I received this book for free from the publisher in exchange for my honest opinions/ review. This does not affect my opinion of the book or the content of my review.
This post contains affiliate links you can use to purchase the book. If you buy the book using that link, I will receive a small commission from the sale.INFECtIOUS by Elizabeth Forkey
Series: INFECtIOUS, #1
Published by Amazon Digital Services on June 18th 2014
Genres: christian, fantasy
Source: the publisher
Buy on Amazon
"It's all about blood, Ivy. It always has been."
I've known something was wrong. I've sensed but avoided the truth that I was slipping. You'd think if you recognized that you were dying that you'd hurry to stop it, to heal whatever is sick.
It's innately human to struggle for life. But for some reason, though it makes no sense, it's also innately human to lean away from eternal life.
Six years ago, when millions of people disappeared from the face of the earth in a silent instant, all hell broke loose. People did what you'd expect: they panicked. We've been programmed
with the will to survive—to care for our loved ones at any cost. Husbands became murderers. Children became thieves. The world turned upside-down and survival was all anyone could
think about. That was before we knew about the disease.
INFEC†IOUS, the first novel in The INFEC†IOUS Series is a post-apocalyptic love story. Young Ivy has a killer sense of humor, wit and a personal relationship with the Curse Giver. Ivy longs for freedom from her overbearing spinster Aunt and from Toccoa's protective fences. A trip outside the compound brings confusion, danger, romance and death into her already troubled life. Two different guys--polar-opposites--are vying for her heart.
Ivy is desperate to hold onto The Cure in the midst of the chaos and heartache. INFEC†IOUS is a love story that will ravage your heart and leave you hungry for more.
My review will be posted in the next day or so!
Aunty is glancing back and forth from road to rearview mirror; so I turn in my seat to stare out the back window. So far, no one is following us. It would be easy to see them on this clear day. I realize Aunty is talking and I have been nodding. Like my subconscious was listening and responding to her without me realizing it. All of my senses are on overdrive – each sense working to take in every detail of my surroundings without my cognitive intentional effort. It’s the clarity of adrenaline that I’ve only read about in books and it feels surreal.
“…they were working together. One of them made the noise and the other one waited for us to run to the car. It was all planned.”
She is processing each detail out loud. She glances sideways at me while she pushes the car to top speeds. She wants my opinion, my input. I am lost in my fear and I can hardly hear her.
“They were trying to take you,” she says with quiet surety.
Her matter-of-fact statement grips me, and I think I might throw up. When I look at her again, I can tell she is fighting back tears. I know from the look on her face that she is trying to make a decision.
Her lips are clamped tight between her teeth, and when she glances over at me, I can see it in her watery blue eyes. She is trying to decide whether or not to tell me something.
I’ve lived with her for over four years now, and I know her face well. I’ve learned all of her facial expressions. I know when she is faking to be polite. I know when she is irritated behind a fake smile. I know when she is angry and silently begging the Lord for help to hold her tongue. I have her memorized.
The face she wears now usually irritates me because I know she’s hiding something from me. Normally, I would persist in pestering it out of her. Right now though, that face with its set jaw and pursed lips just scares the crap out of me. I don’t know if I want to know. I’m tempted to plug my ears and close my eyes like the defiant little girl who came to live with Aunty at age twelve. Mad at mom and dad for abandoning her.
They say trauma at a young age keeps you from maturing. If that’s true, I’m probably operating with the emotions of a fifth grader because I’ve been through a lot of trauma in the last six years. I look out of my window to avoid looking at Aunty’s face that is full of some terrible news. Aunty reaches outand grabs for my hand. She’s preparing me, supporting me for something. She has something in her hand that rests on top of mine. She’s squeezing me so tightly that whatever she’s holding starts to dig into my skin. I wince; and, as she relaxes her hand and pulls away from me, the “something” stays stuck on the top of my hand.
It’s a photograph. Of me.
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