Tuesday, 4 April 2017

In The Prison of Our Grief by S.E. Amadis

Title: In The Prison of Our Grief
Author: S.E. Amadis
Genre: Action Thriller

A harsh prison in England.

The grisly, tragic murder of three babies.

The murderess is on the loose... And Carrie Anne's made friends with her.

Will she be able to find out the truth in time? Or will she become this sadistic murderess' next victim?

Once again, Carrie Anne finds herself in the centre of another terrifying ordeal...

In this exciting sequel to Patricia, we follow seventeen-year-old Carrie Anne Houghton and her new comrades-in-arms in a whirling, dizzying, action-packed adventure that spans two continents, from the glitzy high-rises of New York City to the lonely expanses of rural Canada to the glamour and colour of Mediterranean tourist resorts.

Persecution, murder, lies and deceit. Traps, stormy Gothic settings, abandoned mansions and secret passageways. All of this comes to vivid life in the pages of In the Prison of our Grief.

A gripping, fast-paced, action-packed thriller featuring a strong female protagonist and a quirky male counterpart. This book can be read as a standalone.


      I saw you waltz in there like you owned the world. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you. Couldn’t for the life of me fathom what the hell would you be doing in a place like this, where people only come to relax and have fun. I thought by now you would’ve graduated to being chief warden of Alcatraz or something.

      You came in and bought some frilly tops and mini-skirts. My eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw your purchases. I couldn’t believe you, of all people, the greatest ice queen and prude the world has known, would ever be caught dead wearing such romantic, light-hearted affairs.

      I rang up your purchases, amazed that you didn’t recognize me. After all, for three years you’d led me to workshops and appointments with the institution’s psychologists. You frisked me before accompanying me to the nursery, your hands cold and hard as if you were touching inanimate metal instead of living skin and nerves. You doled out my punishments on an almost daily basis, practically cackled into my face when I got sent to solitary.

      You delighted in inventing any excuse to get me into trouble. I’m sure you planted things on me just so I could get called out, get my privileges withdrawn, look bad with the other wardens and psychologists and get assigned the toughest tasks that no one wanted. You invented wrongdoings that I wasn’t guilty of so I couldn’t get to spend as much time with my baby as the other ladies.


      That was the one thing I never got enough of.

      Time to see my baby. To hold her in my arms and cuddle her close. To feel her heart beating against mine, soft and fluttery like a dream. To hear her cooing. To watch her growing.

      To see her grow up strong and brave and beautiful.

      That was the one thing you never gave me.

      That was what you took from me.

      Every day I swore I would make you pay for what you did, Carola Hochmeister.

      I lived for the day I would face you and tell you into your face what I planned to do with you. How I planned to skin you alive. How I meant to gouge that knife deep into your flesh, the way you did to my baby. How I meant to tear into you, and mutilate you, and draw out your agony for as long as you could bear.

      How I planned to make you cry and scream until your throat became raw.

      And how I planned, in the end, to cut that throat of yours. Slowly. Pleasurably. Inch by tiny inch. Just one slit, one inch. Then a pause. Then another inch. Watch your pathetic life bleed out in languid, slow-motion trickles. The same way you watched my baby’s life bleed out.

Author Bio

I could never write about a happy, conventional couple living in a happy, conventional, suburban neighbourhood with two cars and one and a half children, a dog and a pet bird, working at happy, conventional, uneventful jobs.

My heroes and heroines have to walk through fire (or rather, crawl through fire), get strangled, beaten, shot at, drowned, poisoned, get caught in tornados or earthquakes or get attacked by mutant gnats. Or, they have to strangle, beat, shoot, drown and poison other people.

A story with anything less than these dramatic, hair-raising elements was always too boring for me to even consider telling.

I believe in magic. I believe that the world is full of mystery, and that there are more things in heaven and earth than could ever be dreamt of in our conventional, logic-based philosophies.

Outside of that, as a dry, mundane list of facts about me, I’m a single parent from a village near Montreal, Canada, who now enjoys the freaking great good fortune to live happily with my two sons on the almost-tropical south coast of Spain, basking in summer eight months of the year. Typical activities include running a marathon with the kids to school every morning and cooking frequently for an Always Hungry teenaged son with four stomachs.


      I stepped out into a wilderness transformed by this sudden tempest into a paradisiacal world revived and revitalized, grown unexpectedly lush and green, vibrant and filled with new life. Seething and pulsating with activity and verve. The scent of wet earth filled my nostrils, the trilling of songbirds more enthusiastic and shrill than ever before. The door was covered by an overgrowth of exuberant tropical plants, a canopy of verdure and golden light, and I pushed through dripping leaves and streaming stalks to make my way out, my feet squelching in mud.

      As I burst into the open clearing, as if specifically welcoming me back to life and fresh air again, the rain pattered to a stop. Suddenly. Without warning. As if someone had simply turned a tap off in the sky.

      Sunlight poured forth over me, warming the damp, pungent air.

      In a daze, I wandered out across the clearing. Rivulets of mud streaked across the ground, flowed over my shoes. I wandered further, turned my head to look back at the house where I had been imprisoned. As I expected, there was no sign of Carola or any of the other people. There were no vehicles, and any tracks that might have remained had long been washed away.

      I drifted around the bend, to the place where the taxi had dropped us off. There was only a faint trail there, no obvious path or paved road of any sort.

      I lingered about, at a complete loss as to what to do now. Evidently, I had to find some way to get back to civilization. But how? I was all alone in the middle of the countryside, in a strange land, in a strange country, where I had never been before and where I couldn’t speak the language.

      What the hell was I going to do?

      As I stood there in the middle of nowhere, pondering all these thoughts, a disquieting roar—disturbing, troubling—came clamouring towards me from a distance. Faint at first but growing mightier and mightier at an unsettling speed. Filling the air with thunder. Heaving the world with vibration, almost like a tidal wave.

      I couldn’t for the life of me fathom what was going on. I whirled around where I was, trying to make out something. Anything.

      And then, the air became eerily still.

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