Soul Warriors Book 2
Her grandfather kidnapped.
An ancient instrument of death in her hands.
A warrior from the past determined to stop her.
When sixteen-year-old Aria York loses her parents, she thinks nothing worse can happen. Then her grandfather is kidnapped by a mysterious Egyptian cult and she is being hunted by two competing sects. Both want King Tut’s trumpet of war and will kill to obtain the legendary instrument.
When Aria plays the magical trumpet she forgets her grief. Instead, triumph, greed and anger flow through her veins. When chaos erupts in San Francisco as a direct result, she realizes she must trust a tortured warrior even though he demands she hand over the trumpet or risk enveloping the world in war.
Falcon comes from the past with a goal to save the future. He makes a deal with Aria to help save her grandfather, risking his quest by involving the girl and jeopardizing his heart.
Aria wants to believe him, but knows there’s something even bigger at stake. A secret so powerful neither teen understands the implications. As each precious hour passes, she’s forced to ask: Is she playing the trumpet or is the trumpet playing her?
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“Tut’s Trumpet by Allie Burton is spellbinding, dark and furious as the chaos is unleashed and felt throughout! This concert of words will hit both high and low notes with the subtle nuisances fueled by Allie Burton as composer and conductor as she masterfully guides us at a rapid-fire pace into another world. Aria is 100% teen, with that touch of attitude and that feeling of invincibility of youth. When push comes to shove, and only then, does Aria relent and allow someone far older and wiser take the reins, but don’t expect her to go quietly! Fascinating reading with touches of myth, history, legends and more! Did I mention the magic of romance?” - Amazon Top 500 Reviewer
“The book was just amazing and the pace never slowed down. Your attention is kept and you won't be disappointed to read this!” – Serenity’s Lovely Reads Blogspot
Weird I didn’t feel the same pull to play the flute as I had with Tut’s trumpet.
A door snickered closed downstairs. The noise echoed up the stairs and into the music room. The classical guitar CD I’d put on was silenced.
All the warm fuzzy feelings fled. I froze in place. Panic pulsed and thrummed to a wild beat. My ears perked trying to hear more over my internal rock band. My brain swarmed with scenarios. The biggest one—the only one—the kidnapper had snuck in the house.
My gaze darted around the room. No phone. No escape.
I picked up the biggest thing I could carry, a guitar, and raised it above my shoulder. If I could get to Grandfather’s room I could use the phone to call the police. They said they’d be in the neighborhood.
Rushing to the music room doorway, I peeked down the hall. The lights were on. I didn’t hear anything or anyone.
I tiptoed down the hall, holding the guitar above my head. Maybe I’d been imagining the noise. Maybe with the excitement I’d thought I’d heard something.
The steps creaked.
I stopped. Anxiety sizzled causing the hairs on my body to stand on end. The steps always creaked when someone was coming up the stairs.
Maybe the kidnappers had gotten impatient and they’d come to search for the trumpet themselves. Maybe they’d already killed my grandfather. Maybe they were going to kill me.
Each maybe led to a more terrifying scenario. My body trembled and my muscles tightened with the decision of fight or flight.
The stairs creaked again.
Whoever was there was taking the stairs one step at a time. Sneaking in. They knew I was here and didn’t want to be discovered.
I sped into my grandfather’s room, reached for the phone, and lifted it to my ear.
Not a dial tone. I jammed the disconnect button several times. The same sound. The phone wasn’t working or was disconnected.
Horror screeched through me. The internal screaming reached a pitch no opera diva could hit. My organs shriveled and I fought against complete and total panic.
I took stock of the room. The windows were too high to jump from. The bed had drawers fashioned underneath with no place to hide below.
The top step squeaked in its own special way. The intruder was in the upstairs hallway.
Raving fear shredded my lungs. I found it hard to breathe. I couldn’t stand in the middle of the room like a sacrificial pheasant.
With shaky legs, I dashed inside the closet with the guitar. My only weapon of defense. I closed the door most of the way and peered between the crack. A shadow emerged against the wall. Tall, male, determined.
The figure moved to the center of the room. Close to six feet and around one hundred and sixty pounds. Full lips positioned above a strong, pointy jaw with a dimple in the middle. The jaw was a perfect foil for the prominent cheekbones. Messy dark hair, long on the top and sticking out at odd angles as if he’d run his fingers through it. Broad shoulders in a tight black T-shirt. Trim waist. Tight jeans molding to strong thighs.
The specific inventory was only so I could describe him better to the police.
His sharp emerald gaze scanned Grandfather’s room. Perused the closet door.
My muscles tensed ready to attack if needed. I held my breath. Didn’t move. From this angle, he couldn’t see me. Could the intruder sense I was here?
Raising the guitar in slow speed, my arms shook. The weight of fear pushed down with tripled gravity.
The intruder stalked toward the closet.
Pure terror stoked a fire inside me.
His strong hand grabbed the door handle. Pulled.
The door swung open, exposing me.
My internal fire exploded into action. Without thought, I swung the guitar down on top of the intruder.
The acoustic guitar cracked over his head. The base bonged and the strings strummed. A symphony gone wild. The neck broke in two and the strings sprang free. Sadness plucked. I’d destroyed the beautiful instrument.
Quit mourning the guitar and move!