Please join me in welcoming author Bri Clark back to my blog. She's sharing about her new paranormal romance, Scent of a Witch.
Scent of a Witch
By
Bri Clark
Book
Description
Maeve da Paer has lived her life
free from the restrictions of the world of sorcery and the Board of Witchery
hidden behind the combined protection of her grandparents powerful clan
magic—and a lie. Although her life has not been worry free, it is when all that
desperation and grief cause her to cast her most powerful spell ever…a spell
that will end the pain before it begins on the powerful All Hallows Eve.
Fionn Hughes, an immortal tracker, former heir to a powerful clan of time warlocks is on a mission to restore his honor—instead he finds Maeve da Paer. Following the scent of Gardenias and Honey Suckle, he discovers the last Scent Witch. It’s only after she almost takes off his ear that something more stirs, eventually changing his mission from one of duty to one of need.
What will Fionn do when he finds out Maeve plans to cancel out her own existence? Will he be strong enough to stop her?
Fionn Hughes, an immortal tracker, former heir to a powerful clan of time warlocks is on a mission to restore his honor—instead he finds Maeve da Paer. Following the scent of Gardenias and Honey Suckle, he discovers the last Scent Witch. It’s only after she almost takes off his ear that something more stirs, eventually changing his mission from one of duty to one of need.
What will Fionn do when he finds out Maeve plans to cancel out her own existence? Will he be strong enough to stop her?
Excerpt: Tracking
a Witch
Fionn Hughes leaned against the brick
building, shaking his head in frustration. Upon his father’s insistence, he’d
traveled to this cursed century seeking a prize that had been lost. With the
death of the warlock, Patrick Sweeney, the powers of time sorcery had gone with
him, leaving only the Hughes clan. Fionn’s father would be furious and terribly
saddened to know that Sweeney’s wife, Cordelia da Paer, was dead as well. While
Fionn didn’t know the details, the marriage had caused the clan’s
centuries-long allegiance to sever. Fionn’s father, Laird Rordan Hughes, was
soul-weary, and Fionn feared this might send his father over the edge to seek
the afterlife.
Before fear could grip him, he decided
to continue after the mortal grandchild of the deceased couple. He had followed
her from the Sweeney estate to the downtown Halloween festivities. If the
mortals knew the truth of All Hallows Eve, they’d put an end to the
commercialized debauchery that occurred every year.
Fionn looked up and cursed. The
tangled mass of brown curls with auburn highlights he had been tracking
disappeared. Panic bubbled up in his innards, but his warrior instinct
dismissed it as quickly as it appeared. A strict warning from his father to use
his magic sparingly sounded in his memory, but he longed to call up a tracking
spell. He offered another colorful Gaelic curse, causing an elderly woman walking
by to jump. After a mumbled apology and bow, he jaywalked to the side of the
street near the food vendor. The last time he had seen her, the granddaughter
had been near the mobile cart offering saturated fat and processed food. Fionn
preferred the simpler fare of stews, homemade cheese, and ciders.
Unable to use magic, he took a breath
and used skills acquired as a boy under his father’s guidance. Offering his
most dazzling smile, he set his charms on a group of older ladies with low cut
athletic shoes and fanny packs.
“Good afternoon ladies.” He bowed and
the three women turned and giggled in unison.
“Where are you from shoog?” asked the
tallest one, a brunette who was obviously the leader. “You have an accent the
likes I’ve never heard.”
“Why, I’m from Scotland.” He offered
her a smile but then quickly continued. These women were ferocious when it came
to gossip. “I’ve lost track of the lass I was with.” Three sets of intensely
plucked then re-penciled eyebrows went up and the tracker knew he had them.
“What does she look like?”
“Where did you last see her?”
“Don’t worry dear, we’ll help you.”
All sounded in unison in their ages-tarted accents, signature for the region.
He couldn’t help but smile and felt a tad guilty for lying to the three helpful
grannies.
“She’s about your height, long curly
brown hair that has a touch of auburn highlights when the sun hits it.” They
sighed in unison. “She had a scarlet shawl tied around a long white skirt…” He
would have continued, only the brunette started bouncing up and down.
“That way, she went that way,” she
declared, pointing down a dark alley in between two very close buildings.
The earlier panic reappeared. Was the woman a
twit? It was a night of danger for not only those of Witchery, but mortals too,
and walking down a dark alley was most unwise.
Nodding to the glassy-eyed women, he
ran to the end of the alley, then stopped and kneeled. The gravel was
disturbed, creating a slight pile. Then, going in a western direction, every
few feet there was another mound, before finally it stopped at the edge of a
wooded area. Fionn sensed a presence of power in the air. But that could be a
combination of the coming night and being so close to the haunted Carton
Plantation.
Memories of
the gracious MacGavok family pulled at his emotions. He had been injured at the
Battle of Franklin, the bloodiest five hours of the Civil War. The family had
tended to him as well as many others. Randal and Carrie McGavok were truly two
of the noblest mortals Fionn had ever known. They would turn no one away based
on skin or uniform color. The bodies of the dead had been stacked four feet
high by the end. Later, after the battle, the family unburied and then reburied
over fifteen hundred Confederate soldiers, dedicating two acres of their land
for a military cemetery. When Fionn had asked his friend why, he’d been
admonished that everyone deserved a proper burial and last rights.
Squatting so he could look more
closely at the ground, he caught site of small bare footprints in the softened
dirt. He grinned in triumph, then scowled. One footprint sunk deeper,
indicating she was limping. Had she hurt herself? An urgency he didn’t
understand pushed him forward, the sensing of power becoming stronger. But as
he traveled deeper into the foliage, a feeling of peace seemed to emanate. He
puzzled over the source. That is, until the distinctive smell of Honeysuckles
and Shamrocks invaded his nostrils.
A Scent Witch. The scent of Shamrocks
was exclusive to that line of witches, and the scent was only detectable
through their blood. Whoever she was, she was the last, for he knew of no
other. And she was hurt.
Fionn moved at the speed his unnatural
immortality allotted him. The panic he’d managed to contain before exploded in
his chest. If he could bring her back to his clan, perhaps he would be in his
father’s good graces again. The flora opened up in his line of vision creating
a half clearing along a stream of water and there, sitting along the edge, was an
enticing water nymph with unruly brown hair and auburn highlights created by
the sun.
Unable to look away, he watched as she
moved her feet in and out of the water, allowing him a generous view of long
shapely calves that flowed seamlessly into milky white thighs. His throat
tightened as craving burned in him. Desire he hadn’t known in a long time
warmed his insides. Fionn was no rogue but he was certainly no saint either.
However, he had never felt the stirrings of passion as he did viewing the
female before him.
With an easy grace she leaned forward,
reaching out with her right arm and bending her right knee up to drape water
from her fingertips down her leg. So enchanted by the movement of the elegant
beauty he didn’t see the dagger that appeared in her left hand until it took
off a lock of his hair before firmly ending in the tree behind him.
The realization that he almost died
startled Fionn out of his daze. The wild-haired woman let out a particularly
unladylike Gaelic curse, and her eyes looked around as if seeking escape.
Finally she stopped, face forward staring at the water, then she looked at him.
It was only a moment but, in that instant, he saw what his father had sent him
to retrieve: the key to their future. Thick lashes, darker than the brows above
them, framed light brown eyes with flecks of gold in them, feline-like in their
slanting shape. The Sweeney Eyes. Then she disappeared into the water.
About the Author:
Bri Clark is a real example
of redemption and renewal. Growing penniless in the South, Bri learned
street smarts while caring for her brother in a broken home. She watched
her mother work several jobs to care for their small family. Once her
brother could fend for himself, Bri moved on to a series of bad choices
including leaving school and living on her own.
Rebelliousness was a strong
understatement to describe those formative years. As a teenager, her
wakeup call came from a fight with brass knuckles and a judge that gave her a
choice of shaping up or spending time in jail. She took that opportunity
and found a way to moved up from the streets. She ended up co-owning an
extremely successful construction business. She lived the high life until
the real estate crash when she lost everything.
She moved west and found
herself living with her husband and 4 kids in a 900 square foot
apartment. She now fills her time, writing, blogging, leading a group of
frugal shoppers and sharing her southern culture. Her unique background
gives her writing a raw sensibility. She understands what it takes to
overcome life’s obstacles. She often tells friends, “I can do
poor. I’m good at poor. It’s prosperity that I’m not used to.”
Bri and her husband Chris
live in Boise. Bri is known as the Belle of Boise for her true southern
accent, bold demeanor and hospitable nature.
Bri boasts several positions in the
publishing industry. An author, professional reviewer, blogger, and literary
strategist she enjoys all aspects of her career from the creation of story to
the branding and marketing needed to make her books successful.
Bri Contact Links:
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