BY: SP BROWN

Harry Black has a curse he doesn’t understand, or could it be a gift he can’t escape? He’s the last heir of a dying clan, but there’s a problem. To inherit, he must fulfill the only stipulation in the will—accept the Black family Legacy. After seven weeks of the same nightmare, Harry is desperate to see a psychologist to be “cured.” But instead of help at the hands of Dr. Virginia Rankin, Harry falls headlong into the legacy’s grip when he experiences an ecstatic utterance and inexplicably reveals information to her that he couldn’t possibly know.

Shocked that this stranger has knowledge of her family’s dark secret, Ginny makes a frantic call to her brother. The call makes the Minority Whip of the US Senate late for a meeting at a world economic summit in DC, delaying him long enough to avoid a terrorist bombing that kills two other senators and dozens more innocent people. By saving the life of Dr. Rankin’s famous brother, Harry has also sealed his own fate. Wanted or not, the Legacy has finally come to him…

TAYLOR JONES SAYS: In The Legacy by SP Brown, Harry Black’s grandmother tells him that in order to inherit her estate, and the billions it includes, he must accept the Black family legacy and become a protector against evil. He thinks she’s insane, but as her death comes nearer, he begins to see and experience strange things. Haunted by the same nightmare over and over, Harry seeks the help of Dr. Ginny Rankin, a friend of the family and a psychologist. But when he goes to see her, things don’t go as planned, and Harry blurts information that he could not possibly know about Ginny’s senator brother. Shocked, Ginny calls her brother and makes him late to a meeting where, if he had been on time, he would have been killed. Now, Harry has no choice but to accept that his grandmother was right and there are things that go bump in the night—monsters most people know nothing about. He is a protector against these monsters, and the legacy—and the estate—are his whether he wants them or not.

I found the story enthralling from the very beginning. I absolutely couldn’t put it down. It’s one of those books where you keep saying “Just one more chapter.” A really great read.

REGAN MURPHY SAYS: The Legacy by SP Brown is the story of a man who doesn’t want to accept what fate has in store for him. All his life, Harry Black has been told by his grandmother Agnes Black that he is the last heir in the Black Clan. This means that he is called to be a protector against evil. College educated and sophisticated, he doesn’t believe in such nonsense and thinks his grandmother has lost her marbles. But as determined as he is not to buy into his grandmother’s foolishness, he’s in a bit of a pickle. There is a clause in her will that says in order to inherit, he has to accept the Black family legacy, a legacy he refuses to believe in. And yet, as Agnes’s health deteriorates, Harry begins to experience very weird things. Not only does he have the same nightmare every single night, but he could swear that some creepy shadow creatures have just saved his life. Maybe Agnes isn’t quite as senile as he thought, and this reluctant hero just might have to battle evil after all.

Filled with intriguing and well-developed characters, plenty of fast-paced action, and a number of surprising plot twists, this one will keep on the edge of your seat all the way through.

PRELUDE

Near Muscat, Oman:

The air shimmered where the surf reached the zenith of its climb up the beach, as though a sudden blast of heat had radiated from the bowels of the earth. Arie Peeters materialized and checked the GPS in his watch to confirm his location. A stiff wind blowing in from the Gulf of Oman peppered his white shirt with spray. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t be stuck in this shithole very long.

The cry of gulls filled the air as Peeters got his bearings. He turned east and let his senses drift out. In a moment, his own working wafted to him as a combination of smell and touch. He threw his cigarette to the sand and lifted his head higher, arms spread and extended from his body. He couldn’t see them, but his contacts were there in the dark, waiting about a hundred meters off. The cigarette’s dying embers vanished as a flood of lights from several motor vehicles backlit the silhouettes of three men. More Jihadist bastards were near, just over the dunes to his right, but he didn’t need his special ability to know this. He expected nothing less of his three contacts. They would make sure he’d come alone. He chuckled, imagining the confusion of the watchers as they puzzled over how he had gotten ashore.

Peeters dropped the bag containing the cash just out of reach of the surf. The message was clear. He would go no farther. His three contacts gave each other sideways glances and started toward him at once. The money was a powerful draw, an inducement to get them here. It would give them something to inspect. The promise of ten million more would keep him safe from any treachery these three might hatch.

It had taken too long to piece this part of the operation together, almost a year of bribing and plying them with sex on the yacht, waiting for him far enough off shore to remain unseen. He’d convinced these three principals they would be needed, not their underlings. It had also taken a fair amount of aeromancy to pull it off, but he had managed it with his own power.

During his dealings with the three Jihadists, their appearance had never changed–heavy stubble, keffiyeh headdress, standard thawb–all unremarkable except for the ammunition belts and automatic weapons now slung over their shoulders. Peeters carried nothing but the large knife hidden inside his boot.

“So much to protect against one man?” Peeters said as they neared, his native Dutch producing an unwelcome accent as he spoke to them in Arabic. He chuckled through the comment as though speaking to old buddies.

“And more across that ridge, my friend,” the tallest one said, leveling his weapon on Peeters with a contemptuous smile.

Peeters nodded, a conciliatory gesture as if to say, “Do with me what you will.” It didn’t matter. They would soon realize who was in control. Arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture, he said, “You needn’t have doubted me.” He moved alongside the bag, watching the three men eye it greedily. “The down payment is all there. Please, look for yourself.”

The tallest one took the lead and crouched over the bag, unzipping it down the middle. Bundles of ten thousand dollars greeted him. He stepped aside to let the others see, their distrust of each other very nearly equaling their hatred of the West. The three had insisted on American money, had laughed at the irony of American currency bringing calamity to the great Satan.

This had been part of his master’s grand plan. The American administration would be confused to think these three had worked together to achieve such a feat. Peeters smiled, thinking of the stupid Jew president focusing on this part of the world, ignorant of his true enemy.

Unable to resist fondling the cash, as foreseen, the fat one reached in with both hands. Peeters’s heart thumped. He took a step forward, anticipating the working that had been planted for just this moment. But before the trap could spring, the tall one fired a short burst from his AK47 into the sand a half meter from the bag, making the Palestinian cry out and fall to his fat ass.

Peeters tensed as the tall one turned to him, but spoke to his shocked companion in a dangerous voice.

“I can see that it is all there, Gabrill,” Khaled Mashaal said before turning his eyes to Peeters. “There has been a change of plans. We know you are off our shore.” He looked out over the gulf. “And we know you must have the rest with you. One million will not be enough, my friend, to turn American eyes onto us. The other ten will be required. Now, not later when you will, no doubt, forget what we have done for you.”

Peeters looked at the three men, their smirks confirming that his aeromancy had not been as complete as he had thought. He grimaced. The master wouldn’t be pleased. These issues were supposed to have been resolved with Peeters’s last bit of mind sorcery dulling the will of these men. Apparently not.

He glanced to his right. The watchers had come out into the open, about thirty of them, all as heavily armed as the three bastards before him.

“My mas–” He caught himself. “My people will not like this, Khaled. We had a deal.”

“Yes, but this is only a slight change and we do not know your people, nor have we seen them. They are mere ghosts and we do not trust ghosts.”

His comrades laughed at Khaled’s joke.

Peeters ached to cut the man, make him bleed in great arching spurts, but he kept his composure. He needed to return their attention to the bag or his master’s plans would be ruined.

“You will have your money. Just give me something to communicate with the boat. I’ve left my cell phone.”

Mashaal reached into his garment and pulled out his phone. It seems they had planned well. But not well enough.

Peeters drew near and took the phone from the tall Arab, but in doing so he grabbed his hand at the same time. The skin to skin contact was enough. Mashaal stiffened and Peeters got a firm grip on his wrist, completing the connection.

“Now,” Peeters said calmly. He glanced at the group of men about fifty meters away, but they were unaware. “You were about to inspect the money, Gabrill. Please do so.”

Under control now, Mashaal nodded and the others, confused, did as they were told. It happened as planned this time. The magical working snapped with an audible buzzing sound when Gabrill stuck his hand into the bag. It clicked in their minds the preparatory aeromancy Peeters had worked into them over many drunken nights. The three men remained frozen as if their brains had ceased to function.

A mist rose from the bag, all but invisible, and certainly unseen by those spying through night-vision field glasses. Peeters waited as the translucent mist formed into the semblance of his master, taller than the tallest of the three, now-pliable men.

The psychogeist began to speak, the words coming to them as through a long tunnel. “You will go now. When it begins, the three of you will immediately claim responsibility, insist that your group, and yours alone, will bring the infidels down. Then wait for further instruction.”

The apparition waved a vague hand as though parting a curtain. As he did so, three streams of a misty grayish-black substance broke free and floated to each man, penetrating their skulls. The three men rose to their full height and turned as one to Peeters, their faces placid, their eyes indicating that the leaders of Hamas, Hezbollah, and al-Qaeda now had a new master.

Peeters smiled, grabbed the bag, and vanished. Back on the boat, he ordered the crew to get underway while he placed a call on his secure satellite phone.

“Well done,” his master said. “Now turn your eyes to America and our one true enemy.”

© 2017 by SP Brown