Into the Fire

Dayle James Arceneaux is our featured guest today, 30-something Cajun-country (south Louisiana) writer who hopes to write full time one day. This current excerpt is from his first novel Dancing with Butterflies, now being considered by two publishers, and he is currently working on his second novel. Dayle’s blog “Reflections” demonstrates both his keen sense of humor and his thoughtful insights on different topics. He cites River Rising by Athol Dickson and several novels by Ted Dekker as favorites.

If you’ve taken the time to stop by and read Dayle’s work, please take an extra minute or two to offer your feedback. Dayle’s a better man than I—of course, I’m a woman—in that he said he even values your critical thoughts on his work, so whatever you choose to leave as a comment, play nice.

Here’s the blurb:

Freelance journalist, Jonathon Cole, agrees to write what he later discovers will be the gospel of religious cult leader Daniel Meyers, who claims to be the first coming of the Messiah. While discussing the project, the cult leader demonstrates supernatural powers and proclaims that Jesus could not be the Messiah because he loved his enemies—the real Messiah will destroy the enemies of Israel.

After years of abuse, Kayla Domangue has finally decided to escape the Meyers cult and the arrival of Jonathon Cole provides the perfect opportunity. But Daniel Meyers won’t just let her go–she is one of his “special ones”.

Dancing with Butterflies

Chapter 1

“Who do you say that I am?”
The familiar voice lured Shannon from her disoriented state. As her senses returned, so did the memories of the past evening. She had been awakened by the sound of three men entering her bedroom. Darkness concealed their faces. Speed and purpose allowed no time for resistance. Hands stronger than her own left her unable to move.
A cloth over her mouth and nose muted her screams. During the struggle, she managed to free one of her legs, but her kicks only produced glancing blows. She struggled for air, but found none. Desperate for oxygen, her body became weak. Despite this fact, she continued to struggle until her senses faded. Then …
Darkness.
A bright fluorescent light now burned her eyes. Still, she recognized the man in front of her. Those eyes. She didn’t dare look at them. For within those eyes dwelled a powerful presence, a hypnotic force displayed for her many times in the past.
But, his voice also possessed power. Gentle and compassionate, yet cold and frightening. “Who do you say that I am?”
She glanced around the room, assessing her surroundings. A small room. An empty room. As her eyes adjusted to the brightness weighing upon them, the scene slowly became clearer. Everything was white. Pure white. The walls, floor, ceiling, even the bare table in front of her and the chair that now imprisoned her. A nylon strap on each armrest held her wrists firmly in place, burning her raw skin as she fought their hold.
Recessed in the center of the painted cement floor, positioned between her shoes, was a drain. The smell of bleach saturated the air, stinging her senses. But there was something else in this air. A tinge of something she could only describe as … impure.
Her lungs struggled against the increasingly heavier air, fighting for every breath as though the atmosphere had been transformed into a viscous liquid. Her eyes froze upon the figure standing before her. The same handsome face that had once been the object of her schoolgirl fantasies, now only terrified her.
“Who do you say that I am?”
“Please—just let me go. I—”
“Go where? Back to the world that abandoned you? Have you forgotten that I am the one who gave you life? I rescued you from the hell outside these walls.” He walked behind her as he traced his hand softly across her throat, then around to the back of her neck. “No one wanted you. No one cared about you. The world that you want to go back to … has already cast you out.”
“Please, I just want to go home.”
“It was no accident that you came here.” His voice softened. “Your destiny was to be with me.” He circled back in front of her. “And after all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me. I … am the giver of LIFE!” He pounded his fist on the table. His eyes fixed on her as though trying to bore into her soul. He smoothed out his tie as he leaned back and stood tall once again. “And what I have given, I may also—”
The door burst open. Two men escorted Shannon’s brother into the room.
“Derek.” Shannon leaned forward in her chair ignoring the straps as they dug further into her wrists. “Please. He’s going to kill me. Get me out of here.”
“Ah, Derek.” His eyes remained locked on Shannon. “I’m glad you could join us.” His finger dug into her chin forcing her face toward his. He studied her for a moment, tilting his head slightly before allowing her to pull free. “We are finished here. You may free her now.”
She leaned back in the chair finding a comfort that she previously believed could not exist there. This time she thought he would kill her. This was the third time they caught her trying to leave. But he would never allow that to happen. After all, she was one of his special ones. But that’s exactly why she had to keep trying.
Derek stepped toward her. She almost managed a smile as their eyes met. When she saw the knife in his hand, she could almost feel the straps being cut free. He then stepped to his right and walked around her. She turned her head as far as her restraints allowed her. “What are you doing?”
“I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen,” Derek whispered from behind her.
“I know, I know. Please, just cut me loose.”
His hand flashed before her, covered her mouth and nose with a cloth, and gently forced her head against the chair. She tried to plead with him, but only produced muffled sounds.
“You just wouldn’t listen.”
A sharp jab in her back forced her to inhale the fumes that had penetrated her nostrils.
“I am sorry,” he whispered into her ear.
The pain of the knife sliding out of her back couldn’t compare to the agony that now tore her heart apart. The agony of knowing that the knife was in her brother’s hand.

Taken from Dancing with Butterflies (200?-2007; written by Dayle James Arceneaux)