Ages of Malice series is the story of one man’s journey into the apocalypse. Journalist, Emery Merrick, has fallen on hard times and is suicidal. Then, he gets hired by billionaire peacemaker, Thaddeus Drake, to write Drake’s biography. Emery soon discovers Drake is the immortal leader of a secret society that controls everything from world finance, to politics, to government. There’s no outcome they can’t guarantee. No objective too big to attain. As Emery sinks deeper, he discovers the horrifying methods Drake employs and finds himself caught-up in the ultimate battle between good and evil. With humanity in the balance, Emery faces a decision: join these madmen or be destroyed.
Oh, it’s definitely a provocative look at the nature of God and man’s place in that universe. So often when one seeks revenge, they find something else entirely. That’s the case with Cain. In the final climax, Cain’s confrontation with God doesn’t exactly go as he plans. He finds certain things different than he believed. He also discovers his true purpose, his true nature, which sets the story spinning and sets the tone for the rest of the Ages of Malice series. What intrigues is where Cain finds himself and what he does next. Emery witnesses a final confrontation between good and evil and finds, what he thought was the end of the story, is really just the beginning.
Title:
A Portion of Malice, Ages of Malice, Book I
Author:
Lloyd Jeffries
Genre:
Thriller/Religious Fantasy/Supernatural Fiction
Book Blurb:
An Ancient Evil Rises
A brazen thriller of God, humanity, and the cost of every choice.
Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Emery Merrick presses a pistol to his temple. Then there's a knock at the door. Billionaire Thaddeus Drake hires Emery to write his biography. But Drake has a dark secret, and Emery soon discovers he heads an ancient, secret society which aims to fulfill prophecy and sacrifice the Earth to a bloodthirsty God. Deep and emotionally stirring, Emery finds himself plunged into an immortal world of darkness, deceit, and barbarity.
This thought-provoking thrill ride chronicles one man’s explosive journey into the apocalypse and one man’s epic quest to confront God as an equal. A captivating odyssey through history and time, A Portion of Malice changes the conversation about spirituality, redemption, and the world in which we live.
Consistently compared to works by Stephen King and Dan Brown, A Portion of Malice will blow you away with its controversial plot and surprise twist ending. It’s the first book in the epic series, Ages of Malice.
Can a suicidal reporter save humanity…and himself?
Don’t miss the epic you won’t soon forget!
Excerpt:
Thoughts from the Verge
By: Emery Merrick
Consider this backstory. The first volume in a multi-volume epic spanning time, history, Heaven, Hell, and the apocalypse.
This is the story of a simple man mixed up in things about which he should never know.
And I never dreamed I’d be writing this, shouldn’t be alive to write this.
Alas, though, fate is a tortured mistress.
I’ve tried to capture everything as it truly happened and although religion plays a central role, this isn’t a story about religion.
No one will try to save your soul. There are no heart-warming points about a loving God who shepherds humanity to a waiting paradise.
In fact, I could write volumes that debunk that myth once and for all.
Ah, but what’s the point?
Believe what you want, live how you want, open your mind to the universe, and consider this volume the first steps down a road both twisted and complex.
In the end, you’ll find we’ve just begun.
But we’ll get to that.
To all, be well and happy, blessed by whichever God you choose and in whatever way He or She doles those boons. May my story be a warning—a subtle nudge, a singular wink—about all we take for granted, and the very small pond in which we swim.
Regards,
Emery
Prologue
Jerusalem, Time of Christ
Bribes paid, Cain kneels before the bleeding Messiah.
Blood drips from His nose, trickles down His face. Skin, bruised; cheeks, bloated; lips cracked and dry. His eyes are swollen shut.
Cain prostrates himself, lies flat on the sand, squeezes the cool earth.
Tears start as memories invade.
Castaway.
Heretic.
Murderer.
“I beg Thee, Lord, forgive my sins and make me whole. I’ve labored through all these lives paying penance, seeking only Your embrace. Heal me. Take me in. I beg Thee.”
Jesus raises his head, those ghastly eyes glued closed with dried blood. He tries to stand, but rough twine holds him to a thick plank. He strains at His bonds. “Have I not been once tested by you?” His voice is parched, cracks like dry leaves ripe with flame. “Hast thou come to mock me in my time?”
“Nay Lord. I seek redemption. I seek forgiveness.”
“You are dark to me.”
Cain presses his head to the sand, stretches his arms in penance.
A hushed breeze rustles the trees; flowers brighten the courtyard—lively blue, bitter orange, buttered yellow.
“A vagabond and wanderer are you,” Jesus rasps, strains for breath. “Condemned. A fugitive and vagabond, so sayeth the Father.”
Cain lifts his head, spreads sand with each syllable. “Nay, Lord, Nay! I wish only to walk with You once more. To flee this miserable existence and be again welcome in Your arms.”
The breeze shifts, stifles, comes from the arid south instead of the sea.
Sunlight burns his skin, bakes the bushes.
Sweat appears, mixes with sand to clump on Cain’s forehead. “My Lord, I beg thee. My works are pure. My intent, honest. Please release me so I might serve.”
The Savior’s head droops like a parched flower. A gash beneath his eye reopens, blood trickles to drip in a pool at his feet.
He whispers, voice crackling, blood oozing through His beard, over His lips, drop by drop. “You shall endure.”
Cain’s head drops to the sand, salty tears drip. “Please, Lord. Please. I beg only mercy. Only release.”
Jesus’ voice rises. A whistling wind through mountain caverns, a raging tempest like millions of insects, swarming, devouring. The Messiah’s breath is ragged and wet. He inhales, then heaves His rage.
“You! Endure!”
Cain shudders, stretched hands curl to fists.
It can’t be, not after all these centuries.
His mind fills with fields plowed; with enemies thrown down. With all the lives he’s lived; all the lives yet to live.
Redemption flows away, disappears into the barren desert so precious to God.
He trembles, rises on shaky legs, stares at the Messiah.
Beyond, the sky turns ominous, looms like a spiteful God shaking His fist. Tree and flower become a dizzy array of color and leaf.
Visions enter.
Fiery pillars rend, consume, melting earth, boiling oceans.
Azure skies turn fetid, drip mucous from black clouds and scorched wind.
Humanity screams, pleads, begs God’s mercy.
Then an angry God, chuckling in thunder, defiant, even joyous.
God prefers blood.
Cain turns as both tree and flower wither and wilt.
Rain starts, wind rushes.
He blinks into the gale, glances at his hand to find a whip with nine tails, iron shards sewn into its braids.
His voice is calm, even. “What price for salvation?”
The Messiah lolls, says nothing.
“What price?” he asks again.
The whip cracks, leaps for the Messiah’s back.
Jesus wails as the nine make purchase, shred flesh like silk.
Rage fills, consumes.
This is freedom.
This is redemption.
Bloody plumes rise, become a hovering, ghostly cloud as nine tails fly forward.
The Messiah shrieks like a crimson ghost, rages against biting bonds, eyes squeezed, blood dripping.
“What price for salvation?” Cain asks with each lash. “What price! What price!”
Blood spatters shy flowers, stone walls.
Trees tremble.
The sky belches thunderous applause.
His arm becomes a blur, whip chasing, starved for blood, famished for flesh.
He twists his hips with each blow, soul raging, overflowing.
Hope turns to vapor.
Redemption to rage.
Despair bubbles to blistering animus as he tries to inflict maximum damage, tries to shred the most flesh.
“What price for salvation!”
Tears pour down his face, mix with blood and sand to drift away on harsh winds.
Spit dangles in thick ropes, eyes fill with fire…
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Title A Measure of Rhyme: Ages of Malice, Book II
Author Lloyd Jeffries
Genre Supernatural Thriller/Suspense
Book Blurb:
An Explosive Tale of Love and Survival
Rhyme Carter has a problem—she’s married to the Antichrist.
But her heart belongs to another man.
A man she deserted to the clutches of the Devil himself.
Emery Merrick wakes in a hospital to find the woman he loves betrayed him. Swept away on a drug-fueled tsunami of madness and mayhem, he plummets further into addiction, misery, and the machinations of immortal madmen.
But Rhyme has plans of her own. Plans to thwart her evil husband and reclaim her life.
From visionary award-winning author, Lloyd Jeffries, A Measure of Rhyme continues the epic saga of a secret society’s quest to dominate the world, fulfill prophecy, and offer the Earth as a sacrifice to a bloodthirsty God. The sequel to A Portion of Malice, it’s the second installment in the spellbinding Ages of Malice series.
As Mankind races toward the apocalypse, can a former librarian overcome staggering odds to save the planet—and the man she loves—from certain destruction?
Don’t miss this sizzling thriller!
Buy your copy today.
Excerpt:
Prologue
This place bristles; vibrant, opalescent. Red and yellow, subtle orange, pearl, onyx; shimmering, sliding.
I’m not numb, not unaware. Consciousness hovers, floats, teeters on the slick edge between reality and something else, something all-consuming, something awesome. I’m unafraid.
The place I left: twinkling, beeping, harsh, has become this corridor. The light, a super nova. Yet I don’t squint. I’m calm, my body whole. I glide along.
I should be frightened, I think, more inquisitive. Yet, those emotions have abandoned me. Am I senseless? Mentally deficient? Dead? My heart should be racing, hands trembling.
There’s a figure in front of me, a shadow, if such a thing can exist in a place this brilliant. It steps close, and I realize I know the man.
“Emery, welcome,” he says.
I should be surprised but my emotions are muted. I can’t remember how I got here.
“John?”
His smile is genuine, his embrace comforting.
“I was sent to collect you and answer your questions,” he says. “You have a very specific task.”
I laugh, feel somewhat joyous. “Where am I?”
John’s beard crinkles around a smile, warm and soft. I see the gleam in his eye. The peace, the unshakeable confidence.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he says, “but this is Heaven.”
My mouth falls open as I squint into the brightness. “I made it to Heaven?” I look down the corridor, realize it has no walls, no floor or ceiling, just an endless rainbow of space. “Shouldn’t I feel more elated? More, I don’t know, overjoyed?”
John laughs. “Ah, curiosity. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, eh?” He slaps me on the back. “I’ve missed you Emery.”
Is it possible to miss someone if you’re in Heaven? Do emotions exist here? They seem so distant, like every other care: hunger, anger, jealousy, revenge.
Before I can ask, John speaks again. “You’re a very special guest. A wonder, if I might venture such a statement. I think if these were normal times, you’d be surrounded by angels who’d examine you from head to foot. You’d be a hit for sure.” He raises a finger. “If times were different. For now, though, you’re a guest of the Father. One of only a handful of humans who’ve ever seen this place while still alive.”
“I’m not dead?” I say. “Not here because I’m dead?”
John grasps my hand, and we start to move. Upward it seems. I see an endless expanse, an ocean of light and space. No clouds above, no structures below, floating in the void, holding the hand of the Apostle who speaks as we rise.
“You are to witness and record as I did on Patmos so long ago. You are chosen. You cannot be harmed, neither can you interact. The Father decided to show you these things for whatever His purpose. Please observe carefully.”
The light parts as if breaking through a cloud. I’m presented with endlessness, a tourist at a scenic overlook on some mountain highway. I’ve never witnessed such vastness in my life, certainly not on Earth, as if I’m standing atop the Empire State Building and can see all the way to California.
As we rise structures become visible. Curved, shining, beautiful, shimmering with the same opalescence as the corridor through which I entered. There are levels, or sections, above, below, under, beside me. Figures move between them, serene, unhurried, content.
You’d think I’d be an oddity as we rise through these levels, bend around these structures, but these people, if they are people, either don’t see me or don’t care. Perhaps they’re shielded from seeing me. Perhaps not people at all, bipeds maybe, in the tradition of a good sci-fi novel.
We gain speed as we rise. The structures become a blur; the bipeds, shooting stars. Then, high above, we approach a castle, an estate maybe, but something grander, something larger than anything a human could possibly hope to build, as if some Beverly Hills neighborhood took all its mansions and joined them together, then every other mansion from every other elite zip code in the world was joined with that, creating a sort of super mansion, a super colossal mega mansion, the mother of all mansions, stretching for as far as I can see.
I squint as if it will improve my vision. I see angels of every race and color. They’re stunning. Their wings glorious and glistening. Not feathered, yet something feather-like, splaying colored arrays in breathtaking hues. They seem crazed with haste, dashing around the huge structures, wings flapping easily, moving them with great speed.
One streaks toward me and I flinch. Its face is stern, eyebrows creased above alert eyes, hair curled and flowing behind as wings, every bit of ten feet, pump the air and push the being along.
I reach out as it flashes by, but it flows through as if I’m made only of air. I crane my head as it zips past, white robes flowing, full of speed and wind like boat sails in that famous Rembrandt.
I look to John, who looks skyward. Or I guess up, as I can’t tell if there is a sky per se.
“War has come.” His features are stern yet serene. He betrays no fear.
“War? Didn’t you say we’re in Heaven?”
He averts his gaze to me. “Yes,” he says, “we are. That’s why you’re here.”
“Great. I get to Heaven just as it gets wrecked.”
John laughs. “Same old Emery,” he says, shaking his head. “We don’t get much sarcasm here.”
I look up and see the multitude. So hard to describe, so many beings at once. My mind scrambles, unable to process the enormity of what’s before me. War rages…
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Title Embers of Shadow, Ages of Malice, Book III
Author Lloyd Jeffries
Genre Supernatural Thriller, Suspense, Religious Fantasy, Apocalyptic, Action
Book Blurb
After the brazen attack on Israel, the Antichrist’s shadow grows.
Rhyme Carter faces the fight of her life to escape the clutches of her evil husband, the FBI, and a secret society hellbent on world domination.
Emery Merrick watches in horror as the Antichrist launches an international coup that changes the course of humanity forever.
In a race against time, Book III in the superlative, award-winning Ages of Malice series continues the saga of a downtrodden journalist enlisted to write the biography of a madman. What Emery and Rhyme have failed to stop now grows unchecked as Cain threatens to solidify his dominance for all time.
From visionary author, Lloyd Jeffries, Embers of Shadow will keep you on the edge of your seat long after the incredible, mind-blowing climax.
Can mere mortals outwit the Antichrist to stop the coming apocalypse?
Can Rhyme Carter escape her pursuers and enlist the aid of surprising allies?
Can Emery break free from an evil that predicts every turn?
Embers of Shadow
What hath God wrought?
Don’t miss the epic you won’t soon forget!
Embers of Shadow Excerpt:
Outskirts of Washington, D.C.
Words fly, breathless, trying to say everything at once. “Mr. President, I have information about my husband. I know his secrets. You must know the truth.”
Carpenter regards her with a smirk. “Do tell, Mrs. Cain.”
Relief washes over her. Once she explains everything, they can overcome her lunatic husband.
“He can’t be killed.” She speaks quickly, rushed, has to get out as much as possible as fast as possible. “He’s immortal, punished by God. He’s been alive since the beginning of humanity. That’s why he’s Cain. He’s the real Cain. From the Bible. He can’t be killed and never, ever fails. How do you think all this happened? All these world events? He’s been planning this for centuries. Using trial and error to improve his methods. He heads an organization that controls every aspect of the world. You have to capture and put him away before it’s too late.”
Carpenter’s expression is dubious. He looks around the hangar, then back at her. “You’re telling me I can’t kill your husband because he’s immortal?” he says. “Nice try, but you’ll have to do better than that.” He chuckles. “You know, I expected you to say something crazy to save his skin, and incidentally, I like the extra touch of making him a Bible character, but still, don’t you think you’re trying a bit too hard to save the man you love?”
“I don’t love him,” Rhyme blurts. “I married him to protect the man I do love. It’s a long story.”
“I’m sure it is, and probably as full of lies as this one.”
“I’m not lying. He’s been alive forever, was Constantine the Great, created the Bible, changed it for his own purposes. He’s bent on ruling the world and will succeed if you don’t listen.”
The president looks on. “Uh huh.”
“You have to believe me!” she blurts, looks down, inhales, collects herself. “I know it sounds fantastic, but it’s true. If you don’t act, if you refuse to do exactly what I tell you, all will be lost. You can’t beat him. No one can beat him. But you can capture him. He can be neutralized.”
The president waves a hand. “I’ve had enough,” he says. “If you want to play games, we can play all night.”
“But—”
The slap echoes through the hangar. Tiny lights ripple her vision. “Shut your mouth! You’re here by your own devices, your own decisions.” Carpenter’s voice lowers, sounds thick and scratchy. “You think this is our first rodeo? We always win, Miss Carter. That’s what we do; get our man and get our way.” He motions around the hangar. “Normally, I don’t like to be associated with such things, but I will know the truth, one way or the other. Your husband’s making waves. Has taken control of all the oil in the Middle East and Russia. I must admit, it’s impressive the speed at which he’s done it.” He starts to pace, speaks as if giving a speech. “He’s upset the world order and if we can’t get it under control, things are going to get very bad, very fast.”
He moves close, leans down, glides a hand through her hair in a gentle caress, holds her eyes, caresses her throbbing cheek. “Your husband won’t listen to reason and seems hell-bent on his present course. Normally, it’d be enough to just let him know we have you in custody, but, unfortunately, times are such that there really isn’t any other option than drastic measures. NATO has been forced to act and make no mistake, we will regain control of the region, then we’ll convince the Chinese to abandon Russia.”
“But you can’t! You’ll never win. You don’t understand…”
His head snaps toward her and she braces for another slap.
Then, he snickers. “I’m afraid this is set in stone and there’s really no way to stop it. We don’t need Cain captured; we need him dead. He’s too big a threat for us to sit on our hands while he demands fealty from the world. I’m sure you know he’s proclaimed himself God. He’s even asked me to surrender the US. Can you believe that? Your husband has quite a pair on him, but I’m sure, of all things, that, you know.”
Agent Elroy approaches, whispers in the president’s ear.
“Thank you,” Carpenter says, then turns back to Rhyme. “I’m told we’re all set here.” He adjusts his tie. “Mr. Jenkins?”
Another shadow breaks the light and moves to stand by the president. The man is small-framed, short. A pencil mustache sits above thin lips. His hair is combed in such a way as to cover the swathe of baldness atop his head. Beads of sweat appear on his forehead. He peers at her through eyes like a game hen, gives the appearance of one whose life has been only laughter and ridicule.
President Carpenter continues. “We learned something from our Muslim friends,” he says. “You know, the terrorists who’d film their captives while doing inhumane things. They taught us terror and, although not official policy, it’s a useful tool when time is of the essence. Fortunately, Mr. Jenkins here is very, very good at this sort of thing. He’ll start slowly and film everything. Then he’ll send snippets to your husband with a polite request to renounce his authority and turn himself in. If Cain refuses, Mr. Jenkins will send more footage. Things will get worse and worse for you tonight, Mrs. Cain. Jenkins here is known for being methodical, exacting. For his, let’s say, patience. I believe you’ll find him unpleasant and, I want to be very honest here, you’ll not survive the process, no matter what Cain does.
“You see, it doesn’t really work if we just remove a finger and stop. Or just waterboard you and stop. The pause gives you time to collect yourself, to rest and mentally prepare for the next round. We’ve found this to be ineffective.
“What is effective is doing it all in one go and sending the highlights to the person with whom we’re negotiating. In this case, your husband. By the time he does as we wish, you’ll be long dead.” He grins again. “That’s an added bonus, no pesky witnesses running to the press and causing trouble. Not that the press would help, we’ve controlled them for a long time now. But, as you know, sometimes someone gets through, and we can’t allow that to happen.”
He stoops, whispers in her ear, smells of expensive cologne. “We’re very, very good at this.”
He steps away, raises his voice. “Keep up the good work everyone, and please support Mr. Jenkins in any way you can.”
He turns to Rhyme. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Cain. I’ll give your regards to your husband, just before he dies.”
Words flow fast, desperate. “Mr. President please, just listen. If you go against him, he’ll destroy you. Don’t you see? Think of the country, the people. There’s another way. Mr. President!” …
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Author Biography
Lloyd Jeffries enjoys dark comedies, philosophy, clever turns of phrase, religious studies and thought experiments involving the esoteric and legendary. A decorated veteran of numerous conflicts, he served in the U.S. military and has practiced Emergency, Trauma and Wilderness medicine for more than twenty years. He hides out in Florida with his family and Buck the Wonder Dog.
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