Acclaim for Aiden James:

  “Aiden James has written a deeply psychological, gripping tale that keeps the readers hooked from page one.”

  —Bookfinds review for THE FORGOTTEN EDEN

  “Not only is Aiden James a storyteller par excellence, but his material for his story is riveting.”

  —Huntress Reviews

  “Aiden James writing style flows very easily and I found that CADES COVE snowballed into a very gripping tale. Clearly the strengths in the piece were as the spirit's interaction became prevalent with the family… The Indian lore and ceremonies and the flashbacks to Allie Mae's (earthly) demise were very powerful. I think those aspects separated the work from what we've seen before in horror and ghost tales.”

  —Evelyn Klebert, author of A GHOST OF A CHANCE and DRAGONFLIES

  “Aiden James is insanely talented! We are watching a master at work…. Ghost stories don’t get any better than this”

  —J.R. Rain, author of MOON DANCE and THE BODY DEPARTED

  BOOKS BY AIDEN JAMES

  CADES COVE SERIES

  Cades Cove

  The Raven Mocker

  Devil Mountain

  The Obsidian Curse

  DYING OF THE DARK VAMPIRES

  With Patrick Burdine

  The Vampires’ Last Lover

  The Vampires’ Birthright

  Blood Princesses

  THE JUDAS CHRONICLES

  Immortal Plague

  Immortal Reign

  Immortal Destiny

  Immortal Dragon

  Immortal Tyranny

  Immortal Pyramid

  Immortal Victory

  THE RODERICK CHRONICLES

  Immortal Supremacy

  Immortal Storm

  NICK CAINE ADVENTURES

  With J.R. Rain

  Temple of the Jaguar

  Treasure of the Deep

  Pyramid of the Gods

  Aiden James

  Curse of the Druids

  Secret of the Loch

  River of the Damned

  CLASH OF COVENS

  The Witches of Denmark

  Witch Out of Water

  THE GABRIEL FILES

  With J.R. Rain

  The Soul Taker

  The Ghost Maker

  THE JUDAS REFLECTIONS

  With Michelle Wright

  Murder in Whitechapel

  Curse of Stigmata

  Maid of Heaven

  THE SERENDIPITOUS CURSE

  With Lisa Collicutt

  Reborn

  Reviled

  Redeemed

  **STAND ALONE NOVELS

  With Fiona Fraser

  Toxicity

  They Fought Like Men

  NASHVEGAS PARANORMAL

  Deadly Night (with Patrick Burdine)

  The Ungrateful Dead

  THE BLOODSTAR CHRONICLES

  Eden’s Lie

  Den of Angels

  (Coming 2023)

  Published 2022 by

  Manor House Books

  Copyright © 2022 by Aiden James

  Cover Art: Michele Lee, Blue Sky Design ~ Boston

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America.

  First Edition

  Table of Contents:

  Foreword

  Part I: The Murder of Doctor Mensch

  Part II: The Lizard and the Sphere

  Part III: An Appointed Journey

  Part IV: The Golden Village

  Part V: The Race Back Home

  Part VI: Revelations and a Lesson in History

  Part VII: A Season’s End

  Part VIII: The Aftermath

  About the Author

  Foreword

  by

  J.R. Rain

  Hi there, and welcome to the BloodStar series!

  I’m J.R. Rain, publisher, and owner of Rain Press, where I have some exciting news to share involving my longtime friend, Aiden James. Over the years, Aiden and I have done many projects together, including our Nick Caine Adventures and The Gabriel Files. And now, I am delighted to announce that Rain Press will be handling a new series from Aiden that promises to deliver heart-pounding action within the scope of a planned five-book supernatural thriller series set on both American continents.

  “Eden’s Lie” is the first book and starts things off in a big way, detailing the harrowing adolescent experience of Jack Kenney, as told to Special Agent Peter McNamee in the present. Ominous developments in the modern world point directly to a mystical and deadly realm in rural Alabama—a place Jack narrowly escaped from eight years earlier.

  Ready to learn more?

  What follows is a gripping tale rooted in a classic good versus evil, dangerous situations, and pulse-pounding adventure. In other words, prepare to be held captive for hours to come by the BloodStar Chronicles!

  They’ve been with us all along....

  Watching, waiting... until it’s time.

  PART I

  The Murder of Dr. Mensch

  “So... you’re sure that’s all, then?”

  The agent poured himself another round of coffee, carefully stirring in a measure of cream as if this simple act required complete concentration. Jack Kenney studied him from where he sat, absently drumming his fingers on top of a steel table in the middle of an interrogation room. Well-defined muscles tensed beneath the tight confines of his faded black T-shirt, and he seemed poised... ready to launch himself out of his chair like a hungry lion. Even his strong brow and chiseled facial features made him look predatory.

  Yet, the exhaustion and weariness brought on by the endless stream of questions that began last night made him yearn painfully for sweet silence. That, and the unlikely chance he might recoup some of the sleep he’d lost since his abduction from Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

  “Like I’ve been telling y’all,” said Jack, tersely. “There’s nothing more to add to my statement from last night. Nothing’s changed... and nothing’s gonna change.”

  Agent Frank Reynolds grimaced in irritation. Jack figured the man didn’t take kindly to a smart mouth, definitely not one belonging to a twenty-one-year-old college kid. The agent’s earlier speech about being in this line of work for nearly thirty years repeated drearily in Jack’s head, along with the threat of what would become of him if he didn’t start cooperating soon. He could also tell the man’s patience and self-described ‘even-tempered nature’ had worn dangerously thin.

  “I guess we’re all just supposed to believe that Dr. Mensch’s beating and subsequent death in the hospital were mere coincidences. Tragic events which, unfortunately, you’ve been clearly linked to,” said Reynolds. “Is that the bullshit you expect us to believe, Mr. Kenney?”

  The hulking giant of a man smirked meanly as he moved around the table to where Jack sat, the cup of coffee in one hand while motioning to his two companions, Agents Ben Casey and Steve Iverson, with the other.

  Jack shrugged, his weary gaze holding Reynold’s perturbed glare unflinchingly.

  “I suppose you think the three of us have shit for brains,” Reynold’s continued. “Well, son... your arrogant attitude won’t cut it any longer.”

  “Arrogance is not my intention.” A slight grin tugged upon the edges of Jack’s pursed lips.

  Despite realizing he wasn’t helping his cause, he couldn’t hide his amusement. The elder agent’s thick southern accent intrigued him, degenerating during the past hour into a slur... as if something stronger than cream and sugar had spiked the man’s coffee. Reynold’s flushed countenance burned with anger—almost comical in contrast to the man’s pale gray eyes and wavy white hair.

  Like a clean-cut Santa hittin’ the sauce... Jack Daniels? I can smell a slight trace.

  The agent’s repeated invasions into his personal space remained largely ineffective—including the worsening mixture of stale coffee and pungent liquor. Jack’s smile gave way to an impish grin as he continued to study the agent’s face in an ongoing effort to determine the true depth of malice. He let his eyes casually wander to the I.D. badge dangling from the right lapel of Reynold’s dark blue suit coat. A stoic picture from a younger version of the man, the identifier ‘AS419’ etched in gold glistened tawdrily under the glare from a low-hanging fluorescent light suspended above the table.

  “What the hell do you find so amusing?” Reynolds hissed.

  “Nothing... I’m just tired,” Jack replied dryly. “Tired, to where everything’s a bit entertaining at this point.”

  “Maybe this will help you take Frank’s words more seriously.”

  Steve Iverson spoke. Svelte in build, and not near as tall as Reynolds, he grasped Jack’s shoulder and squeezed the tender area just below the collarbone, steadily increasing the pressure until the bone throbbed mercilessly.

  Jack’s reflexes forced him to reluctantly look down onto the steel table, where the distorted reflection of his pained grimace greeted him. The tangled mess of his thick auburn hair obscured rugged handsomeness, except for his hazel eyes... narrow slits of anger growing brighter by the second.

  Iverson increased the pressure on Jack’s collarbone, forcing him to clinch his teeth to keep from screaming. The torture continued until he fell out of his chair. It landed loudly on its side, and he squirmed on the cement floor with Iverson’s hand still attached to his shoulder’s sensitive pressure point.

  “Had enough, asshole?”


  The agent brought his face down low enough to peer into Jack’s face, snickering in contempt. A nervous tic quivered excitedly along Iverson’s lower lip. He seemed to draw immense pleasure from Jack’s enraged expression, whose immediate fantasy was to turn over and shove his knee hard into Iverson’s groin. If only I could free myself!

  “You know, right now could be as good a time as any to rearrange this pretty boy’s face,” taunted Iverson. “How about it, Frank?”

  He jerked Jack’s head back by the hair, peering again into his face. The agent’s smirk widened. The coldness of his steel-blue eyes glowed frostily, revealing the heartless killer within. Jack could tell the man would ‘eliminate’ someone with no more remorse than he’d have for smashing a stink beetle beneath his dark oxfords.

  In a way, Iverson’s tobacco-stained teeth and lined jowls reminded Jack of the ‘down home’ country singers his grandfather, Marshall Edwards, listened to. His sandy brown hair lightly greased and brushed back, for an instant Jack pictured the old country tune “I’m Just an Old Jukebox Junkie” pouring out of Iverson’s mouth. The image struck him as particularly funny. It took a mere instant for the agent to react to the slight chuckle that escaped his mouth.

  “You think this is funny, you sorry sack of shit?” he screamed into Jack’s ear as he yanked him to his feet by the hair. “Suppose I show you something real funny—like your head shoved up inside your ass!”

  Jack winced in pain. Though his hands were cuffed, he instinctively tried to take a swing. Iverson pushed him into the waiting arms of Ben Casey, who immediately placed him in a choke hold.

  “I’m all for giving this punk a workout.” Casey’s husky voice reverberated deeply from beside Jack’s right ear. Short and somewhat portly, this agent’s unexpected strength confirmed his status as the brute of the trio. “He’s begging for it.”

  Held fast, Jack warily watched the other two men step up to him as Casey loosened his hold only slightly.

  Oh shit….

  A nauseating blend of tobacco, sweat, and a mixture of colognes filled Jack’s nostrils—one cheap, and another a strong musk scent. He swallowed hard. If he vomited on any of these guys, they likely wouldn’t let him live long enough to apologize.

  Suddenly, the room’s door swung open, the hinges whining loudly from its steel-insulated weight.

  Jack looked up as another agent stepped into the room. Much younger than the others, this one carried a black attaché case and a blue duffel. Reynolds and Iverson backed away from Jack while Casey released his choke hold.

  Gasping for air, Jack warily eyed the newcomer who had captured the others’ attention.

  “Well... good afternoon, Peter,” said Reynolds. “Or, should I say ‘evening’, since it’s nearing the dinner hour?”

  He moved over and extended his hand in welcome.

  “It’s good to see you, Frank,” the agent said, responding with a hearty handshake. “Sorry I’m late. Rush hour is worse than I remembered from my last visit.... Am I interrupting anything?”

  “No... he’s all yours.”

  Reynolds gave Jack a menacing glance before returning his gaze to the man named Peter, who studied Jack intently for a moment before turning his attention to Iverson.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending his hand to Iverson.

  “Pete, this is Steve Iverson, and Ben Casey from the New York office,” said Reynolds.

  “Peter McNamee... pleased to meet you both.”

  “Pete’s dad and I go way back,” said Reynolds, glancing coolly toward Jack once more. “We used to work together for the bureau down in New Orleans.”

  “Dad still speaks fondly of those times…. We’ll need to catch up sometime, after our work is done here.” Agent McNamee shifted his gaze back to the haggard young man standing nearby. Jack met his gaze head on. An awkward moment ensued, until the agent resumed his conversation with Reynolds. “I’m sure Dad will be interested to know what you’ve been up to.”

  “Just working, son. Same as always.”

  Stifling awkwardness permeated the air.

  “Well, I guess I should get started.”

  McNamee stepped over to the table, setting the attaché case and duffel on it. The other agents seemed unsure what to do next, inspiring more amusement for Jack. It certainly appeared the younger guy intimidated the older trio. By Jack’s guess, this newest agent was at least fifteen years younger than the others, and not much older than himself.

  “I’d like to interview Mr. Kenney in private.” McNamee smiled shyly as he motioned to the door. “You’ll be able to follow along from outside the room, I’m sure. Stu knows this makes it easier for me to remain focused.”

  He pointed to the surveillance cameras in each corner of the room. Nonetheless, his colleagues seemed reluctant as they moved to the door.

  “All right, Pete. Whatever Stu prefers works for us too.” Reynolds’ forced warmth did little to hide what appeared to be renewed irritation. “Time to revisit Jeremy Kenney.... Hopefully, he’s now ready to enlighten us a little more.”

  He gave Jack one last threatening look before exiting the interrogation room with his partners. Jack sent a hushed prayer heavenward for his brother’s safety, and then turned his attention to the lone federal agent in the room.

  ***

  Agent McNamee smiled and moved over to Jack’s side of the table where he picked up the fallen chair.

  After removing a pair of wire cutters from his briefcase, he motioned for Jack to extend his hands toward him. Jack hesitated, regarding him warily.

  “Unless you’re content to keep wearing the cuffs, Jack, I can remove them,” the agent advised.

  Jack gave a slight nod, tentatively extending his hands bound at the wrists. The agent cut the heavy-duty zip-ties, deftly catching the plastic remnants and tossing them into a nearby wastebasket before returning the wire cutters to his briefcase.

  “Have a seat.” McNamee pointed to the chair restored to its original spot, before moving to an identical steel chair across the table. “We’re going to be here for a while.”

  “Actually, I need to take a piss first,” said Jack, still eyeing the agent suspiciously while massaging his wrists. The cuffs had been his constant companion since his sudden abduction from the University of Alabama’s main campus the night before. He nodded toward a small closet-sized restroom in the back of the room.

  “Absolutely.” McNamee nodded benevolently. “I know how things can be around here, so feel free to stop at any point to take a pee break. In the meantime, would you like some coffee? Or, perhaps a Coke?”

  He moved over to a small refrigerator situated beneath a coffeemaker on a small wooden stand near the room’s steel door exit.

  “A Coke sounds great,” said Jack, before closing the bathroom door.

  “I’ll grab one for you.”

  McNamee brought a chilled Coke and a steaming cup of coffee for himself over to the table. Jack soon joined him there. His shoulder length hair brushed back, he stood behind his chair while sizing up the man sitting across from him.

  “Please... sit down.” Without waiting, McNamee unpacked the duffel bag. He placed a handful of journals in front of him, and slid a small digital recorder toward the middle of the table. He also donned a pair of eyeglasses, retrieved from a breast pocket in his jacket.

  Jack studied the recorder as he sat down.

  “Do you really need this?” he asked. “I thought the surveillance shit in this place would be sufficient enough.”

  He motioned to the cameras situated in each corner of the windowless room. Mustard-yellow cinderblock walls glistened under the glow of three overhead fluorescent lights hanging from the room’s fifteen-foot ceiling. The middle light hovered just a few feet above the table.

  “The recorder is for my own personal use, along with what I’ll add to my journals,” the agent advised. “I’d like to review our session at a later time, if that’s okay with you.”

  Jack shrugged.

  “All right, then. This thing can run for up to six hours, should we need it.... You ready to get started?”