QUERY- FATE'S GUARDIAN

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Attn: Mr. /Ms. Agent,

Gil Jacobs must die in order to save his soul. After living through dozens of lives spanning hundreds of years, the events of Gil's distant past are catching up with him, and he is powerless to prevent it.

It is Gil’s destiny to die in a car crash, but a malicious ghost who blames Gil for the tragedies that ended its life hundreds of years ago seeks retribution by attempting to prevent the fatal accident. If Gil lives, he will not be able to cross over when death eventually claims him, and his soul will be ripe for the taking. If Gil dies, he will escape to his next life and the ghost's chance at vengeance will be lost.

Gil is unaware of the danger he is in or the fate that awaits him. Fortunately, Gil is not alone in his fight. The soul of a friend he lost as a child watches over him, and she alone has the capacity to keep the ghost at bay long enough for Gil to die, even if it means sacrificing her own soul. For Gil Jacobs, she is Fate’s Guardian…

Fate’s Guardian is complete at 120,000 words. It is a supernatural thriller directed toward a commercial fiction audience, and first in a series titled Destiny’s Will.

I have been writing professionally for the past eight years, although admittedly not in my preferred style or market. I welcome the opportunity to embark on a career as a novelist.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

Regards,

Rick Daley


Prologue- Columbus, OH 1995

The Mustang sped down Riverside Drive. The driver glanced at the clock. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath.

Down the road, an eighteen-wheeler rumbled toward him. A long, straight stretch of road, he could see the truck off in the distance but he paid it no mind. His thoughts were on his family, specifically his daughter’s birthday party, which started fifteen minutes ago.

He missed her birthday last year. He had worked late, as always. He didn’t mean to. He loved his wife and both of his daughters, but when you are CEO of a growing corporation, balancing work and family is a daunting task, and time is a precious – and rare – commodity. Nevertheless, he promised her he would be there this year. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said.

The truck-driver reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He flipped the box open and fished one out. He held the butt in his lips while he grabbed his lighter from the seat beside him. He lit the end and took a deep drag, holding the smoke in while he cranked the window down a little bit.

He exhaled, blowing the smoke toward the open window. As he brought the cigarette to his lips to take another hit, the wind caught the glowing embers at its tip and carried a hot piece of ash toward his face and into his left eye.

He flinched and jerked the wheel ever so slightly. His truck edged across the double yellow line in the middle of the road.

The Mustang accelerated slightly, its driver accidentally hit the gas while he reached for the birthday card that fell to the floor in front of the passenger seat. As he sat back up he turned the wheel, just a little bit, and the Mustang veered across the center of the road.

The truck driver rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. He stopped and looked back at the road, his left eye in a tight squint. He saw the Mustang racing toward him, left of center, and he tried to cut the wheel to the right. It was too late. He slammed on the breaks and his rig started to jackknife.

The Mustang plowed into the corner of the truck’s grille. The driver never saw it coming. The force of the impact broke the back of his seat and he fell backwards as the back of his car spun to the right.
The two vehicles came together like long lost lovers in an impassioned embrace. The Mustang slid under the belly of the trailer. The roof caved in, and the interior of the car was hidden from view. The truck slowly skidded to a stop, the Mustang grinding along the asphalt underneath it.

The truck driver was dazed but unhurt. But the man in the Mustang, the one who crossed his heart and hoped to die? It remains to be seen how prophetic those words actually were.

Chapter 1- Southern France, 1287 A.D.
Death was in the air. Its foreboding almost took a visible shape, an effect heightened by the flicker of the campfire. It was the bitter end of a lover’s quarrel, and it already claimed one life. Now two more lives were on the line.

It started to rain. It was a misty drizzle that added weight to the darkness of night. The shadows danced through the trees as the rain hit the burning logs of the campfire, sizzling as it landed and lending a new voice to the choir of insects that sang the night through.

The Troubadour stepped quickly to the base of the oak tree and grabbed the mandolin leaning against it. He picked up his songbook and wrapped it in his leather satchel along with his instrument.

He turned to her. She was still so beautiful, even after all she had been through. After all he put her through. Even the dull, wet glow of the waning fire could not cast her in a bad light. Her body flashed as she swung back and forth, drifting through light and shadow.

He loved her, there was no doubting that. He loved her as much as he loved his own mother. His love is what drove him to this point. It drove him to madness. It drove him to murder.
She swung back and forth. He smiled as he watched her. He thought back to the first time he saw her. She looked so elegant then, almost ceramic in her beauty, like a porcelain doll. Only that was a different place. A different time.

What was most intriguing about her, what fueled his desire, was her smile. It revealed her pain. And through the strained smile he felt the pain, too. He wanted to help her. Everything he did, it was because he wanted to help her. Now the smile was gone, and he was sure she would not live long enough for him to see it again. And it was all his fault.
Her body was broken. She was as quite fortunate, though, because it all happened so quickly. He hated to hurt her, but he could not stop himself. Now more than ever she reminded him of his mother, the only other woman he truly loved, and the first person he ever killed.

“I want to be with you forever,” he said as he reached out to steady her. Her hands and feet were bound behind her back and she was suspended face down, swinging from a rope tied to one of the higher branches of the grand oak tree.

She lifted her head and tried to focus her eyes on his face, but she could not find the strength. She let her head drop.

“I have no love for you,” she whispered.

“My dear, I have enough love for us both, don’t you see that?”

“I see only the blood on your hands,” she spat back. “And this time it’s mine.”

The Troubadour looked down at his hands. “But I do this out of love. Your husband abused you all those years. I had to take his life. I love you too much to watch you suffer at his hand any longer. Right now I know how strong my love is for you, and I will prove it to you.”

He withdrew his dagger from its sheath. “You are broken. Even if I wanted to save you, I could not. I can join you, though.”

He turned the point of the blade to his left breast and without hesitation he plunged the dagger deep inside his chest. This time she found the strength to lift her head and watch.

The Troubadour felt the tip of the blade penetrate his flesh, cutting deep into his chest. He felt his heart deflate like a balloon, and he staggered as the blood filled his chest cavity. His fingers tingled and grew cold. His body folded forward and he crumpled to the ground as his legs gave way. His world went black, and death claimed his body.

The Troubadour’s soul lifted from his lifeless remains, rising into the air. He saw his body, the red stain seeping into the ground beneath it. He saw her, head lifted, eyes focused, staring at his body. And smiling.

Smiling! Not just smiling, but laughing at him. Rage filled him and he swiped at her, but his hands made no contact with the physical world. He circled her. She would die soon, and he would be waiting. At last he would have her.

She stopped laughing and the smile faded as she slipped from consciousness. He thought she would die right away, but she did not. He felt something pulling at him, and he turned to see a small point in the distance grow to be a huge white light. As the light came closer, a tunnel appeared in its center. He was drawn to it. The urge to go through the tunnel was almost irresistible. Almost.

He turned back to her. Her heartbeat was slow, her breathing shallow, but she lived. He waited. The light behind him vanished.

He kept his vigil as the hours passed. Eventually she did give in. The Troubadour watched as her soul lifted from her body. She looked at him and smiled. He reached out to her, but she turned away.

The light appeared off in the distance, and the tunnel became visible in its bright center as the circle of light grew. This time the Troubadour did not feel drawn to it. Desperate, he reached out and grabbed her. He struggled to go into the tunnel with her, but he felt a force pushing him away. He watched, helpless, as she slipped from his grasp and crossed over to the other side. The light in front of him vanished. She was gone.