For those of you following along, you will remember the cover reveal for The Bookminder, and the inclusion of a sneak peek of the novel in my holiday book list. Well, it's been lauched and is (along with its author) on tour to celebrate the release. I have a look at the book and a short interview with the author M. K. Wiseman, plus a Rafflecopter Giveaway.
How did you come up with the concept of your story?
In 2004 I had a very vivid dream that, afterward, wouldn't leave
me alone. Said dream basically detailed out one scene from the story, something
so different and captivating for me that it stuck. Now, it must be noted that I
was not writing at that time, nor did I intend to write in any professional
capacity. But as this one nugget of an idea would not let me be, I started to
form a story around it – Why were these people doing what they were doing? Who
were they?
I think that working in the Preservation Dept of the campus
library system had bled into my subconscious and that is where the magick
system that rules The Bookminder developed.
How did you come up with the title?
Haha, well, I had to actually do a bit of research to check my
brain on this as, over time, there have been several incarnations, besides the
working title of Wizard's Librarian. As a (former(?)) librarian, I was
really hoping to keep the working title, as homage to my career and the work
that had sparked the initial idea. But then we wanted to go with something
simpler, brighter, and more “fantasy”.
The 'research' I allude to above? I just unearthed a Facebook
exchange between a librarian friend and I from last March. In it she says she
quite likes the new title and then asks “Who came up with that?”
My answer? “Honestly I don't remember . . . might have been my
editor. We just started throwing things together.” Words that felt
book-binder-y but not quite so literal. Things like “Spellbinder / Spellbound”
seemed a bit too on the nose.
Please provide some insight into or a secret or two about
your story.
The locations in Bookminder are real. Parentino truly did
fall to ruins, while its twin fortification flourished. And while the town
known as Dvigrad in the story did have another name, Moncastello, in keeping
with the attitude of the characters in the story, I dropped the name from their
fortification and merely called it Dvigrad. Call it a decision of character
politics, if you will.
The tales of what actually happened to Dvigrad are a little
muddled but history has the town mixed up in the middle of the Venice and
Austrian conflict of the sixteenth century. And the town truly was abandoned
due to plague—though history has that date at 1630 and Bookminder has it
coming some 50-odd years later.
Who is your favorite author? Who has most influenced your
work?
Two questions. Two answers:
Fav author? Have to go with Douglas Adams. His humor is superb.
And while my brain tends to go a little sideways when reading his stories,
that's part of my enjoyment of his very unique work. I appreciate that there
really is no other author with his touch.
As for who has most influenced my work: Brian Jacques. While
this may not seem the most obvious choice, hear me out. His Mariel of Redwall is the very
first book that I remember being completely in love with. I read, of course,
before that. Quite a bit. But this one book seemed to change reading for me. It
became more than merely enjoyable. Stories could be transcendent, not mere
personal experiences. Reading could link you to others. Maybe it was just the
right book at a certain moment in my life. But I was a lucky enough kid to meet
Mr. Jacques on more than one occasion at bookstore readings/signings. He became
my author rockstar and it was his stories that changed how I thought of books
which, in turn, has influenced my writing at a very deep level.
What activities best give your brain a break? How do you
unwind?
Sudoku. I love (so called) “killer” sudoku. Meditation. Running
(which, unfortunately, sometimes puts my brain right back into production mode
as much as it allows me a break.) I like video games and play pinball whenever
I can get my hands on a good machine. Reading, of course. A hard or two of
poker is like a brain-vacation. And, weirdly enough, I like to just stare out
the window at the scenery watching birds, rain falling, tree branches moving .
. . Oh! I almost forgot: Fishing. I have really gotten into that in recent
years. Especially ice fishing. That's good stuff.
What are some of your other published works?
I have three short stories out through Xchyler—two steampunk and
one paranormal. Those were a blast to write. And if we “count” stories that I
published to my blogs for fun, then I also lay claim to two (currently
haitus-ed) continuing stories: one steampunk, one . . . not. :)
And here's a just for fun nerd list from our author:
Star Wars or Star Trek? Star Wars (Though I am a sucker for Voyager.)
Hunger Games or Divergent? Neither? I know that sounds terrible.
I just never got into the 'dystopian' thing. Too intense for me.
James Bond or Jack Ryan? Erm, *embarrassed blush* I haven't ever
read or seen a James Bond novel or movie and actually had to Google “Jack Ryan”
to find out who that was.
Sherlock: Robert Downey, Jr. or Benedict Cumberbatch? Jeremy
Brett. :)
Spock: Leonard Nimoy or Zachary Quinto? Leonard Nimoy.
X-Men or Avengers? That has changed for me very recently,
actually. Avengers now has the lead because of the excellence of the recent
movies—great dynamics.
Aliens or Predators? Cue another embarrassed blush . . .
Complete and total unfamiliarity here for me.
Minions or Penguins? Penguins.
Batman or Superman? Batman *But only because he has such cool
toys!
Harry Potter or Pirates of the Caribbean? That's a tough one
because I never really got into Harry Potter in the way that I'm sure
this question is asking about and I loved “Pirates” so long as we stick only
to the first movie.
Beatles or Rolling Stones? Beatles.
Peter Jackson or James Cameron? Peter Jackson. But only because
I am largely unfamiliar with the main body of James Cameron's work.
Steven Spielberg or George Lucas? George Lucas.
Vampires or Werewolves? Vampires
LARP or MORPG? LARP – always wanted to try one.
THE BLOG TOUR
We're celebrating the release of THE BOOKMINDER by M. K. Wiseman with a blog tour and Rafflecopter give-away! Visit each blog each day for more chances to win lots of great prizes. If you like epic fantasy, you'll love this coming-of-age tale of magic and wizards set in the Renaissance era.
Don't forget to enter our blog tour Rafflecopter give-away below, on the blogs above, on our Facebook page, or on Rafflecopter, with daily chances to win!
Today I present another Fireside Chat for the paranormal anthology, Beyond the Wail. In this character interview our intrepid Richard Dale sits down to chat with Father Mahoney, from the story The Poltergeist and Aunt Betty by Ginger C. Mann.
And don't forget to keep scrolling down past the interview for a giveaway, book trailer, and a listing for the book's wonderful blog tour.
And now I give you...
A Fireside Chat with Father Mahoney
“Welcome everyone, to
another Fireside Chat. I’m Richard Dale, your host. Today, our guest is Father
Mahoney, of the St. Philip’s Catholic Church in Lake Charles, Louisiana.” Richard
nods to the man sitting opposite to him. “Welcome
Father.Why don’t you begin bytelling our audience a bit about yourself.”
“Thank you,
Richard, and thank you for having me here. A ‘bit about myself?’ I am a son of
Irish immigrants from Chicago, and now I'm the newest priest at St. Philip’s
Catholic Church in Lake Charles, Louisiana. It's a beautiful parish, and the
church is over 100 years old. This is my fourth year to serve there.”
“As you said, you are
now firmly established in your faith, but you essentially rejected the Church
for some time in your younger days. Care to elaborate on the reasons for your
crisis of faith?”
Father Mahoney pauses. “There was a time that I rejected the church, yes. It is
difficult to remember it, but I will tell you a brief account. As a child, I was
badly bullied by a minister. I was raised a strong Catholic, and my family was active.
Of course, as a son in a an active
church family, I soon became an altar boy. It started out well for me, but as
time passed, I discovered that the priest who advised me was not a gentle man.
In fact, I now recognize that children frightened him. For any tiny mistake I
made, he was careful to berate me publicly. He used other tactics, too – no, no
details, but many things that kept me in fear of him. He was good at control,
and he terrified me so completely that he gave me nightmares. I was too
frightened of him to ask for help, so this went on for some time. One morning,
after I served Mass especially poorly, he grew so angry that he began to hit me. I was lucky that my mother was standing
there to witness that, or it could have gotten much worse. She pulled me away
immediately, and took action with church authorities. However, like so many abusers,
this priest was not disciplined. I stopped serving on the altar, but the next
week, another child was up there in the same position. That burned in my gut
until it wore me down. I could not let it go, and neither could my family. We
left the church over it. After awhile, I could not stand the sight of any church.
My mother returned to a different one after a few years, but I was sure I would
never go back.”
“Yet you did, but not
before pursuing other interests, such as ghost hunting.” Richard pauses
slightly. “Your first substantial paranormal encounter was at Auschwitz. How
profound an experience was that, and are there any ongoing consequences?”
Father
Mahoney closes his eyes, as if struggling with himself. He looks down, then
gathers his strength and faces the host. “This is less of a reaction and more of
a story, Richard, if we have the time?”
Richard
nods. “We do.”
“First, your
audience needs to know that I considered myself an Atheist before I studied the
paranormal. In fact, I rejected all spirituality. God’s representative hurt me,
and for me that made God a monster. So, I wrapped all spirituality in the same
package with that monstrous God, and threw it out. I chose psychology as my
course of study, but then I discovered parapsychology. I liked that subject a lot, mainly because it tended to view paranormal
activity as a mental condition, and nothing else.
“I was fond of ghost hunter groups back
then. I found them so easy to ridicule: plenty of gadgetry, lots of heartbeat
monitors and ultra sensitive cameras, and for what? Time-lapsed, blurry melodrama. Oh,
and folklore. They were great at folklore. Tell a story, find a blur in a
picture frame. Tell the story again, and sell the blur.”
“Not
an uncommon reaction to these types of groups.” Richard murmurs sympathetically.
“Apologies, Richard, I am being
unkind. It's an echo of who I was back then, and I hope I am not the same now.
I often cringe at how callous I used to be. Well, there was a group of ghost
hunters who tolerated me, even though I was a young Ph. D. student who “knew it
all,” and talked to them like they were idiots. However, they were
thick-skinned and refused to take it personally. They dismissed my ideas about
as thoroughly as I dismissed theirs, and then we would go out for beers
afterward. I enjoyed giving the “logical rebuttal” speech in the middle of
their films – the kind that set their
entire premise on its ear. They enjoyed pipping me the rest of the time, and so we called it
even.
“So I was
happy when they approached me with a “special project”. They wanted to film a
sequence on location at Auschwitz. (Don't even ask me how they worked that out
with the bean counters at the University.)
Before I knew it, we were there on site, hunting for disembodied spirits and
fog wisps. They set up their thousands of wires and their beep-boop machines
and started crawling the place dressed in jumpsuits and night vision goggles.
Comical. Then, it happened.
“I didn't follow the troop, I just
sat there in the middle of the courtyard. Looked to be the same one where
prisoners were brought for mass meetings by the Nazi keepers. As an abused
child, my heart breaks for the oppressed. I found myself remembering the victims
of the slaughter, thinking on them solemnly. I told myself I might have said a
prayer, back when I believed in anything. Instead, I grabbed my sketchbook. I had
pasted a list of Auschwitz victims inside
the front cover. I studied it for a minute, thinking about how their lives
ended. Then, on a whim, I began to mention them out loud. Right there in the middle of the courtyard, I spoke
about about ten names at random.
“I paused and looked up from my book
for a moment. A skinny man stood there, staring
me down. I thought for a moment that he was with us, but then I noticed that he
was almost naked. His face and form faded back and forth, as if he were made
out of mist. His eyes sagged like pits. Before I could react, another man came
forward. Both of them stared at me in the same way, as if they were trying to
make up their minds about something. The first one spoke. He said, “Do you see
us?” All I could do was nod.
“Then, I noticed something else, Richard:
looking around that courtyard, I saw no fewer than ten wispy forms wandering the grounds. I watched them walk
right through the ghost hunters, who ignored them. On a hunch, I began to speak
again, reading the same ten names from that list in my book. One by one, they
wandered in my direction. When I passed their names, they wandered off again.
Most of them sat down, hugging their legs. Some of them stood up on occasion, and
they would begin to flail as if they were taking a beating. I was looking at suffering
people, but never once did I see any of their oppressors. Furthermore, my
colleagues continued to turn a blind eye, and so did their equipment. Not so
much as a “blip” registered on the
paranormal tracking devices. Looked like another folklore-telling,
smudge-selling outing for them. I was the only witness to this scene, or so I
believed.
“The place was dark and dank, and
the people looked to be in hell. I witnessed them there, still in their torture
chamber, as if their souls languished here after their bodies left them behind.
I wept openly, casting about for something to do, some way to help. I focused, not
with my eyes, but with my heart. I concentrated on my connection with them. As
I did so, their forms grew clearer. I
sat there beside them, watching their agony and weeping tears of grief.
“It was then that I looked up. Above
the scene, misty like the spirits around me, I saw a radiant light in the sky. Something
felt . . . alive in it. To look at it filled me with joy. I turned to the man
next to me and tapped him on the shoulder. I pointed up, trying to ask him what
it was. He stared at the ground and hugged his knees. I tried again, he shook
his head and wailed. I sat and cried with him. It was all I could do.
“I moved on to the woman next to
him. I sat by her and said, “I see you.” She was startled – so startled that she
looked straight at me. One of her eyes was missing, and the other was streaming,
either with tears or disease. I reached
out my hand, and she took it. Felt like a downy feather, her touch. I said,
“There is something up there. A beautiful light. What is it?”
“It was then that I witnessed my
first miracle, Richard. She raised her face and looked straight into the sky. As
she looked, the eye that had been missing reformed itself in her skull. Her
flesh filled out and hair grew on her head. She was suddenly young and
beautiful. She stared back at me, two crisp blue eyes wide with surprise. “I
don't hurt anymore,” that is what her face said. She turned away, and I saw her
take the hand of the man next to her. He tossed her off initially, but she
shook him until he looked up angrily, with war on his face. Then, he caught
sight of her, all new and restored like she was. He said, “Schlomit?” Then, he
looked past her and froze in place. As the light in the sky bathed his eyes,
his body straightened into a handsome young man. He gazed at Schlomit, who I
assumed was his wife, and they embraced each other.
“The two of them walked away after
that, hand in hand. They were headed toward the light that healed them, but I
honestly can't say where they went. For my part, I gazed for a moment on that
spectral light. Nothing logical about this, but for the first time since my own
abuse, I thought I might be worthy of love.
“Now, we scientists like to have cross-validators
in these little field experiments, so imagine my surprise when I caught the
tour guide staring straight at me. This was no university educated “paranormal
specialist.” It was a minimum wage adult, babysitting a few college kids on a
ghost safari. He didn't speak, he just pointed to each and every spirit who
remained on the grounds, and then up to the sky. He saw exactly what I saw. We
locked eyes. Knowing that my German was as rusty as his English, I chose not to
speak out loud; but eyeing each other, we made a gentlemen’s pact nonetheless.
One by one, we approached every spirit and encouraged them to look up; look
away from their private hell. Some of them listened. Some of them did not.
“We had to leave, and I could not
give my debunking speech on the ghost video. I took all kinds of snark for it,
but I didn't care. Instead, I buckled down, focused on trying to help the
victims I could still see. In the end, I could not force any decision on them.
I could just show them and watch the healing, or respect their decision to
suffer. If they suffered, I would sit next to them, hold them, and cry. That
changed a man's mind once. Just one man, but it was enough to make me keep
trying. I stayed in that same courtyard until my colleagues dragged me out.”
Father
Mahoney pauses, visibly upset. “Someday, Richard, I will go back. I will sit
with those souls for an eternity in that squalid place, if there is a chance of
saving even one more of them from hell.”
There is a moment of silence before Richard speaks. “Well. A profound experience indeed. I’m not
quite certain what to ask as my next question—wait, I believe it’s time for some
refreshment.” They are interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman carrying a
tray with shot glasses and a decanter. “I
see Jenkins has brought the whiskey. Wonderful.
I believe it’s just the thing we need.” Richard smiles as Jenkins sets the
tray down and waits. “Care for a nip?
It’s an excellent Irish whiskey. Jameson I believe.”
“Jameson is
a fine whiskey, thank you Richard. I'm still an Irishman to the core. I do love
a nip from time to time.”
Jenkins pours two glasses of liquor, serves both men, and
then retreats. Richard Dale takes a sip of whiskey and asks, “As someone with a gift for interacting with
the otherworldly, what most fascinates you regarding the paranormal and ghosts
in particular?”
“On a different
subject, do you have any hobbies outside the Church?”
He smiles.
“I love a good game of chess. I was once a tournament champ all across the
Midwest. Care for a match, Richard?” He turns his head. “Or perhaps you,
Jenkins?”
Jenkins blinks, and replies. “I shall have to decline, sir.
I don’t play. But thank you.”
Richard smirks somewhat. “Yes, I believe Jenkins is a bridge man. I’d be happy to take you up on
your offer of a game, after the interview. And speaking of such, what is your idea of perfect happiness?”
“I have
seen and felt perfect happiness. It is in that Presence that I saw for the
first time in Germany, and still see today. I dream of spending every moment in
that eternal Light.”
“And admirable
sentiment, Father.” Richard finishes his whiskey and sets down the glass. “What is your fondest memory?”
“Ah, this
is where I can tell you about Her.
“After some time in Auschwitz, I
began to remember my own mornings of hell, when I was beaten down by my
tormentor. They paled in comparison to what the wailing spirits of Auschwitz had
seen, but somehow my stay there made my monster rear its ugly head again, and
so my nightmares returned. I found myself crouched in a ball, an
eleven-year-old boy sniveling, waiting for a troubled priest to beat me up
again. I would not uncurl for anything or anyone, because he was as real to me
as you are Richard: standing above me, holding a stick. My instinct was to protect myself.
“I felt a touch on my shoulder.
Downy, like the touch of Schlomit. The wind blew my hair, and I smelled roses.
The touches persisted, they would not leave me alone. I finally peeked out
through my fingers, the way kids do sometimes. A woman looked back at me. I
never saw her face clearly – its form kept shifting; but I saw she was a spirit.
She was made of light, though, not the misty, grey, filmy stuff I saw in the
other ones. She pointed with her hand, inviting me to stand and look at
something. I was too frightened, so I hid my face again.
“She did not leave me. Instead, I
was surrounded by the fragrance of roses, and little downy feathers seemed to
fall all over my skin. I peeked through my fingers again. Her face was still
there, out of focus, but . . . I could tell she was weeping. She surrounded me with
herself, light and fragrance and feathers. Wind through my hair, and soft
melodies in my ears. I struggled between self-defense and enchantment,
determined to keep safe, but wishing I could look at her longer. Finally, I
dropped my hands. Fingers made of light lifted my chin, feathers in the breeze caressed
my face and urged it up, up, up. Without knowing what I was doing, I looked
straight into the sky and gazed on that radiant light. She held me there while
I took it all in. The love, Richard, it was indescribable. Nothing hurt me
anymore, not even my most secret fears. I fell for Her that day, and She has
been with me ever since, an adorable Presence by my side.
“You see, priesthood is a logical
vocation for a man like me. There is not a woman alive who could take Her place.”
“Quite amazing. As to
your vocation, what is the most rewarding aspect of being a priest?”
“It continues
to reward me when I see the healing of a broken soul. One does not have to be a
ghost to suffer, Richard. I lost my love of the Catholic Church because
someone's bad actions defaced God. I strive every day to right that wrong, and
represent God with kindness. Sometimes, one of the sufferers listens, “looks up,”
and sees the love that waits for them. Those are good days, Richard. Very good
days.”
“One last question. Have
you ever met anyone else with your particular gift for seeing ghosts?”
“A relevant
question! The answer will surprise you. I find that almost everyone has this
“gift”. It's just a question of focus. Some minds are especially attuned to the
unseen. I find that these are people whose minds are not burdened by
expectations of “real” and “normal”. I notice that many children and animals
see exactly what I see.
“Other minds are sensitive as well:
people who are diagnosed “mentally ill” sometimes are seeing spirits that walk
the earth. Where it gets dicey is when they can see actual spirits, but then
hallucinate others. I find that I can sometimes guide these types, and help
them to tell the real from the imagined, and do some good. Spirits usually want
to be seen by someone, and they often gather around a
living person who can discern them.”
Well thank you Father
Mahoney, for agreeing to this interview. It was a distinct pleasure. Now for
that game of chess…
What is it about fear and the unknown that pulls so passionately at the human heart? Perhaps we are drawn not to the darkness itself, but to the resolution, the overcoming of what we most deeply dread. After all, the more terrible the struggle, the greater the victory when it comes at last. Presented in this anthology are twelve remarkable stories of the darkness that overshadows us, and the resolution that may be found beyond them. They are stories of fear and oppression, but ultimately stories of hope, stories that will take you BEYOND THE WAIL.
For today’s post—Sometimes
your loved ones refuse to stay dead…
Homecoming
Strange worlds whisper in the silence of the night.
Listen and you will hear. Listen in the fragile hours when
breath and consciousness still and drift, when the wind snakes along moonbeams
and the shadows spew their secrets upon the cold earth. When the unseen becomes
visible, no longer lurking beyond your senses.
When things abandoned and forgotten return home.
I’m coming home.
Decaying roses petals cover the garden path, a desiccating
pink and white carpet of broken life. He planted new bushes. I suppose he
needed a plausible reason to dig my grave. He chose my favourite roses. A nice
macabre touch.
It’s odd standing
three feet away from where your murdered body is buried. Even odder staring
through the garden window at your husband, your killer.
He’s sitting at his desk, in that pretentious antique chair
he loves, working at his computer. Or maybe emailing his girlfriend.
He thought I didn’t
know. But I did. He thought he could get rid of me. That murder was quicker
than divorce. He was so wrong. He’ll never be rid of me now.
I slide through wall of the house as if it didn’t exist and
float in front of him. His skin turns as white—well, as white as a ghost.
“Hi, honey.” Blood drips on to the floor. For some reason
that happens when I speak. Maybe because I choked on my own blood after he shot
me in the chest. “I’m home. Did you miss me?”
It's ten days of of chills and thrills, scares and hauntings!
Come revel in terrifying tales and drabbles of dread!
To kick off October, Are You Afraid of the Dark? will be playing on the dark side with a fantastic bevy of other paranormal and horror writers as part of the October Frights Blog Hop (running from Oct. 1st to 10th). It promises to be lots of scary fun and and there will be tons of prizes (and you won't even have to sell your soul to enter the giveaways).
As my part in this whole ten day terror fest, I'll be doing a ghostly theme.
Yes, that's right I'll be posting ghost stories. I have some short tales, some drabbles, and some haunting poetry for you, all about those phantoms that linger after death. Plus, I have a look at the new Xchyler Publishing paranormal anthology, Beyond the Wail, that includes my ghost story, The Weeping Lady.
Now a bit about my contest. I have a ten day long Rafflecopter giveaway for a prize pack of four of my Smashwords ebooks. These are my books up for grabs:
And to end out today's welcome, I have our feature story...
Midnight in the Graveyard
Every night I walk through the graveyard.
That may seem strange to some. Some may say there are better places and a better time to wander. Such people may be right, but my nightly strolls have never seemed strange to me.
I’ve always found cemeteries to be peaceful places. No one around to make chit chat or bother you with small talk. Even in the daylight hours. Everyone cocooned in his or her own private world of grief and remembrance.
Of course, at night, a graveyard is quite different. Very atmospheric. That’s why I love to walk there, especially under the moonlight. It has such quiet beauty, a serenity. Yet, there’s an untamed edge, almost mystical. Or so it seems to me.
Yet, the ambience is not my only motivation. There is the gravestone.
It sits on a small rise well in the rear of the cemetery. Every night I walk there, and pause beneath an oak tree. I stare at it, afraid to go closer. I have cause to be afraid. The person interred beneath that soil is why I haunt the graveyard at night. The stone is the reason I cannot leave this place in peace.
The grave is an old one, some say the oldest one here. Some even say the body buried there was cursed, bound to the earth and the stone that marked her grave.
Those people would be correct.
I am a coward. I fear to read my own name etched into that grave marker. It’s a hard thing for me to admit I’m dead. That I’ve been dead for centuries. That the only peace I’ll ever know is in the beauty of a graveyard on a moonlit night.
Today I bring you good readers another book spotlight, this time for the upcoming urban fantasy novel A Fistful of Fire by Rebecca Chastain. This novel is book two in the Madison Fox, Illuminant Enforcer series. Plus, there's a great Rafflecopter giveaway. Enjoy.
A Fistful of Fire by Rebecca Chastain
Madison Fox survived her first week as California’s newest illuminant enforcer, defending her region against imps, vervet, hounds, and one lascivious demon. If her grumpy boss, Mr. Pitt, was impressed, he hasn’t told Madison. In fact, there’s a lot her boss has been closemouthed about, including the dark secret haunting his past.
But Madison’s problems are just igniting. Neighboring regions report an uncharacteristic flare-up of evil, fire-breathing salamanders blaze unchecked across the city, and Black Friday looms. Trapped doing cleanup amid mobs of holiday shoppers, Madison watches from the sidelines as dubious allies insinuate themselves in her region.
As suspicions kindle and the mysterious evil gains strength, Madison must determine who she can trust—and whose rules to follow—before her region and career go up in flames.
Sizzling with adventure and sparking with magic, A Fistful of Fire is fused with Madison Fox’s trademark blend of humor and ass-kicking action.
The book releases October 10, 2015, but is available for pre-order at:
Madison Fox just learned that her ability to see souls is more than a sight:
It’s a weapon for fighting evil. The only problem is she doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing.
~*~
Rebecca Chastain is an International Amazon Fantasy Bestselling author of A FISTFUL OF EVIL and MAGIC OF THE GARGOYLES. She has found seven four-leaf clovers to date, won a purebred Arabian horse in a drawing, and once tamed a blackbird for a day. Dreaming up the absurd and writing stories designed to amuse and entertain has been her passion since she was eleven years old. She lives in northern California with her wonderful husband and two bossy cats.
