Book Review: Salt by Liz Shipton

Today I’m veering off the normal promo posts path because I recently read a book (in one day) that just blew it out of the water. This is also proof that the social media grind does actually pay off sometimes so, dear indies, keep going even when it seems like it’s pointless. Anyway, I found Liz’s writing because she makes really hilarious reels about what it’s like being a writer and, in my ongoing attempt to build and support community, I decided to check her out. I was not disappointed in the least.

“Salt” is a fully immersive tale of a young MC who stumbles into a mess, who is a mess herself, and absolutely delivers at every turn. This book marches to the beat of a different drum. Without ever having spoken to Author Liz Shipton, I feel like she is my tribe. The main character, Bird Howsley, is a believable young adult navigating a messed-up post-apocalyptic world of big tech with a nautical theme that’s extremely refreshing. The supporting cast is great, inclusive, and, at times, hilarious. Humor is seamlessly woven into the narrative in a way that had me laughing as I couldn’t wait to turn the page. YA is not usually my cup of tea, but I’m glad I stepped outside my norm on this one. The spice level is age appropriate and not over done. The main supporting character, Sargo, is so well done and younger me would one-hundred percent be into him.

That’s the general review I left on the appropriate channels, but I’d like to elaborate just a little. First of all, this book is written in first person, present tense. If you know me at all, you know that is my absolute favorite format to write in myself, and to see it done well makes my black heart very happy. At no point does said writing throw you out of the narrative. It’s all quite smoothly done and, in my opinion, it actually makes the story more immersive.

Next, there is a moderate amount of spice in the story. Again, if you know me, you know I have zero qualms with sexy time in writing, but it can be overdone in my near-geriatric opinion. This book does it well. It makes sense for the age of the characters. It’s not overdone, trashy, or forced. It simply works.

Next. The world building is just fantastic. I went into it not knowing jack about sailing, but came out on the other side feeling like I had been in Sargo’s class. It’s obvious Liz used a bit of personal knowledge and it really shines through to round out the setting, which is a highly creative take on a dystopian story.

Character development and interaction is another high point. Bird is not your average hero. She’s a hot mess and that’s something I think we can all appreciate. We’ve all been there at some point. She’s believable and I feel like that’s important. Her budding relationship with Sargo is well done. They have their moments of butting heads and they work through them. While Sargo is a bit young for real me, young me is a sucker for a brown boy with dark curls. So, there’s that.

The best part? The story doesn’t end with book one. While I haven’t picked up the next installment yet, I will be doing so. I 10/10 recommend this book and author. Check her out!

https://lizshipton.com

https://www.facebook.com/lizshiptonauthor

The Song of the Sparrow Release Day!

It’s time! The Song of the Sparrow, Order of Crows Book Two is LIVE!

Huge thanks to everyone who helped me get to this point. Notably Eugenie Rayner of Magic Lamp Editing Services, and Melissa Stevens of The Illustrated Author Design Services for yet another stunning cover. There are a ton of folks out there who consistently like, share, and in general support me and a million thanks to them, as well. Just a reminder, The Murder Meets at Dusk is free for Kindle for a limited time, so if you’re not caught up on the first book, now is a good time for it. Read on for an excerpt from The Song of the Sparrow!

Aleister draws in a deep breath that’s shakier than he’d like. He quickly scans the circle without actually making eye contact with anyone and gives them a tamely confident smile, arrogant in its modesty. Then he nonchalantly slips the watch from his pocket and clicks it open. The big hand is on the five. Four minutes is plenty of time to piss off some enemies.

“Remember that if the unseelie show up, they’ll just as likely be throwing spells as using their weapons,” he says. “Be ready.” He glances at Cait, who nods, then he walks away. He hopes she can shield them from fey magic, anyway. It’s one of a million unknowns in what’s to come.

He saunters across the field, where he can feel the shield magic begin to tickle the hairs on his skin. The watch chain hangs from his fingers. The thing itself makes his blood rush, gives him a comforting ratification of his abilities.

As he walks, memories of the afternoon replay. Aleister groggily and grumpily insisting that if the others drop the shield he can hold the curse and take out several waves of enemies. The rest of the Murder arguing that the trap he’s trying to set would leave his back open to any moderately-paced attack. Aleister refusing to give them details on how exactly he plans to hold the curse in place for multiple enemies, and also refusing to back down until the rest of them agreed. The enemy would underestimate him, he had said, because his own Murder did.

“Your time must be in very high demand, Aleister Corigan, to have a need to check that watch so often.”  

The smooth voice comes from just on the other side of the shield, as close to it as he is. The air grows hazy and hot for a moment, then the scenery blurs as a prim shape follows the words. It’s Shihab wearing the face of a young man, chest bare, loose-fitting pants fading to nothing where a man would have feet. The jinn is smirking.  

Aleister answers the sentiment with a smile that fully embraces his darkness. It’s long and thin and dry. He gently closes the lid of the watch, eyes rising like the silver moon. On the surface he’s all calm control, but the presence of this being is much different from the first time they met, before Aleister’s perception kicked into hyperactivity.  

Now he can feel the heat of the smokeless fire. It’s an altogether different kind of burn. It hurts to be close to Shihab, like his skeleton has grown too hot for the muscles and organs it supports. Good, he thinks, a little pain might do him well, might keep him grounded.

“The night is still young,” he says in a flirtatious drawl.

He might as well let the dark side out to play. The metal in his hands begins to heat. His movement is anticipation in motion as he slides the watch back into his pocket and says, “My schedule is wide open.”

The jinn’s eyebrows lift in amusement. He watches Aleister’s hand produce a simple cigarette case.  

“You are every bit as haughty as I have been told,” Shihab answers. “But we shall break that assurance soon enough. It seems you have already found the first wave of my forces, and surely you think you have done much harm, but that was a small taste of the nightmares that shall be visited upon you this night.” 

The Countdown Begins!

Well, folks, this is really happening. I’m inside a week from release of The Song of the Sparrow. I’m so incredibly excited and nervous and a barrage of other emotions. There have been plenty of times over the course of the last fourteen years when I believed the second installment of the Crows’ story would never see a real page. Now I’m looking at those pages, granted it’s a proof copy, but it’s a lot more real than staring at my computer screen.

The book itself has come a long way, too. When I say the innards are a completely overhauled version of the original manuscript, I’m not kidding. I rewrote almost every word of it, and I’m very proud of the outcome. Of course, I’m already in the process of doing the same for Book 3, and hopefully it won’t take another two years before that one is ready for release. Alas, I’m looking to the future, but don’t think I’m not celebrating in the now. I think it’s important to celebrate ourselves and our accomplishments as much as it’s important to acknowledge our failures.

With that in mind, I’d like to announce that in celebration of this release, The Murder Meets at Dusk, Order of Crows Book 1 will be free for Kindle starting August 10 (the day before Sparrow releases) and lasting until August 13. That means if you haven’t read the first book, that will be your chance to catch up. If you have read the first book, maybe you know someone who would be interested. Spread the word, my friends. You are my unofficial street team, and every like, share, and word of mouth means the world to me.

So, mark your calendars! The Song of the Sparrow releases August 11th!

Cover Reveal! The Song of the Sparrow

It’s time, my friends! Share with me a moment I, at times over the years, had thought would never come. The Song of the Sparrow, Order of Crows Book Two will release August 11, but today … the world gets to see the cover! Celebrate with me!

As usual, huge thanks goes to The Illustrated Author Design Services for this magnificent piece of art, time, and dedication.

And without any more delay …

Aleister Corigan watches the last rays of daylight sink out of sight from the rocking chair on his back porch. The clouds are painted in brilliant orange and pink, but soon it will fall to darkness. Usually he wouldn’t mourn a dying day, but this night brings with it a vast unknown of enemies and violence.

Four full nights have passed since the attack that led him to a series of discoveries, an army in the shadows waiting to crash through the magical protection over the city. Those four nights have changed everything. Now war is imminent. A battle of unthinkable magnitude has come to the Order of Crows’ doorstep and they have no choice but to fight.

Aleister slept after the Murder parted ways earlier in the day. He had no choice. As much as he would rather have focused some time on preparation, his physiology put him under as soon as he got home. Still, he’s already exhausted, and a strange, ebbing magic is in the air that makes his skin prickle. He had thought at first that it was a lingering effect of Casper’s alarm sigils, but he realized later it was something else, the evacuation order Legba sought from the city council.

Now Aleister has showered and dressed, casually for him in a black v-neck shirt with long sleeves and grey t-shirt beneath. A glass of red wine sits unheeded on the table beside him. The enchanted pocket watch that will boost his magic by the number on its face is in his hand. The fabled grimoire, the Key of Solomon, rests on his lap. He’s smoking slowly as he stares at the book.

It’s not open but he can hear quiet rasping whispers from it, words in a dark tongue that he doesn’t really understand but recognizes as infernal. This is a dangerous book, one that stirs fear in his inner sanctum. He won’t open it again unless he absolutely has to. The power to summon the Princes of Hell could just as easily be disastrous as it could be useful. Never mind the question of why it came to him.

The sky is fading now to true night. He can feel the pull of the full moon as it makes its ascent. He has to go face the Murder and the impending mayhem. He has to go start a war.

The Song of the Sparrow Excerpt/Character Spotlight: Nichi

Y’all! We are getting ever closer to release, and I am so excited! Cover reveal is coming very soon. Look for it probably this weekend. Today, though, let’s talk about Nichi. She is the Murder’s healer, but she’s no damsel. She hails from Japanese heritage, wields a sword, and manipulates Ki as her form of magic. That gives her unique communion with the body and spirit of others. If you’ve read The Murder Meets at Dusk, you know she plays an important role. If you haven’t, let’s just say she plays an important role.

Personally, I love Nichi as a character. She’s a strong female, but not removed from her femininity. She won’t take shit from anyone but she’s still empathetic to the suffering of others. She’s not overprotective, but she’ll stand up for her Murder. Mostly, she knows what she’s capable of.

Please enjoy this excerpt from The Song of the Sparrow:

Aleister is quietly watching the others move in chairs and other furniture to sit on and arrange it all in a circle in the middle room of the office. He feels absolutely wretched, like a bigger pile of shit than he previously thought humanly possible. The little bit of food he forced himself to swallow and the coffee aren’t helping.

His body is distinctly feeling the several beatings it has taken over the course of the last few days. Even his soul hurts. It’s a strange feeling, one he didn’t know was possible and, while it’s an interesting discovery, it’s not that interesting. When he tests his magic’s gate a stinging sensation runs through him. In retrospect, he knows he pushed pretty damn close to the line. He knows he nearly destroyed that gate with his own power. He almost lost everything.

Nichi offered to heal him. She had insisted on it but he told her to save it for when they really need her. He’s half-seriously considering changing his mind. He’s mildly surprised no one has said anything about him sitting on his ass while they’re doing the work. It’s a very mild surprise that doesn’t really break the surface. Probably because of the massive headache that has his skull in a vice.

A sudden hand on his shoulder makes him tense. He goes on the defensive by reflex. His gate starts to open. Then an undeniable calm seeps through him from the physical contact, followed by an involuntary relaxation. He looks up at Nichi standing beside him.

“I’m not asking again,” she says in a tone that begs him to argue. He might if she didn’t have him completely under her spell already.

“Thanks,” he answers softly.

He can feel a reluctance in her, maybe because of the contact, but he thinks he’d feel it even if she wasn’t touching him. He breaks the eye contact and happens to notice Cait watching the exchange. He doesn’t make true eye contact, though, and is less worried about being noticed than he thought he would be.

“You might as well say it.”

A quiet sigh precedes Nichi’s next words.

“You almost burned yourself out.”

He hesitates.

“I know.”

There’s something else coming across their connection, something that stirs surprise in the midst of the rest of his whirling emotions.

“I just … be careful,” she says.

“You’re worried about me.”

He’s sure he meant for that to be a question. It came out of his mouth as much more of a realization, albeit one laced with disbelief. He hasn’t really taken the time to let himself consider the ways the two of them broke the Order’s rules, but he can at least say he definitely didn’t expect it to change everything so much.

“Yes, I guess I am,” she answers. She lets a few beats pass then adds, “Why are you so surprised?”

He shrugs the shoulder her hand is on. He’s not really sure what to say so he doesn’t answer. Moments later her touch disappears. He really does feel much better. He looks back up at her.

“Better?”

“Much.”

She glances down at him, nods, then walks away. He watches her go, forgetting for a moment that he shouldn’t be watching the way she moves like water around rocks. When she kneels in front of Casper and they start talking, he looks away. He realizes the others are starting to sit down.

The Song of the Sparrow Excerpt/Character Spotlight: Santino

Hello, all! Today I’d like to share another character spotlight with you. Today we’re going to talk about Santino di Veneto. Santino is the oldest among the Murder, significantly so for some of them. He hails from Italian roots, is typically a portrait of calm, and wields an emotional mask much of the time. He’s an ordained member of the Church, which sometimes causes conflict and friction.

When I first wrote Santino those many moons ago, I thought he was going to be another antagonistic force within in the Order. Turns out, he’s really important. He sometimes comes across as smug and maybe a little condescending, but beneath the mask he’s incredibly reasonable and, his defining characteristic, patient. He knows when to push and pull, so to speak, and when to just listen. He also stands as a bit of an opposite force to Aleister, who wields black magic. So there’s a fun dynamic between them that’s not as hostile as one might expect.

Please enjoy this excerpt from The Song of the Sparrow, which will release August 11, and (shh) be on the lookout for the cover reveal very soon:

He too looks to Aleister in time to see his hands ball into fists. He turns unsteadily and pins a manic look on Johnny, who has stepped up beside Santino. Johnny’s surprise brings the air to life around them as he lifts his hands in defense.

“What did you see?” Aleister demands.

He’s like a walking firecracker, his magic still visible in traces on his skin. His eyes glitter like quicksilver. His hands shake visibly as he raises an accusatory finger.  

“What,” he says again, much lower and more menacing, “did you see?”

Johnny’s hesitation is apparently enough to stir Aleister’s impatience, because he turns on Lochlann, who had been in front of him but who stepped aside when Aleister addressed the elf. Lochlann doesn’t exactly go on the defensive. He just returns a steady gaze from his good eye.

“Tell me what you saw that made the vampire cross the line!” Aleister cries.

Santino searches his memory for a time he has seen Aleister lose his composure this way. There isn’t one. This is entirely new.

“What are you talking about?” Lochlann says softly.

“The trap shouldn’t have worked. The vampires were onto me. Something forced Benjamin just as it forced the first vampire through the curse. I know you saw it appear!” Aleister says shakily.

Lochlann takes a step toward Aleister and clamps a hand on his shoulder. Aleister’s expression goes sour, like he suddenly feels sick. He sways again.

“I can’t say for sure,” Lochlann answers.

“I know you saw it!” Aleister snaps, jaw grinding visibly.   

Lochlann says, “I don’t know. It had no shape. There was no face, but it had eyes of all colors,” says Lochlann, his one good eye holding Aleister’s furious gaze captive.

“What madness are you speaking?” the planar crow asks, an incredulous whisper that makes Santino shudder.

“It’s not madness,” Johnny speaks, stepping up beside Aleister and gently putting one hand on his back.

Aleister sags and the crunch in his features smooths. There’s indignation in his eyes, but it doesn’t come out of his mouth. His eyelids visibly weight down like he can’t keep them open.

“The elementals screamed when it appeared then fell completely silent. I couldn’t see anything, like it was obscured by its own power,” Johnny says.

Santino watches the exchange with a thinly veiled fascination. Something about the combined forces of Johnny and Lochlann have taken Aleister’s roar to a hum. Still, he can see the Corigan’s rage struggle back to the surface. A suspicion Santino had earlier in the day resurfaces.

“Your magic is too hot. Whatever it was has gone,” Lochlann says. “We can’t chase it across the planes.”  

Aleister’s eyes flatten, beg to differ, but he still doesn’t speak.

“We have much more important obligations here,” Johnny says.

What a team Lochlann and Johnny make to quell the temper of the fire gate. By the looks of Aleister, it’s not an attribute he appreciates just now. He looks like he’s going to argue, but maybe like he can’t find the words.

“What did you feel, Aleister?” Santino cuts in. He watches the Corigan peel his eyes from Johnny then blink questioningly, as though the words are slow to make sense.

“On the front line, when the presence appeared. What did you feel?”

Aleister’s verging panic seems to have calmed, but his steel eyes are now full of suspicion as he stares at Santino for a long time. The priest doesn’t necessarily want to spread the cards of history out now, not this way, and he hopes that Aleister will catch the implications in the question. Santino knew their parents’ Murder much better than most of the others. He also knew Aleister’s mother.

Finally Aleister says, “It felt like we’re in fucking trouble. Whatever it is, it’s stronger than we are, stronger than the jinn. And it will be back.”

His gaze drifts to the ground and the fire goes out completely. He has drained himself to a dangerous level, and so soon when they hardly know what’s to come. Santino releases a quiet sigh and looks around at the rest of the Murder, waiting to see if anyone will question what he means or why he would ask Aleister that particular question. No one seems poised to speak, but Nichi’s eyes are on Santino and there’s a knowing light in them. Strange that she would be in on Aleister’s newly developed secret.

“How did you touch me without taking the curse, and how did you stop me?” Aleister asks quietly without lifting his eyes.

Santino glances at Miller and finds the priest also watching him closely. Santino clears his throat and says, “God’s light protects me. Good thing, too.”

Aleister’s eyes narrow again but he doesn’t say anything snotty. He just sniffs indignantly. Lochlann and Johnny remove their hands from him and he nearly falls. He manages to catch his own weight. He pushes his chin into the air.

“We should split up now,” he says, glancing sideways at Santino, who steps forward and reaches Solomon’s Key into the space between them. When Aleister moves to take it, Santino doesn’t let it go, which solicits a hard look and a moment of actual eye contact from the Corigan.

Santino holds the moment long enough for Aleister to realize there won’t be a deeper connection. He won’t say as much. He shouldn’t need to. Aleister’s eyes widen. Santino releases the book. It looks so big in Aleister’s hands.

“Agreed. We meet at the Square,” Santino says.

The Song of the Sparrow Excerpt/Dual Character Spotlight

So I spent a while this morning going back and forth on today’s blog content. Who to feature? Marisa. No, Legba. No, it should be Marisa. Then I figured…what the hell…I’m going to do both because it’s my party and there are no rules.

Both Marisa and Legba are strong supporting characters within the Order of Crows. Every member of the Murder hail from different mythological backgrounds. It’s a world that’s all-inclusive, every religion and tons of different folklore. I was certainly ambitious when I started this story fifteen years ago. Yet I managed to make it work, with a nod of thanks to Neil Gaiman and his “American Gods” that made me realize way back when that I could basically do what I want when it comes to my stories. I’ll also say here that a lot of that mythology is loosely interpreted for creative purposes. At no point did I intend to stay rooted in fact, or traditional fiction, as the case may be for religions and folklore.

Legba, if you’re unfamiliar with the name, hails from the world of Voodoo. Marisa comes from ancient Mayan stories. With these two characters, I decided to make them both human and divinity. They’re demigods. Legba is the bridge to the loa, or Voodoo gods. He is the way for humans to link to their gods. Marisa’s domain is darker, and she is my other trigger warning from the story. Her domain is death by suicide, and the idea that those who take their own death by the reins have freedom in the afterlife.

In The Murder Meets at Dusk, Legba is antagonistic at best, especially when it comes to characters who have an affinity for darkness, mainly Marisa and Aleister. Marisa, on the other hand, is not antagonistic but she is prone to secrecy and seclusion. What a surprise that the two end up making an excellent team.

Please enjoy this excerpt from The Song of the Sparrow, Order of Crows Book Two:

He spins in wide circles, stomping to the drums. The blade gleams and flashes in the low light. Then he stops abruptly and, with a well-placed swipe, severs the head of the dove. Bright blood spurts from the rended body and pours down over Hattie’s hands.

It shouldn’t mean anything, the death of a small animal, but Marisa feels it in her core. Her breath catches and her gate slams open. Her power billows out into a set of ebony, smoky wings.

The sound of the drums dies. She looks around. The room looks the same but all the people are gone. Almost. Legba is here. Marisa steps toward him. His head jerks up and he whips around.

“How did you follow me?” he asks, his tone harder and closer to what he uses in the circle. His gaze skates downward and his eyes widen.

Her attention follows his and her reaction is the same. She’s wearing a long white dress that hugs her curves and has no sleeves. The dove coos in her hands, intact and calm.

“I don’t know,” she says.

“She comes naturally here.”

The voice is deep, heavily accented. Marisa and Legba look as one to its source. She hears Legba take a sharp breath and then he bows low. Marisa studies him for a moment then looks back to the other man. Maybe a man standing beside a second figure.

The first is tall, nearly seven feet. He wears a white, double-breasted suit made of linen that hugs close to his slender form, complete with a solid white tie and button-up shirt. Upon his head is a straw trilby hat, with a broad band of fabric the color of snow around its crown. Short, salt-and-pepper hair shows at the base of his neck. His skin is the shade of thick tar and his face shows soft hints of age lines in the residual light of the altar. His expression is a severe portrait of solemnity.

He says, “She is kindred by her own right,” and he smiles, his teeth like ivory.

“Thank you,” she says, gaze flitting to the other, shorter figure, also an old man, though his hat has a wide brim and he carries a straw bag on his shoulder. He’s not looking at them. His eyes are on the altar.

“I am Damballah. This is Loko,” says the tall one. Somewhere in Marisa’s memory the first name rings a bell. She doesn’t know much about Voodoo but she has heard that name. These aren’t men, she thinks, they’re gods. “Stand up, Legba.”

Legba straightens, all of his lines hard with tension. He seems nervous in a way that Marisa can feel rather than see. He holds his head high, though, and he’s still holding the machete.

Damballah casually slips his hands into the pockets of his pants and looks to Loko. The shorter, more wrinkled god steps forward. A stalk of rhubarb hangs from the corner of his mouth and it bounces slightly as he chews on it. Every line in his expression is hard. She watches shrewd, dark eyes again sweep the altar.

“Tonight,” he says without looking away from the array of items cluttered on the altar’s surface, “you do well, Legba.”

Damballah nods.

Breath rushes from Legba’s lungs, an overt and uncharacteristic show of relief that seems to create a wind that blows warm against them.

The dove in Marisa’s keep coos again and rustles its feathers, but it doesn’t try to escape her grasp. Her hair moves to taste the air. Then Loko pins Legba with a stern look that tinges on a glare, and the younger gathers his apprehension once again.

“Thank you,” Legba whispers.

Loko makes a long and impersonal hm as he approaches the altar. He’s much more interested in the booze that waits there, straight up, in two highball glasses. He spits the rhubarb onto the ground and picks one of the glasses, sniffs it, then drains it.

“Tonight the loa go to war,” he says.

Excerpt/Character Spotlight: Johnny Mochni

In the same vein as spotlighting Casper from my Order of Crows series, let’s talk about Johnny Mochni. Johnny is fairly quiet in The Murder Meets at Dusk. He’s a very supportive character. He really steps up in The Song of the Sparrow, and his development both took me off guard and delighted me. His potential totally slept through the first book and slammed open the door in the second book. He’s so important, in fact, that the title of the book comes from his arc within the story.

So, a little break down on Johnny if you haven’t read Dusk. There is a group in the story called the Elemental Courts. They’re humans, but they’re descended from the elemental guardians, who are very important to the story. Johnny is a member of the Earth Court, mostly a sort of field agent who’s most important role is being a member of the Order of Crows. Johnny’s line is descended from Hopi mythology but, their namesake aside, they are pacifists. Getting thrown into a war is a different sort of journey for him than his fellow Crows. I don’t want to give away too much, but I’ll say this. Turns out Johnny is a total badass.

Please enjoy this short excerpt from The Song of the Sparrow:

The soft, slightly husky voice that has been comforting Johnny goes quiet. The last note of the song seems to reverberate forever over the distant landscape. The hands that have been gently massaging the ache from his shoulders also still.

He can feel a deep thrum coming from the rock beneath him. It feels like his Murder. His own pain has abated for the moment. It comes to him in waves, a receding tide. He takes a long breath then opens his eyes.

The blood on his hands and arms has dried. The skull is rust colored, still gaping at him. The hot pains in his tired muscles have become a numbness in his hands, and the joints of his fingers are locked around the skull’s horns. The fire in the pit before him is low, casting strange and distorted shadows onto the rock face. The dancing darkness makes the skull look menacing.

“Thank you,” he whispers without taking his eyes from the flame.

If he looks at the skull he thinks of the agony that has ravaged him. He has no concept of how long he’s been fighting his own body, but he’s so exhausted that if he thinks about that pain, he may let go. The woman’s hands draw away from him, yet he can still feel her so close to his bared skin. He knows if she meant him harm she could have taken advantage of his weakness well before now. He doesn’t believe she does.

“I have come a very long way to find you, Johnny Mochni.”

That voice when speaking is … familiar? If he was in better mental shape he’s sure he could place it. He wants to turn toward her but he can’t move.

“Who are you?”

“You know me, Johnny.”

“I do.”

It was meant to be a question but it doesn’t come out that way. He’s sure she’s right. If he could just think clearly.

Her hands leave him and he hears a rustle of her movement. Without her close he’s suddenly cold. He catches movement in his periphery and his eyes slide sideways to watch her walk around him then kneel in front of him. Her face comes into focus over the steer skull.

“Kaya!” he says with a gasp.

She’s slender, her skin the same red-brown as his, her hair long and black. A royal like him and from his own Court, though ranked higher. Her almond eyes study his face and the shock that has to be apparent there.

“Did the Court send you?” he asks.

She slowly reaches forward. Her long fingers wrap around the skull’s face. She pulls the thing from his cramped hands. He resists at first, but when she takes its weight from him, the relief is disabling. His arms are left abandoned before him for several breaths that he uses only to flex his screaming hands. The bone of the skull begins to crumble to dust beneath her touch.

“They did not,” she says, brushing the dust from her hands.

Johnny’s arms begin to tremble and lower a fraction at a time. He grimaces, tries to breathe slowly. He’s so tired of pain.

“Then why are you here?” he asks, his tone quiet and strained.

“To see you through your trial,” she says. Her voice is like a warm wind on a summer afternoon. Her proximity does soothe him now that she mentions it.

“My trial.”

Again it came to his head as a question but came out of his mouth much more knowing. Finally he rests his arms on his knees. The tears that left him dry some time ago now rise against his eyelids.

“Our world needs you to wake up,” she says.

Excerpt/Character Spotlight from The Song of the Sparrow

As mentioned in my previous post, release day for The Song of the Sparrow, Order of Crows Book Two is just around the corner. I decided that today I’d like to talk about one of my favorite characters in the Order, Aleister aside. Today I want to talk about Casper Lekkas.

It’s true that characters sometimes surprise me as the writer. Casper was no exception. If you’ve read The Murder Meets at Dusk, you know Casper as the youngest member of the Order of Crows. He’s shy, awkward, always withdrawn, but you also learn in Dusk that Casper is a powerful mage. You don’t, perhaps, learn how powerful.

In Sparrow, Casper hits his stride. He starts to come out of his shell a bit and he gave me so much personality in the sequel. Casper is a chaos mage at his base, but I feel like the chaos part of his power doesn’t really come through until the sequel, which is understandable when the story in general starts with such a big cast. It was impossible for me to develop them all equally and still tell the story. So Casper’s spotlight doesn’t really happen until Sparrow. And, oh, does it shine.

I think this is a good time to mention that this is a dark fantasy story. There are elements of it that might sit uncomfortably for some. Casper also falls into that area due to the way he practices magic. There might be some triggers when it comes to him. Fair warning.

All of that being said, please allow me to introduce you to Casper in The Song of the Sparrow:

Santino eyes the others, more interested in their condition than he is the vampires’ house. Nichi is as still as a statue, staring forward as she no doubt sends the tendrils of her energy into the surrounding area. Miller fidgets restlessly, glancing around them, fingers absently counting the beads of the pearl and ruby rosary in his hand. Casper shudders violently, seemingly waiting on the head of a pin to act, his guns secured in their holsters.

Santino slowly twines his own rosary around his middle finger as his eyes run the length of Casper’s left arm, most of which is bared, save his close-fitting t-shirt and the strap of his double holster on his shoulders. Scars line much of the pale space, geometric and intricate patterns that turn his body into some living sigil. They are scars he shows no pains to hide. Santino has no idea what the sigils do but the savage nature of the practice makes him uneasy.

He thinks of the morning that began this epic day. He drove across town still half asleep to rescue Casper from the weeds of an abandoned gas station lot, as his body still tingled from the strange burst of magic that woke him from a deep sleep. He hadn’t yet directly made the connection of what made him get up and go, and it seemed easiest to leave Casper on his couch to recover from his exhaustion without questioning it.

It was only later, after several cups of coffee, after the magical buzz in his bones gave way to caffeine, that he realized it was the very sigil Casper had been charging that had risen to protect him in that dire moment. The question of why Casper’s magic had chosen Santino remains a more difficult one.

Santino notices a symbol, cut into the backs of Casper’s hands, carved since they parted ways that afternoon. The scabs have barely formed. A circle, nine points defined around its circumference in the same formation in which the Murder stands, and each point is connected inside like a nine-pointed star. The cardinal directions are notated, and there are neatly scribed words running around the outside of the circle. It must have taken a long time and a tiny blade to etch those little letters. It’s too dark for Santino to make out any of the words, which makes him ever more curious as to what they say.  

The chaos mage’s hazel gaze turns on Santino like Casper can feel the priest watching him. The expression that meets Santino’s attention is surprisingly forward and the eye contact is electric. Such a far cry from the crunched grimace of pain earlier when the nightmares had stalked his heavy sleep. Gone is the frightened innocence with which Casper had regarded him when he woke to a protective touch, after Santino banished whatever had grabbed hold of his dream space.

Casper’s awkward shyness is nowhere to be seen. In its place is an obvious fascination and something else that sends a thrill shooting through Santino’s limbs, attraction. Santino doesn’t quite cover his surprise, nor does he deny the heady connection that lasts long enough to garner a curious look from Nichi. Casper looks away like nothing strange just happened. The cross in Santino’s hand feels obscene.

“Do we burn it down?” Casper asks, his tone quiet but firm.

Santino swallows thickly as Nichi studies Casper. She seems to be considering the option. Then she says, “As much as I’d like to, we need to focus on a way to ensure they’re also in the city.”

Silence settles at the end of her words and she looks back toward the house. Santino’s eyes are still on Casper, his thoughts still muddling over the overt connection the younger just made. Since he’s still watching he also sees the Lekkas’s jaw set.

“I can do it,” Casper says with an unsettling surety.

Santino sees Nichi turn back to Casper, eyes wide with obvious surprise. Santino mirrors the sentiment. This side of Casper has either been very well guarded or has emerged amidst the severity of their current situation. There’s a fierceness to him that he has never shown his fellow Crows.

“How?” Nichi asks.

Casper hesitates for a moment. He looks so young to Santino, the scars on his surface tragic. He takes a long breath then says, “Blood magic.”

The words sink like stones into Santino’s gut. An uncharacteristic anxiety follows them as the magnitude of those two words slowly reveals itself. Casper is right, it’s the one thing the vampires have no weapon against or resistance to. Santino instantly hates the idea.

Weighted silence brings Casper to face the rest of them, who are staring back. 

“It’s practical for my path,” he says. He meets each of their eyes in turn, even Fr. Miller. “I can make them yearn for blood so strongly they’ll crawl into our streets like the ravenous dogs that they are.”

“Not just blood,” Fr. Miller interjects in his sharp accent that cuts through the familiarity among the other three. “If I am correct, your means of drawing them would enamor them to the blood that is offered by your pagan practices.”  

Three sets of eyes critically study him. He adjusts his glasses and pins Casper with an expectant gaze, eyebrow cocking slightly.

“It’s true,” says Casper. Now he looks away from all of them to stare at the ground.

Santino’s attention volleys from Casper to Miller then to Nichi. They’re not really considering this, are they? Someone has to be a voice of reason here.

“Your blood?” he asks, not quite able to keep his expression from folding with disdain. “You want to use yourself as bait?”

“Yes,” Casper answers firmly.