A Blog for people of all colors, ages (18+) religions, ethnicities, and lifestyles. Bringing you informative articles and advice on dating, romance, love, relationships, featured romance authors, virtual book tours, interviews, events, movie trailers, and so much more.
Thirteen words in a want-ad turn Tess Cooper’s
world upside down after she signs on as a paranormal research assistant to the
mysterious Davin Egypt. He reveals a world of grave robbing, clockworks artifacts in blue
amber, antique revolvers that fire strange ammo, and powerful forces beyond
As ancient occult energies threaten to destroy
her city, Tess must use her journalistic instincts to stay one step ahead of
the public works director, Drew Dawson, whose agenda seems bent on destruction
rather than maintenance. And possibly murder, but will anyone believe her?
Yeah, right. When garbage trucks fly.
If Tess teams up with the hunky police
lieutenant, Kirk Gunther, and the pale, oddball Mr. Egypt, they
might be able to save the city in time. That is, if Egypt even
wants to. And if Tess overcomes her phobias long enough to do battle in
Granddad’s 1983 Subaru Brat.
Things are about to get icky.
* * *
I watched Angie wobble away and
marched myself toward the stonewalling the cops would give me when I felt the
soles of my flats slide. Pinwheeling arms didn’t help me get my footing, and
with a tiny cry, I went down.
And down, and down, and down.
Snow slid up my shirt, up my pants,
and something less cold but more wet. I thrashed around, succeeding only in
getting more snow inside my clothes. Not falling, but sinking. I sank into a
deep hole. And then I realized it wasn’t a hole but a grave.
Angie came rushing back, as much as
she could rush on her stumpy, little legs. “Tess, what the hell happened? I
heard you screaming and—oh, my God.”
I expected her to kneel down and
help me out of the loose soil and slush, but instead, she whipped out her
camera. The little motor whined as she took about six hundred shots. “I think I
got the image for my Christmas cards this year.”
“Ange, help me out of here!” I
pushed against the soil with one foot, and felt it sink deeper. I tried with
the other one. Then I plunged in up to my neck. My arms found no grip, either.
It was like quicksand, even though quicksand doesn’t really exist. I knew that.
Worse, a horrible, horrible smell drifted up from below. Decomp, rot, death.
* * *
Eric Turowski, Author
founder, bookstore owner, artist, musician, and man-about-town, Eric Turowski
writes lots of mixed-genre books when he’s not too busy playing laser tag with
Tiger the Cat and his fiancée Mimi deep in the Central Valley of California.