Buried Destiny – The Vein Chronicles Read online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Dark, Fantasy, Paranormal, Romance Tags Authors:
Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)

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Buried Destiny - The Vein Chronicles

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Anne Malcom

Book Information:

For everyone, even immortals, there is nothing after death. No takebacks, no comebacks. It's a full stop. The end of a story. The end of everything.
For Sophie, it's little more than a comma. A prelude. A footnote in her true destiny. She was fated to die. Many times.
To know what lay beneath in the underworld. To bring the darkness back with her. It has been patient, that power that brought her back.
But now, it's ready. She is ready, for her true beginning. For the end of everyone standing in her way.
Starting with a wolf she once loved. A vampire she once treasured. Destiny will wait for her no longer.
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Anne Malcom

Chapter 1

They had buried her.

That much became apparent when Sophie slammed the heel of her palm against the top of the coffin and it didn’t give, like at all.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

Then her hand went to the skin of her neck, the memory of unrestrained agony and the slicing of her flesh flashing in front of her eyes. Not her own pain, though it had hurt a little getting her throat slit. It was on par with a bad Brazilian if she had to compare it to anything.

Since Sophie had experienced bad Brazilians in her time — and had promptly cursed the woman doing the waxing — she was okay with her own pain.

But it was not the memory of her own pain that sent agony down her spine and into the space in her ribcage where her heart was now beating again.

No, not her pain.



Her hand paused at the smooth and healed skin, her neck not betraying an ounce of evidence of her grisly death.

Then again, she’d died more than once, and her skin always healed right as rain. Better, if anything, so that wasn’t what made her hand pause.

It was him.

Her wolf.

She started to scratch at the top of the coffin in desperation, calling up the power that had brought her back from the grave — as it had many times before — to take her back to her wolf.

To take her back to her world.

Which hopefully hadn’t ended in however long she’d been dead.

It was only after she had made all sorts of inner badass declarations of love and revenge and tried to call up the new power she’d snatched from the depths of the grave that she realized the catch-22.

Or more aptly, her Witch-22.

Sophie was a witch, after all. One of the best she knew.

She had magick enough to bring her back from the grave. And she got more juice every time she died. It was humming through her, electrifying all her nerve endings. She could feel it. Taste its bitterness. Its strength. But she couldn’t use it.

Not yet.

Sometimes she could jerk her eyes open and her magick snapped back like an elastic band, and she could set about cursing whoever had murdered her in the first place. Other times it took a second. She didn’t know if it related to the amount of time she’d been dead, or the manner in which she died, or how much caffeine she’d consumed on the last day of her life. It wasn’t an exact science.

Mostly because she flunked science, or the witch’s version of science, which had a lot to do with herbs, moon cycles, and potions. She sucked at potions, plus she hadn’t needed to be good at them. Witches who mastered the art were usually witches who didn’t have any power. Sophie had plenty of power, hence her not troubling herself with cooking up spells in a cauldron — the one cliché that was true — instead, she let her magick speak for itself. The magick she got from the underworld.

There was a staleness to the air inside the coffin that told her she’d been out for longer than she’d ever been before. She was filled with power that was on pause until she came fully … alive, for lack of a better word.

Not being able to use her magick was really starting to piss her off. It was like being behind the wheel of a Ferrari with a fucking tire clamp on.

Every time her heart stopped, her lungs failed, or she bled out and got all dead for a hot minute, she got more magick.

She got other things too.

Every time she was marked with death, every time she came back, she didn’t come alone. She brought something with her. Something ancient. Something that lurked in the grave.

She gained power, she gained knowledge, she gained life.

But she left some things in the underworld, more of them with every return trip. She imagined they’d need a broom closet for her down there soon.

Because every time she came back, she lost a little of the witch, and more importantly, the woman she had been before. Which sucked, because in her humble opinion, the woman she was before she died was pretty fucking kick-ass.

But dying did not kick ass. Therefore, shit went down during the whole resurrection process that so wasn’t cool.

It messed with her hair more often than not. Almost definitely ruined a kick-ass pair of boots. And ruined her night. Whatever time of day it was topside, it was definitely ruined for Sophie.

Because they were here, in this coffin with her. The dead.

They were grasping at her innards, clawing up her throat, battling not only for control but for utter destruction.

Something was crawling through her insides: a craving. A hunger for more than just tacos, though they would be great too. A hunger for blood.