Today's the day! Here's a new adventure in Coon Hollow, this one set in time at the December full moon esbat.
Genre: Paranormal romance
Description:
Esme Underhill is about to discover a
darkness hidden inside her that could destroy her chance for independence and
possibly kill her.
Esme’s mother took her young daughter away
from Southern Indiana’s Coon Hollow Coven to prevent her from learning about
the unusual witchcraft she had inherited. When Esme is twenty-seven, her
beloved Grammy Flora passes away and leaves her property in the Hollow to her
granddaughter. With this opportunity to remake her life and gain independence,
Esme attempts to emulate Grammy Flora as a wildwood mystic who relies on the
hedge world of faeries to locate healing herbs. But fae are shrewd traders.
When they open their world to her, she must meet the unknown malevolence of her
birthright.
Thayne, the handsome king of the fae Winter
Court, faces his own struggle to establish autonomy as a new regent. He is
swept into the tempest of Esme’s unfolding powers, a dangerous threat to his
court. His sworn duty is to protect his people, despite Esme’s beauty and
allure, which tear at his resolve.
Both Esme’s and Thayne’s dreams of personal
freedom are lost…unless they can trust each other and overcome surmounting
dangers.
Series description:
The Coon Hollow Coven
Tales series is about a coven of witches in a fictitious southern Indiana
community, south of Bloomington, the neck of the
woods where Marsha A. Moore spent her favorite childhood years surrounded by
the love of a big family. The books are rich with a warm Hoosier down-home
feel. There are interesting interactions between coven members and locals from
the nearby small town of Bentbone. If magic wasn’t enough of a difference
between the two groups, the coven folk adhere to the 1930s lifestyle that
existed when the coven formed.
A note to readers: ALL
THE COON HOLLOW COVEN TALES NOVELS CAN BE READ AS STAND ALONE BOOKS. The series is about one
community, and its residents may pass in and out of various books, but each
book has its own unique and special story to be told.
Excerpt:
from Chapter One: Winter Began
Dear Miss Rebecca Esmeralda
Underhill,
Please accept our deepest
sympathies concerning the loss of your grandmother, Flora Esmeralda Freestone.
She was much loved and well-respected in our community.
As per her documented wishes, the
ownership of her property on 10510 East Lost Branch Run passes to you. This
transfer has been filed in our office. At the request of High Priest Logan
Dennehy, all council members have voted to reinstate you as a member of Coon
Hollow Coven after your absence of twenty years.
However, despite Coon Hollow Coven
being your birthplace, a majority indicated the lapsed time was sufficient
cause to withhold transfer of Ms. Freestone’s ceremonial standing to you, which
customarily would accompany a property transference to blood kin of adult age.
For explanation of how you may attain ceremonial approval in your name, please
visit the council office at 50013 Owls Tail Creek Road.
Enclosed, please find pamphlets
describing the expected dress and personal property code of our coven, which
adheres to the time period in which the coven was founded in 1935. This is to
best protect our witchcraft traditions.
Sincerely,
Nathan Wells
Coon Hollow Coven Council,
secretary
Esme’s gaze fixed on the words that acknowledged her as the
property owner. She’d never lived alone. First her mom, then a roommate and
finally Doug. Esme’s shoulders straightened and chest lifted with strength and
independence at the thought of owning her own place. But, why wasn’t she
approved for ceremonial status? Her hands gripped the edge of the table,
knuckles whitening, and her heart raced. It’s
not fair. I won’t be accepted as a healer. Only children not yet graduated
from the coven’s secondary school were kept from participating fully in
ceremonies. Esme loved learning the ways of a hedge witch and helped Gram every
summer from grade school through college. Fascinated with tending Gram’s
plants, Esme even studied botany in college.
The research company she worked for had already accepted her
request to work offsite and study mystic plants…at the stipulation she be
reduced to part-time. She needed work here as a healer to supplement her
income. She’d assumed incorrectly that her experience with Gram and college
studies would’ve qualified her as an accepted healer. Her standing in the coven
would be important to patrons, all except Gram’s closest friends who knew Esme
well. An attempt at independence seemed bound to fail before she started.
Her gaze drifted to the name used in the letter’s greeting.
She hadn’t seen her full name in print for decades. It didn’t even appear on
her birth certificate, which labeled her as Rebecca E. Underhill, one of the
many things her mother insisted upon. Mother wanted nothing to do with the
coven or witchcraft and said, “Esmeralda sounds too much like a witch. No need
to encourage the darkness out.” Grudgingly, she accepted her own mother’s
middle name for her child to uphold custom. Esme never understood Mother’s view
since Gram was well-respected for her kind and gentle strength by all who knew
her.
To Esme’s Indianapolis friends, she was Becky. Only her
mother addressed her as Rebecca. But inside, she was Esme. Gram had always
called her that, or Esmeray in carefree moments. Her middle name suited the
mystic inside Esme, something Gram must have known. If only Esme could use
Gram’s last name Freestone. Underhill felt like a lead weight.
Esme set the letter aside and paced the length of the rag
runner through the small kitchen. Frustration wound her along a circular track
through the sitting room, to her closet-sized guest room, and back. The space
was too small to work answers out of her tangled mind. On the second pass, she
sank onto the goose down comforter of Gram’s iron bed. Billowing fluff
sheltered her from the problems. Gram’s linens, scented with homegrown lavender
and rose sleep liniment, comforted Esme and tugged on her eyelids.
She forced her eyes open and pushed herself up and off the
bed. Hiding wasn’t the way to begin this fresh start in life. She’d done enough
kowtowing to stronger wills, letting Doug and her mother run over her. At the
back door, she paused long enough to grab a rain parka and pulled it on as she
strode outside.
Gram’s cat, Dove, zipped alongside with a sharp meow,
slipping out before the door closed. Esme smiled, grateful the tomcat kept Gram
company during her illness. She’ doted on the smoky blue stray that happened
into her garden one early fall afternoon and never left. Gram swore he was an
omen and chose his name ‘cause of his white-winged breast patch. She used to
say, “One day soon my spirit will fly on those outspread wings, and together
Dove and me we’ll roam the wooded hills.” Gram loved those hills. Thinking
about the hills drew Esme to gather Dove and head outside.
Ice still peppered down, adding more layers to the spiky
crystalline grass blades. A breeze blew at Esme’s back. She allowed the wind to
guide her toward the woods behind the cabin. At the trailhead, ice coating the
bittersweet vine berries glistened the same shade of blue she’d rubbed from
Dove’s coat. Alert to the strange color, she followed a line of branches dangling
sky blue icicles, each one more fanciful and richer in hue than the last. A
beautiful play of light, ranging from cerulean to ultramarine. Even worth the
chill at her ankles, which were bare in her cropped jeans.
Whenever Esme paused to marvel at the colored icicles, Dove
pawed them and then dodged when they dropped.
Minutes later and deeper in the forest, the ice pelted
heavier, and Esme reached for the hood of her raincoat. Strands of hair fell
forward, woven with frozen ultramarine threads. The same purplish tint coated
twigs along the path. Light from the sky reached this far into the woods since
all but the oak trees had lost their leaves. The unusual color couldn’t be
caused by light refraction. She’d never seen any rain, sleet, or snow like this,
not even in the Hollow. Grammy had taught her a little about omens. Was this a
sign?
Esme scurried along the trail, sliding at times and spotting
richer and deeper shades of purple and red-violets. At the far side of the
woodlot, iris-hued spider webs clung to berry brambles. She gasped at the
beauty. Tempted to touch, she extended a hand but at the last instant resisted.
A deep groan echoed from the adjoining property ahead.
She snatched her hand back and scanned for some god of
nature angry at her ruinous attempt. Grappling for Dove, Esme crouched behind a
thicket.
The cat gave a single hiss, then clung to her leg.
In the distance, a big middle-aged man, both tall and wide,
staggered behind a shed, dragging a long, clumsy load wrapped and tied into a
blanket. His balding head snapped in her direction, eyes wide and face blanched
gray-white. “Who’s there?” His booming voice sliced the delicate webs from
their branches. Crimson freezing rain assaulted both trail and yard.
Esme froze, afraid to move and attract his attention. Her
heart, drumming against her ribs, threatened to give her away. She wanted to
run home. But if the colored ice omen was meant for her, she needed to stay and
learn its meaning. Could the man see the omen?
Thankfully, her cover must’ve fooled Baldy. He resumed
lugging the limp bundle, and didn’t seem affected by the magical ice.
From between the tangle of branches, Esme studied him.
His wet, black shirt clung to his round belly. Blood-red ice
coated his load, tracing the outline of a human body. Smaller than his,
probably a female. Was she dead? Of natural causes? Or had he murdered her? The
thought wrapped around Esme’s breath and trapped it deep in her lungs. Her legs
twitched. Gaze riveted on Baldy, she positioned to bolt from potential danger.
He rolled the body into a depression Esme couldn’t see.
She leaned to one side, bracing herself with a hand on the
ground.
Over what looked like a freshly dug grave, Baldy grunted as
he shoveled and kicked dirt and large rocks. Clumps of red clung to long
strands of his comb-over, now hanging along one ear. Was it ice or real blood?
Dove huddled closer, and Gram’s voice from years ago spoke
in Esme’s mind. “Blood ice is stained with revenge.”
Crimson liquid dripped from the man’s eyes and fell from
grimacing jowls. The face of a demon.
Coon Hollow Coven Tales series includes:
Author Bio:
Marsha A. Moore loves to write fantasy
and paranormal romance. Much of her life feeds the creative flow she uses to
weave highly imaginative tales.
The magic of art and nature spark
life into her writing, as well as other pursuits of watercolor painting and
drawing. She’s been a yoga enthusiast for over a decade and is a registered
yoga teacher. Her practice helps weave the mystical into her writing. After a
move from Toledo to Tampa in 2008, she’s happily transformed into a Floridian,
in love with the outdoors where she’s always on the lookout for portals to
other worlds. Marsha is crazy about cycling. She lives with her husband on a
large saltwater lagoon, where taking her kayak out is a real treat. She never
has enough days spent at the beach, usually scribbling away at stories with
toes wiggling in the sand. Every day at the beach is magical!
Social Media Links:
Website: http://MarshaAMoore.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/MarshaAMoore
Google +: http://google.com/+MarshaAMoore
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/marshaamoore/
Amazon author page: amazon.com/author/marshaamoore
Goodreads author page
http://www.goodreads.com/marshaamoore
Newsletter: https://www.marshaamoore.com/Mailing-list.php
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JOIN MARSHA'S MAILING LIST and receive a free copy of her paranormal romance story RULER OF THE NIGHT.
Read Marsha's COON HOLLOW TALES of paranormal romance and her ENCHANTED BOOKSTORE LEGENDS for adventurous epic fantasy romance. For a FREE ebook download, read her historic fantasy, LE CIRQUE DE MAGIE, available at Amazon and Smashwords.
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