The Falcon Project

By Gabriel Timar
Futuristic Science Fiction, 310 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans

Blurb: Aficionados of science fiction will find this novel intriguing. In particular, those of you who thrive on the intricacies of engineering solutions to tricky unearthly problems will have a field day. Right from the start the reader is treated to a nearly catastrophic accident when a Mars mission crew and their spaceship are accidentally shrunk to a twentieth of their original size. What a challenge! More so, when Mike, the project Director, decides to keep the shrinkage a big secret, not just from the public, but from the crew. This generates terrific conflict for Mike and the few in the know as well as interesting technical problems to be overcome. .

Excerpt:
It was hard, dangerous, back-breaking work to survey the interior of the Rover. At times Tom felt like giving up, but his will to live kept him going. In about two weeks, they finished the job.

“There is enough cable on the Rover to connect the solar panels to the BCam,” reported Tom, “but I’m still thinking about making a gun or asking for Barbara’s poison. The job is hopeless. The clips and the screws holding the cables are too big and heavy. We cannot loosen them with our tools. In addition, we do not have the muscle.”

“Can you use the buggy?” Fred asked.

“It could drag the cable, but it’s not strong enough to rip it out.”

“Shit, can you take off enough cable to hook up the BCam if we are practically touching the Rover?” queried Jeff.

“I doubt we can remove even one clip,” Tom concluded.

“Can we take some cable off the BCam temporarily to make the connection and put it back?” Mario asked.

“I don’t know, but I’ll check. If we could find it in the command module, I think I can remove some cables, but with the rest of the ship, I’m afraid we’ll have the same problems.”

“I have a stupid idea,” Barbara started. “Can we use the laser cannon to cut some of the clips?”

“If my recollection is correct, the cannon was designed to operate in space,” Jeff explained. “We developed it to cut up the Russian satellites in case of a war. I think it would be like slicing an angel food cake with dynamite.”

“Not necessarily,” Tom interrupted. “I can take a relay off Barbara’s autoclave and install an extra choker to the aperture control. If it works, we can cut up the Rover as if it were actually angel food cake. How about the stowage; can we take the solar panels?”

“We cannot take all the solar panels, we have room for only about two thirds of them,” Fred replied.

“If the laser cannon works out as a cutter, we could dismantle a few units from the fringes, and take only the core,” Tom said.

“It was a hard day,” Barbara said. “By captain’s orders, stop working and start again first light tomorrow morning.”

“Anyone interested in a game of bridge?” Mario asked.

~ * ~

Mike returned from Goose Bay and found Betsy gone. Unperturbed, he phoned the DA’s office.

“This is Mike Carnavon…can I speak to Betsy?”

“Just a minute, sir,” came the reply, followed by a few clicks.

“Mike, this is Al Lander, what do you know of Betsy?”

“What do you mean?” Mike asked. He recognized the voice of the district attorney.

“She disappeared.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Anyway, she was arraigned yesterday, posted the bond and promptly disappeared. Where did you stash her?”

“I don’t know what the hell you are talking about. Why was she arraigned?”

“Obviously, she didn’t tell you. We charged Betsy with prostitution and abuse of official powers.”

“That’s crazy!”

“Well, the cops have plenty of evidence and we are sure to get a conviction.”

“This is ridiculous, but I’ll check around and see where she could have gone. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Do that, Mr. Carnavon,” the DA said and hung up.

Mike was puzzled and called his CIA contact.

“This is Carnavon, can I speak with Hastings?”

“Can you give me the password of the day, sir?”

Old Ways and New Days

By Michael Embry
Mainstream, 395 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans

Blurb: John Ross is retiring after many years working as a journalist. He contemplates about what he wants to do with the rest of his life. But along the way he finds out that there are some things you simply can't control. Life simply happens.

John learns that work has caused him to lose touch with the neighborhood where he has lived for many years. And he finds out that things weren't always as they seemed to be -- in many ways.

Excerpt:
The kitchen was quiet when he opened the door. When he flipped on the switch, there was an instant shout in unison— “Happy retirement!”

Stunned for a moment, John glanced around the room at all the familiar faces. A banner draped across the wall in the adjoining dining room proclaimed “Happy Retirement, John!” in big red letters. He looked around to locate Sally. She stepped toward him with her arms spread wide and hugged him, then gave him a quick peck on the mouth.

“Did we surprise you, sweetheart?” she whispered in his ear.

“What do you think?” He grinned awkwardly as he looked around the room.

Before John could say anything else, friends and neighbors flocked over and patted him on the shoulders, shook his hand, and some of the women kissed him on the cheek. He was at a loss for words. He didn’t enjoy being the center of attention. He mentioned to Sally on several occasions that he didn’t like surprises, especially on his birthday. Maybe he should have included retirement. Too late now.

He made his way past multi-colored helium balloons strung to chairs and the streamers made from newspapers that dangled from the ceiling in the dining room. In the middle of the table was a large white sheet cake designed to look like a news page with a large “Happy Retirement” in black icing on white across the top like a headline. Brightly wrapped gifts sat on the folding table. Other than accepting the well wishes from the attendees, John didn’t know what to say, think, or feel.

“Congratulations, Daddy!” John turned around and his daughter, Chloe, gave him a big hug and kiss on the cheek. A moment later his son, Brody, a half-head taller and thirty pounds heavier, firmly shook his hand before giving him a bear hug that felt like air was squeezing from his lungs.

“This is a surprise,” John said, who could feel some tears coming on. Chloe had flown in from New York City, where she worked for one of the television networks as an assistant producer. Brody, a certified public accountant, was in from Chicago.

“We wouldn’t have missed this for anything,” Brody said with a beaming smile. “It’s not every day a person gets to retire. That officially makes you old.”

“Gee, thanks,” John said. “I guess that makes you my old son.”

“Whatever!”

“You deserve this, Daddy.” Chloe was teary-eyed, holding his hand. “Now you get to do what you want to do. And, by the way, you’re not that old.”

“Sometimes I feel that way,” said John, slightly rolling his shoulders up and down. “Now I have all the time in the world.”

“Or what’s left,” Brody said.

“Would you stop it, Brody?” Chloe gave him a nudge with her hand.

“Only kidding, sis!”

Before they could say any more, Sally announced to everyone that dinner was ready in the kitchen. On the counter, she had set up two large platters of finger sandwiches, a veggie tray, buffet-style bowls of potato salad, cole slaw, and chips and various dips, along with plates, silverware, and beverages. People began making their way to the food, filling their plates and going to the dining room, living room and den to eat and chat.

John wanted to escape to the bedroom, if only to rest for a few minutes and catch his breath, but he knew that wouldn’t be the sociable thing to do at a party given in his honor. He didn’t want to appear ungrateful to his family and friends. And he’d never hear the end of it from Sally.

The doorbell rang and Sally hurried to answer it. She returned a few seconds later with Clay Rawlings, who carried a large wrapped box with a big blue bow on top. Several other newspaper employees followed him including Eric Walsh, sports columnist Dan Easteridge, and metro editor Heidi Snow.

“You’re not getting away that easily,” Clay said in a booming voice that drew everyone’s attention. “Since you wouldn’t let us give you a party at the office, we’re bringing the party to you!”

The Onion Caper

By William O. Weldy
Young Adult 227 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans
Blurb:
Young Cole Mckenna finds himself with a criminal record for stealing onions. He struggles to overcome the stigmatism by helping Officer Bradley with investigations of a burglary and later drugs in his small town high school. Along the way he discovers the dangers of police work when he's almost killed.
Excerpt:
The man had his back to Cole, totally focused on kicking Jason. Cole sprinted on the balls of his feet. The guy looked up just as Cole drove a shoulder into his side, like blind-siding a quarterback. They both went down. Cole bounced up thinking the other guy would stay down. To his surprise the thug jumped up and squared off in a fighting stance.

They eyed each other a second, before the guy took a wild swing at Cole's head. Cole leaned back from the blow. He tried to see the face under the hoodie but the overhead light shone behind the stranger. Cole started to wade into the attacker when the guy reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife. The blade sprung from the handle. Cole stared at the weapon and stumbled back a few more paces. His own right hand dug into his pocket and closed on the lock-blade Buck. He pulled it out and fumbled to open the blade.

What am I doing? I can't get into a knife fight. I'll get killed. But he held it up for the other man to see. They circled each other. Cole's every nerve concentrated on his opponent. Fear gripped his stomach, as his brain screamed-Run! He skittered around defensively, trying to keep his distance from the attacker, and the silver blade he waved. Lurching to the side, Cole bumped into the dumpster and stumbled for balance.

An excruciating pain exploded in the back of his head. Next thing he knew he sprawled face down in the rubble. Multi-colored spots danced in his eyes. His brain refused to focus. Dizziness distorted everything. Shifting to his right side, he lifted a hand to the back of his head. It came away wet. Lying on the ground, Cole fought to remain conscious. He heard another voice behind him.

"Kill both the sons-a-bitches and let's get out of here."

A blurred pair of dirty sneakers approached Cole's head. He tried to push himself up but failed. The grubby sneakers straddled his head. Cole held his breath.

I'm going to die! His mind flashed: Mom-Mikey-.With his last ounce of strength, he lunged up and jammed his Buck knife to the hilt in the leg of the man standing over him. He heard his attacker scream. Cole tried to fight the dizziness. In the foggy distance, he heard, "Hey!" echo down the alley.

Then-a dark void.

The Ferrington Men: Josh

By Lynette Hall Hampton
Romantic Suspense 319 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans
Blurb:
While his father is on his honeymoon in the Greek Islands, Josh Ferrington, in charge of his father's vast holdings finds himself torn between the two beautiful daughters of his new step-mother. Laurie, who he has become good friends with and her younger sister, Olivia who makes his heart race every time he looks at her.

To add to this problems, Josh has to continually fight off the advances of his secretary who is determined to become the next Mrs. Josh Ferrington. He then learns his former in-laws are suing for custody of his there and one half year old son, Amos.
To find the happiness he craves, Josh knows he must over come all these situations and get his life on a path that will lead to happiness for not only him, but his son, Amos as well.

Excerpt:
"Good morning, Josh." Dottie Blackwood, his secretary, used her most sultry voice and leaned over the desk so he couldn't miss the view down her low cut blouse. "I heard Gabe's wedding was fabulous. Of course no one would expect less from the Ferringtons. I'm so happy for your father."

"Only family and a few close friends attended, but that's what Dad and Constance wanted. Something small and private."

"I hope they have a big party when they come back from the honeymoon. I want to meet the lucky woman who is now your new step-mom."

"I think that's what they plan." Josh looked through the messages Dottie handed him. "You'll like Constance. She's the perfect woman for Dad. I think he's finally going to have the happiness he deserves."

"That's good. Every man needs a good woman who'll make him happy, don't you think?" She leaned a little closer to him.

As always, Josh ignored her attempts at seduction. He didn't think she could be serious, but only wanted to show him she was all woman. "This note says Aston Chambers wants me to call as soon as I can. Did he give you a clue as to what it's about?"

"No. Just said it was important. I think I put that down."

Josh nodded and went into his inner office. He picked up the phone and dialed Aston's number. He knew it would be busy in the company with his father gone, and the last thing he needed was a problem arising in the legal department of Ferrington Industries, which often happened when the top man in the law firm called personally.

"Yes, Josh, I'm glad you called," Aston said. "I need to see you right away."

"What's up, Aston?"

"I'd rather see you in person. Can you come to my office or would you prefer I come there?"

"With Dad on his honeymoon, I'm pushed this morning. Just tell me what's going on."
"You're not going to like it."

"I probably won't, but spit it out anyway."

"Cindy's parents have decided to sue you for custody of your son, Amos."

The Snow Queen's Collie

By Dorothy Bodoin

Cozy Mystery, 365pages

Cover art by Pat Evans

Blurb:

A white collie puppy appears on the porch of the Ferguson Victorian farmhouse during a Christmas Eve snowstorm, and in another part of Foxglove Corners, a collie breeder’s show prospect  disappears.  Is there a connection between the two events?

In the meantime, the collie painting Jennet’s sister gave her for Christmas begins to exhibit strange qualities.

Excerpt:

Julia’s mystery box was large enough to hold a dress or even a coat. I removed the paper carefully. The glossy green with its clever Nutcracker pattern was too pretty to end up burning in the fireplace.

“It’s heavy,” I said. “It doesn’t rattle. It isn’t a fruitcake. What could it be?”

Julia leaned forward eagerly, “For heaven’s sake, open it.”

I lifted the top and encountered sparkling green tissue paper and bubble wrap. Then another box. Finally a framed picture emerged from still more wrapping. It was an oil painting that instantly reached out to my heart, a masterly depiction of a girl in a pink dress and a collie family frolicking against a section of blue porch. I held it up to the light.

The bright chatter and rustle of paper around me ceased as everybody’s eyes came to rest on the painting.

Camille leaned forward for a better view. “Oh, how sweet!”

“It’s beautiful, my dear,” Gilbert said.

Created in shades of green and soft pastels, it was one of those scenes that invite the viewer to step through the frame and into the artist’s world. Like Alice through the Looking Glass, I felt as if I could almost do it.

One could imagine that beyond the canvas, the sun was shining and the scent of newly-mowed grass lay thick on the air. I could almost hear the high-pitched yelping of collies at play. This would be their first time out in the yard…

“More collies,” Brent said. His dessert plate was empty. “Speaking of more, is there any cake left?”

“I’ll cut you a slice of my Noel log,” Camille said quickly and went into the kitchen.

The chatter and paper rustle resumed while I sat quietly soaking in every detail of the painting. Three of the pups were sables like their dam; two were tricolors. The girl was attractive in a subdued way with radiant golden hair that fell in waves to her shoulders. She looked happily confused as if she didn’t know which puppy to play with first.

Not an old-fashioned girl, I decided, although the painting was reminiscent of sentimental turn-of-the-century art and the ornate frame had an antique look. The girl lacked that sweet rose-ivory beauty that vanished decades ago. This was a modern young lady in a dress rather than jeans and a skimpy top. It was the aura that invoked another age.

Now what did that mean?

The painting had a signature: ALL. Allison? Allinda?

“Do you like it?” Julia asked anxiously.

“I love it,” I said. “It’s the best present you ever gave me.”

Julia beamed. “I found it at your favorite shop, the Green House of Antiques. It isn’t really an antique. It just looks old. But you haven’t seen everything. Turn it over.”

I did. On the back, someone had scrawled a brief sentiment in black ink. I read it aloud. “Evil RIP.”

The Smokeout of Blackjack

By DB Dakota

Mystery/Crime, 339 pages

Cover art by Pat Evans

Blurb:

Author of the tell-all about polls has a thing about their MO. Shanghaied, hidden from a blackmailer, all he has to do is write another blockbuster to undo the first book that trashed pollsters. He’s also safe from the blackmailer, trying to nail him for a murder. The top cop claims a renegade cop did it. But the street cop suspects the top badge himself whitewashed it.

The PI plays on the writer’s psyche, moving him to rat on the blackmailer, a relative, swearing, the top gun is the killer—who won’t confess. Media and props from the murder scene roll in to torment him. He can’t stand it and befriends a terrorist bomb. The end.

Excerpt:

“Something else is going on and you’re not telling me about it,” Nadra mumbled, stiffening her arms.

Thornburgh straightened up, clipped the mike back on, smoothed down her shirt front, crossed her legs like a man to finger a piece of gravel out of a sneaker. She cleared her throat and asked, “What is it worth to you to find Blackjack?”

“What! Blackjack? You mean…?” Nadra bolted up out of her seat. “You know about Mom’s death!” Furious, she bowed her neck. “You say you’re a coordinator—Who are you? Who is he!” She pointed to Jorge and sat down.

“Yes, I know about the Brett murder case,” said Thornburgh, the orchestrator of the fake carjack. “It was a hideous crime. In all the papers. And in a few other places as well. In one place in particular, and Jorge was there. He was at the crime scene, investigating.”

“Sort of,” he snorted, hunching his shoulders, glancing in the rear view mirror.

Thornburgh sighed and shook her head. “Jorge used to be a Wenden cop. He wants to get back on the force and needs you to help him. That’s why you’re sitting there. Nadra, you’ve got to help us.”

Nadra cocked her head sideways. “Are you an investigator?”

“Me, a detective? Damn right.”

“How come you drive a Mercedes?”

“It belongs to a client.” Thornburgh rubbed the back of her head. “I borrowed it to make an impression on Cletus. What I’m doing now is a special assignment to help Jorge collar Blackjack.”

“You do sound confident.” Nadra puffed, looked aside and stroked her face with an icy hand.

“That we’ll take him down? Listen, we’re not doing it like—oh, shut my pie hole. Jorge was on your mother’s case. He found her town car at Gold Diggers restaurant where her attacker had abandoned it. Jorge got disgusted with police bungling, as you called it, exactly as you called it, and quit. He works for a surveillance and security outfit now.”

Nadra covered her burning face with both hands for a moment and stated, “We could never get anything out of those cops. Mom wasn’t anybody important, just a real estate saleswoman, and the family, well, we didn’t have any pull.”

“That was over two years ago.”

“June ninety-three. Long time ago, Mack, but it hurts so bad it seems like last night. She had taken over this apartment house on Lafasing at Eleventh near Chero Park and was converting the place into condos. Doing a lot of the work herself.”

“All by herself that evening.” Thornburgh shook her head slowly.

“So uninformed, I guess you’d say.” Nadra nodded and stared at the floor. “She was sure that was a safe neighborhood. Yes, she was all alone. With nobody to help her, not a soul.”

“And this brute, this ogre sneaked up and beat her…” Thornburgh choked up, hacked and didn’t finish the sentence.

“She wasn’t robbed or raped or anything.”

“He bludgeoned her. Beat her to death.”

“You do know about it!” Nadra gasped and rubbed her eyes. “So awful. She had no enemies, Mack, not a single one. It was somebody who saw the lights on, I guess.”

Hoodoo Murder

by H. L. Chandler
Mystery, 376 pages
cover art by: Pat Evans
Blurb:
When the small town of Rosemont, Louisiana wakes up to find a bank vice-president murdered, bank funds stolen, and his little stepdaughter, Darla, missing the police and the FBI rush to the scene. However, the parents and grandparents of the missing child wants a more personal touch. They hire Ladonna of the Rose Detective Agency.

Excerpt:
As Ladonna searches for Darla she runs into family deceit, hoodoo spells, and the answers to mysteries in her own past. Confronting the kidnapper she learns the shocking reason for the child's abduction. In this terrifying moment she and Darla face death. Like her favorite city of New Orleans, Ladonna is an exotic beauty with a tough, gritty side.

The oak and pine trees thinned and patches of brown water glittered in the sunlight. Mats of water hyacinth with their slick green leaves and lavender flowers spread across the ponds and wild iris grew in clumps on the road banks. Tall white thunderheads massed on the horizon and the land beneath the faint blue sky stretched on in a maze of green and brown, the land and water mixing like an interlocking puzzle.

When I'd driven approximately two miles, a road opened to the right. A few tall yellow pines stood guard at the corner and then turned the duty over to tangled brush and spiky palmettos. I eased the Mazda along the built-up road and it occurred to me that, even if I wanted to turn around, I couldn't. Then the road dropped down closer to water level and larger patches of dry land appeared. I crossed a low wooden bridge that spanned a narrow waterway, and then I saw a house standing on short stilts.

There was a rough circle drive that curved up in front of the veranda and back out to the road. I was relieved to find a place to turn around. The pink board house had green louvered shutters, and a rust-stained tin roof rose above it. Two high-backed rockers shared the veranda with tubs of purple and white petunias, while a trumpet vine climbed up one side of the house. Off to the right of the house stood a chicken coop with a sagging wire fence around it. There were three large white chickens scratching at the bare dirt inside the pen and several red hens loose in the yard, darting back and forth after bugs. I wondered how many of the birds had made a meal for some hungry alligator.

I pulled up near the front steps and sat in the car. In a minute, the screen door opened and a tiny black woman the color of a long submerged swamp log stepped onto the porch. Her small ebony head had a covering of springy white hair and her features were like currants stuck onto a withered damson plum. Her eyes glittered like bits of mica. The long, flowered-print shift she wore was sleeveless and fell nearly to her bony ankles. Her withered feet were bare but a pair of water-warped brown loafers stood beside the door. She shuffled to the edge of the porch and peered at me.

I opened the car door and stepped out, keeping one foot inside, and leaned over the top of the car. "Does Havana Guidry live here?" I called.

The woman beckoned with a shriveled hand. "You come in. Havana see you now."

The Unspeakable

by Tessa Stockton
Suspense/Thriller, 229 pages
Cover art by Pat Evans
Blurb:
"I spent four months, one week and two days in a clandestine prison referred to as The Water Cave. Every day I stared hell in the face, and each day I wanted to die. I don't want to share too much too quickly. To understand fully, you must join hands with me; fasten your heart to mine, and course through my book. Stumble over the incomprehensible human rights journey with me. I've pondered it to the brink of questionable sanity…and it's the only way to explain. I suppose I should consider myself lucky I survived at all-for many did not-yet, perplexingly so, that's not the premise of this narrative.

He altered my life, marked me forever.

But it's not how you might imagine.

This is a story involving Horacio Botello, my torturer known as Puma."

Excerpt:
Two men entered the bar and sat in a darkened corner. To my relief, they kept to themselves. Although their eyes seemed somehow ambitious when we did catch eye contact on a few instances, perhaps roving, desirous for a glance at a woman who was obviously foreign, not to mention paler than the average gorgeous Colombian. Yeah, I stood out. Kind of like a blaring, neon sign that sometimes blinked.

No matter how much I loved the stuff, if I had any more soda I was going to pop. I pushed the glass away and stood, preparing to settle the bill, but the waitperson told me the nice men in the corner purchased my beverage. My heart flipped downward. Great-just great. Now I have to go over there and pretend I appreciated the gesture, strike up some ridiculous small talk, when all I wanted was to retreat to my room and wait for daybreak to arrive so I could leave the hotel, leave the country I wanted to learn, leave my brother behind-just how Spencer saw fit.

I grumbled under my breath as I ambled toward the two men. This will not take long, I assured myself.

Shadows splayed across the men's faces. One stood and held the back of a chair for me. I noticed his hands. They were clean, nails trimmed and filed, immaculate. Donning a white sport coat over crisp jeans, this man was not a blue-collar laborer. Neither was the other, still seated, who also dressed above par.

"Oh, I can't stay," I said. "I just wanted to thank you for paying for my drink."

"Por favor," the man in white insisted.

"No, really. Thanks, though. You shouldn't have. Really," the word carried a drip of my annoyance.

The one still standing gestured to the seat, "Please, sit, please..." he motioned again, making it difficult to refuse.

With an inward sigh, I forced a polite smile and tentatively lowered into the chair. The man smoothed his white sport coat as he retook his seat. "Another Coca-Cola, perhaps?"

"What? No. Thank you. I couldn't finish the first one." When I grinned, the man returned the smile, while the other one, the one who had stayed seated, bore a face of stone. Yet, he possessed intensity in his eyes that went unrivaled.

"And what do you think of our beautiful city?"

I hate small talk. "It's fine." I would have liked to see more of the city. "Nice." It's quite beautiful, what I've glimpsed. "Beautiful."

"You like Bogotá?"

"Yes, yes," I smiled, trying not to sound condescending. "I like… Bogo... um, me gusta Bogotá," I said, while swinging a fisted arm for emphasis. Sort of like an aw-shucks or do-si-do to your partner.

"Señor Abbott... Spehn-sserr," the name danced on the Latin man's tongue. "He like Bogotá maybe too much, uh?"

I glanced back and forth between the two men with a deepening disquiet burrowing in the pit of my stomach. "You know my brother?" It came out more of a statement than a question. That's when I realized the speaking man put on joviality, while the silent man's intensity marked disdain.

This was not a chance meeting, and the conversation, though going nowhere, proved pointed. These guys had a problem with Spencer.

"Look," I said, "Is this about Ana-because, Spencer is really a good guy. He doesn't mean any harm, he's just...well, he's an idiot sometimes, but look, he has a great heart and he's just watching out for..." Words melted into oblivion just as soon as they tumbled out of my mouth.

The men took to their feet, preparing to leave. Not before the addressor leaned close to me with parting words, dripping syrup, "We will meet again, uh?"

Oh, I hope not. You're getting creepy. I delivered an award-winning smile to let them know I wasn't intimidated. I didn't realize until after they left the lounge that I had held my breath through that smile. What was I thinking? I asked myself when dizziness overcame me. Combine that sensation with a stomach bloated by too much carbonation, jetlag, mountainous elevation, and concern for my brother. It's a winning combination.

Witch's Moon

By Ralph E. Horner

Paranormal Gothic Time-Travel, 282 pages

Cover art by Pat Evans

Joe Hillery meets Diehla Thorne, the ghost of a witch who’s curse has haunted his family for three-hundred years. On a life and death wager, she sends Joe back to her time of 1680 New Hampshire. There he has only two days to find a person brave enough to touch the ring on the living witch’s finger.

Excerpt:

The young woman’s black, flowing hair contrasted with her ivory complexion. Joe thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She reminded him of a Siamese cat, as her most alluring feature was her black, piercing, almond shaped eyes. Her nose gradually sloped down from her narrow face then turned up at the tip. This was not Diehla.

Her large bewitching eyes held him as she spoke. “Who are ye, and what d’ye want here?”

Joe had his story set. He didn’t want to admit he was traveling with a Puritan, but the way Abigail was dressed he had no choice. “I'm Joseph Hill and this is Abigail Jennings, the blacksmith's daughter. We're here to see Diehla.”

The tall woman glared at them as if they were both crazy. “Why d’ye seek Diehla?”

What could he say that would be believable? The trees that surrounded them were silent—no breeze stirred their leaves, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath waiting for his answer.

“I met her last year at a fair. She told me to visit her when I was in her area.”

“I ask thee again, why d’ye seek her?” The woman seemed angry.

Joe cast a sideways glance at his companion. “Abigail and I want to learn magic from her.”

Abigail forced a smile. “I have never met her, but I would be honored to join her coven.”

The dark woman glanced at Abigail and then Joe. “Thou say thou have met Diehla?”

“Yes.” Joe nodded and gulped, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The raven-haired woman stepped aside to let them pass into the house. She followed them in, then closed the heavy wooden door behind them. “Come this way.”

Abigail grasped Joe's arm as they followed the robed woman down the dark, gloomy hallway. She turned right into a candle-lit room with a wooden table near the wall to the left. Four large chairs stood in a half circle in front of the fire place. In between, a black cat lay on a throw rug.

The young woman paused with her hand on the back of one the chairs. She turned to face them. “What d'ye want with Diehla?”

Joe trembled. “We told you, we both want to join this coven. Is Diehla home?” Joe raised his palms in frustration. “Is she here?”

“Thou art witch hunters?”

Joe knew Abigail’s Puritan garb wasn’t helping his story. “We are not witch hunters!”

The young woman slowly reached into a robe pocket and pulled out a long knife. “If thou art witch hunters, ye shall succumb.”

Joe felt cold as Abigail gasped. They both took a step back. “What do you mean?” Joe’s heart hammered.

“Art thou daft?” She glared at him. “Thou shan't leave this house alive.”

Joe swallowed hard. “I was afraid that's what you meant.”