Friday, May 3, 2013

Book Blitz: Demon Inhibitions (Gary Starta)

Most people don't travel to another universe to get a new job, house and boyfriend but psychic investigator Caitlin Diggs did.
Now she's living the life of her alternate self, working for the FBI's Preternatural Division where her first case just happens to include chasing a genetically engineered man hell bent on stealing souls. Well, there had to be consequences.

Genre: Paranormal
ISBN: 9781301635887

Number of pages: 225
Word Count: 83,000
Cover Artist: Exquisite Ebook Creations

Gary Starta
Gary Starta is a former journalist who writes paranormal fiction with a blend of SCI FI, Fantasy, Mystery and Romance.

Grant’s ruggedness gave me strength. The notion that I would be

flying in a single engine plane brought back the wave of nausea I had

experienced when I first experienced my cold symptoms. Only the cold

symptoms were gone, along with any dizziness one might feel when

imbibing a cup of murky green cold medicine. I couldn’t explain this. I

couldn’t explain a lot of things. Yet an eyeful of Grant gave me courage,

even inspiration. Robust and bright eyed, Grant possessed a pair of broad

shoulders and a six-foot three-inch frame, nicely packaged in a gray

pinstriped designer suit. Sea green eyes peered at me, hungry, curious for

answers. Carter must have laid it on thick concerning my psychic skills. Did

this man have every confidence in my clairvoyant abilities, or did he just

want to jump my bones? Hard to tell, I thought, staring out a window at the

murky brownish colored sea below us that was nothing as effervescent or

alluring as Charles Grant’s eyes. Yes. It had been a long time since I dated.

And my horizontal dance with incubus boy didn’t count. Youth is nice but

this man could be a walking definition of the “whole” package.

Charming as well, he comforted me straight away as we lifted off.

“Don’t worry Ms. Diggs, the Cessna 400 is the most reliable single engine

piston powered-plane on the market.” I smiled with the alacrity of a mental

patient when he accentuated the words “piston powered.” Yes, much too long

without the company of a man. I unconsciously began to fan myself although

the cabin temperature had been cool enough, in fact quite a welcome relief to

the ninety degree plus weather outside.

So he could immediately pick up on my worries and needs. Maybe

just a coincidence, I told myself, still foolishly fanning myself with a Chinese

takeout flyer I had dug out of my purse. And merely coincidental I found him

irresistibly attractive. No, this isn’t about falling in love at first sight. Nooo…

Then he put his hand on my knee, and I felt my heart thump.

“You know,” he began, “if you need privacy to conjure up your

vision or dream state, I can go sit with the pilot.”

“Oh, no.” I nearly screamed it. His eyes told me he either realized my

phobia of flying in small aircraft had been a ploy to garner his attention or

perhaps a real deep seated fear, one which might invite a panic attack.

“Okay, then,” he said. His voice became gentle and lilting in reaction

to my squawk. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s just that it’s imperative we get

a lead, any kind of lead to stop Mollini.”

“Yes,” I said staring into his sea green eyes. “I know what it means

to be desperate… I… uh, mean, desperate for a break on a case.”

“Now do you?”

I wondered how Grant could not recognize me. Surely, he must have

at least heard my name. I had had the best arrest/conviction rate in the 

Bureau. But I realized it would be best if he continued to think of me as a

civilian—which I now was. The Bureau hadn’t been kind to me lately. And I

had left in large part because I believed they would never accept my gift; or

how I had come to acquire it.

“Oh, I just watch a lot detective shows,” I said.

He laughed, hopefully swallowing my lame-assed explanation.

So he possessed an open mind, at least when it came to crunch time.

That point in a case where you would rub a bald man’s head for luck if it

brought you any closer to apprehending the perp.

“Then we probably realize we’ve got to make a stand.”

I could tell by the way he said it that even he didn’t give it much

chance of success. And his gaze fell away, distant, probably counting the

number of colleagues who would be fitted for body bags.

“Have you thought about an alternative?” I blurted out.

“I’m open to suggestion.” His eyes rejoined mine. Again, I could

literally hear my heart beat.

“I suppose following protocol would be best,” I said half heartedly,

my eyes fighting to disengage from his.

“I don’t want to pressure you. But do you have any inkling? Any hint

where Mollini might be ultimately headed?”

Shit, I thought. I sure as hell did. And now I couldn’t share with this

man, something my physical self desperately desired. And as I wallowed in

guilt, I began to question my sudden attraction to this man, the irresistible

urge to bare all with this man-damn it—the near uncontrollable urge to

unfasten the waist ties on my halter and bare more than just the truth. What

was happening to me? I thought about it for a few seconds.

Perhaps Grant believed I had fallen into a psychic trance. If so, that

would buy some time. I stared, pensive, eyes trained on the floor, playing the

stereotyped crystal gazing psychic to the hilt. And I realized that along with

my vision, came my ability to read people. My empathic gift had come back

as well. Possibly this power seemed so overwhelming to me because I had

spent the last few weeks living as a shut-in. As if black clouds suddenly

rolled away exposing a radiant, blinding golden blast of sunshine, I could

read the goodness of this man, not only see his aura but also feel it.

Intoxicated, I realized the reconnection to my feelings and emotions had

caused sensory overload. Maybe that’s why I had nearly succumbed to

infatuation when I should have been plotting how to stop Mollini.

But first things first, I had to misdirect Grant. It would be for his

good. And mine as well, from a selfish standpoint. Whether my lust had been

organically or paranormally stimulated, I genuinely perceived Grant to be an

honest and caring man. I could not lead him to his slaughter. And with that

realization, came baggage. I also could honestly say that one part of me

really didn’t care if a butt load of FBI agents went down fighting. That part

of me, the self-righteous, self-absorbed portion, would say they had it

coming, foolishly attempting to combat a supernatural power with

conventional weapons, and in the process only making the perpetrator

stronger. I only cared about Grant’s safety—his sea green eyes, melt-me-inhis-

mouth kind of safety… Shut up, I told myself, trying to disconnect the

imagery. I had to quell that voice. That would be the voice of pride

speaking—and possibly the voice of lust as well. And while I was in full self

diagnosis mode, it was a voice that needed to feel justified for leaving my

FBI career. A voice that said they would regret allowing me to resign. Shut

up, I said again, more forcefully. Who am I kidding? I am replaceable. Even

this wonderful agent doesn’t recognize me.

Time to get a grip, Caitlin, it’s time to do your job. You didn’t join

the Bureau for glory, I told myself. You did it because you had no other

choice; the job was already part of you—it never needed to become part of

you. You and the job were already symbiotic. Okay, so now it’s time to do

the job. Despite the fact I was no longer FBI, I would think like I was.

Unconventional, that’s how I solved the lion’s share of my cases. I would use

my paranormal abilities to combat Mollini’s. It all sounded so simple, in

theory. I would stick to the plan. I let my eyelids flutter as if the vision were

ending. And I spoke.

“I think I have a lead. I see where Mollini will make his stand.”

As Grant’s eyes bore into me for detail, I glanced away for a second,

to catch the time.

“Where are we now?” I asked.

“Somewhere at the end of New England, and the beginning of the tristate


“That’s good. You’ll continue on—without me—to this address.” I

rummaged through my cluttered purse, amazingly pulling both a pad of paper

and pen in my first attempt. I wrote the address down, tore off the sheet from

the pad and handed it to Grant.

“That’s where you can get Mollini. He’ll need to replenish himself

there.” Grant stared at me. “Yes, with souls from living bodies,” I said in

reply to his polemic gesturing. “He’ll need a mass killing. But he’ll be

vulnerable for a window of time. You and an attack team might be able to

take him down, even without firing a weapon, possibly in hand-to-hand

combat. Although,” I quickly added, “I wouldn’t recommend that.” And even

though I knew this encounter would most likely never happen, I couldn’t bear to see

Agent Grant get caught in Mollini’s demonic grip.