Some Family Trees Should Be Burned. . .
Greer Girls are special. Greer Girls are rare. Greer Girls are central to the secret Order of Belial.Â
Sophie Greer knows none of this. All she knows is that her now ex-boyfriend cheated on her, sheâs alone working in Paris, and her mysterious billionaire boss, Edward Hughes, is way too interested in her life. But when Sophie is kidnapped in Moscow while on a business trip, sheâs plunged into the dark underbelly of the global elite and a sinister secret society with deep ties to her family; ties that lead to revelations darker than anything Sophie could have imagined.
Betrayed by the man who raised her, and targeted by the illustrious Hughes family, only one thing is certainâfamily history can be deadly. If Sophie is to survive, she must decide who to trust and what to believe, or risk being crushed beneath the weight of the all-powerful secret Order of Belial.
Some Family Trees Should Be Burned. . .
Greer Girls are special. Greer Girls are rare. Greer Girls are central to the secret Order of Belial.Â
Sophie Greer knows none of this. All she knows is that her now ex-boyfriend cheated on her, sheâs alone working in Paris, and her mysterious billionaire boss, Edward Hughes, is way too interested in her life. But when Sophie is kidnapped in Moscow while on a business trip, sheâs plunged into the dark underbelly of the global elite and a sinister secret society with deep ties to her family; ties that lead to revelations darker than anything Sophie could have imagined.
Betrayed by the man who raised her, and targeted by the illustrious Hughes family, only one thing is certainâfamily history can be deadly. If Sophie is to survive, she must decide who to trust and what to believe, or risk being crushed beneath the weight of the all-powerful secret Order of Belial.
Iâm running as fast as I can, but my legs feel like marbleâweighty, cumbersome, and laden with grief. Each stride is an agony of locomotion. Every attempt forward is met with a shove in the opposite direction. He is behind me. Chasing me. Hunting me.Â
Gravel from the dirt pathway crunches beneath my feet as I struggle to run toward the set of heavy wooden doors looming before me. Theyâre maybe twenty feet away, but it may as well be twenty miles. The stone staircase leading up to the entrance sways dizzily in my vision. The rhythm of my steps keeps time with the pulse of my beating heart rushing in my ears.Â
The knot in my belly clenches painfully, shooting a choked cry of anguish through my chest where it lodges in my throat and dies. For a moment, breathing is impossible. I open my mouth in an attempt to relieve the painful pressure, but only a silent scream escapes. My pursuerâs pace quickens. The heat from his gaze feelsâŠpossessive.
 Just a few more strides and Iâll be safe.
â
I wake in a dead panic, a cold sweat clinging to my body. The wind outside howls as an icy gust of air sweeps through my small studio apartment; I forgot to close the large French windows before passing out. I forgot to do a lot of things. Like swap my street clothes for pajamas, wash my face, and brush my teethâto name a few. The overhead light is still on. The bedside clock reads 3:33 a.m.Â
Fuck.Â
I have to get up in less than three hours, and my head is already pounding. Why did I insist on that fifth gin and tonic? You know your limit is three and then you switch to beer, I mutter to myself as I leap from the bed to slam the windows shut. Losing my balance, I grab the wall for support. Quick movements are maybe not the best idea right now.Â
Heading to the bathroom, I strip off my clothes, letting them fall haphazardly along the way. I pee, stand, and flush before washing my hands in the tiny white porcelain sink.Â
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and do a double take. Who is that train wreck? Hot mess would be an accurate descriptionâif I looked hot. The girl staring back at me is just a mess.Â
My curly chestnut-brown hairâthe portions that arenât matted downâflies wildly about my face in a daring attempt to escape gravity. I consider attacking it with a comb but decide to wash the angry curls in the morning instead. The dark makeup around my eyes has descended into what can only be described as âjunkie.â No heroin chic here. Just junky.
Not that I do heroin. I donât, except for once in college, but it was a brand-new needle and I never touched the stuff again. Ick. I cringe at the memory. All I remember is vomiting and passing out. The cherry on the sundae was losing my best friend, Zeke, to an overdose two weeks later. If only Iâd done more for him, maybeâŠ
Blinking back tears, I shake my head. I havenât allowed myself to think about him in years. Why should he enter my mind now, at 3:30 a.m. on a Tuesday? Splashing warm water on my face, I scrub my eyes to remove the charcoal-colored liner.
I think Iâll give up eyeliner for a while. Anyway, why should I feed the patriarch manifesto by wearing oodles of makeup? I quickly finish the rest of my toilette and steal one last glance in the mirror. I look slightly less cracked out. Exiting the bathroom, I pad over to my armoire, pull out my biggest, comfiest, most oversized sweatshirt and slip it on. My head barely hits the pillow before I find my oblivion once again.
â
Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeeep. I laboriously peel open my eyes as my hand slams down on the snooze button. Itâs six a.m. Dear god, why? The grey dawn of another Parisian morning shines dimly through the windows lining the front of my sixth-floor walk-up. Blech. Pulling the covers around my head, I roll over and burrow into my pillow. The hangover I began feeling in the middle of the night is in full force. My mouth is dry. A bitter taste leftover from the booze is accompanied by a harsh burn in the back of my throat.
Thirty minutes later, I hit snooze for the fourth time as hazy details of the last twenty-four hours stir in my mind. Some days are harder than others. Yesterday was catastrophic. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block the memory. I hope I still have a job. Anxiety takes over and I can no longer ignore my thoughts. Sitting up, I reach for my phone and switch it on. Seconds later, itâs blowing up with text messages and voicemails.Â
Three texts in a row from Uncle Benjen. Crap, he sounds angry. I make a mental note to call him later.Â
A textâa motherfucking textâfrom Pierre, apologizing. Jackass.Â
âVa te faire foutre pauvre mec!â I curse him in French, deleting his messages without replying.Â
I take a deep breath, forcing calm back into my body. Keep it together, Greer. Exhaling to the room at large, I continue scrolling. My friend Camille checked in to make sure I got home safelyâbetter reply now or Iâll never hear the end of it. Next up is a text from a random dude I regrettably made out with at the bar and for some inexplicable reason, gave my real number.Â
Then, there it isâmy manager. He called yesterday at six p.m. and left a voicemail. My hand shakes as I raise the phone to my ear, and I know itâs not just the residual effects of alcohol.
âBonsoir, Sophie, suite aux Ă©vĂ©nements de cet aprĂšs-midiâŠâ he begins.
I cringe in anticipation. Whatâs he going to say? Am I fired? Do I even need to get out of bed? Part of me wishes I am so I can forget everything like a bad dream. But Philippe is a caring, kind man, even if he is my bossâand sure enough, he wants to see me in his office first thing.Â
Ok. Thatâs all right. You can do this, I repeat to myself like a mantra as I push back the sheets and get out of bed. Rising too quickly, I fall backward clumsily onto the thin mattress. Waves of nausea wash over me. Bile rises in my throat. Dizziness be damned, Iâve no choice but to make a mad dash to the toilet.Â
After flushing most of the alcohol from last nightâand, oh yeah, I forgot about that crĂȘpe jambon-fromageâI grip the sides of the toilet seat and inhale deeply, relishing the refreshing smell of toilet bowl. What is it about clean toilet water and cold hard porcelain that settles the stomach, soothing the pounding of a burgeoning hangover?Â
Standing, I turn toward the mirror to take inventory of the task before me.Â
Step one: look human.Â
As I brush my teeth, I try to plan my day. Itâs useless. Iâm only able to imagine getting as far as the colossal glass doors to my office building, their gilded wrought-iron curlicues woven into the framework, before my mind shuts down.
They all saw me yesterday. Everyone. I mean the whole goddamn office saw me have an emotional breakdown. And Iâm supposed to go in and somehow save face? I donât know how Iâll ever look those people in the eye again. A memory forces itself on me, swimming across my vision. Did I really throw that picture frame? I wince. Aiming for Pierre, Iâd missed. The frame went flying and crashed into Clotildeâs computer monitor, cracking it. Yup. I am so totally fired.Â
âWhatever, Greer, itâs not like you liked your job anyway,â I say to my reflection. Maybe Iâll find a new career. Something I really love doing. Somewhere I wonât have to see Pierre and the Blonde Bitch every day, comes another thoughtâunbidden.Â
HuhâŠthatâs actually a good idea. I could tender my resignation. It would save them the trouble of firing me and save me the added humiliation of being cheated on, dumped, and fired within a twenty-four-hour period. I am a strong, competent, independent woman of the twenty-first century. I donât need a job or a man.Â
I have enough in savings to coast for a little while. Perhaps Iâll travel. âChanger les idĂ©es,â as the French say. The fantasy is pleasant, but I know Uncle Benjen would never stand for it. If onlyâŠ
Shaking my head, I give myself one last look in the mirror, nodding semi-confidently before switching on the tiny, square litter box I call a shower. I let the scalding water scour away the final remnants of my hangover and, quite possibly, my sanity. All too soon the water begins to cool and I hurriedly rinse the shampoo from my hair. Damn these old French buildings. The water gets boiling hot but lasts barely ten minutes before turning ice cold. Usually I take five-minute showers and itâs no big deal, but on a day like today a girl needs a little extra time under the jets.Â
I quickly run through the motions of conditioning my hair, cleaning my body, and drying off. I slip stepping from the shower, but miraculously manage to catch myself on the curtain. Any hopes I may have had of my day turning around died mid-slip. Stitching the scraps of my composure back together, I stumble from the bathroom, through the foyer/kitchen into my bedroom/living room. Quickly making my bed, I fold it into a couch then push aside the curtain to the large wooden armoire in the back right corner of the room.
What does one wear to a public hanging?Â
Black seems appropriate, but Iâm already so depressed it feels masochistic. I opt for a slim-fitting red dress. Stopping right above the knee and belted at the waist with a thin black cord, it accentuates my curves. The color of power. They might all think Iâm crazy, but I donât need to look the part as well.Â
Selecting a pair of black suede pumps, I set them by the front door before heading back to the bathroom to style my curls and apply makeup. When I start to put eyeliner on, I remember Zeke and instead stick to simple black mascara and blush. A little colored gloss and Iâm good to goâsort of. As good as itâs going to get, really.Â
I fill a water bottle at the sink, grab my black leather jacket, stuff phone and keys into my purse, and clumsily slip on my heels. Plastering on a brave face, I step out the door.
Okay, world, letâs do this.
Jennifer Juvenelleâs Daughter of Belial follows Sophie Greer, a seemingly ordinary young woman. At first oblivious to Edward Hughes' (and his family's) peculiar fascination with her, she does not even begin to suspect that she is one of the most crucial and best-kept secrets of the mysterious Order of Belial. Following betrayal, heartbreak, and deception, Sophie is kidnapped while on a business trip and is subsequently sucked into the unquestionably dangerous underworld of crime and malice.Â
Juvenelleâs exceptional character development and story building allow the reader to follow a clearly defined plot that lacks confusion or what is commonly known as âplot holesâ, wherein the author, whether purposefully or not, leaves out certain pieces of information that make the story appear poorly edited. The story comes to a natural and well-executed climax that is thoroughly enjoyable.Â
Readers will particularly enjoy multiple moments throughout the novel, namely those with rapid character development, such as the ones described in the chapters following Sophie's kidnapping. The lovable, mildly naive character is faced with external circumstances that cause her to grow up mentally in a matter of a thousand words. Such cases of fast-paced plot progress not only showcase the authorâs skill and literary range but also are a welcome contrast to the environment's evolution.Â
Overall, the story is tailor-made for those who enjoy fast-paced yet well-developed fiction that focuses on the complexity of human emotions, actions, and their consequences, without being overly philosophical. The gripping psychological thriller incorporates the everpresent themes of betrayal, familiar love and loyalty that, in the end, turn out to be one of the many 'fatal flaws' of the Order. By incorporating the subtle yet undeniable aspect of Greek Tragedy, Juvenelle makes Daughter of Belial a likely classic. Wonderfully executed characters, vivid imagery, suitable location choices, and plot development make Daughter of Belial a must-read.Â