’s always one step ahead of The Order, a dangerous cult wanting to use his powers to bring evil to the world. Michael can’t let that happen. So he runs. But this time, he runs right into her. He knows he shouldn’t help her. She’ll only slow him down. So why can’t he walk away?

They are searching for the truth while running for their lives. Can they succeed, or will The Order find them first?

Excerpt:

Part One: Empty Skies 

Prologue 

Michael Sanders’s life could be contained in a fourteen by eighteen-inch suitcase, and all  proof of his existence could be stowed away in a Chinese food take-out carton. This was just as  well because Michael Sanders did not exist. The fact that he did not exist did not stop him from  being an ordinary looking man in his mid-twenties who hadn’t held a stable job for more than a  few months at a time, just as it did not stop his eyes from opening when he heard three car doors  shut below his motel room window. 

His heart pumped a wave of cortisol and adrenaline through his bloodstream. It was a  situation he had become all too used to. He always slept fully clothed, with the exception of his  socks and shoes, which were wearing thin. 

Through the broken metal slats of his window, he saw the same details he always saw: a  black car with tinted windows and no plates driven by men wearing dark, long-sleeved shirts and  matching pants, as if dressed in shadow. The street beyond was desolate, the parking lot empty,  the sky blank. Neither man nor God would protect him. 

He skipped socks, shoving his feet into sneakers, then snagged his toiletry kit from the  bathroom sink. He shoved it into the constantly packed suitcase he had left at the foot of his bed.  He made sure it stayed packed, ready to grab at a moment’s notice, whether to keep him  organized for a hasty escape or to use as a blunt weapon if they got the drop on him. The man  crouched low, listening to where his would-be abductors were. 

The sound of splintering wood came from somewhere nearby as somebody kicked in a  door. Damn it, they’re close. Another slam, this time from the room next door. They’re learning.  They split up this time. 

Michael crouched behind the corner of the bed, pressing himself flat against a floor  stained by countless former tenants. The doorknob rattled shortly before the door itself exploded  inward in a shower of splinters, dust, and rusted hinges. His eyes, which had adjusted to the  darkness, focused on the looming silhouette of his latest stalker. A hand wreathed in darkness snaked through the air to the nearby light switch, temporarily blinding him.

Mentally spouting off a string of obscenities, he listened as the soon to be assailant  trudged into the bathroom, flicking a switch in there as well. He would only have one moment,  one chance to get out of there, but there would be no way of leaving undetected if he didn’t make  the first move. Michael counted to five and darted from his cover, flicking the lights off. 

He heard the alarmed grunt of someone who both was and was not expecting this to  happen. He crouched low again as the individual stepped back into the dark room. His attacker  would need a moment to adjust from the lights outside to the darkness in Michael’s room. That  moment of transition was more than enough. 

Michael sprang, curling a hand around the man’s jaw while using the other to remove the  attacker’s dark sunglasses. Such affectations, though seemingly pointless at night, were part of  The Order’s uniform, as they prevented him from using his powers. The man behind the lenses  was thick and balding, probably about forty years of age. His skin was sunburned and there was  a slight tinge of jaundice in his eyes. 

There was no doubt that the attacker had been instructed extensively on why he should  never look into the eyes of the man who called himself Michael Sanders, but few who knew of  his ability could resist the temptation to see it in action. This curiosity got the better of him. 

Connected only by their gaze, the attacker found himself transfixed, trapped in a bluish black tunnel that seemed to surround them, each staring down the other through a luminescent  tunnel. Memories poured from the man, Elijah Johnson, who had a severe drinking problem and  had been promised salvation from the emotional struggles that drove him time and time again  into the bottle. He was nothing but a lowly acolyte, someone who had been sent along as backup,  a disposable bruiser who happened to find their target before the higher-ranked members. Elijah  had been assured things would turn out all right in the end; he was an animal that had been  brought along as a distraction. Michael couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting pain on an  individual so lost. 

It was easy to grant him the relief The Order emptily promised. Michael felt a familiar  sensation flow through him, a tension where there had been nothing before, like steam filling a  sealed container, pressure rising, yet not ready to blow. Elijah’s face softened, the pain attached  to his memories ebbing away like driftwood being brought out to sea. The alcoholic’s past  became Michael’s. Elijah remembered the history, but not the sorrow.

“Now you know they weren’t lying.” Michael’s voice shook as he fought the sadness of a  life that wasn’t his own. “Get out of here and stay away from The Order.” Elijah could only nod  as Michael grabbed his suitcase and left. He vaulted over the railing, landing hard, though the  cultists were making too much noise to hear his comparably quiet landing. 

He reached his car when heavy footsteps came from behind. One set. Male. Moderate  size, aggressive. A man Michael had been waiting for. Each abduction regiment had a leader, and  tonight, this was the unfortunate soul tasked with taking him in. 

Michael spun and delivered a devastating right jab to the bridge of the group leader’s  nose, smashing cartilage and the plastic frame of another set of sunglasses. The leader found  himself slammed into the side of the ’98 Volvo Michael had been given a few months earlier.  Michael pried the leader’s eyelids open, locking their gazes. He unleashed the two decades of  alcoholism and emptiness he’d collected from Elijah upon the man, apparently named Herschel;  Elijah’s pain now resided in this attacker’s heart. It would kill him, as it had been slowly killing  its original owner. Michael thought nothing of dooming a man who’d condemned so many  others. 

When Michael looked away, he heard a thud, followed by Herschel sobbing hysterically  on the ground. He rolled his shoulders and smiled. 

“Thanks. I needed to get that off my chest.” 

He slid his key into the ignition, the engine kicked over, and Michael barreled down the  interstate, heading north along the east coast. A few hours passed with nothing but the dark  windows of nearby buildings and long-past-blooming foliage to keep him company. As the sun  crested over the horizon, Michael found himself pulling over, parking in a small lot by a beach in  Maryland. There were a few other cars there, some with surfboards still strapped to the top. They  were unimportant, their owners easily avoided. 

Getting out, he retrieved his wallet and other pieces of ID from his suitcase, then got a  Chinese food take-out carton from his trunk. A splash of kerosene would ensure it burned up in a  minute, tops. He brought his satchel with him. 

Crossing the sands to a nearby jetty, its rocky outcropping thrusting back at the relentless  crash of the ocean, he sat cross-legged atop the rocks and sighed. That one exhalation was all the  mourning he’d allow. He didn’t have time to grieve the death of Michael Sanders. Since he was a  boy, he’d led a series of short lives punctuated by a sudden burst of flame. He was no phoenix, though. There was no rising from the ashes. He was an arsonist at a masquerade ball, setting fire  to his own costumes. 

Flipping through alternative identities, he eventually decided on David “Dave”  Helmholtz. He then made a few calls: one to Jill Palls, to let her know Michael was returning to  California after a death in the family; one to Louis Jorgen, a short order cook at the local diner, to  say that he had to leave for Europe due to work; and one to Phillis Glabbern, the motel  proprietor, saying that someone had broken into Michael’s room, he didn’t feel safe and would  be heading to Florida. 

After this, he snapped the burner phone in two, cheap little flip-phone that it was, and  threw it in the Atlantic. After sealing his cut-up driver’s license and registration for the Volvo in a  take-out container, he shut the lid, tucked the box in between a few boulders, and lit a match.  Michael Sanders perished in that flame, trapped inside a tiny cardboard tomb that smelled of soy  sauce. 

Glancing at a man and woman who were dressed to surf (though they seemed busy  tearing each other’s wet suits off), he made sure no one else was around. His privacy secured,  Dave pulled out a new vehicle registration card and changed the plates, bending the old set in  half as a reminder that they could no longer be used. He heard splashing from the waves and  knew that the two beachgoers were either awful surfers or great at having sex in the ocean. Dave  spray-painted his gray Volvo a pale blue and, with a swift kick, dented the rear side paneling, to  ensure people wouldn’t recognize his car. 

Moments later, he drove away, the giant red sun and burning sky seeming to reflect the  endless process of transition in which he’d been caught. An endless road yawning out before  him, hours ticking by until, eventually, he found himself in White Plains, a town of roughly  seventy-five thousand people along the south-eastern edge of Pennsylvania. 

Dave found an affordable apartment building―twelve hundred a month for one  bedroom―and dragged his one suitcase to his room. He surveyed the flaking paint, meager  fixings, and cracked bathroom sink. This was the nicest place he’d been in two years. 

“Yeah…this could work,” he mumbled aloud, as if striking a business deal. He took one  glance out the window to appreciate the town around him, another into the mirror to take in his  bloodshot eyes, and stumbled into the bedroom, letting his eyes shut as fatigue dragged him into  the void, where he didn’t have to be anyone at all.

Chapter 1 

Chelsea Valenti stared out across the sea of drunken, gyrating bodies at Mickey’s Sports Bar,  her teeth crunching down on another stale pretzel, tongue playing with the crumbs before  sending them down her esophagus to their destruction. One half of her agitated mind focused  almost obsessively on her looming graduation from the White Plains Institute of Technology,  while the other half casually deduced the angles of the architecture, the strength of the support  beams, and the average square footage of sitting versus standing room. If you’d asked Mickey’s  typical patron as to how Mickey could make more money, they would likely have told you that a  new decor might bring in a few more customers. If you’d asked Chelsea, she would’ve said that  by moving the bar against the adjacent wall and extending that bar by about six feet, Mickey  could double his profits in a month on the increased volume of sales alone. Having more room to  move and serve people is kind of important. 

Having entered college at sixteen, many professors didn’t take her seriously until she  proved herself and earned their envious hatred. Others treated her like the only student in class,  which led her peers to despise the teenager who showed them up at every turn. Some male  students wouldn’t go near her, afraid that the law would frown on a grown man so much as  talking with such an underage woman, while others couldn’t stand anyone smarter than them,  leaving her without any romantic attachments, even through graduate school. The female  students almost unanimously regarded her as a freak. In fairness, she was set to get her doctorate  at twenty-three, so maybe they were right. 

“Chelsea! Hey, are you still with us?” A smooth voice snapped the daydreaming woman  back to reality. Her head swiveled, turning to face Jordan Garcia, a twenty-two-year-old Latina  double-majoring in sociology and political studies. She had a body like a stained-glass  window—dazzling from every direction. The two had formed a bond during countless chill out  sessions of lukewarm pizza delivered from Shelly’s Eatery eaten over the course of a Dexter or  NCIS marathon. Jordan’s silken black hair would be tied up in a lazy bun and her curves would  be hidden by pajamas or sweats, serving as a reminder to Chelsea that, despite some rumors to  the contrary, Jordan wasn’t a goddess.

While Jordan seemed to weave through society like a snake through tall grass, Priscilla  Aberdeen, seated in the back of their round booth, seemed to take the path of most resistance,  whether it was getting decent grades through all night study binges then sleeping through the  whole weekend, or dieting by, well, doing the same thing—strict calorie counting and three-hour  gym sessions coupled with huge binges. Despite this, she maintained that happiness did not lead  to success, and she hadn’t gone to college to become a failure. 

Next to Chelsea sat Theresa Sillim, who was majoring in religious studies even though  she intended to be a full-time yogi, so she didn’t need the degree. Her passion gave her a  justifiable reason to always wear yoga pants and an athletic top or sweats. It was a style that  required little effort to put together, but more importantly, she was always comfortable. 

“Hey, Chelsea.” Priscilla smiled a little, glancing around with a conspiratorial drop in her  voice, as if anyone could’ve overheard them among the bar’s crowd. “Can you do the thing?” “Oh, yeah!” Jordan grinned, egging Chelsea on. She could convince damn near anyone to  do her bidding with little more than the spark in her eyes. “Do it, come on. Please? For me.” She  took a long sip of her White Russian, keeping her eyes trained on the soon-to-be-Doctor of  Psychology—Chelsea’s real passion, despite her skill in mathematics. 

Theresa glanced between them, chuckled weakly and joined in. “It’s so cool!” She  disapproved because it normally meant irritating someone or spoiling a drink. Still, she couldn’t stand between her friends and a good time. 

Chelsea sighed, masking a smile with a swig of Coke. “What do you want me to hit?” Jordan pushed the bowl of peanuts her way and glanced around. “Oh, look, Lenny  McGuire’s here. Poor lonely Lenny. Think you can stick one in his eye?” 

Chelsea looked out at the crowd. The bar was oddly crowded, considering it was almost  time for the Ghost to strike. People must’ve moved on from that news cycle. Even serial killers  can get boring, apparently. 

Looking around the bar, Chelsea couldn’t blame people for being out, celebrating the end  of the semester. She was out, too, after all. It’s natural for people to want to blow off steam.  Ironically, the looming threat made people want to go out even more. 

Her gaze fell on the disheveled computer engineering major sitting a few booths away,  fingers striking on his laptop like pale lightning. He was a junior who’d had to take a semester  off for ‘personal issues’ and hadn’t managed to survive falling into the chasm left where his social life had once been. 

“Lenny? No, not Lenny…he’s nice,” she protested half-heartedly, knowing it wouldn’t  change what was coming. All her training failed her when it came to talking herself out of  intense situations. 

“Can’t do it?” Priscilla teased, a little more sharply than she meant to. Jordan shot her a  look. Priscilla turned whiter than playground chalk. “I mean, it’s not like you ever get caught,  you know? You’re every teacher’s pet. No one suspects you of anything.” 

Theresa took a different approach. “Focus, my friend. Center yourself. We talked about  this, remember?” 

Internally rolling her eyes, Chelsea thought, Ah yes, the breathing exercises, the balance  of one’s chakras against the chaos of life, or some such thing. 

Theresa laid her hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I believe in you.” 

“That’s…kind of weird to say…but thanks.” Chelsea grabbed a peanut. 

She surveyed the room, watching Lenny hammering away at his laptop in the center of  the crowded room, sixty feet away, with his back to their booth. Her vision flitted across the  tables, glasses, ceiling fans, and decorations, calculating the angles between each. Movement  speeds, percentiles, and force readings danced through her thoughts, fitting perfectly into her  equation. Then, the bartender disappeared into a storeroom, giving her the window she needed. “Well?” Jordan prodded. 

“If theta equals one seven dot one six two…” she trailed off, placing the nut along the  back of the seat, “then with a minimal application of force…” She cocked her finger back and  flicked. The miniscule projectile bounced off the rim of the raised glass of yet another muscle bound simpleton, into the spinning blades of the fan above his head, at which point it darted  

across the room and ricocheted off the edge of Lenny’s laptop, directly into his right eye. He let  out a yelp, which caused a handful of drunken revelers to glance in his direction. The man whose glass she’d used in her equation didn’t even notice the disturbance. His  attention seemed squarely focused on the mounds of exposed flesh popping out of the shirt of the  woman at whom he was drooling. 

“I knew you could do it!” Theresa hugged Chelsea. Priscilla’s face fell as she looked  away. Jordan smirked, perfectly happy to sit back and let mayhem unfold as long as she got to  push the first domino. Of course, she’s easygoing, Chelsea thought, never daring to express aloud, because her sister works for the FBI. 

Chelsea shifted about, feeling her stomach knot as she wondered what Lenny was  thinking, or if he knew that she was responsible. Not that he could have. Out of the dozens of  times she’d performed that trick, her friends were the only ones who knew the source of the  aerial peanut. She’d landed them in shot glasses, the mouths of Tiki statues and unsuspecting  strangers, and now, someone’s eye. 

“I need a drink.” She slid out of her seat, standing before her friends could interject. A  quick glance at Lenny, who was trying to rub oil and salt out of his eye, conjured a memory of  her father standing over her when she was seven and the school had called her parents because  she took Dan White’s crayons. 

“Chelsea,” he had said, “what made you think it’s okay to do something like that?” When  she tearfully attempted to respond, he held up his finger, admonishing her. “It’s never okay to  hurt people. How would you have liked it if he took your crayons?” 

Guilt, to a child, is the end of the world. As it is, they understand little beyond their own  environment, and no matter how intelligent Chelsea was, the idea that her parents were angry at  her threatened catastrophe. Shaking with uncontrolled sobs, she’d apologized to him, then to Dan  the next day, and to her teacher, since she made Ms. Kelly upset. She never stopped being sorry. 

Rubbing her eye and shaking her head to dismiss the flashback, Chelsea approached the  bar. She spent a moment glancing over the bartender, whose most striking characteristic was that  he seemed to look exactly like everyone else despite his blue eyes and messy, medium-length  hair. While not unattractive, he was far from the best-looking guy around, though something in  how he carried himself held her attention for a little longer than she intended. His face, as far as  she knew, never moved, never betrayed what was going on in his head, much like The Thinker.  What he was thinking, no one was sure, but he seemed to always be thinking about something  terrible. Who was going to waste the time of a man who looked so forgettable, yet so tense? 

“Another Coke?” he called out to her, his rough voice breaking through the din around  her. It sounded rough and smooth at the same time in an impossible way. Sandpaper covered in  oil. 

“Uh, yeah, thanks.” She nodded vehemently to make sure he understood. Dropping a few  crumpled bills on her tiny corner of the bar, she watched as he pulled a small, red can out from  behind clinking rows of Bud Lights and other assorted intoxicants. She unknowingly rolled her eyes, unable to figure out why so many people seemed eager to guzzle what most studies and  autopsy reports indicated was poison. 

He approached her, holding out the drink, his stone face still set in its serious expression.  Their eyes locked and she felt transfixed for a fraction of a second. His forgettable eyes  almost…glowed. Despite how ordinary they were, she felt totally, physically captivated. As she  curled her fingers around the can and tried to pull away, she found that he was still holding tight. “By the way, we prefer our snacks to stay out of peoples’ eyes.” 

Her heart stopped, and her eyes went wide. The world fell away, leaving her alone with  the too-serious bartender with moss green eyes, ancient spherules that reflected a thousand years  of lost wisdom. No wonder he was the one to catch her. Everyone else looked, but something in  her gut told her this man could see, and he did, in fact, see her. Now she was screwed and about  to get kicked out of her favorite bar, which she loved even though she didn’t drink. That meant  buying soda from the 7-11 and drinking in her dorm, alone, like an undergrad. 

Then, the twenty-something’s stone face cracked a wry grin, his calloused hand releasing  her drink. It nearly tumbled from her hands, but she managed to compose herself before anything  disastrous happened. 

“Nice shot, though.” 

“T-thanks, Dave,” she whispered, unable to speak louder. 

The enigma known as Dave the Bartender defied her considerable deductive powers. She  knew nothing of him, other than that he came to White Plains a few months ago, nor could she  derive any details from his clothing, demeanor, or personality. Everything about him seemed to  be the most ordinary possible choice. That smile was a clue to something, but she didn’t have  enough information to make it meaningful. 

Chelsea wondered if ‘exceedingly ordinary’ could be a clue. Nobody looked that plain by  accident. Maybe Dave didn’t want to be noticed—but that smirk, lording his strange  knowingness over her, suggested he couldn’t resist showing off. Some kind of gift, maybe? 

Dave appeared to like certain kinds of attention, though he hated being noticed. Even as  the bartender, he made sure to never command the room…which likely meant a traumatic past,  or he was on the run. Or both. 

But still, how did he catch me? 

She wove her way through the crowd but was so perturbed by his having caught her that, for once, she didn’t stop to think enviously of the buxom, flat-stomached women lining the  room. It wasn’t as though Chelsea didn’t have her own ‘assets,’ but having extra weight around  her middle (albeit, only a little extra) made potential suitors hard to come by, especially if Jordan  was around. Food filled a void that had always lurked in the center of her heart, swallowing her  up when she allowed her mind to wander. 

“What’s wrong?” Priscilla asked, scrutinizing Chelsea as soon as she sat down. “N-nothing, why?” 

“You’re so pale. Are you well?” Theresa placed a palm against Chelsea’s forehead,  though it was quickly slapped away. 

“I’m fine!” Chelsea cried, watching her friends draw back in surprise. She sighed, and  then looked over at them, still reeling. “Dave saw me.” 

“Saw you? With the peanut?” 

“No way!” 

“Oh, dear!” came the chorus of hushed murmurs. 

“Yes…with the peanut…” She began to trail off as she attempted to figure out how the  man could’ve caught her. Hadn’t he been in the back room? 

“How?” 

“Was he mad?” 

“Do we have to leave?” 

“No, he…fine…” she mumbled absently, trying to review which mirrors and security  cameras were placed where, and if it was possible, he’d been tipped off by a phone call or text  message, or if another patron, perhaps, had— 

“Hey, stay with us!” Jordan snapped, bringing Chelsea back to attention. “It’s ladies’  night, and we’re celebrating. No zombies allowed.” 

Chelsea forced herself to laugh, both insulted and charmed by Jordan’s comment. She  couldn’t deny that she tended to zone out when something really captivated her interest, usually  to the point she’d forget homework and miss meals. During one particularly intense semester,  she’d gone into ‘zombie mode,’ as Jordan called it, frequently enough to convince her friends  that she’d become anorexic, often forgetting to eat, once for over a day. She lost seventeen  pounds before her friends staged a three-hour intervention. She was able to persuade them she  wasn’t anorexic, just distracted. Mostly. They kept a wary eye on her for a while, but she loved them all the more for it. 

“Relax, I’m with you, it’s just…” She bit her lip, finishing quietly, hoping they might  have insight to his knowledge. “He wasn’t even there.” 

“What was that?” Theresa looked over. 

Chelsea glanced between her friends, meeting their eager eyes, wondering what was  running through their minds. Something told her not to mention that little connection she and  Dave shared, when his gaze went straight through her and, for the briefest instant, warmed the  chill that had lingered in her soul for so long. He’d connected with her. It felt like she could’ve  told him anything, and Dave would have been happy to take that pain away. But how? He’d done  that with his stare. He’d done something impossible. 

She just didn’t know what. 

“Nothing.” Flashing a grin, she rose from her seat and made for the door. “Listen, I told  my folks I’d head out to their house for a little bit.” 

“Aw, come on, stay a little longer! For me?” Jordan smiled cheekily, showing off her  teeth. There was a slight gap in her dental structure, the only flaw grounding her on Earth with  the other mortals. 

“Sorry, tomorrow’s reading day, and I promised them I’d hang around and spend some  quality family time.” 

“Good thing you don’t study, Dr. Valenti.” Priscilla pouted, pretending she said it as a  joke, only fooling herself. 

“But we’re having fun! We barely ever get to come to the bar anymore. When you  graduate, I imagine we’ll have even less time together.” Theresa slumped onto the table, staring  at Chelsea with giant, shimmering eyes. 

“We can come here any time. That’s what finals week is for, right? Pound out a test, then  a few drinks, and repeat?” Chelsea called over the growing din. 

“Who gave you that crazy advice?” She laughed. “Your parents would worry, huh?” “Precisely.” Chelsea smiled, eyes lingering on her friends. They laughed and waved as she  slipped out into the starless night.

About Kira Blackwood:

Kira Blackwood has written many things under many names. The Mirrors by Which I End the World is her first major work under this one. She’s also died at least once, maybe four or five times, depending on who you ask. Her work is as unapologetic and weird as she is. Don’t ask her about raising pet chickens unless your schedule’s clear. When she isn’t writing, she can be found in cold places, the gym, or honking at geese. 

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Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of THE MIRRORS BY WHICH I END THE WORLD, US Only.

Ends October 29th, midnight EST.