Posts
Heritage Avenged
by Marsha A. Moore
Genre: Fantasy romance
Blurb:
Lyra McCauley receives an alarming
letter from the coroner who evaluated her deceased aunt, originally thought to
have died of cancer. The news causes Lyra to take leave from her job and travel
from sunny Tampa to the frozen island community in northern Michigan.
Questioning whether Dragonspeir magic was responsible for her aunt’s death, she
resolves to learn the truth and accepts the Imperial Dragon’s appointment into
the Alliance sorcery training.
Additionally, becoming proficient in magic craft is the only way she can bridge the gap between her mortal human world and her lover’s. Cullen, a 220-year-old wizard, is dependent upon his Dragonspeir magic for immortality. He is her only family now; she cannot lose him.
Evil forces block her and try to
steal her inherited scribal aura. Riding a stealth dragon, a cloaked rider
pursues Lyra. Both the Alliance and Dark Realm alchemists lay tricks and traps.
Her aura equals that of the first and most powerful Scribe, but will Lyra’s
novice training allow her to discover the truth? Will she be able to be with
Cullen, or will the Dark Realm keep them apart?
Purchase
Links:
Amazon
Heritage Avenged: Enchanted Bookstore Legend Two ~ available for only $1.29
Amazon
Seeking a Scribe: Enchanted Bookstore Legend One ~ available for only 99 cents
Author
Bio:
Marsha A. Moore is a writer of
fantasy romance. The magic of art and nature spark life into her writing. Her
creativity also spills into watercolor painting and drawing. After a move from
Toledo to Tampa in 2008, she’s happily transforming into a Floridian, in love
with the outdoors.
Crazy about cycling, she usually
passes the 1,000 mile mark yearly. She is learning kayaking and already
addicted. She’s been a yoga enthusiast for over a decade and that spiritual
quest helps her explore the mystical side of fantasy. She never has enough days
spent at the beach, usually scribbling away at new stories with toes wiggling
in the sand.
Every day at the beach is
magical!
Author Links: Website: http://MarshaAMoore.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/MarshaAMoore
Fantasy Faction staff page: http://fantasy-faction.com/staff-members?uid=38
Goodreads author page http://www.goodreads.com/marshaamoore
Excerpt:
Excerpt:
From Chapter 1: The
Letter
Lyra worried about
Cullen on his flight home. Despite the fact he was over two hundred years old,
it was only his second plane trip. The few wizards of Dragonspeir who visited
the real world seldom traveled far, and then not conventionally. He kept her
safe in his world last summer. She intended to keep him safe in hers.
“Next!” the
heavyset postmistress belted out.
“I’ve got to hang up,” Lyra quickly whispered
into her cell phone. “Be sure you call me when you land in Sault Saint Marie.
Love you.”
She sighed and
maneuvered to the clerk at the far end of the counter. If only they could live
together in one world. She needed to learn more magic first and hoped to make a
start in a few weeks, when she took her winter break from teaching to attend
his Solstice Festival. Unfortunately, her formal lessons would have to wait
until next summer.
When Lyra
approached the counter, the woman peered over the top of her reading glasses as
she shuffled papers. “Yes?”
“I’m here to pick
up my mail from a vacation hold.”
“Theme of my day,”
the postmistress muttered and then barked, “Name and ID.”
“Adalyra McCauley.
Just since the day before Thanksgiving.” She fumbled in her purse and pulled
the driver’s license from her billfold.
The women sighed,
slid off her stool, and shuffled into a back room. A few minutes later, she
lumbered back, carrying a small stack of letters, glossy ads, and magazines.
She scooted the mail across the counter.
Lyra stuffed it
all into a tote bag, then scurried to her silver Subaru sport wagon and tossed
it into the passenger seat. Driving Cullen to the Tampa International airport
and this stop barely left enough time to make it to the university in time to
teach her ten o’clock class. But the memory of those lingering goodbye kisses
made it worth the consequences.
She stopped for a
red light at a twelve-lane interchange, tapping the wheel impatiently. The
edges of the mail peeked out of the sack, tempting her. She pulled it into her
lap and riffled through the letters. The usual bills. The signal remained red.
Thumbing quickly
through familiar envelopes, one unusual return address caught her eye, William
T. Betts, M.D., Washaw, Michigan—the island village location of Aunt Jean’s
cottage on Lake Huron. Although addressed to Lyra, it had been sent to where
her aunt lived prior to passing away. She couldn’t place his name as one of
Jean’s doctors. Multiple postmarks revealed a path of forwarding, the oldest
dated last August, a few weeks after the funeral. She checked the traffic
light—still red.
She ripped open
the envelope and yanked out the letter.
Dear Ms. McCauley:
I
am writing this correspondence in my capacity of Birch County coroner. Please
accept my condolences for the recent loss of your aunt, Jean Perkins. Prior to
delivery of her remains to the Michigan State crematorium, her attending
physician, Dr. Everett Schultz, requested an autopsy. Dr. Schultz and I wish to
meet with you to discuss my findings at your earliest convenience.
Respectfully,
William
T. Betts, M.D.
A horn honked from
behind and jolted Lyra into a panic. Her limbs froze and her eyes returned for
another glimpse of the letter. She wildly scanned the page, searching for
additional information. Aunt Jean had died of cancer. What more could they tell
her than that?
At the time of
Jean’s death, the abrupt change in her symptoms puzzled Lyra and made her
question the visiting nurse. Hours before, her aunt’s mind had been lucid. Her
eyes were clear and her breathing soft and steady, not a raspy death rattle. Now
those initial concerns seemed grounded.
The driver behind
her laid on the horn.
The noise jarred
Lyra to the present. She exhaled an arrested breath. To brace her shaking arms,
her free hand clamped the steering wheel. Unable to coordinate, her foot slid
off the clutch and stalled the car.
A chorus of horns
blared.
After fumbling
with the ignition, she restarted and herded her Subaru into the stream of
traffic. She locked her eyes squarely ahead to avoid angry road-rage stares
from passing motorists.
One car pulled
alongside and tooted. Her eyes shifted onto the driver who flipped her off
before speeding away.
Shaking, she gave
up rushing to be on time. Keeping her car safely on the road was challenge
enough. She hung back to allow other cars to pass.
Plodding in the
slow lane, her thoughts drifted to the letter. What had the coroner found? In
September, the funeral home wrote, indicating they stored her aunt’s ashes, as
Lyra directed, until she returned to collect them. The director never mentioned
any question about the cause of death.
Lyra shifted
before engaging the clutch. Grinding gears vibrated the car. White-knuckling
the wheel, she gratefully turned at the sign for Southern University. Finally
in her assigned parking spot, she slumped into the seat.
Before getting
out, she reread the letter to search for clues between the phrases. She found
none, but the words “earliest convenience” loomed. The doctor wrote the letter
three months ago. Would that lost time make a difference?
Was it possible
someone harmed Jean? Hundreds in the village visited the funeral and expressed
sorrow. What about that strange man, Revelin? He came to Jean’s home,
supposedly working as an aide from the home care division of the local clinic.
He acted suspicious, trying to read Lyra’s computer screen, open to her draft
of the new version of the Book of Dragonspeir.
Maybe a person from Dragonspeir? A few supporters of the evil Black Dragon
could enter her world. But who? His alchemist, Tarom, possessed enough power
and talent. A chill ran down her spine, thinking of his glowing red eyes and
crimson cloak with moving tentacles at its hem. She sighed. No obvious evidence
linked either man.
Sun rays reflected
light through her windshield from the modern glass and concrete English
building. This alerted her to pull herself together and go inside. After
sucking in a deep breath to steady her nerves, she opened the car door and
stepped out. Her legs shook under her weight. Her shoulders sagged under the load
of the briefcase and bags. With an awkward gait, she ambled toward her
building.
She stopped cold.
Students raced around her to make their classes. What about Eburscon? Alchemist
for the Imperial Dragon’s Alliance. She clenched a fist, recalling his haughty,
antagonistic manner. He openly disapproved of Lyra’s influence on anyone in
Dragonspeir.
Opening a side
door off the parking lot, she checked her watch. Five minutes past the start of
class time. She braced herself, rearranged her bags, and climbed two flights—a
short cut to the classroom which avoided the department offices.
Three minutes
later, she arrived in the room, out-of-breath and shaking, in no shape to
teach. But, the chairman kept careful tabs on all his non-tenured professors,
including Lyra.
Thankfully, the
lesson was an easy one, reviewing short story reading assignments. The students
in her American Lit course, just returned from a long Thanksgiving weekend,
didn’t want to hear a rigorous talk about Emerson and Thoreau. Most eyed her with
groggy stares, heads propped on elbows. A handful of alert and prepared
students vied to contribute, snapping out responses to Lyra’s discussion
questions. Usually she enjoyed pitting them against each other, but today she
merely appreciated their participation.
Her mind wandered
two thousand miles away. She watched the clock, counting the minutes until she
could talk with Cullen during his layover in Detroit.
.jpg)
.jpg)
1 comment:
Thanks for featuring my book today!
Post a Comment