My final edits are approved and off to the publisher and the novel is now on Amazon for presale!
Releasing to your Kindles on December 2, 2015, my new Historical Romance with Paranormal Elements ~ When the Black Roses Grow.
Don’t forget to join us for the ONLINE ONLY RELEASE PARTY on December 2nd where you can play to win copies of the novel, plus gift cards to Amazon!
And, now for a teaser of Chapter ONE. Check back for more in the upcoming weeks!
Twenty-five men and women were accused.
Nineteen hung to their heads on Gallow Hills.
One suffocated under bone crushing stones.
All believed to possess the power of witchcraft.
A gentle spring breeze blew the soft flower petals of the bouquet laying against my chest. They fluttered against my black, cotton dress as my feet crunched through the twigs and rocks along the dirt path.
The flowers were nothing more than the wild vegetation that bloomed around my home. Not akin to the pretty sprays of flora most set upon the crosses of their departed loved ones. Flowers of worth were not allowed in this part of the graveyard.
I tiptoed down the path past the only other mourners imploring the free-grace of God as they cried and prayed. Their whispered prayers the same prayers bespoken before countless times.
One of the mourners watched me as I passed her with a look of judgment in her eyes. The brewing disdain spread through her rigid shoulders.
“I know where thou travel.” Her eyes narrowed as her words quivered from her lips. “Disgrace upon thou for thy betrayal to God, the Church, and to the honored Revered.”
“My apologies for thy erroneous belief.” Trapped between my fear and her hatred, my teeth clenched.
The woman gasped, covering her mouth at my curt dismissal, but I ignored her and continued through the graveyard.
Leaves rustled from the all trees as beams of sunlight danced around me. My grip upon the bouquet tightened, bending the stems and tugging at the petals. I tucked my chin deeper toward my chest, then lifted my hand unto my face, sheltering my eyes. As I continued down through the maze of overgrown weeds, and through the broken, rotted wood gate, I cared not for the mourner’s ill-placed belief, for my soul mourned the loss of my mother—the falsely condemned witch.
Along the meadow in the outskirts of town, near the peddler’s road, the damned and cursed lay in shallow graves, devoid of headstones, unless a family member willing to bear the burden of the shame bestowed them with one.
While not a conviction sin, the mere act of visiting this cursed part of the graveyard caused whispers—a scary thought in times of preternatural torment. One never wishes another to speak about their actions, and my audacious defiance toyed with betrayal toward all held sacred.
To be continued…