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Winter Wonderland Romance
-- EXCERPT: When no one answered, she stepped inside and reached for the light switch she knew was on the wall. “Alex? I’m not leaving until I make sure you’re okay, so you might as well answer me.” She cocked an ear and heard water running. He wouldn’t try to drown himself, would he? Olivia tossed off her coat, set the ice cream and cookies on the counter in the kitchen, and was just headed down the hall to the master suite when a light flicked on and Alex stood there wearing nothing but a towel. The wise thing for her to do would have been to spin around and give him his privacy. However, she was too worried about him and still too keyed up from what had happened to listen to the voice telling her to retreat. She walked the rest of the way into the room, fisted her hands on her hips, and studied him from the top of his head where water droplets clung to the tips of his hair, down his stoic face, past that delectable cleft in his chin, and along the impressive muscles in his arms, chest, and abs. The physician in her categorized his scars, making note of several burn marks and one spot on his side that looked like a gunshot wound. She walked around him, convinced the corresponding wound on his back was the exit point. What terrors had this man survived? Her admiration for him climbed several notches. Alex was a survivor, whether he realized it or not. “Hi,” she said softly, walking back around to face him. His nearly naked state left her feeling wave after wave of things better left alone, but despite how much it unsettled her, she wasn’t quite ready to return to the kitchen. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Pity Pact
-- EXCERPT: Paige Who in the world is the new woman walking into the ballroom? She must be someone special because all the cameras, except for the one pointed at Tim, turn in her direction. Staring at her, I realize she looks kind of familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. I don’t generally hang out with highly polished and glamorous people, and this chick looks like she just walked off the pages of Vogue magazine. Trina glides back across the ballroom with Tim trailing behind her. “We have a guest!” she announces with so much excitement, you’d think Jesus was here to bless the bread and wine. On impossibly long legs and stilettos high enough to impress any of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, the new woman glides toward the host. “Trina …” she croons. “Thank you for coming tonight, Eva.” Holy hell! Eva? As in Tim’s ex, Eva? “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” She turns toward the camera closest to her and offers the most blindingly fake smile I’ve ever seen. No wonder her acting career never took off. Meanwhile, Tim is standing next to Trina as stiff as a toy soldier awaiting his execution. Eva walks toward him and when she arrives, croons, “Tim, it’s so good to see you again. How have you been?” His expression morphs from shock to pure loathing. It’s clear he’s trying to decide his best course of action because he doesn’t respond for several seconds. When he finally breaks his silence, all he says is, “Eva.” “Daaaarling …” She sounds like she’s a long-lost Gabor sister in those old-time movies. “I was crushed when I heard what a hard time you’re still having with our breakup.” I want to punch this woman right in the face. Tim cocks his head to the side before replying, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Eva.” Striving for a look of innocence and failing, she says, “Trina told me you’ve been unable to move on because you’re still in love with me.” “I never said love, Eva.” Oh goody, Trina’s decided to enter the fray. “I said that Tim wasn’t emotionally free of you.” Potatoes, potahtoes, am I right? “I know it was hard on Tim when I left.” Eva bats her eyes like she’s holding back tears. “But I had no choice. He and I got married too soon and when Holden showed up, I knew I had to go to him.” Her lashes flutter like a llama with conjunctivitis. “Do you have anything to say to that, Tim?” Trina wants to know. Tim glares at his ex. “You only knew Holden for a week before you left me. We’d been together for four years.” Eva looks at Tim with pity before dropping a bomb. “Tim, I knew Holden before I’d ever met you.” The look of horror on his face says it all. He’s about to lose it—spectacularly. I feel compelled to do something to save him from this humiliation, but I don’t know what. Without thinking, I step forward and declare, “Which makes you the villain, not Tim!” I sound like I’m playing a live-action game of Clue. It was the butler in the pantry with a butter knife! Eva turns her head and sneers at me condescendingly. “Who are you?” “I’m Paige Holland.” When that doesn’t seem like a self-explanatory enough declaration, I add, “I’m an old friend of Tim’s.” “Then why haven’t I ever heard of you?” she wants to know. “Why didn’t Tim know about Holden?” I retaliate. “Are you saying you and Tim were having an affair while he was married to me?” That’s not what I was saying, but it does make me wonder if Eva had been cheating on Tim throughout their marriage. Before I can accuse her of that, Tim steps forward and takes my hand. “Paige, please stop trying to help.” Part of me knows I should listen to him, but I don’t. Instead, I spin around and yell--yell— “No, Tim! This bimbo is not going to come in here and act like the wounded party. She’s the one who cheated, she’s the homewrecker …” Talk about giving Midwestern Matchmaker their money’s worth, I’m full-on guaranteeing they’ll be picked up for another ten seasons if they can keep delivering the level of drama I’m offering. “Timothy …” Eva says, “I want to know if you were cheating on me?” “So would I,” Trina feels the need to add. Tim exhales loudly. “Paige and I went to school together. That’s all. We didn’t become friends until I moved home.” While true, that kind of hurts. I just told the world we were old friends and he relegated me to mere acquaintance status. But then he squeezes my hand and adds, “But we’re very good friends now.” Aaaaand I melt. “I think you’re lying,” Eva tells him. “I can see why a liar might tend to believe the worst in people,” he retorts. Eva spins toward Trina. “You said he was a hot mess. You said the only reason he came on this show was to get even with me!” Before I know what I’m doing, I rush at Eva with the intention of ripping every last hair out of her head. Tim pulls me back in the nick of time, and reminds me, “This is going to be televised, Paige.” “Not if I can help it!” I tell him. And this is where I totally lose my mind… 
GIVEAWAY! --
Foul Play in Franklin
-- EXCERPT: Elsie had brought Weeds home before she picked me up, so I wasn’t surprised to see gold eyes peering at me from around a doorframe. “Hi, Weedsie,” I said. I thought I heard a growl but ignored her as I made my way to the den and sank onto my sofa. Before I could turn on the TV, I felt her hop up beside me. I looked at her and reached out a hand to pet her, but she backed up just enough to let me know petting was currently off-limits. Such a typical cat thing to do. She sat stone-still and stared at me, and I stared back. I had no idea what was going on in her little cat brain, but it seemed like she had something on her mind. “Aw, did you miss me?” I baby-talked to her. “Good grief, it took you long enough.” I blinked my eyes several times. I couldn’t have just heard Weeds speak. When I didn’t say anything, Weeds continued. “We kept waiting for you to notice everything, but you were oblivious. Oblivious!” I pointed at her. “You…you didn’t just say something.” “I most certainly did. Get with the program, missy.” “You’re a cat. You can’t talk.” I was sure I must look white as a sheet, as I’d felt all the blood drain out of my face. What kind of drugs did the hospital have me on? “Apparently I can.” I backed up from her and jumped off the sofa, grabbing a fireplace poker and holding it out in front of me. “Stay back!” “Oh my God. Get a grip. We have things to talk about.” I waved the poker a little bit. “Cats can’t talk.” “We’ve been over this. And put that thing down. I’m not going to hurt you.” I squinted at her and sat back down on the sofa, as far from her as possible, but kept a firm hold on the poker. “Well, I actually did hurt you, but it had to be done.” “What does that mean?” “You didn’t fall down the stairs by yourself.” “You pushed me?” “Don’t be silly. Cats can’t push people down stairs. But,” she held up a paw for emphasis, “we can suddenly appear under your feet and cause you to trip.” “You tripped me on purpose?” “It had to be done. You weren’t catching on.” “I could have died.” “No, you couldn’t have.” “I had a near death experience. The doctor said I was legally dead for ten minutes.” “You’re here, aren’t you? I knew you wouldn’t die.” “Oh, really. And how would you know that?” I was sitting on a sofa having an actual conversation with a cat. Are pigs flying? “Because I’m psychic.” “I’ve heard everything now,” I said, throwing up my hands. “Not really.” She started to lick her hind leg, which was stuck up in the air. “By the way, I much prefer Peekaboo to Weeds.” “Well, Weeds is your name.” “Not anymore. I won’t answer if you call me that. And I want a new collar with ‘Peekaboo’ on it.” Maybe I should still be in the hospital. I couldn’t be talking to a cat. I picked up my phone to call Elsie to ask if she’d take me back, but Weeds hissed at me and pounced, knocking the phone out of my hand. “We’re not done here,” Weeds said. “She needs you.” The cat turned her head, and I followed her gaze. At first, I didn’t see anything, but then I saw a shimmer, and then the shimmer morphed into…Alice? Once again, I raised my poker and held it between me and the ghost. Then I dropped it and started to cry. Something was terribly wrong with me. Either my brains were scrambled or I had a brain tumor. Neither option sounded great. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Slightly Delayed and Somewhat Haphazard
-- EXCERPT: The story was outlandish. At turns, both unbelievable and absurdly awful. All the same, the story was true. Leaning forward in her chair, her body braced as if for impact, Miranda Monroe watched as her words sank in. She canvassed the face before her. The high cheekbones tautening, those green eyes narrowing, clouding with confusion, with disbelief as they stared so questioningly back at her. Waiting, Miranda carefully studied the face of Sam Church. Her best friend and emotional benefactor. Her anchor. He looked… gobsmacked, she decided. That was only to be expected. She turned her attention to the cocktail glass in front of her next; it was bleeding with condensation. Absently, Miranda stirred the quickly melting ice—but it was a lost cause. Especially since she had no intention of actually drinking her drink. Probably should have been an odd choice, then, for her to end up at The Oasis Bar and Grill. “That doesn’t—what are you talking about?” Miranda smirked fatalistically as she peeked back up at Sam. “You know, I think those may have been my first words as well.” “Noel got married.” His voice was incredulous. “Mm. Yes. To Kourtney.” “In New Hampshire?” He repeated. “While on a business trip,” Miranda reminded him through numbed lips. All the same, the ache in her stomach intensified, restricted her breathing as she forced herself to relive the horror of those words again. “Apparently,” she added, for good measure, “it seems that for the first time in his life, Noel decided to make an exceptionally grand gesture.” Marry one woman while still dating (while still living with) another woman. “Are you—are you okay?” A stupid question, to be sure, but Miranda couldn’t blame Sam for asking it. It was a hard situation for knowing what to say. …. It was supposed to be her. Miranda was supposed to be the one marrying Noel. (Granted, he hadn’t technically asked but it had been an unspoken though long-expected part of their future.) Four years; that’s how long they’d been together. Pictures of them dotted the walls and shelves of their apartment—a perfectly happy couple smiling back at the camera. Furniture they’d agonized over and purchased together filled every nook and cranny of the place—marking it theirs and theirs alone. And then, in one instant, an instant in which she’d had no say, they simply, they simply weren’t dating anymore. She was left alone. He was left with someone else’s ring on his finger. Tears misted Miranda’s eyes. A few slipped past her lids, inking down her face. She brushed them away impatiently, sniffed the rest back in place. He’d never let on. Never let on that he’d fallen in love with his co-worker. Miranda’s teeth ground together as a picture of Kourtney floated before her eyes. Long, willowy frame; stylishly arranged dark hair always draped just so over her shoulder; large oval eyes with an open, honest face. The snake. Miranda had liked Kourtney. She’d welcomed her into their home. Into their social circle. Stupid fool that she was, she’d thought nothing of her and Noel’s inside jokes or shared smiles. She’d chalked it up to professional camaraderie. Frankly, she’d enjoyed not having to listen to his lengthy stories about this client or that one—she’d enjoyed the reprieve from acronyms and talk of policies and procedures she knew nothing about. She’d been happy to let them carry on without her. She just hadn’t realized then what that meant. (This excerpt is an abridged version of what appears in the book.)
GIVEAWAY! --
Viscount Overboard
-- EXCERPT: In which Gwen approaches the viscount to offer to buy his property, and he thinks she’s soliciting something else. “Lord Penrydd?” Pen’s boots hit the floor as he sat up. Speaking of pleasure. His capricious God had consented to smile on him for once. The most exquisite female-shaped creature he had ever beheld stood at the parlor door. She wasn’t dressed like a lady of the night. Her petticoat was clean and white, over it a gown of buttermilk muslin trailing vines of red flowers. It was a quaint style, quite outdated, but one that followed a woman’s curves. A delicate lace crossed her bodice, tied at her back. He wanted to unwrap her, like a present. An absurd cap of lace and silk roses covered curls of a dusty brown, the color of the paths at his favorite hunting property when they had baked in the sunlight on a summer afternoon. Her face was extraordinary. She didn’t have the pasty complexion of a woman who never went about in the sun, rather a healthy glow and the tiniest dusting of freckles along a nose that suggested a personality both strong and pert. Independently the wide thick-lashed eyes, high cheekbones, lush lips, and arrowed jaw were pleasing yet unremarkable, but put together, the effect was mesmerizing. “Fifty pounds,” Pen blurted. Her eyes rounded in surprise. They were some shifting, undefined color, the grey-green of the sea on a cloudy morning. Was she worth more? “A night,” he added. He’d pay anything. He wasn’t even going to pretend to negotiate. His secretary, Ross, raised his thick brows. Pen ignored him, as usual. “A night?” Her voice rang clear and fine, trained, the voice of a singer. But her tone held dismay. The lace over her bosom fluttered as she put a hand there. Long, delicate fingers, a fine-boned wrist with an elegant turn. He stared at her hands and imagined them trailing over his skin. His rough, scarred, contemptible skin. “Not enough? Name your price.” “I hadn’t arrived at a number, actually. I suppose I ought to have asked Mr. Barlow.” Who was Barlow? Her flesh broker? Her go between? Pen envied the man who had any hold over her. But she had a proud tilt to her head, that of an independent woman who answered to no one. He’d make her forget Barlow. He’d make her forget everything but her name. What was her name? “In truth, I’m not certain what the going rate for such things is,” she said. Pen’s head reeled with a grand, desperate notion. She wasn’t a hedge whore or a public ledger, open to all comers. But a lady of easy virtue nonetheless, perhaps a high flyer or a quality courtesan. Pen wiped his sweating palms on his breeches. He couldn’t afford her. Look at her skin; she wasn’t starving or diseased, nor beaten into submission. Her eyes were clear and steady, if her expression was somewhat baffled, and she smelled like spring. A field of bluebells filled his mind, kissed by a warm sun. Ah, God. For the first time he understood why a man would go to the trouble of keeping a mistress. So he could have sole access whenever he wished and keep her hidden from the outside world. He swallowed. How could he manage to keep her? Most of the letters on Ross’s blasted table were bills and accounts of some sort, reminders of funds his rotter of a brother had died owing. “I’m certain we can come to an agreement.” Pen’s voice scratched his throat. Where was the boy with the rum? The tremor was starting again, but the need this time was not for alcohol. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted anything that had to do with another person. Wanted closeness. Affection. Approval. Ah, yes. He’d wanted affection from his mother, approval from his father, company and camaraderie from his brother. And the evil-minded universe had laughed in his face and stretched him out upon the rack. Pen sweated underneath his neckcloth and worked with a finger to loosen it. This woman wouldn’t be withholding, mocking, or cruel. She was warm and soft all over, inside and out. She blew out a stream of air and Pen stared, arrested by the shape of her anemone-red lips. They would purse in exactly that fashion when he kissed her. “I don’t suppose you would consider simply giving it to me,” she said. “Out of charity, you know.” Giving her—oh, he’d any number of notions of what he could give her. Starting with certain attentive parts of his body. Then the rest, all of him, for eternity.
GIVEAWAY! --
The Penance of Valentine Cash
-- EXCERPT: The Huntsmen had arrived. They were all large, dressed in furs, leathers, and thick boots. The men had thick beards and braids; the women either wore braids or had shorn hair. All of them wore armor of some kind, with runic designs upon their crests. Ghost green flames danced and kissed across their skin. As Valentine watched, she saw that their skin flickered and faded in the moonlight, alternately translucent and opaque. During the translucent phases, she saw their skeletons underneath. She shivered. Then, beyond the Huntsmen, she saw the mounts. They were stunning. Each horse shimmered, dressed in golds and silvers, blues and violets, coppers and moonlight. They were enormous, with hooves the size of dinner plates and lush manes that draped across the starlit skin. Valentine watched as they huffed, stamped their feet, and half-reared. They were ready, she could tell. They wanted to hunt, to chase. She heard Malcolm’s prosaic voice in her head. Choose the smallest mount. Valentine scanned the herd. There. The smallest mount glowed like a golden fire in the moonlight, with a silver mane. Compared to the others, this one was dainty, almost delicate. Valentine cast a quick glance at the Huntsmen, then started forward, crouching low to avoid notice. As she moved forward, she draped the bridle over her shoulder, then pulled out the packet of frankincense and myrrh. She poured it into her hands, then crept forward. She stopped before the golden creature, a good six feet away. Though this mount was smaller than the others, it was by no means tiny. When Valentine stilled, the horse raised her head. What do you want, mortal? The voice sounded like a crack of lightning in her head. The eyes glowed with violet flame.
GIVEAWAY! --
Lavender Moon
-- EXCERPT:
GIVEAWAY! --
The Vampire
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Onto the landing we danced, Alexander’s blonde hair bouncing as he brought me closer to the railing, edging dangerously near a fatal fall. All it would take was a wrong step or playful push to seal our fates. “Jack. I have to tell you something,” he began softly. “I have not been entirely truthful, you see. There is something more I need to show you.” His voice was barely a whisper, his eyes falling to the stone beneath us. I couldn’t imagine what he was about to divulge. My thoughts wheeled over possibilities like the mafia, or perhaps he was something of a Russian spy. My pulse thumped violently in my chest, the anticipation making my sternum ache. “Alexander?” I matched his thoughtful tone, placing my hand over his on the railing. “Whatever it is… I’m here. I’m not leaving. You’ve shown me so much magic in a single night. How much more unbelievable could this possibly get?” He smirked darkly, as if some great secret lived there beyond his violet stare. “Don’t be afraid. Close your eyes.” He instructed and so I did. I heard the slight shuffle of heeled shoes and the metallic tapping that followed. The railing vibrated under my hands and fear was the very thing that forced my eyes open. “Alexander!” There he stood upon the metal bar, the wind whipping about his ethereal hair and the dark mesh of his shirt. I reached for him in my panic. “Are you insane? Get down from there!” My stomach lurched, my fingertips splayed as I tried to grasp the hem of his pants and then… I failed. My gut shot up to the roof of my mouth as I watched Alexander La Mont spiral off of the edge and down… down… down. His screaming voice vanished as so, too, did his body. “Holy shit!” I shrieked. “He killed himself. He fucking killed himself! What the fuck!” But before I could spiral any further and get sick all over the balcony floor, the most peculiar thing happened. A voice. A tiny whisper of a thing beckoned to me. “Jack. Jack, look down.” His voice called to me from the side of the building. It was impossible. He was surely dead. This had to have been some sort of trick. Was I losing my mind from the trauma of watching this man splatter on the pavement far below? Wait. Did I actually see him hit the pavement? I leaned over the railing, my raven curls interrupting my view of the streets below as wind swirled them about my face. There he was. Standing on the wall, staring up at me, feet pressed against the brick and completely disregarding gravity, was my mentor. He stood there as effortlessly as some arachnid-themed superhero, the lights of the city shining behind his head creating an almost angelic halo about his blond curls. The world spun rapidly as I white-knuckled the banister. What was happening? Perhaps it was still the absinthe playing tricks on me. Yes. Perhaps all of my drinks had been spiked that evening. There was no other way to explain it. This had to be the product of some intense hallucinogenic. “No. You weren’t drugged,” he stated simply. “What you are seeing is very real, and I imagine very confusing. I had to show you. I needed you to believe me. There was no other way.” “Alexander!” I screamed, my eyes welling up with tears, watching them rain down over where he stood. “Please, please come back up! This is unnatural!” He shook his head in protest. “No, no. How about you come down here.” He laughed, twirling in his spot with his arms outstretched to demonstrate he was truly not affected by the earth’s gravitational pull. I hugged the railing, my hand gripping the metal bar tightly as fear turned my blood to ice. “N-no! I can’t!” He cried up at me, “You’ve been telling yourself ‘no’ for so long! You’ve restricted yourself to a mediocre life, when so much more awaits you! Stop living in fear! Release yourself! Be free! Come to me! Now!” His hand outstretched towards me. Lightning cracked overhead. I exhaled sharply, my fingers twitching in fear as I brought one leg over the ledge. I squeezed my eyes shut, focused on remembering how to breathe. Then came the other leg until I stood on the dangerous side of the railing, gripping to the metal and what might have been the last moments of my life. “Jump, dear Jack,” he laughed. “I can’t! I’ll fall!” Terror gripped me to my core and reduced me to a little boy again. My heart lodged itself in my throat. The world beneath me spun in vicious circles as all the lights started to blur like watercolor. If I didn’t step down, I would surely fall forward with the vertigo. Few options were left now. “I will catch you! I will keep you safe, if you only trust me!” Alexander promised over the rush of the wind, his smile flashing across his beautiful face. His velvet words coaxed me enough at last, and down the lip I went. For a moment, time froze, the city fixed in place as my life flashed before my eyes. My mother, Bradley, Dad, Chloe—all happy and awash in sunlight. What if this was all truly a hallucination? What if I just hurled myself into my doom? Time resumed as I tumbled, arms flailing, the world about me smeared in violent color. Everything I had ever known was both literally and figuratively flipped upside down. At last, arms wrapped about my body, holding me in place. Alexander hardly moved as he caught me against his chest with inhuman strength, his tight body acting like a bed for mine. He grinned up at me, our forms finally closing the distance that had plagued me all evening. I could feel my heartbeat slamming against him, yet his didn’t respond. There was nothing there. “What… are you?” He grinned, his lavender eyes sparkling as they beamed through the darkness into mine. “I am what rules the night. A master of the starlight, a fiend of flesh, both angel and demon as one. I am walking history—legend and myth, and you’ve known it in your heart all along.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Blood Sacrifice
-- EXCERPT: The stars look like dull old diamonds now, not like when we were young and would lie on the high desert dunes, feeling the chilly northern winds sweep the day’s heat away. We could trace the swirling ribbon of the universe across the sky, asking each other why God would care about this hot little world on the edge of the Milky Way. How easy it used to be to find the star that, even in total darkness, could guide us back to the Ishti capital, far across the barren sand. Since the forced migration, since entering the walled, foreign Empire of Isulum, I’ve lost sight of the stars we used to know. All I can see when I look up is an odd, murky hue, darkness saturated with artificial light, arid dust, and smog. But on nights like this one, when the rolling blackouts sweep through the Diegan Blocks ghetto and the buzz of the neon ads outside of my grimy windows temporarily click off, I can climb to the roof of my apartment to escape the oppressive heat. If I’m lucky, I can catch a glimpse of a dim, winking star or two. On nights like those, I look up at the stars and wonder, wherever you are, if your soul gazes at the stars too, surprised by how far we’ve gone from heaven. Tonight, the rolling blackout silenced my rumbling air conditioning unit, allowing the stale hot air to smother my home. A Waseda android waits with me in the darkness. She waits for the dark to pass and for the police to take me away. The purple Bors mark below her left eye that marks her as inhuman glows dimly, illuminating shadows about the room. Tonight, blood covers my body, adding a regretfully soothing, sticky sensation to my fingers. It is a strange time to atone, my dear friend Auria, but I know that if my prayers have never before reached the ears of God, you’ll happily receive them. You see, I’ve been staring at my husband’s dead body for an hour now, his Waseda here beside me. And I’ve been too terrified to move.
GIVEAWAY! --
The Buffalo Butcher: Jack the Ripper in the Electric City
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble -- A NOTE TO THE READER: From The Author… Eight million people—about one in nine Americans—came to Buffalo, New York, to see the “Pan.” The cynics thought it was nothing more than yet another bloated world’s fair. But most found the Electric City to be an expression of all that was good and hopeful: the unity of North and South American nations, the triumph of Man over Nature, and the advent of the modern scientific and engineering marvels that would herald a new century of peace and prosperity. We can debate which camp won out, but one thing is certain. The assassination of President William McKinley in the Pan-American’s Temple of Music drew a curtain forever over the promise of the Pan— and left Buffalo with a bitter legacy that is remembered even today. The Buffalo Butcher also takes us into a darker side of bright, up-and-coming Buffalo, then the nation’s fastest-growing city. We visit the back alleys of the Tenderloin District, a large red-light zone in the heart of downtown, where most anything was tolerated by city officials and police, so long as it stayed put. Hundreds of brothels and low-end dives huddled together in the Tenderloin and existed—for the most part—on the exploitation of young women who often had no other good option. It’s an unflinching and sometimes hard-to-bear story of the real evil that walks among us, the warped and wicked who prey on the vulnerable, and how they work their black magic. I could not turn away from that part: If you’re looking for a ‘cozy mystery’, this ain’t it--I had to tell the story in a way that would do honor to the victims, and without any sympathy for the devil. Yet, I think, Butcher it is also a story of friendship and love, decency and honor, and perhaps most of all courage, among a group of outcast women confronting loneliness, condemnation, shame, and loss. The masks come off in The Buffalo Butcher, and while as always I hope you’ll find it a good read, I hope too that you’ll find the story as touching as I did—even if a little spooky. 
GIVEAWAY! -- |
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