Guest post by Ron Voights, author of The Witch’s Daughter. Be sure to check the bottom of the post for the giveaway, a $10 Amazon gift card!
One of my favorite books is Anne Rice’s The Witching Hour, a dark tale of a family of witches, mostly women. This is not your witch story of throwing fire balls, casting spells and making magic. Something more evil lurks underneath the surface, something frightening and mysterious. This was the inspiration for the family in my story.
The Witch’s Daughter covers the Wellingway family, five generations of women sharing a secret. Winifred Wellingway came from England in the 19th century, bringing with her strange and unusual plants, and a book outlining their uses. Her daughter, Charlotte, married Anthony Leon in 1918. Their daughter, Gabriella, married Thomas Hall and they had a daughter in 1950, Marbella Wellingway. She married Edgar Wells and they had a daughter, Alexandra.
When Cavendish first meets Alex, she’s taken over his computer at the newspaper and he has no clue who she is. She has a blue ankh tattoo on the side of her neck, black pixie-cut hair, a flawless complexion and china blue eyes. Everything about her is a turn-on except for the gold ring in her nose. Most captivating is a devilish grin that appears whenever she seems to understand something hidden from others.
Alex’s magic is subtle like her mother’s and grandmothers’. She has a knack for opening things. Locked doors especially. She has a sixth about events. Underlying her persona is a woman with dark secrets and capabilities beyond what is evident. She doesn’t see eye-to-eye with her mother Marbella, and balks at taking her place in the succession of women running the town of Maiden Falls, WV.
Marbella plays matchmaker, arranging for Cavendish Brown to become the editor at the town newspaper and forcing Alex to work there. She fights the arrangement, but secretly is attracted to him, but he has no interest in her as he still mourns the loss of his wife to leukemia a year earlier. For Alex this is a challenge to be met.
Underlying the family is a curse dooming them to never have a male child, an heir to the family name. Every Wellingway woman is destined to have a single child, a girl, and the grandmother dies within seven days after the birth. One female Wellingway is always left to carry on the family and the curse.
Genre: Paranormal Mystery
Publisher: Champagne Book Group
Date of Publication: March 2, 2015
Number of pages: 219
Word Count: 72K
Cover Artist: Ellie Smith
Investigative reporter and recent widower, Cavendish Brown, is unemployed and floundering. Coerced into returning to his childhood home by the town’s eccentric matriarch, Cavendish finds himself involved in murder, deceit, and a not-so-subtle attempt at matchmaking.
Joined by Jane, a disturbed psychic, and Alexandra, a young Goth woman with uncanny abilities, they follow leads into the hills of West Virginia to catch the killer. A sheriff who shoots first and asks questions later makes solving the case difficult for the trio. Adding further complications is an ex-girlfriend with a mob hitman on her trail who seeks Cavendish’s help.
Immersed in a never-ending spiral of clues and secrets, he must unlock the darkness that surrounds the enigmatic Jane, stay ahead of the law, and come to terms with his own grief.
Available at Amazon BN Kobo Champagne Books
I stood on the spot with the shovel we had found earlier, staring at the ground where Jane told me to dig. My heart pounded in my chest, and I considered whether this was a good idea. “If a body is here, it might have been buried a hundred years ago. People do die and are buried. It could be sacrilegious to uproot somebody. There are laws about doing things like that.”
Alex sat on the chopping block. She took a long draw on her cigarette, exhaled the smoke and watched it linger in the still air. “I’m sure whoever it is won’t mind.”
How stupid would it sound to tell anyone I was out in the woods with a chain smoking Goth girl and a psychic who could divine the past by touch, digging up a body? If one was buried here, it may lead to a story. The headlines would read “Editor, Goth Girl and Psychic Dig Up Civil War Hero.”
I took a deep breath and scooped out the first shovel of dirt, paused and peered in the hole. No body. I dug and tossed a few more spades full. Nothing. I scooped out more earth, still finding nothing. My pace became less ginger. Dig. Toss. Dig Toss. Dig. Thud!
Whatever I hit seemed solid. I worked the shovel more carefully, taking smaller bites of dirt. Something pale contrasted against the dark earth. Using the tip of the shovel, I moved aside more ground until I exposed something long and slender. I’d seen skeletons pictured on anatomy charts at the doctor’s office and more than a few body parts while in Afghanistan, doing a stint in the Army, but I was no expert on bones. “I found a tibia or maybe a femur.”
Alex tossed her cigarette, ran over to the hole and stared into it. She knelt down and brushed back dirt with her hand. “It’s a root.”
She grabbed it, and what looked like a bone bent as she tugged on it. I knelt next to her and examined it closer. It sure looked like a root.
Jane, who had been poking a stick at something in the grass, came over and pointed to a spot about two feet over. “Dig here. Not there.”
I repositioned myself and began digging again, wondering how many more roots I would dig up that looked like bones.
The air grew heavy, and my clothing damp as I dug. The sounds of the forest became distant, and all I heard was the shovel striking the ground and my heart beating. The last time I’d worked up a sweat digging a hole was boot camp at Fort Jackson. I didn’t like it then, and my current sentiments were the same. I tossed a shovel full of dirt and spotted something.
Rather than shout for Alex and discover I had found another root, I took it and rubbed the soil away. Definitely this had to be a bone. Picking through the dirt, I found more bones, like from a chicken.
Alex came over and looked down into the hole. “Phalanges or metacarpals.”
Surprised she’d know the correct names, I stared at her. “Really?”
“I took an anatomy class in college.”
I stepped back and let Alex pick around in the hole. She found more small bones and sorted them on the ground until they began to form the arrangement of a hand. “I’d say a body is buried there.”
Alex took the shovel and removed dirt from the excavation. She took her time and paused occasionally to peer into the hole. Where I was a bulldozer plowing through the soil, she worked more like a seasoned archeologist on a dig.
As a reporter on the Gazette, I often teetered on the fine line separating legal from criminal. My informants were druggies, boosters and mechanics. I’d done interviews at crack houses, brothels and chop shops. When I came to Maiden Falls, I figured those days were behind me. Things here would be safe, mundane and predictable. Yet, here I was, digging up a dead body.
Alex found more small bones and placed them with the first ones. “Hey, we keep this up we’ll have a complete Mr. Bones in no time.”
A chill passed through me. This was a Frankenstein movie, and we were the grave robbers. We’d take the body parts to the mad scientist and get a bag of coins. Things could not be creepier, and I really didn’t want to see a dead body, even if the flesh had already gone to the worms.
We took turns digging, and I worked more cautiously. Alex did the detailed stuff like cleaning the dirt off the bones and arranging them with the others. She named them as she found them. Humerus. Ulna. Clavicle.
“Were you pre-med at college?”
Jane sat in the grass nearby and watched. She seemed indifferent about the body we unearthed, and I speculated what conditions had molded such a strange being.
“Look here.” I pulled back a tattered shirt and pointed to a broken rib. “Looks like someone shot him.”
Alex looked closer. “Maybe.”
“Do you have a better explanation?”
The trauma of seeing exposed human bones no longer seemed as threatening. I stood back and let Alex continue the exhumation. I feared the moment when we’d get to the head. A grinning skull with hollow eyes gave me a chill.
About the Author:
Originally from the Midwest, Ron D. Voigts calls North Carolina where he and wife have a home just off the Neuse River. Ron’s writes dark mysteries with a supernatural flair, but his reading in more eclectic tending towards whatever catches his interest. When not writing and reading, he enjoys watching gritty movies, playing games on the PC, and cooking gourmet meals.
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