Sheritta Bitikofer's Blog, page 8

The Soldier is Live!

Right now, I’m in Sharpsburg Maryland on the battlefield where Ben Myers and Dustin Keith first met. Their fates have crossed and the book is released! This has really been a labor of love and I’m reaping the fruits of that labor right now as I walk the ground where over 22,000 fell over a century and a half ago. It’s surreal and you’ll get to read/watch my recap of the trip sometime next week.

In the meantime, go onto Amazon and get your copy of The Soldier!

Get it Here!

[image error]America – 1862

The nation has been torn apart by a war of secession, but not all southerners are alike and fight for their own causes. That’s what Dustin Keith, a werewolf recently liberated from his mentor’s guardianship, saw in Ben Myers, a Georgia farm boy serving in the Confederate Army. Only in the army so he could escape north and then find a way abroad, Dustin never expected to take part in the single bloodiest day in American history. At Antietam, Ben is fatally wounded and Dustin sees that the only way to save this good soul is to turn him into what he is – a werewolf.

With a wife and infant son at home, Ben wants nothing more than to see the end of this terrible war and go home to his own state. But now, freshly turned into a supernatural creature with unbelievable abilities, the long journey home from Virginia has become that much more difficult. If the enemy army, a strict mentor, and sheer distance wasn’t enough, there’s something off about Ben’s condition that will make it nearly impossible for him to enter society ever again.

 

 

In The West Woods…

Releasing September 17th, 2018, here’s a snippet from Chapter 2 of The Soldier

Preorder on Amazon!

Chapter 2

September 17th, 1862

West Woods Behind Dunker Church

March. March. March. Just keep marchin’.

Ben focused all his energy into taking one step after another, following the man in front of him with his rifle propped against his shoulder. All around, the thunder of canons, the faraway shouts of troops, and the general stomach-turning fact that he was about to join the fight, made him want to turn tail and run.

But he couldn’t allow himself to think. He took Brigadier General George Anderson’s advice and stayed all hands and all feet. Alert and yet numb to the battle and the dizzying thoughts of what they were getting themselves into. He couldn’t think about the shredded bodies of his old pals. He couldn’t think of Thomas Brittain who was shot at Manassas just a few weeks ago. Nor could he recall Henry Hester’s death mask when he lay dying from his wounds after the battle at Malvern Hill in July. And he couldn’t replay the last conversation he had with Jack Wilson back in June at Garnett’s Farm where he died at the hospital.

He briskly shook his head and began muttering to himself, “March. March. March.”

He, along with the rest of Anderson’s Brigade had been guarding Boonsboro Pike with the other regiments that made up D.R Jones’ Division. But that’s not where the fighting was. Farther north toward the cornfield he had seen when they arrived, the battle having commenced early that morning. The ground, wet from last night’s rain and the sky still overcast to give the day a gray and somber feel, it was proving to be a miserable dawn that would no doubt turn into a bloody day.

Lee – whom they teasingly called Granny Lee for his snow-white beard and grandfatherly deportment toward his troops – made a habit of riding up and down the field of battle, assessing every situation carefully and coolly. Rarely raising his voice in anger toward the privates and giving clear instruction to his subordinate officers, Ben knew he would never serve under a better general. He was the picture of military strength and leadership. Under Lee, they couldn’t possibly lose.

And that’s why when he ordered Anderson’s Brigade north to fight back an encroaching band of Union soldiers who were ready to take a good piece of strategic ground, Ben didn’t quake in his boots as some of the other men did.

Already the victor of several battles, Ben had the good fortune of never sustaining a wound. He had been shot, but never in a place that mattered. Twice through his cartridge box, and once through the sleeve of his jacket. Each one narrowly missed its intended mark and each time, Ben thanked the good Lord above that the angels were looking out for him, even in the midst of so much death and carnage.

Anderson’s Brigade had been ordered to join ranks with McClaw and Walker’s divisions, so Ben and the seventh Georgia infantry made their way toward a patch of woods. To their right, he could hear the roar of canons and feel the earth tremble beneath his bare feet with each deafening volley. Farther ahead and to the left, came the hurried orders from officers and a procession line of wounded men being carried to safe ground.

The few glimpses of their beaten and battered bodies emboldened Ben. If Lee thought them capable of plugging this hole in his line, then he would do so and stop any advancing Yankee. Pride for his state, his country, and the cause for southern independence galvanized his courage.

Ben trudged through the thicket – rather loudly due to the constant crackle of parched leaves and fallen branches beneath their feet – and could see the white brick of the church building they had passed the previous day. Empty of all its congregation and riddled with holes from artillery fire and rifle shot, it remained standing on the edge of the battlefield. He heard some other soldier say it belonged to some pacifist Germans. How ironic.

Ahead, coming in at a slow and casual march, he could see the line of Federals through the trees. As soon as they spotted one another, the orders were given. Halt. Load. Aim. Fire.

The air became alive with bullets as the enemy fired upon them.

Ben, now a seasoned veteran of war, loaded his rifle with mechanic accuracy, speeding through the nine-step process. All those summer days spent hunting turkeys and bucks back home in Georgia with his older brother served as practice for shooting down his fellow men as he did now. He wasn’t quite as good as any of the sharpshooters in the army, but he rarely missed his target.

Giving leave to take cover behind trees and bushes in the patch of woods to the left of the church, Ben shoved the soldier beside him – a man by the name of John Beck, who was also part of the Franklin Volunteers – into a cluster of tall pines.

“Don’t forget your cap!” Ben told him, mostly out of a need to be helpful. He had wished some fellow soldier had reminded him of that during his first battle at Manassas. So often in the chaos of firing round after round, a man forgot one step or two in loading his own rifle, no matter how many times he had done it before.

He grabbed another cartridge from the hard leather box on his belt, tore off the paper tie, poured the powder in and chased down the bullet with his ramrod. And taking his own advice, he made a point to grab a percussion cap from his other pouch and positioned it before taking his hastily aimed shot. All the while, he felt the vibration of the occasional bullet hitting the trunk of the tree he leaned his shoulder against. Splinters of wood and bark stung at his cheeks when the adjacent pine was struck in the same way. Beside him, John fumbled constantly with his ramrod. Once, he cursed himself for forgetting the bullet and accidentally firing nothing but powder.

One by one, the Yankees in blue were mowed down as the cougar-like, explosive roar of the rifle fire split through the woods. Some Confederates fell and let out shrieks of pain or moans of agony, but Ben tuned them out. He had to or he’d lose his concentration for sure. The dead began to litter the ground, blood soaking into the earth and staining the grass around the fallen.

The order was given to advance. Ben and John darted out from their safe cover and ran toward the enemy, firing off one more shot each while others fixed bayonets to the end of their rifles. The color bearer of the seventh Georgia Infantry preceded them, the red and white thick bands lazily waving above their heads, rallying them forward.

“We got ‘em on the run, boys!” shouted Lieutenant Colonel George Carmical.

The rebel yell swelled and rattled the very leaves in the treetops as the units realized they had taken the ground for the Confederacy. The Yankees turned tail and retreated from the woods, falling back to Hagerstown Pike and the open field beyond where the rest of the battle seemed to be drawing to a close.

Hurriedly trying to load while sprinting through the brush, his pulse hammering in his ears like the booming sound of the artillery units to the south, Ben hardly noticed when he was no longer running with John Beck. He slowed and turned to look behind him as the rest of his company and regiment filed ahead, shouting in their small but glorious victory over the Federals.

There, trying to scramble out of the way of the stampede, was John with a gaping hole in his chest. Blood seeped from his wound and decanted over his torso to darken the butternut brown fabric of his jacket. Risking a severe reprimand or punishment from his colonel, Ben ran in the opposite direction of their charge.

John gasped for breath, a trickle of crimson oozing from the corner of his mouth as arms flailed to grab at the air. Ben was by his side, his gun dropped for the moment beside his comrade. He caught the desperate arm and held it tight, staring at the wound that he knew was fatal. There was no use in screaming for an ambulance or a stretcher to carry him to a hospital tent behind the lines. John Beck wouldn’t survive this day.

“They still runnin’?” John choked out, wide eyes staring up into the face of the man who had enlisted with him on the same day in Atlanta.

They stuck by one another in almost every battle, at every skirmish and engagement. They even tried to request furlough together and agreed to help one another with the train fare for the ride home to Georgia. Those requests were never approved, due to the sheer impossibility for the paperwork to please each and every officer in the chain of command whom it passed through. But they had tried together, and if they had gotten that furlough in the springtime, they would have gone home together too.

Now, there would be no more chances for furlough.

“Yeah,” Ben answered, forcing every ounce of strength he had left to be there for his friend in these final moments. “They’re still runnin’.”

A mocking smile spread over John’s lips, which were colored a deep red by the blood he coughed up. “Bunch of cowards,” he wheezed.

Ben tried to return the smile, but knew he had failed miserably and only nodded. “They sure are.”

With shaking effort, John reached up and unfastened two of the brass buttons on his coat. It took him a couple of clumsy tries since the metal was slickened by his blood, but once they were undone and he was admitted access, he pulled out a piece of folded up parchment.

“Give this to my folks,” he ordered to Ben, handing him the letter. “You’re gonna make it through this hell. I know it.”

Ben swallowed hard, and though he didn’t want to take it, knowing it would be as if he accepted John’s inevitable death, he couldn’t deny his friend this last request. He took the letter and tucked it into his own jacket, a bit of blood transferring from John’s fingertips onto his own in the exchange.

“I’ll give it to them,” Ben assured, squeezing his arm tighter as his friend became racked with coughs and gasps that told him the end was near.

He remembered where John stowed away the tintype of his mother and younger sister and immediately fished it out of his haversack. He remembered they had talked about wanting to see their families one last time if the end should ever come on the battlefield. Obviously, John wasn’t in the position to remind Ben, and he was even surprised that he could recall the moment himself as bullets continued to whiz past him. One struck his kepi and knocked it clean from his head. Another lucky miss.

But by the time Ben found the tintype, John had gone still and his arm no longer tremored. The spark of life in his dark eyes faded. Ben stared, taking the moment to recollect his last words. You’re gonna make it through this hell. I know it.

How he wished they had a few more seconds, just one more minute so Ben could lift the tintype to Johns’ eyes. He knew that once this battle was over and his body was laid to rest with the other fallen soldiers, Ben would write a letter to John’s mother and tell him all about how bravely he had fought that day. He’d talk about how they’d driven back the Yankees and reclaimed the church for the Confederacy.

Just as these thoughts entered his mind, as soon as the voices and tramping feet of the army moved on through the maze of trees, Ben heard the report of a gun from not too far away. At almost the same time, he felt the bullet pierce his side. He let out a cry and fell back with the impact, reflexively reaching for his gun as he searched for the one who had shot him.

Twenty yards away, he saw the wounded Union soldier propped up against a pine just as his arms became too weak to hold his rifle.

Ben, feeling a burst of panic, kicked at the ground to help him crawl toward some sort of cover. His back hit a bush, the tips of its branches jabbing into his shoulders as he lifted his rifle. Despite whatever wound kept him from retreating with the rest of his regiment, the Yankee gathered up what was left of his strength to slowly load his rifle one more time.

Already two steps ahead in loading, Ben took aim. Just before he did, through the pain that blurred his vision, he remembered the percussion cap. It wasn’t seated.

His fingers wrestled with the flap of his cap box and fished out his last one from the very bottom. He let out a tight breath as he took his final aim and shot the Yankee. The man jerked and then went limp against the tree, leaning to one side as blood ran out from the hole in his forehead.

Now, with the last threat eliminated, Ben reached for his side. So much for his lucky streak. His whole body went cold at the sight of the wound. Part of his jacket was ripped open, showing the gory mess of blood and a gaping hole where the bullet had plowed through him.

It was the worst pain he had ever felt in his life. Worse than when his brother broke his arm with the blunt edge of an axe blade when they got into a scuffle about something – as boys so often did. He felt the shakes spread through him, just as John had before he died and Ben refused to let himself think it. He couldn’t let his friend’s last words be a lie. He’d make it through this hell. He just had to hold on long enough for another regiment to pass by and find him. Then he’d go back to the field hospital.

However, the longer he sat there, the jabbing bed of broken bush limbs digging into his back, he couldn’t hear his company returning. And each new marching regiment that happened to pass between the patch of woods and the church couldn’t hear his pleas for help. Pain and weakness had stolen his voice and every shout came out as a hoarse whisper that he could hardly hear himself.

Each time he tried to lift his arm to wave for their attention, he realized it took far more effort and exacted more pain in his side with each movement and he gave up. With his rifle laid across his lap, Ben decided to be patient and wait a little longer.

Every passing second felt like an hour, and every moment like a day as he suffered in this pain, feeling his hot blood chill the skin around his stomach. Trails of blood curved around his hips to soak the seat of his pants. Each labored breath left him hurting even more than the one before. But he had to keep breathing, had to stay awake and listen for aid that would surely come soon.

He had to make it through this war. He had to make his family proud of him.

Mister, Here’s Your Mule!

I love all the quirky things I learned about the Civil War. Here’s one of them!

The life of a soldier in either army (North or South) was fairly dull between battles. For amusement, they would play games and pranks on one another – all in good fun. One of them was the classic “Mister, here’s your mule!” trick. Peddlers came into camps, looking to sell their wares to the soldiers who were paid (on average) $11 a month. They sometimes brought mules into camp with them. One of the privates would steal the mule or it would naturally go missing, which drove the peddler to go around and ask where his mule had run off to. Then, one soldier would cry out from across the campground “Mister, here’s your mule!” When the peddler would find the mule was still missing, another soldier on the other side of camp would cry out the same. This would inevitably send the peddler on a wild goose chase to find the mule while the soldiers got a good laugh out of it. It later developed into a kind of running joke amongst the army and was later put into a song or two!

This, along with other neat historical tid-bits can be found in my newest release, The Soldier, releasing on the 156th anniversary of the Battle at Antietam. Get your copy preordered today and it’ll be delivered right to your reading device!

Here on Amazon! 

 

 

Sneak Peek into The Convicts

Get it today on Amazon! 

Chapter 1

March 30th, New Orleans 1815

The odors and sounds of the city met Bart even before they rounded the final bend in the river. The creaking of merchant ships, and the shouting of men on the docks as they loaded and unloaded fresh cargo were distinctly heard from his place at the bow. Now that the British blockade had been lifted, the peace treaty ratified in Congress, commerce and trade could continue.

Bart was fortunate enough to miss the battle just down river a couple of months prior, along with nearly all of the martial law limitations that Andrew Jackson had enforced over the citizens. Though the trip to Natchitoches was far from convenient, he was able to bypass a rather messy altercation. Now, he returned with one less reformed loup-garou and with more questions as to how his own enterprises had faired during his absence.

Bleached sails came into view, their masts swaying with the wind as they navigated down the muddy Mississippi. Ships from all nations were anchored at the docks or easing their way out of the harbor. Bart held fast to the line as he leaned over the railing to catch a glimpse of the port. Not part of the Americas for even a decade, New Orleans was steadily becoming a booming hub, just as the politicians had predicted. Situated upon the mighty river that snaked north along the borders of her neighboring states, it was the ideal place for all incoming and outgoing trade to help fuel westward expansion.

But Bart had never been interested in the efforts of the French, Spanish, or the Americans that owned this land over the last century. This place wasn’t only ideal for trade, but for a certain mission of his that few knew about, but nearly all had speculated. The unique terrain became his ally when hiding his activities along the edges of the cypress swamps to the south of the river.

For now, he had a few men to see and some affairs to settle with the customs house. Then he could return to the place that had been his home for almost a hundred years.

He felt an uncanny wash of relief at the sight of the port city. It was emitted by his inner wolf, but not necessarily shared by him. Bart was one of the few loups-garous he knew that enjoyed sailing, whether it be across the ocean or down a river that concealed deadly sandbars. His wolf, however, did not agree and as soon as his boots made contact with the dock after walking down the gangplank, he was overcome by a silly urge to kiss the stable ground.

Of course, he refrained and carried himself like the gentlemen his reputation demanded of him. Anyone might have seen him as a man just past his prime with touches of silver that streaked through his hair and beard. No one would have ever suspected that he was older than this very city and the country they now called home.

His dark eyes trailed up to the impressive stone buildings with their arcade facades – indicative of the Spanish influence from their relatively short period of reign over the territory – and mansard roofs that reminded him of the great homes and government buildings in France. Down the straight, dusty avenues and roads that were laid out like a sprawling grid, carriages, carts, and pedestrians made their way from shop to shop.

The voices that drifted out of every window and rose to a dull roar all over the city were as varied as the faces they belonged to. French, American, German, Irish, Spanish, and the Free People of Color all mingled together in an inspiring display that brought a smile to Bart’s lips. Despite his status as a well-off merchant and plantation owner, he was often lumped in with the later aforementioned people group due to his lighter, mulatto complexion. And ever since the Americans had come, he’d suffered for it.

His status, wealth, and fabled generosity made him infamous within New Orleans amongst every class. It either made him enemies or blessed him with connections. As he passed St. Louis Cathedral on La Place d’Armes and continued down St. Peters Street, several men looked his way and either smiled or sneered. Women who also met his gaze covered their blushing cheeks with their fans as they turned to giggle with their companions. He smirked to them, and touched the brim of his hat in greeting, but it was rare that he ever stopped to speak with any of them. It was a habit of his not to spend too much time within the city, unless absolutely necessary.

And if he were to speak, he’d have to check himself before uttering a single word. It was a chore to mask his British accent from the public and slow down his enunciations to emulate the speech of those around him. If he were to reveal his true drawl, especially after the most recent war, he’d certainly raise suspicion. It was only with a select few that he could relax, only because they knew the truth.

He turned left down Royal Street. Years ago, two fires had eaten away at the establishments here, allowing for stronger brick homes to be erected with their elaborate wrought iron balusters and overhanging balconies that shaded the walkways along the roads. Another architectural gift from the Spanish after nearly a quarter of the city was destroyed in 1788. Bart remembered it as a terrible year for New Orleans and he stayed close to his home during the reconstruction.

Craftsmen of all trades could be found here, and Bart followed the scent of barley, yeast, and beer a few blocks away. Inside the brewery, the back of his skull tingled, alerting him to the presence of more of his kind. More loups-garous.

He had heard them in the back room, arguing in intermittent German and Gaelic. Bart shook his head ruefully and passed through the public tavern where working men came to refresh themselves with a glass of beer. This brew had earned a notable reputation for itself over the last few years. One benefit of being a loup-garou and incapable of becoming intoxicated was that when it came to matters of alcoholic beverages, they focused on the taste and not its ability to put men in their boots. Lorenz Hiedenhem and Carney O’Malley may have been the best damn brewers in the whole southern region, and Bart had the good fortune of claiming to be the one who brought them together. If only they could stop bickering over every batch.

He stepped through the archway into the back room and found them screaming at one another, voices raised. Even without his sensitive hearing, he would have known they disagreed on the amount of molasses that was added to the last brew all the way from Burgundy Street. The air was saturated with the aroma of hops, yeast, and other herbs used to help give their brand its unique flavor. Word of their success had reached all the way to Boston on the east coast and merchants from all across the states would make a point of stopping by their tavern when they came to port in New Orleans.

The brewery consisted of three stories. Three steps down from the entryway was the bottommost level. Barrels brimming with beer were lined against the stone walls, awaiting transport or consumption. Several barrels were reserved for beer that was in the final stages of fermentation, a leather hose trailing from their spouts to the second-floor landing.

Bart didn’t attempt to silence his ascension up the flight of stairs, looking for the two younger loups-garous. A strong fire burned in the second-floor furnace, its heat making the water in the brew kettle above him simmer and steam.

One more flight of stairs brought him to the place where Lorenz and Carney stood near the railing that skirted around the opening to the mash tun below. The German waved wildly with one arm while his other mindlessly stirred the half-processed brew with a giant dipper. Carney put some distance between himself and the loup-garou who was older and far more dominant and stood on the other side of the chillers where recently heated beer was cooling after being boiled for a couple of hours in the brew kettle.

Bart had never been interested in the brewing process, but he had heard it explained so many times by either Carney or Lorenz during conversation that he could most likely brew his own beer from beginning to end in his sleep.

As soon as Bart crossed his arms, they finally took notice of him near the top of the stairs.

“You’re back!” Lorenz exclaimed, coming forward to give him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “It feels like you’ve been gone for months.”

“It’s only been one month,” Carney corrected, his pale red brows furrowing.

“I said it only feels like months,” the German loup-garou snapped back at his apprentice. “Not that it literally was months since he left.”

“Is it just me, or do you two seem to look for an excuse to argue about everything?” Bart asked, his deep English accent contrasting so frankly with the other Europeans.

Lorenz replied in the negative, while Carney gave a decided affirmative. It never ceased to amaze Bart how these two managed to maintain an operation as delicate as beer brewing with only themselves to man the facilities.

Sometimes he wondered if it had been a mistake to let them both stay in New Orleans together. Lorenz had established the brewery even before Carney was born in Belfast, but the Catholic loup-garou had few other options than to flee to one of the rare places in the New World who took kindly to those of his faith. He and Lorenz cracked each other’s skulls on more than a few occasions. But once they were on any other subject than work, one could look past the fiery red hair of the Irishman and the dark blonde of the German to see that they were as close as brothers.

“How was your trip?” Lorenz asked.

Bart gravitated toward a small table near the dirty window and took one of the chairs. Carney took the other while his business partner was trapped in the task of stirring the mash as the barley and wheat blend steeped in the hot water.

“It went well,” Bart replied, smirking to the two loups-garous. “Nashoba seemed to get along well with the Chickasaw around Natchitoches. I think he’ll be a fine fit there.”

Carney’s blue eyes looked heavenward. “Lord knows I didn’t think that one could be turned around, but you’ve surprised me again.”

Bart smiled, though he would never admit he concurred with Carney’s first impressions. The rogue Choctaw native was a savage loup-garou before he came onto the plantation. It took several months to break him, but after a while, Nashoba stopped craving the flesh of humans and could conduct himself like any other civilized man. It was difficult to let him leave, especially since his home had been in the Louisiana wilderness for as long as he could remember. But sometimes complete relocation was required for these extreme cases.

“How many more convicts are on the plantation?” Lorenz questioned as he leaned against the railing.

Bart didn’t often appreciate the slang that others applied to those loups-garous he rehabilitated at his home near the swamps. They were criminals, but to dub them as convicts, or rougarous as some of the locals would have unkindly labeled them, seemed like a sort of condemnation. He hadn’t met a loup-garou yet that he couldn’t break.

“Just three,” he answered.

They continued to talk, mostly about business both with his plantation and at the brewery.

“That reminds me,” Lorenz said as he scratched beneath his neckerchief, which hid a nasty scar he had earned when he became loup-garou, “a man came here looking for you a few days ago. I told him you were out of town, but he didn’t seem to mind.”

At this, Bart’s wolf stiffened. If someone was looking for him, it could have meant a number of things. Either it was another loup-garou in search of help, a potential business connection who thought they could make him a proposition, or someone who did not mean him well.

“Who was he?”

At this, Carney chimed in. “He was werewolf,” he replied in a lower voice in case anyone might have heard him over the simmering brew kettle. “I think he was a soldier, but they all left after Andrew Jackson sailed back up the river to Kentucky.”

Bart leaned back and laced his fingers over his stomach, feeling the cool metal of his vest buttons under his palms. “What did he want?”

Lorenz shook his head. “He didn’t say. Only to tell you that he’d be waiting at the inn on the corner of Bourbon and Du Maine. Said he wanted to take you up on an offer you made a long time ago.”

Bart squinted, peering through the many years’ worth of memories for any unkept promises or abandoned offers. At first, he could think of none. And then it came to him in vivid relief.

“It couldn’t be,” he muttered, more to himself than the other two. He looked up, refusing to hope but daring to venture a guess in his heart. “What did he look like?”

“Looked like he’d been in the sun for a long time,” Carney said as he folded his arms over the edge of the table. “Black hair, brown eyes.”

“No, they were green,” Lorenz contented. “Maybe a really dark green, but they weren’t brown.”

“I got a closer look at the man than you did. They were brown.”

“Hazel?” Bart asked quickly.

Lorenz snapped his fingers. “I believe they were.”

“Oh, and he was from England too,” Carney added.

He didn’t need to hear anymore. Bart stood from his chair, nearly knocking it over. He paid them a hasty goodbye and hurried out onto Royal street. If he was right, which he dearly hoped that he was, he had been waiting for this reunion for nearly a hundred years.

Those smiles and nods he so generously gave to any passersby before were reserved, his mouth set in a grim and determined line as he weaved through the crowd down Royal Street. One left turn onto Du Maine and the tavern came into sight. His nose picked up the old scent, the one he remembered from so long ago, faint traces of a memory he had been afraid to hold onto for all this time.

His wolf spurred him on to walk faster, but he slowed as he reached the tavern. His senses spiked as they had outside the brewery and he took a breath to steady himself before rushing through the doors.

Bart’s eyes skimmed through the faces looking for him. Tavern goers, including merchants, traders, sailors, and some citizens of New Orleans, all congregated around tables. Laughter and conversation roared through the long room, but it all dimmed to Bart when he spotted his son toward the very back. With a mug in his hand, his dark hair was combed back and tied with a black ribbon; much like in the same fashion as he had worn when they first met. The lines of his swarthy, handsome face were more distinguished, matured from the youthful looks of a man in his twenties.

Hazel eyes met his and a smile curved over his mouth, one that Bart never expected to receive in his lifetime. They had parted on bad terms. That was never denied. Bart had told himself a thousand times that he would look for James again when the time was right, but all his inquiries in the Caribbean brought up nothing, just like they had before. His son had a marvelous talent for disappearing without a trace.

Hurrah for The Soldier!

About a week and a half from now, this little gem is going LIVE! Releasing on the 156th anniversary of the Battle at Antietam in Sharpsburg, Maryland! I’ll be ON THE BATTLEFIELD on the day of the release!!!! I’m so stoked! That’s how much I LOVE this book, this series, and these characters.

I’m am a southern girl at heart. I like my sweet tea and I say “y’all” probably more than I should in professional conversation. But nothing could have prepared me for writing this story. I delved so deep into the history of the Civil War that it’s in my blood now. I loved every minute of it, but my research also taught me some hard truths regarding what the war was and wasn’t about. I learned about the opinions of both sides, Yankee and Confederate. I learned what it was like for the civilians, the soldiers, and the generals. So many movies and novels try to breathe life into this era and they do a fair job, but I think unless we have personally lived it there’s no way to grasp its full meaning and reality.

I endeavored to do this, but there was so much I couldn’t include while still sticking to the main plotline. This is the beginning of Ben’s long and heartwrenching story within the Legacy Series and it’s my fond hope that you will read and enjoy this tale of a true revel soldier.

Preorder Now! 

Releasing September 17th, 2018!

[image error]America – 1862

The nation has been torn apart by a war of secession, but not all southerners are alike and fight for their own causes. That’s what Dustin Keith, a werewolf recently liberated from his mentor’s guardianship, saw in Ben Myers, a Georgia farm boy serving in the Confederate Army. Only in the army so he could escape north and then find a way abroad, Dustin never expected to take part in the single bloodiest day in American history. At Antietam, Ben is fatally wounded and Dustin sees that the only way to save this good soul is to turn him into what he is – a werewolf.

With a wife and infant son at home, Ben wants nothing more than to see the end of this terrible war and go home to his own state. But now, freshly turned into a supernatural creature with unbelievable abilities, the long journey home from Virginia has become that much more difficult. If the enemy army, a strict mentor, and sheer distance wasn’t enough, there’s something off about Ben’s condition that will make it nearly impossible for him to enter society ever again.

Rougarous are here!

In their first debut in the Legacy Series, the rougarous are coming from the Louisiana swamps. Up to this point in the series, they haven’t really been given a name, but for those who know my Loup-Garou Series, we know them to make up Gregory and Erik’s pack in Crestucky. But in The Convicts, we get a glimpse of the kind how these more vicious and deadly variety of loups-garous operate.

Now available on Amazon! 

[image error]New Orleans – 1815

Bart Croxen never thought he would see his son again, especially not in Louisiana. Andrew Jackson has finally lifted marshal law over the port city after the Battle of New Orleans and everyone is eager to praise and honor the valiant war heroes who defended them against the invading British. Creoles, Acadians, Irish, Germans, Spanish, and plenty of French citizens welcome Baratarian pirates like James and Robert into their social circles, but they are more interested in reuniting with their estranged relative. They come to find out that Bart has made a reputation for himself as a tamer of rougarous, werewolves like himself who had developed a taste for human flesh. On his plantation of sharecroppers – mostly former slaves that Bart has freed himself – he rehabilitates deranged werewolves in secret.

James has arrived just in time to see his father in action, though he still has some reserves about how the plantation and virtual prison is being operated. Although everyone assures him that Bart is generous and selfless to a fault, he is still not convinced. After an escape attempt by a particularly stubborn and dangerous rougarou, some start to think he may be onto something.

 

New Orleans has its own breed of werewolves…

I’m so excited to share this new release of the next novella in the Legacy Series. The Convicts was a blast to research and write, especially since I was born in Louisiana. And though I don’t have REAL Cajun blood in me, I adore the unique culture and feel of the state. Much of my love for its history and unique mythology bled through to this continuation of Bart and James Croxen. If you love werewolves, New Orleans, Jean Lafitte, and rougarous, you’re gonna wanna make sure this novella is delivered directly to your kindle on it’s release! Going live on 8-27, I present The Convicts.

Preorder on Amazon

[image error]New Orleans – 1815

Bart Croxen never thought he would see his son again, especially not in Louisiana. Andrew Jackson has finally lifted marshal law over the port city after the Battle of New Orleans and everyone is eager to praise and honor the valiant war heroes who defended them against the invading British. Creoles, Acadians, Irish, Germans, Spanish, and plenty of French citizens welcome Baratarian pirates like James and Robert into their social circles, but they are more interested in reuniting with their estranged relative. They come to find out that Bart has made a reputation for himself as a tamer of rougarous, werewolves like himself who had developed a taste for human flesh. On his plantation of sharecroppers – mostly former slaves that Bart has freed himself – he rehabilitates deranged werewolves in secret.

James has arrived just in time to see his father in action, though he still has some reserves about how the plantation and virtual prison is being operated. Although everyone assures him that Bart is generous and selfless to a fault, he is still not convinced. After an escape attempt by a particularly stubborn and dangerous rougarou, some start to think he may be onto something.

 

What’s been going on…

So, for those who faithfully follow my blog, you might have noticed that I haven’t posted in a while… Like, almost two months. A lot has been going on, which has restricted me from pouring myself into extra activities like blog updates. So, I’ll do my best to sum up how things are going.

[image error]Along with preparing for visiting family (who have since left), our immediately family has been reeling from the loss of a beloved pet. Tammi, our eldest dog, passed away rather suddenly toward the end of June. Through health complications that we aren’t quite certain of, her decline came quickly. She could barely move, refused to eat or drink (which was very unusual) and the docs said there was some sort of infection in her blood, along with possible nerve damage. Three days of worry and panic ended with a call from the vet saying she had passed away in the night before they could really do any other tests or attempts to save her. She was old, so it wasn’t all that surprising, but it was a blow to our household. Tammi might have been one of the more annoying of our two pups, but she was something of a quiet reminder to take things slow and always remember mealtimes. We miss her dearly and though I would have been content to let Sharla (our youngest) become a single-dog, my husband had other ideas.

[image error]About a week ago, we brought home Evie, a one-year-old Australian Cattle Dog mix. Submissive and quiet in the shelter, she came alive with Sharla in our home. There was some dominance issues, of course, but she’s been a joy to have. Rowdy and active, it’s been hard to find quiet time for me to write. Taken from the same shelter we adopt all of our dogs from, we suspect that Evie might have been an owner-surrender or possibly from a small puppy mill since she was brought with her brother around the same time. He was adopted quickly because of his high energy, but Evie was overlooked for some reason. So far, we know that she loves to play and can figure out the treat puzzle toys pretty quickly as long as she can stay focused on them. She’s still a puppy at heart.

[image error]As for writing, I’ve been neck-deep in Civil War research. That’s right! I’m working on Ben Myers’ story. It’s a doozy, filled with immense detail into the life of a Civil War soldier and civilian. I’ve always been interested with this era of American history, but since I’ve had to dig in deeper with this research, I’m realizing this could turn into a passion of mine. I like to call myself an amateur historian at times, given how in-depth I can get with these Legacy novellas, and it’s inspired me to make plans for more historical fiction novels. Nothing I can do right now, but it’s certainly something to consider for the future.

The release of The Convicts, novella #9 of the Legacy Series, will be released very soon. However, I will move heaven and earth to complete The Solder (novella #10) and have it released on September 17th, the 156th anniversary of the battle of Antietam. That same day, I’ll be in Sharpsburg and on the battlefield. Yep! This Florida girl is going to Maryland! I’ll be taking an entire week of vacation to visit places like Jamestown, Richmond, Sharpsburg, Gettysburg, and Chattanooga, stopping in the exact same places my characters walked in the story. Yes, I may have lost my mind, but I’m going to have a blast. One thing to look for once I return that week, is a video of my travels! I’ll be taking short video clips of each place and each marker I visit. I’ll post it here on my blog with pictures and details about the trip that I might have missed in the video. Needless to say, I’m stoked!

So, as you can read, life’s been a little topsy turvy lately and it’s just now slowing down to the point where I can write and relax.

Stay tuned for another blog post regarding book release updates! I’ve got two to share with you!

Things are about to get interesting…

Here’s a sneak peek into my newest release, The Scholars (Book 8 of the Legacy Series)

Chapter 1

The Matilda, September 29th, 1791

Port Jackson, New South Wales

In the pitch darkness, Geoffrey gripped the chains of his shackles, feeling the iron links bite into his palms. The ship continued to creak and moan against the winds that tossed them about at the head of the bay. Above him, he heard the excited voices of the sailors and military men, accompanied by their hurried footsteps pounding against the planks.

They had finally arrived at Port Jackson and would see Sydney Cove by morning. He, Adam, and over two-hundred convicts were to be dropped off with the rest of the cargo brought over from England. Beside Geoffrey, his son was in no better condition. Fidgety and agitated by their confinement, he wrung the same chains that bound them together, although he had advised against it so many times.

Starvation, filth, and stenches no werewolf should ever have to endure had marked this seemingly unending voyage. In actuality, their imprisonment had lasted for only five months – four of which were spent aboard this ship. And the last three and a half were bearable, considering that they had a soldier onboard who was privileged to know of their unique condition.

That soldier, God rest his soul, had been committed to the deep just two weeks prior. Two weeks too soon.

“Don’t break them,” Geoffrey once more cautioned to his son in a hushed whisper that wouldn’t awake the other convicts sleeping in heaps and rows across the hold. Although many probably wouldn’t notice if they broke free of their bonds, they couldn’t afford to make a scene. Not yet.

Adam dropped the chains that connected his feet with a startling racket. A few older men grumbled and cursed him, but the younger werewolf didn’t return their vile insults. Geoffrey shot him a reprimanding look, his golden eyes blazing. His son matched his glare.

Hunger and the pressing need to shift had set them both on edge. Geoffrey could sense that it was his son’s time to change. Though Adam had shown great fortitude in times past, he was still young as werewolves went, and could not resist the shift all night. There wasn’t a werewolf alive who could deny the beast that dwelled within them.

The soldier, the only officer to die thus far on the voyage, had an uncle residing in Portsmouth who was also a werewolf. He understood that Geoffrey and Adam were given to the change once a month and would put on a convincing show of taking one or both of them away to the deepest part of the ship to receive a punishment for some fictitious crime. There, they stayed all night convalescing from a whipping. At least, that’s what the other convicts and officers on the ship were made to believe.

If only that man were still alive. If only Geoffrey, lost in a fog of delirium and silent rage brought on by an empty stomach and restless wolf, could come up with a plan for escape. If only they were at Sydney Cove already so they could put their feet on some solid ground.

Just the thought of dry land made his muscles tense and joints ache, the need to shift pressing forward again without his consent. Clearing his mind once more, he let go of his own chains and took a deep breath. He was made to suffer the fetid odors of piss, excrement, sickness, and death for four months and it was finally at an end.

But what awaited them in the budding settlement?

It wasn’t his idea to accept the charges that were brought against them. It wasn’t his idea to stay behind prison bars while their fate was decided. His son was the orchestrator of this scheme. For over fifty years, they had lived comfortably in England. They never stayed in one place for more than a decade so as not to raise suspicion, but their offenses finally caught up with them. Taxes. Bloody taxes. The government needed them and Geoffrey had neglected to pay his dues.

They could have broken free the moment they were taken into custody in Kent, but Adam advised against it as soon as they came to understand where they would be transported for the next seven years.

This bold, adventurous spirit was not inherited from Geoffrey and if it weren’t for the green eyes they shared, he might have been tempted to think that Adam was not his son at all. That enthusiastic spark belonged to someone else entirely, whose name could barely be thought of without bringing with it great pain.

“We can swim for it,” Adam muttered beside him, a gravelly undertone in his words that told Geoffrey the shift was very near. If they didn’t find a safe way to get him below in the cargo hold or away from these men, he was liable to cause a scene.

“Swim?” he hissed. “You can’t be serious.”

One look into his son’s face told him that he was completely determined. Black fur was already trying to push its way through his dark skin, but Adam somehow managed to force it back to its source. Geoffrey was constantly astounded by his son’s remarkable abilities that stemmed directly from his close, personal relationship with the wolf within him.

Without any more delay, Adam seized his chains and snapped a few of the links. First on the shackles that bound his wrists, and then to the ones that wove through the ankle cuffs. Geoffrey reached out and dug his emerging claws into his son’s arm to keep him seated.

“Don’t be a damned fool,” he growled.

Adam turned on him, lips pulled to reveal a set of fangs that he could no more conceal than his golden eyes. “Are you with me or not?”

Like so many times before, Geoffrey was transported back to a time before Adam was alive, before tragedy and loss scarred his heart forever. It was something his brother would say. And as if those words brought back a tiny piece of his old self, Geoffrey reached down and broke his own fetters, letting the tiny shards of iron patter to the floor.

Adam was the first to bolt to his feet. What remained of his shackles didn’t encumber him as much as the hunger, and his legs refused to carry him fast enough through the ship’s hold and up the stairs to the main deck. Geoffrey followed close behind.

Guards, sailors, and soldiers in their bright red uniforms shouted and gunshots sounded, but neither werewolf paid them any attention. A few firm shoves to those who stood in their way and the path to freedom was cleared.

They vaulted over the side of the ship, plunging feet-first into the freezing waters below. In this region of the world, spring was just around the corner, but for now, winter still held a tight grip over this newly settled country.

The cold sobered him just long enough to fight back the shift. Beneath the surface, however, he could see Adam struggling. Bubbles of air escaped from his tightened lips as his human form gave way to the beast. His son sank deeper into the murky bay, thrashing and rolling.

With his lungs burning for air, Geoffrey dove down as the ship continued along its course. The shouts and alarms died away and the bullets that whizzed past lost their momentum in the water. His hands frantically grabbed for Adam’s thick arm that was now covered in hair just as his son was regaining some level of consciousness.

The shift was complete and as they struggled their way toward the direction of the shore, only his torn clothes drifted to the seafloor. When their heads broke the surface, both gasped for air. One human mouth and one wolf-like muzzle gaped and swallowed a bit of brackish water as they fought the waves that tried to sweep them under again.

Orienting themselves only by the ship that made its way toward Sydney Cove, they turned to the north and swam across the width of Port Jackson. Soon enough, Geoffrey’s bare feet slammed against the sand as they approached a beach near the head of another cove.

Adam wasted no time and charged up the shore to shake out his fur. Geoffrey, however, dragged himself onto the bank, feeling the sharp rocks and bits of broken shell prick across his skin. Fatigued by the long swim that was made even more laborious by the hunger clamping his stomach like a vice, he could barely bring himself to move. The surf washed around him as Adam patiently waited for his father. In the course of the shift, the cuffs of their shackles had splintered and fallen away. Adam’s set were now at the bottom of the bay, and Geoffrey’s would soon sink into the damp sand of the beach to lie undisturbed for God only knew how long.

As if his half-man, half-wolf form gave him renewed strength, Adam seemed undaunted by their escape or their near-drowning experience. If he had the strength to form words, Geoffrey might have cursed the boy for his inexhaustible vitality.

Slowly, his energy was restored, but he first assessed his surroundings as he always did before commencing the shift. There wasn’t another human along the beach, or in the dense woods behind Adam that stretched on immeasurably to the north. This country, wild and untamed by any European influence, was the final piece of the map, the last frontier on the earth to be claimed and molded into whatever England wanted it to be. Whether that was forever a penal colony made up of soldiers and convicts, or a lively, sprawling civilization was yet to be determined. Sydney might become the new London with time.

But for now, this was the place that Adam wanted to explore and discover. It wasn’t the last place left to be surveyed by a Swenson, but Geoffrey’s son was convinced that they should continue the adventure that began centuries ago. Only, one member of their expedition was forever lost, and because of that, Geoffrey didn’t necessarily agree. But he had given into his son, thinking such compliance was due to him after decades of training and isolation.

Geoffrey sat up on his elbows and looked up to the moon and stars above. It was the same sky that blanketed the night over England, but perhaps there was something to what Adam expected out of this idiotic journey. Maybe they would discover something worthwhile in these uncharted forests.

He pushed himself up and with aching effort, shedding the last of his clothes to shift.

***

Adam had never welcomed a shift more eagerly in his life. His wolf, as docile and accepting as it was at times, could not be reasoned with while onboard the Matilda. Impatient and frantic, it would not bear the internment any longer. Shifting underwater was a new experience, just as laying sprawled across this unevenly shady spot atop a waterfall was.

The morning sun warmed parts of his back as the thin canopy of leaves above him swayed in the wind. This country, untouched by the settlers that presided to the south, was unlike anything he had encountered in the place he was born or in England.

The myriad of scents was entirely foreign. The birdsongs that first awoke him some time ago were completely different in pitch and melody than he had ever heard. Even the rock on which he stretched was new and strange in its coloration. Glistening with the steady, but faint stream of water that flowed down to join the pool about a dozen feet below, the stone was a marbling of red, orange, and dark golden hues that stood out amongst the rich green foliage around him.

Where his father was couldn’t be determined from where Adam lay. His stomach was too full of the game they had hunted the night before. He would never regret stuffing himself beyond what was sensible at the time. Neither would he regret convincing Geoffrey to come to New South Wales. The long voyage on the ship was worth it, even until the end when their imprisonment could no longer be borne.

They had planned to help the colony thrive in what way they could, and when their seven-year internment was finished, they would find some land of their own if they liked the place well enough. And just from what little they had seen so far, Adam liked it quite a lot. It wasn’t like his home territory in America, with its unforgiving, dry deserts and high cliffs, but it was far from the grassy pastures of England where one could never escape from the subtle hints of habitation that floated on the winds from the bigger cities.

There was one scent, though, one trace signature of something familiar close by. Masked by the wilderness, he could still detect the presence of humans. Somewhere down the stream from where the waterfall originated, he could hear them scurrying in the brush, making their way closer. By the minimal impression the moving bodies made upon the thick forest they waded through, Adam guessed they must have been children. Two of them.

He stayed perfectly still with his eyes fixed on the rippling waters below and chin resting upon his arms, waiting for them to make their presence fully known. But they stayed in the bushes and whispered to one another in a language that he couldn’t begin to understand. It certainly wasn’t English.

After a few moments, there came perfect silence and Adam wondered if he had imagined them, or if they had slunk away, thinking he was dead or asleep.

Risking himself, he turned and peered in their direction. No movement, but he could finally hear their tiny hearts beat a little faster. Through the leaves, he could see them. Skin as black as the slaves he had seen in England, with hair and eyes to match. The only bit of color – or lack thereof – was in the whites of their eyes that stared at him from the safety of their cover.

Another thing he noticed was that they were as naked as he was. Adam still wasn’t sure what he would do for clothing now that he was back in his human form. And perhaps that’s what made them curious. He wasn’t fair-skinned like the other Europeans that they must have met already, but he wasn’t as dark as they were. Whatever they thought, Adam knew they weren’t afraid.

Even when he pushed himself up and sat on the rock, they didn’t budge. Though, they had to know that he knew they were there. Still, they didn’t run.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said to them, holding up his hands to show that he had no weapons.

But this speech was what drove them to finally run away, fleeing deeper into the woodlands, leaving little evidence of their presence besides their scents on the branches they pushed aside. Adam, just as curious as they were, took off after them.

Soon, he realized it was a game. When they darted behind a cluster of trees, they would stop and watch for him. Of course, he played along and pretended not to know where they were. When they sped away again, giggling and muttering in those animated words again, he ran after them, always staying a good distance behind.

They came to a piece of land that was cleared of all underbrush. Only tall trees with smooth trunks and twisted branches provided ample shade across the lush, but slightly rocky, terrain. To the north, there ran a great body of water, perhaps another bay or a cove.

Now, he could see the boys bounding off, the rough, faded bottoms of their feet kicking up dirt as they went. There was nowhere to hide now, but they didn’t seem worried by that. Adam watched them run, weaving between the trees toward the other end of the turf where the forest continued. But he was no longer concerned with them.

The back of his head tingled, alerting him to the presence of another like him. Another werewolf. It had to be his father, but he couldn’t pick up his scent anywhere. He followed the sensation, listening to the nudges that his wolf provided. But what he found was not Geoffrey. Across another expanse of jungle and through two more fields like the one he had just passed, he saw it.

A hut with a thatched roof made of the tall grasses that skirted the riverbanks, and walls plastered with dark mud, stood between a grouping of trees whose stalks appeared to have no bark at all and gleamed in the sunlight.

Adam stayed out of sight from the opening to the hut. Inside, was the werewolf, somehow oblivious to his being there. He should have been feeling the same prickling across his skin or at least heard his approach. But he didn’t come out of the hut.

It was then he saw the two natives – both he now realized to be boys, since they came out from the brush ahead of him – run forward and enter the hut. They shouted at the werewolf in gleeful, excited tones. A few seconds later, they were guiding him by the hands, nearly dragging him out of his home.

Adam peered at the man, carefully assessing him and wondering if this could be the werewolf he sensed. He was European with light brown hair dominated by streaks of silver and gray that matched the beard he must have been growing for some time. His body had seen better days, like a man who was once fit and powerful, but had been reduced to a life of relative inactivity. His clothes, darkened by dirt stains, hung off his frame like they were too big for him, but Adam could see the slight curves of lean muscle.

His eyes, as green and bright as the vegetation that covered this part of the land, looked all about until they landed on the place where Adam had hidden himself. There was something familiar in the way his lips flattened into a grim line as he straightened and let go of the boys’ hands.

They stared at one another, both with their brows puckered in confusion.

As soon as the two native children ran off to disappear into the brush again, Adam stepped out. His nakedness didn’t seem to surprise the man.

“Do you speak English?” Adam asked, keeping his voice level and unoffending.

It seemed that the man didn’t quite hear him, but answered with a wave of his hand, beckoning him to come closer. Adam obeyed and asked his question again.

“I do,” he replied. The deep, rumbling, and slightly breaking words told him that despite the man’s aging appearance, he hadn’t lost any of his pride or confidence.

Adam allowed himself a smile. “Do you belong with the Sydney Cove settlement?” It was unlikely that the Europeans would have spread out this far already. Besides the native boys, this man was the first person he had encountered since they’d come ashore. Perhaps he was a convict that had escaped.

The question brought a glint of humor into the old man’s eyes and he shook his head. “No. Do you?”

An honest answer might have incriminated him, but something instinctively told Adam that this man could be trusted, even if his senses couldn’t. So far, there was nothing to recommend that this man was a werewolf. His build, though tall and once sturdy, wasn’t right. And why couldn’t he hear Adam the first time he spoke from across the grove? Why did he seemed surprised to learn that he was there, when he should have known he was coming minutes before the two boys rushed in.

“We just arrived last night on a transport from England,” Adam said.

The man’s gaze swept over him. “You don’t sound English.”

“It’s a long story.”

After a moment of consideration, the old man nodded and gestured toward his hut. “Well, you can tell me about it once you’re in some proper clothes. I have a spare pair of trousers you can use.”

Adam thanked him and followed him inside the hut. Furnished with a cot, table, and one stool made from similar wood he had seen in the surrounding area, the man must have lived alone, and with very few possessions. The man bent over a light crate in the corner, filled with folded clothes and thread-bare blankets, and produced a clean pair of pants which he tossed to Adam.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he tugged the fabric over his legs. Though he might have preferred to bathe himself before dressing, he didn’t want to seem rude and disappear on his host.

“Alfred Swenson,” the man replied before taking a seat on the stool that creaked under his weight.

Adam froze and stared. “Swenson?” he repeated.

Alfred took up a piece of wood and whittling blade from the table. “You heard right,” he said as he continued the carving he had been working on before Adam interrupted him.

It wasn’t possible. Even the first name was correct by the account that his father had given him years ago. Geoffrey never spoke of him except in hateful grumbles when Adam finally asked what had become of the grandfather he never knew. Little else was communicated to him besides the fact that he had abandoned his family centuries ago, leaving Geoffrey and Hugo to fend for themselves and learn how to control their remarkable abilities as werewolves. No happy memories were imparted, no wishful thinking that one day they would all be reunited. Nothing but that burning resentment that was eternally linked with his name and the crime he had committed so long ago.

“And yours?” Alfred inquired, meeting Adam’s dumbstruck expression.

The question knocked him back into the present and he fastened the last button on the trousers. “Adam… Adam Swenson.”

Alfred now mirrored his stunned guest and blinked rapidly a few times before he seemed to comprehend their connection. “Swenson?”

“You heard right.”

Both appeared just as doubtful as the other.

“Who was your father?” Alfred demanded, looking him up and down, probably searching for any hint of resemblance. He would only find it in the eyes, as most of everything else was the result of blending Navajo and English bloodlines. The color of his hair and skin straddled the line, not quite as light as his father’s, but nowhere near as dark as his mother’s, which must have been what gave Alfred cause to disbelieve.

“Geoffrey Swenson.”

At this, Alfred’s hands began to tremble, and he set the knife back on the table before he accidentally cut himself. By his display of shock, Adam knew it was true. This man was his grandfather.

Questions flew through his mind, too many to number or snatch from the swarm. Where could they possibly begin? Why was he here? If he wasn’t part of the settlement, then what brought him to this place? Why did he discharge the typical werewolf signal, but not retain any of the traits?

Alfred must have been struggling in a similar way. Surely, he would want to know why Adam was there. Out of all the infinite possibilities of who could have landed on the same continent, within the same span of time, somehow by chance, they finally met. The term “miracle” wasn’t bold enough. It was too weak a word to explain what had just happened here.

Before either of them could speak first, Adam heard someone else approach the grove. By the forceful steps and the way he fought through the underbrush, Adam knew it wasn’t a native. One whiff of the air just inside the hut door confirmed it.

“I’ll be right back,” he said to Alfred in a hushed tone, urging him to keep his seat.

Adam hurried out into the grove and saw his father step past the brambles. Thorns more than an inch long protruded from his thighs and hips. His skin was smeared with dirt and mud, while his dark blonde hair appeared damp with twigs sticking out from the tangles.

“Why didn’t you stay close by?” his father complained. “Where did you get the pants?”

Trying to block his view of the hut, Adam rushed forward to turn his father around. If he could usher him away fast enough, perhaps he wouldn’t see it. But something in his nervous manner must have set him off.

Geoffrey pushed past him and looked to the hut, his face wrinkling with puzzlement that quickly morphed into something like doubt. Could Alfred keep the same scent over centuries? Would Geoffrey still recognize it?

“Did you happen to see those two native boys?” Adam asked in a further attempt to distract him. “They were just here a moment ago.”

It didn’t work. Recognition dawned in his eyes and Geoffrey marched toward the hut. Adam tried to hold him back, but he might as well have been trying to detain a stampeding mustang. He grabbed for his father’s arm, but he wouldn’t be stopped.

Probably hearing his lame efforts to detain Geoffrey, Alfred appeared in the doorway. The old man went pale at the sight of his son, who was no longer a boy, but a grown man. Now, Adam could see the resemblance.

Too quick for even his eyes to see, Geoffrey charged at Alfred.

The old man fell to the ground, the younger and more incensed werewolf looming over him with golden eyes. Adam came up behind his father and finally managed to pull him away, scooping under Geoffrey’s arms to drag him a good few yards out of reach. Their strengths were equally matched as they wrestled. One trying to wrench himself free to probably kill Alfred, the other trying to save his grandfather from an enraged and bitter werewolf who had centuries of payback to administer.

Dominance, a mostly unnecessary tool to Adam, finally became beneficial in trying to apprehend Geoffrey. Like everything else, he had adopted the skill rather quickly after becoming a werewolf. His power almost rivaled that of his father, who didn’t hold back anything for the sake of the relation with whom he fought. Their dominance clashed and blanketed the grove until every creature with a beating heart within a mile was stricken with a sudden and inexplicable fear for their lives – including Alfred.

The old man pushed himself off the ground and held his broken jaw. But the more time went by, the more perplexed Adam became. He wasn’t healing. Not quickly anyway. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he looked and watched the two men who were yelling, flailing, and groping for one another for their own dire purposes.

Something like regret and an utter, soul-crushing grief shone behind those green eyes that all three men shared. That’s when Adam knew that something wasn’t right with Alfred. He was still a werewolf, but just barely.

Paranormal Forensics – The Scented Bones Cover Reveal

The Scented Bones Cover Reveal

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The Scented Bones: The Svabodina Case Files (The Svabodina Case Files Book 1)

Genre: Paranormal/ Crime Thriller

Expected Publication Date: September 28, 2018

Angel Svabodina is a rookie forensic anthropologist, enjoying the beginning of her new career. That joy comes crashing down when she figures out the skeleton she’s working on is not human and then it vanishes.

She throws herself fully into the case without thinking about the parties involved, a psychopomp associate, and paranormal mafia families made up of vampires and werewolves—or the consequences.

When she sees there’s no avoiding the inevitable, Angel has to suck it up and work with the werewolves to solve the case but can she trust them?

Werewolves and witches are in a centuries-old feud, but that doesn’t stop the shivers running down her spine from one wolf in particular. What’s more, nothing comes for free, including information. To get what she needs from the werewolf don, Angel has to meet with the fae queen. Can she meet her without repercussions and solve the case?

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Available for Pre-Order: Amazon

About the Author

ANGELINA KERNER is a self-published author of paranormal and lighthearted romance. She’s the wife of a photographer/physicist, and the mother of a cute little toddler, but she’s also been a dancer, a psychologist, an anthropologist, a geographer, a dreamer, and an adventurer. She does her best writing while being bothered by her cats, taking care of her son, in dressing rooms while waiting for family to try on clothing, and at home in sunny California. Angelina loves to play goddess-dragon matchmaker, transporting readers to a place where young goddesses have lovable flaws, the Fates plan to dethrone, the universe is endless and untamed, and dragons roam free! She also loves to write carefree romance where one can finish reading with a smile.

Visit her website at http://www.kernerangelina.live

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