Archived – Pygmalia by Stephanie Constante

June 14, 2013 /

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Pygmalia by Stephanie Constante:

 

~ About the Book ~

 

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Title: Pygmalia

Author: Stephanie Constante

Published: May 31st, 2013

Word Count: 81,000

Genre: YA Sci-Fi Romance

Content Warning: It contains scenes of a sexual nature, profanity, underage drinking, and graphic violence.

Recommended Age: 15+

 

~ Synopsis ~

 

Lily is the heir to her father’s family fortune, except she wants no part in it. Especially if it means having to spend months away from her loving mother, being ignored by her genius, yet reclusive father, and tormented by her domineering grandmother.   Since her parent’s divorce, Lily has been forced to spend every summer, bored to death, at her father’s dilapidated estate in England. The one consolation is that this is the last summer she will have to visit before her eighteenth birthday frees her of this obligation. What Lily didn’t expect to find was someone who is just as lonely and out-of-place as she is. Someone that could make her actually want to stay at the rundown mansion.   Deep in the basement of her father’s home, she finds Adam, who is half human, half machine. He is her father’s latest prototype: a creation built for war, but able to do so much more than just basic fighting tactics and artillery protocol. Lily cannot help but be drawn to her father’s experiment, though she’s certain nothing can come of it. When she realizes that Adam will eventually be taken from her and potentially destroyed, she must decide whether putting her family in jeopardy is worth the risk of helping him escape.

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~ About the Author ~

 

Stephanie Constante Stephanie was born and raised in Miami where she currently works as a mental health counselor. In her spare time she loves to read, write, spend time with loved ones, travel, and watch anything made in the UK. Her other works include books one and two of The Draconi Series.

Amazon Author Page | Facebook | GoodReads | Blog

 

~ Excerpt ~

 

It was the guy from the laboratory; he managed to find me, and the panic coursing through my body is enough to send me curling up into a ball, just letting him drag me to whatever hell he came from. I can’t though; I can’t keep from fighting back. I struggle to get his hand loose from around my wrist, but there’s no use. I smack him, push at him, and even punch him in the face, which hurt me more than it appeared to affect him. He’s immovable.
“Please,” I finally resort to pleading with him, “Please don’t hurt me.” I feel more tears streaming down my face; I fall to my knees, covering my mouth to keep from weeping. I don’t even care about dirtying the dress further; it was ruined the second I stepped foot in these woods.
“I have no instructions to hurt you. I’m here to bring you back to your father.” He says plainly. I can barely see his face in the shadows, but I remember those haunting blue eyes.
“What does he want with me?” I say, drying my tears with the back of my hand.
“I don’t know. I have only been told to find you and bring you back.”
“Who are you?”
“I was instructed to keep all information regarding myself and your father classified. Please come with me, or I will have to use force.”
“I thought you said you weren’t supposed to hurt me,” I say.
“I do not need to hurt you to get you to come with me,” I can tell that he’s probably from the London area, based on his accent.
“If I go with you, back to the house, what will happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then I think I’ll stay here.”
“The likelihood of your survival out here is scarce. You will only injure yourself further.” I can feel him touching a cut on my arm I got from running into a branch when I first ventured into the woods. His hand is warm, the way a live human person’s would feel against my skin.
“Please come with me,” he says, and holds out something. I grab the objects, realizing they’re my heels.
“You brought my shoes?”
“I thought they might be of use to you.”
“Heels in the forest, in the dark? Not so much useful as they are an accident waiting to happen,” I grumble. “Alright, lead the way. But if you try and hurt me, I’m jabbing this Manolo Blahnik in your eye socket.”
“What is a Manolo Blahnik?” he asks. I can’t see his face, but I’m sure it looks extremely confused. Guys.
“Never mind,” I sigh, “just know that I will do some damage if you try anything.”
“I understand,” he says. As we begin our trek back to the house, I stumble a few times. He grabs my waist before I fall flat on my face, and takes my hand in his; it’s softer than I would have imagined it to be. “This might help,” he says as he triggers something on his hand. A light emanates from beneath his skin, turning it an orangey pink. I pull away from him and point at his hand.
“How did you do that?”
“It’s one of my tools. I don’t need it really, but I suppose you do,” he says holding out his unlit hand to me, while stretching the other in front of him so he can light my way.
“What are you?”
“I am Prototype 78.”
“What does that even mean? That doesn’t tell me anything about you.”
“It’s not supposed to,” he keeps his gaze forward as we walk down the hillside towards the house. We moved silently through, and as we passed the lake, I couldn’t help but feel unnerved by him.
“Are you some kind of alien?”
“I can’t answer that,” his face barely shows any kind of emotion, but there’s something in there; I remember seeing it when I looked into his eyes.
“You were dead,” I press on. “You were dead on that table when I found you, and then you just woke up. So you’re obviously not human. You’re some kind of experiment he’s working on.” He doesn’t respond, so I keep deducing on my own.“You have scars, but they look nothing like what I’d imagine a zombie would look like. You’ve got that light coming out of your hand, and you were able to track me in this darkness. I’m guessing alien.”
“I’m not an alien,” he finally admits.
“Aha!” I jump and point at him. “So you’re an experiment. Like Frankenstein, just not as gross looking.”
“Frankenstein is not the name of the monster; it’s the name of the doctor. The monster never had a name.”
“Are you saying you’re Frankenstein’s monster?”
“I’m not a monster,” he says, except for the first time, there’s sadness behind his words. He looks down at his hand, as if somehow disgusted with himself, but his movements are robotic. Even his affect is flat and unexpressive.
“Fair enough, you’re not a monster,” I say. He looks down at me and seems relieved; he’s not a monster, but he’s definitely not human.

 

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  Stay You & Happy Reading,

Jaidis

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