It’s hard to get my mind around it; but after a year and a half of work and preparation, we are less than 72 hours away from the publication of Nightingale! To celebrate, here’s an excerpt focusing on my other main character, Magnificent.
And don’t forget to enter the eARC Giveaway! You have less than 12 hours to enter for the chance to read Nightingale before anyone else! And if you haven’t entered because you want to support me when the book comes out; I appreciate it – but there’s nothing from stopping you buying the book after you win as well! Enter to win here.
Magnificent settled into her stance in front of the Wavemaster.
“Wavemaster” not “punching bag.” She allowed herself a moment of nostalgia-tinged self-reproach. What would the guys at the old gym think of her?
What they would think, if they lived through their midlife heart attacks and diabetic comas, would be a mixture of awe and jealousy. Every muscle was defined, her skin smooth. If anything, Magnificent was in better shape now than when she had trained at Gleason’s in the fifties. But this small space she had now, carved out of reclaimed office space with its dark televisions and sterilized floor mats, had none of the charm of the old gym, missing that persistent smell of sweat and leather.
Those cronies of hers would look her up and down, take in the scars that covered her body, cluck their tongues, and shake their heads. “Ya shoulda been a model instead, M. One-a them pinup girls.”
It was always what they said before she made them regret the sentiment, before they remembered why the term “weaker sex” was forbidden when she was in the gym.
Magnificent threw a left jab and a chain reaction of muscles rippled and travelled from her back to her fist, stretching the jagged scar across her shoulder where Great White had nearly taken her arm off.
She followed with a right cross, twisting her midsection where there was still the snarl of burned skin from when they took out Pyrotech Nick, pink and fresh.
She shifted her center of gravity and lashed out with a kick. She could feel the click of the bones in her foot, where Born Again had driven the diamond-tipped spike that crucified her.
And on it went, every kick, every punch, every combination aggravating an old war injury, reminding her of why she trained every day without fail. The room filled with the sound of rhythmic violence. Through it all, Magnificent stayed silent, the only sound escaping her being the practiced intake and exhale of breath. Each pain was cataloged and processed, forgotten as soon as it was felt, her metabolism erasing the injuries as they were aggravated, including the strain of this workout. She punched hard, struck as fast as her body would let her, only to have the level at which she could respond almost instantly raised. Even after all these years, it still felt like cheating.