Zara Freej & The Soul Thief

This is the first chapter to the sequel to Zara Freej & The Monopoly of Magic, the first novel that I wrote when I was 15 years old. I feel my first book is too rough to be shown, and my goal is to neaten it all up by December 2015. For now, anyway, here is an excerpt of the sequel, with a PDF of chapter 1 & 2 together (click here). It makes for easier reading. I hope a lot of what is going on makes sense without the first novel. I think as the story progresses it will all make sense, as is the case with most series. 

I stopped working on this project for around 6 months, but I’m acquainting myself with the characters and storyline now and I hope to continue it soon. It really surprised me reading it for the first time in months yesterday; it’s tone is a lot different to the Zara Freej & The Monopoly of Magic, and I think it does reflect in a sense my feelings last year when I begun writing the sequel.

I will make it my aim to publish a few chapters every few months. I’m around 30,000 words in so it should be easy to do. So keep watching this space for more.

I hope you enjoy! 


Firstly, I’m not allowed to tell a human about my heartbreak.

Second, I’m not human anymore.

I’m Zara Freej and my nineteenth birthday has just past. Oliver once said I was unlike anyone he had ever met before, and that I was his first and only love. Well, happily ever afters don’t exist and clearly neither did Oliver’s love for me.

***

‘We really need to get some furniture,’ Zara said softly whilst on her tiptoes, looking up at Oliver.

The bedroom was large with only a king sized bed, a large gold rimmed mirror, and two black clothes rails along the wall. They were stood facing each other in the middle of the room, inches from each other. Zara wrapped her arms around Oliver. He tensed and his jaw was tight. Despite this, Zara leant in further; she didn’t want what was happening to happen. When his lips did not respond to hers, Zara sprung from Oliver. A deep sigh escaped her lips. Oliver remained unmoving, statue-like in posture. The room that once looked fresh and promising to Zara, now looked cold and tainted.

‘Why don’t you like me anymore?’ Zara finally said it. Finally said what had been on her mind for so long. Her voice shook, and she stood with her back to him. She couldn’t look him in his eyes and ask him the dreaded, long-awaited, question. She wasn’t superhuman. She was just a witch. The silence that followed was painful. Zara almost regretted asking him; confronting Oliver was like a vaccine, painful but necessary. He was a rock sometimes. It was fine when they were just seeing each other at college but they lived together now, their relationship should have been different.

‘It’s not that,’ Oliver uttered. Neither Zara nor Oliver changed their position. Zara could see Oliver in the reflection of the mirror, and he was stood still with his head down.

‘Well, what is it? You’ve clearly changed your mind about us.’ Zara’s heart was pounding; this conversation was too serious. He could break up with me, Zara’s eyes widened at the thought. What frightened her the most was the possibility that she might not mind.

Oliver disrupted the pregnant silence. Zara could hear his heavy breathing, and knew he was fumbling in his jean pocket for a cigarette.

Then there was the flicker of the lighter, and Zara felt a flutter of irritation amongst her overpowering dread.

‘What is it you want?’ The simple sentence hit Zara hard. Oliver heard a thud.

He whipped his head around to see Zara clenching her fist, and there was an ever, ever, so slight dint in the rented room’s white wall.

They looked at each other in the eye for the first time that evening. Hazel and bright green fighting each other.

‘Why can’t you just say it?’ Zara pleaded but he just looked away. ‘Fine, I will. I’m not happy and I think we should end it.’ For the rest of the evening he looked everywhere but into Zara’s eyes.

‘If that’s what you want.’ A thousand different emotions rushed through Zara Freej’s mind when she realised the finality of this statement, and how this time it was real. Surprisingly, Zara did not cry, as she normally would have. Instead, she walked past the unmoving figure, grabbed her coat from the clothes rail and left without saying a word.

Once she was a block away floods of tears erupted and Zara had to stop. French locals stared at her, horrified and perplexed, morbidly interested in the woman blubbering in the Parisian streets like a child who had lost her balloon.

The difference was that Zara had lost her first love forever.

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