Spiral (The Salzburg Saga Book One) (17 page)

“How do we even know we’re going the right way?” Justin suddenly asked. “They could’ve gone in any direction”

“Neil suggested we take this route and I agreed,” he answered. “Human beings tend to be creatures of habit. We stick to places and people we know or return to where we’ve been before. We took this route this afternoon. It leads to the lake…” Jake rubbed the tension at the base of his neck. “It’s a hunch, but it’s all we’ve got to go on. I think–”

“I hear something,” Justin interrupted and tilted his head as if to catch the sound.

“Up ahead,” Jake agreed after a moment. It was faint but he heard it too - soft murmurings. The lake sat behind the bank of snow.

The murmuring came again.

“It’s –” Justin began.

“Shouting,” Jake finished. “Let’s go.”

In tacit agreement, they broke into a loping run.

Only a breath away from Emily now, Angela panted as she levered herself up onto her knees. Cold sweat covered her face.

Nina glanced back toward the edge of the lake, surprised she’d managed to slide so far out. Surprised and petrified. When Emily suddenly cried out in anger, Nina whipped her head back to her.

Angela had gripped Emily’s wrist that held the bat, trying to wrestle the bat free.

“That’s it, Ange,” Nina panted as she neared them. “Hold her. I’m coming.”

“What are you doing?” Furious, Emily swung at Angela with the bat, missing Angela’s head by mere inches but connecting with the side of Angela’s right cheek. Angela gasped in pain and fell back, losing her grip on Emily’s wrist.

A blistering haze of anger swam in front of Nina’s eyes. How dare Emily attack Ange? Ange was trying to help her. They both were. Finally reaching them, she struggled to her knees and grasped at Emily, catching a fistful of the woman’s tangled hair. Emily howled but kept hold of the bat.

“Drop it,” Nina panted. She just managed to dodge the blow Emily aimed at her nose with the bat. “Drop it, Emily.”

They wrestled. From somewhere in the distance Nina thought she heard someone calling their names, but when Emily’s fist connected with her left eye, Nina’s head hit the hard surface of the ice with a sharp crack that made her see stars.

In the faint distance, Nina heard Angela scream her name, and she tried to answer but couldn’t. Emily now sat astride her now like a bloodthirsty warrior, the other woman’s toned thighs pinned her to the frozen lake.

Another loud crack split the air, and when a large chunk of ice cracked under Nina’s head, she opened her mouth to scream but ice cold water flooded her mouth and she went under.

A moment later, her world went black.

The group’s story continues in
TORN
, the second book in the Salzburg Saga, which is coming soon! Sign up to my
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AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed
SPIRAL
. Please consider leaving a review at the site where you purchased it.

OTHER BOOKS BY D. U. OKONKWO

REJECTION IS A LIE…

A young woman paralyzed by past rejection

A life shackled by lies

A truth waiting to be discovered

At age eleven, Ria Ofor was caught in a fire that left her facially-scarred. Devastated by the apparent rejection by her father, Ria, now twenty-seven, is a gifted sculptress but lives a semi reclusive life. Avoiding art galleries and their consequent publicity, she sells her artwork online, scraping a living through online sales. But when she's hit with a repossession notice on her home, it rocks the shaky foundations she’s been living on.

On borrowed time, Ria knows she must land a gallery contract in order to survive. That means stepping out of her comfort zone and coming face to face with what she’s spent the last sixteen years trying to avoid: rejection. But competition for lucrative gallery contracts is cut-throat, and Ria soon discovers that some artists will stop at nothing to keep the spoils of the glittering art world for themselves. Torn between the events of her past and the lies threatening to also destroy her future, Ria makes a decision that changes her life forever.

Buy now at
Amazon
and turn over to read an excerpt…

RISE

An excerpt - Chapter One

Ria appreciated the beauty of the headless female sculpture standing before her. A sculpture without its head has its own particular beauty. Strong sculpted legs, intricately crafted torso and powerful shoulders - the beauty of creation.

She squatted in front of the sculpture and ran a slender hand over its flanks. The modeling clay she had chosen had done its job; its durability ensuring the legs of the sculpture came out strong and smooth, the hips gently curved. Seven weeks into the making, this piece would be larger than any piece she had previously sculpted, and certainly more challenging.

Here in her art studio, which spanned the basement of her small house in London’s Island Gardens, clay statues of ancient kings and queens graced the long wooden shelves resting against ivory walls. A small sink sat at the far right end against the wall beside a large white storage cupboard, snug beside a two-seater. A small stereo, which she only turned on when sketching, rested on the table beside it.

Time to begin the head, she decided, as she rose gracefully to her feet. Creating the head was her favorite part. If the legs, shoulders, and torso possessed their own particular beauty, then how she created a sculpture’s head showcased its personality – laughing eyes, a slanted mouth, and a molded chin. These will bring out the figure’s humorous manner.

Ria got to her feet. A slim young woman with close-cropped, tightly-curled black hair; she had a dewy, dark chocolate complexion. And with a delicate oval face, even the faded pink burn scars that ran from the apples of her cheekbones down to her collarbone, her classic beauty couldn’t be marred.

She reached for her apron and tied it around her long-sleeved white t-shirt and soft faded blue jeans. Sculpting was arduous and messy work, but one of the perks of being a full-time sculptress was that she went to work in her most comfortable clothes.

She moved to where the armature waited atop the worktable. Shaped like an egg, an armature’s rigid metal framework ensured effective structuring of a sculpture’s head.

Collecting an armful of old newspapers from the storage cupboard in the corner, she rolled the papers into balls then began to fill the armature with them. Once thoroughly packed, she secured the head in place with a small plastic bag. Now for the clay. She took a moment to relish the solid, yet light weight of it in her hand. Then, detail by detail, piece by piece, she began adding more and more clay to the stuffed plastic bag, melding and smoothing it against the bag’s slippery surface. She hummed as she worked, following the measurements she had set out when the idea had first came into her head. Her deft and skilful fingers, armed with her trusted sculpting chisel, manipulated the clay.

The sharp slap of the letter box upstairs stopped her. She stretched her arms high over her head, working out the stiffness in her shoulders caused by bending over the armature. She crossed to the sink and washed her hands, then proceeded to leave the studio, heading up pink carpeted stairs to the ground floor.

She plucked the white envelope lying on the doormat. Early morning sunlight shone through the glass panel in the front door, and the click of women’s heels sounded on the pavement outside as they carried a neighbour to work. Once the morning rush was over as everyone had either left for work or school, she would go for her daily morning walk and then fuel up with a green juice.

She broke the seal of the envelope and pulled out the letter.

Dear Ms. Ofor,

Account No: 17032007-55GM Property: 55 Garden Mews

Please be informed that payment due on the above-referenced account has not been made. We have made several unsuccessful attempts to contact you. Our records show that your account is in arrears by £11,509.

Please make arrangements to clear the outstanding amount within 28 days, otherwise the case will be escalated to our solicitors, whereupon they may be forced to take legal action resulting in the repossession of the property.

If you have since made arrangements to clear the aforementioned amount, please ignore this letter.

Ria’s stomach dropped somewhere below ground level, and the noose of the repossession notice only tightened further around her neck, almost choking her.

She had failed.

The knowledge brought a sour taste to her mouth, and salty tears began to trickle down to her cheeks. She had tried everything she could to sell her art: special offers, first buyer discounts… You have tried everything except what you really should, she admitted silently, and squeezed her eyes shut. The scars have faded, she reminded herself. They’re not as disfiguring as they once were. No one will stare at you if you go out; no one will point or grimace, she reassured herself.

Face damp with tears, she looked around almost desperately. Her heart pounded. How will I sculpt? she asked herself. Where will I sculpt if I lose my home?

Her walk and juice forgotten, she returned to the studio with heavy legs. From the storage cupboard she pulled out the lowest drawer. The pile of threatening letters she had received over the last nine months stared up at her like hungry wolves. A shudder raked through her.

She needed to be strong, she told herself. She wiped her eyes and then moved to the teak filing cabinet beside the storage cupboard. She placed the letter atop it, then with a deep breath, opened the bottom drawer. Art magazines and industry journals were stacked neatly inside. Please, she begged silently as she rifled through the drawer. Please still be here.

Her trembling fingers hit a cool glossy cover - Sculpting Magazine, last month’s issue. She held it to her chest for a moment, closing her eyes, and attempted to steady her racing heart. She opened her eyes, flipped through page after page until she found what she was looking for: the monthly snapshot of an art agent. This issue profiled one Meg Fuller, president of a boutique art agency called the Art Room. As an art agent, Meg Fuller placed artists with art galleries throughout London.

Only in Ria’s most private moments did she allow herself to imagine what it would be like to be a commercially successful artist. But then she would think of people’s stares, comments and rejection, and shrink back into herself.

She looked up at the portrait of her deceased Uncle Jonas that took pride of place on the wall. After she had graduated from Rayners Art Academy six years ago, it was he who had helped arrange the financing on the flat. She had loved the compact space at first sight.

“You helped me buy this place,” she whispered to his smiling face, as she maintained a grip on the art magazine. “You encouraged my love of art. You started me on this journey.”

It was Uncle Jonas who had introduced her to art at age ten. A successful surgeon, who hadn’t had children of his own, he’d spent a lot of time with her and her older brother Dominic. One afternoon, he had taken them both to visit the Canbury art gallery in central London. Stepping into that gallery had been like stepping into a warm, enveloping cloud. Light poured in from the huge wall-to-wall windows, highlighting paintings that graced the white walls, while eclectic sculptures stood atop tall pedestals. Uncle Jonas had engaged with other gallery visitors about the displays, all of them speaking in awed whispers and hushed tones as they studied the different artwork. Dom had been bored. Ria smiled at the memory of him impatiently hopping from one foot to the other; desperate to leave in eager anticipation of the car exhibition that Uncle Jonas had promised him once their time at the gallery was over.

But she hadn’t been bored. She’d been enthralled. Uncle Jonas had asked a member of the gallery staff to answer any of her questions, having sensed her interest, and for the next half an hour she had been given a full lesson in the art of bronze sculpting. After that day she had focused much more attention on her art classes at school, and this continued throughout her college years. Her father had been dismissive of it from the start. She recalled how his blunt, “Most artists can’t afford to feed themselves,” had only added strain to their already fractured relationship.

And now, standing in her studio years later, her father’s words went around in her mind. But he was wrong, she decided. And she would prove him wrong. She looked across the room at the sculpture she was currently working on. “I can fix this.” Her eyes narrowed on the sculpture again. “I have to.” With her free hand she quickly pulled her phone from her handbag beside the worktable and looked down at the art agency’s number again. She dialed it.