Thursday, May 21, 2026

Character Interview: Running with the Orc by Loretta Kendall #MonsterRomance


Character Daisy LaRue Goes Scorched Earth on the Writer of Her Story and Doesn’t Hold Back


Meet Daisy LaRue, the sassy, quick-witted burlesque comedian from the new monster romance release, Running with the Orcs. When we sat down to chat with this feisty rebel, she had a lot to say about what the author Loretta Kendall put her through in this monster romance that just might be her undoing.

Q. Daisy, let’s start simple. How are you holding up after being ripped from your life and dropped into an orc-run world like it’s just a casual Tuesday in fairy land?

Ugh, where do I start? One day, I was grabbing a caramel latte from my favorite coffee house, and the next thing I knew, I was kidnapped by Commander Hot Pants and taken to be a dancing puppet for a bunch of orc jerks. I love that I can still perform my comedy act, but being a slave to these twirps isn’t sunshine and roses. And Commander Gronk, we’ll get to him later.

As an example of the cruelty of this place, last week I was minding my own business when one of the guards started messing with me in the cabaret bar. Well, I’m not just going to stand around and let him grope me like I’m a piece of meat. So, I socked him in the family jewels and ended up in an oubliette overnight as punishment.

What do these guys expect? I’m not just going to take this stuff lying down.

Q. It seems the author, Loretta Kendall, forced you into a lot of chaos with her writing. Do you think it builds character?

Character? Are you for real right now? She had me kidnapped and forced into some fairytale nightmare version of Medieval Times. I have character out the wazoo that came long before being dumped on this rock. I’m a burlesque comedian, and my character comes from being on stage and building a tough skin when the hecklers give me a hard time. When those fans are orcs, you have to have a backbone, and fast. That’s what a true artist does. She learns to adapt, and that’s what I did.

Q. What would you like to say to her directly, if she were standing right here now?

I’d give her a piece of my mind, that’s what. I’d tell her she can take her monster story, with all the nightmare situations of being chased by orcs in a messed-up game of tag, and shove it right up her… (Insert expletives here… and here… and here…)

Okay. We’ll take a break here and give Daisy a moment to get it out of her system.

Ten minutes later…

Q. Daisy, are you good? All better now?

Yeah. I just needed to vent. Go on.

Q. So we’ve derived that you have a deep disdain for the writer of your story. She put you through a lot then?

That’s an understatement. I didn’t even know orcs existed, then I was thrown into slavery by them to work in one of the clubs on the entertainment crew. I get she’s writing something deeper about how beauty and corruption drive people to do things they think are right, but it’s been a lot on the women in these camps. We don’t even know what the men do with us as they catch us in the biannual Running of the Orcs. Are we going to be sex slaves or their next monster buffet? I don’t think I’d taste very good either way. I’m too salty.

Not to mention I’m convinced my fairy best friend, Jubilee, is losing her mind in this place. We all are.

Q. Author conflicts aside, what was your first thought when you met the orcs? Be careful, they might still be listening.

Well, I thought before that they were going to be ugly monsters from what I saw in video games on Earth. When I got here, what I saw was nothing like that, other than the tusks and grumpy demeanors. Most of them are ridiculously hot, and it can be exciting and equally unnerving. I don’t exactly like the idea that the guy over this place is the hottest man I’ve ever seen. He’s my enemy, and I can’t stop drooling over the big, green blowhard.

Q. The camp is described as only women captives, from fairies, pixies, elves, to humans. Do you find it a girlhood bonding experience?

Are you kidding me? These women are ruthless and fighters in their own right. If you turn your back on so much as one of them, you’ll not only get your rations stolen, but could end up six feet under. We have to scrape to get by here, and that’s the truth of it. There are no spa days and lunch out with the girls. It’s a game of survival.

Q.  What would you like readers to understand about your situation?

That nothing here is as it seems. Just when you think you have it figured out, Loretta goes and throws a new plot twist for me to navigate. And the biggest one of all is the commander of the orc warlords being so painfully irresistible. I think she did that just to piss me off.

I hate that I want him so much, but if you tell him, I’ll kill you.

Bramwell Gronk is the bane of my existence. He’s the reason I keep having to work out trades with the orc scavengers assigned to Earth to keep my vibrators' batteries stocked.

Q. So there’s a chance of some romance then? Maybe life here isn’t so bad.

(Blush) Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind finding out if the rumors are true about their tribal implants of a sexual nature. I heard from the other girls in the village that those men are ribbed-for-her-pleasure. And if Bram has those nods too, all the better. A girl has to have something to look forward to in this place. Maybe he’s that something for me.  

I can’t believe I just admitted having a thing for my captor. I seriously think I’m developing Stockholm syndrome.

Q. Finally, if you could say one thing to entice readers to check out your story, what would it be?

If you like orcs, fantasy, monster spice, and a lot of snark, this is the book. I’m not exactly the damsel in distress type, but I think you’ll be rooting for me in the end. 




Running with the Orc
Loretta Kendall

Genre: Monster Romance
Publisher: Loretta Kendall
Date of Publication: May 15th, 2026
ISBN: 9798234054067
Number of pages: 244
Word Count: 75,000
Cover Artist: LK Creative Designs

Book Description: 

Daisy survived two years in orc captivity with one rule: Don't get caught during the run. 

Sassy burlesque comedian, Daisy LaRue, always believed her orc captors kidnapped their pretty victims for nefarious reasons. Humans, fairies, pixies, and other beautiful beings, all taken from their homes and forced to survive in a world built on a brutal game of hunter and the hunted. 

But do the orcs want them for lunch… or love? 

When Daisy is finally caught during the orcs' quarterly run, she discovers the so-called monstrous men might not be the villains she pegged them to be. The one who caught her may turn from enemy to temptation. 

In a world where nothing feels certain, she’ll face a battle far darker than captivity when her captor, Commander Bramwell Grognak, reveals the truth of a twisted history built on the study of eugenics. With the handsome orc at her side, Daisy takes a stand against the hidden evils of a society once built on honor and tradition. 

As love becomes the greatest challenge they face, this world may be worth fighting for.

Amazon     BN


Running with the Orc: Excerpt 2

“Might as well get comfortable. We’ll be here a while.”

“You saved my life,” I blurted out. I was shocked to even say it as we settled into the cave, rain pouring down outside.

He didn’t say anything, but the knowing glance he gave me almost seemed sincere. “What good would you be to me dead?”

This asshole. “Wow. Such chivalry.”

“What do you want me to say? You’re sitting there thinking right now of a way out of this, so you don’t become my next dinner option. So what’s it going to be? Take my sword and slit my throat this time? Maybe take my other eye?”

“You act like the eye thing is worse than death.”

He shrugged, poking at the fire with a stick. “Sometimes it’s hard to see that death isn’t such a bad option.”

“That’s a little dark, don’t you think?”

“So is thinking a man’s goal in life is making a meal of you.”

He had a point. I wasn’t exactly sunshine and lollipops over all this. “You can’t blame me for being cynical. You kidnap us from our homes and force us into this barbaric game of hide and seek. Excuse me if I’m not grateful.”

He actually chuckled at that. “I guess you’re right. But not everything is as dire as you may see right now. You never know. You might enjoy being eaten, little taste.”

“You’re an ass.”

“And you’re still blushing that I mentioned it.” He sat back, resting his head on the wall with a smirk as the flame lit his beautiful face with ironic glory.

“Sometimes I really hate you.”


About the Author:

Best-selling, award-winning romance author Loretta Kendall is an Indiana girl at heart, splitting time between writing steamy, swoon-worthy love stories and keeping up with her comedic sidekick husband. When she’s not lost in a world of words, she’s probably in the movie theater watching the latest release or trying to keep her poor, defenseless Venus flytrap plants alive. ~ RIP Molly Sue, Poe, and the twins.

Outside of writing, Loretta has a soft spot for vintage horror monsters, pinup fashion, and multimedia art. As a former pageant queen, celebrity makeup artist, photographer, and talent agent spanning twenty-two years in fashion and entertainment, her life experience gives a unique spin on her stories and their lively characters. 

Loretta’s love for storytelling shines through in every book, blending real love with the perfect touch of comedy, glamour, and outright chaos to captivate her readers.








Tour Giveaway 

1- Book box giveaway of a signed copy of the 
printed edge edition with bookish merch 

Must sign up for Loretta’s newsletter between 
May 15th -22nd at www.lorettakendall.com  

Winner will be announced May 23rd 
through a random drawing. 
(Must be in the US to enter) 



Monday, May 18, 2026

Igor the Collector and Skulls on a Shelf - Guest Blog by Barry Maher #SupernaturalThriller #BookTour



A character in the next dark humor supernatural thriller I’m working on was inspired by actual events. A man was arrested in Ephrata a while back simply for engaging in his hobby. He was apparently a collector, and I don’t know when that became a crime. The stuff he collected was just sitting around. Okay, he had some jewelry. But no one was using even a single piece of it. What’s more, no one had any intention of ever using it. Everything in his collection had been abandoned. Even the pacemaker.

Our friend, and I use the term in the loosest possible sense, stored his collection in private property, so no infraction there. The whole thing, a hundred human skulls along with assorted body parts—hands, feet, bones, a couple of torsos—was tucked away in his basement, in the backseat of his car and in a rented, and paid up, Ephrata storage unit. Delaware County D.A., Tanner Rouse, explained, “The skulls were in various states. Some of them were hanging, as it were. Some of them were pieced together, some were just skulls on a shelf,”

D.A. Rouse makes it sound Like this kind of thing might be routine around Ephrata, Pennsylvania. Now, I’m a tolerant guy. Not only do I write supernatural thrillers but I’m actually married to a full-blooded Pennsylvanian. Though not from Ephrata, she has her moments. And some people might remember—or may still be trying to forget—the column I did about my body being stuffed after death and placed standing in our living room, holding the TV remote. Of course, I was joking. (I know it’s hard to tell sometimes.) I wasn’t hoping to be the centerpiece of a collection, the male Mona Lisa of a morbid museum.

To assemble his collection, the man from Ephrata, let’s call him Igor, broke into at least twenty-six mausoleums and burial vaults in the nation’s largest abandoned cemetery. I have no idea who does that ranking, or how you can get your abandoned cemetery considered. But the one to beat has 150,000 gravesites. At least it did before Igor started doing whatever the hell he was doing.  Did I mention that Ephrata is a Hebrew name meaning “fruitful” or “place of abundance?” That certainly seems to be the way Igor was looking at it.

“We’re trying to figure it out,” the D.A. said calmly. With all due respect, sir. I doubt this is one of those figure-outable things. Okay, Igor might have sold the occasional piece, but mostly he was just collecting and hoarding. He’s being charged with 100 counts of abuse of a corpse as well as burglary, receiving stolen property, and generally being so weird that nobody wants him running around loose. His initial bail was set at a million dollars and I don’t think that’s nearly enough.

A couple of suggestions for D.A. Rouse. First, register “Skulls on s Shelf” since it’s a can’t miss name for a rock group. Then, tell Igor that as soon as he explains all this in a way that makes sense to anybody—anybody at all—you’ll drop the receiving stolen property charges. (Just who was he supposed to have received this stuff from anyway?)

I’d love to hear Igor’s reasoning. But the only thing less likely than someone doing this kind of collecting, is this bozo coming up with a rational explanation for it.

Though there is this. Doing my usual exhaustive research, I only got as far as typing “When did gr . . .” into Google, when it automatically suggested “When did grave robbing become a crime?” like a terrifyingly large amount of people have been asking that question.

So maybe having my body stored safely in the living room isn’t such a bad idea.



The Great Dick and the Dysfunctional Demon
Barry Maher

Genre: Supernatural Thriller
Publisher: Crystal Lake Publishing
Date of Publication: 09/2025
ISBN: 978-1968532130
ASIN: B0FKWK2K7C
Number of pages: 464
Word Count: 125,000

Tagline: A wickedly funny, dark humor. supernatural thriller, blending horror with a thrilling murder mystery.

Book Description:

It’s 1982. Steve Witowski was once a hero. Now he’s simply a failed songwriter, running from the law. Worse, he’s just killed a man—while almost accidentally saving a woman from what seemed to be the strongest, most blood-thirsty wino in California. 

He should keep moving. But the woman, Victoria, is beyond stunning. Steve stays. And Victoria becomes just a part of a mystery he can’t unravel. Even as the face of the man he just killed slowly, gradually appears on his arm. And what starts out as a gritty crime story spirals into what author David Moody called, “A chillingly funny, hot, sweaty, magic and murder infused rollercoaster.” Complete with open crypts, dark spells, sudden death, and forces more powerful and demonic than Steve understands. Where nothing is what it seems. And Steve may be the next victim.

Excerpt 

Back in the 60s . . .

 

On Wednesday October 13th, 1968, a faculty panel recommended the dismissal of Professor John Harris—in absentia, as no one at Harvard had seen or heard from him in weeks. Harris later bragged about delivering his final lecture on “one shitload and a half of LSD.” According to the recording made available to the faculty panel, this was the sum total of that lecture:

 

“Good afternoon. Wow. American Literature, hunh? Let’s see. Moby Dick today. Right?”

 “Moby Dick?” asked a confused voice. “No. What happened to The Scarlet Letter?”

 “Right. Moby Dick,” Harris continued. “Great book. None of you have read it. None of you are going to read it. Nobody ever does. What you need to understand is that as far as I’m concerned—and I’m the fucking professor—Moby Dick is the same story as The Great Gatsby, which some of you may read. I call it, ‘the half-assed struggle of the individual to put their world to rights in the face of a failure that threatens to define their life.’ I think that’s from my thesis. Though maybe it’s not pretentious enough.”

Harris laughed. “Hey! How about this? Great Gatsby/Moby Dick: same story, different era, right? So, if someone someday tries to write that story for this generation, they should call it The Great Dick. That’d be perfect, wouldn’t it? The Great Dick. Alright, that’s got to be almost fifty minutes. See you next . . . whenever. Wow.”

 

 

SUNDAY, MARCH 21, 1982
Two Women and One Corpse


“Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to lie well.”
                                                                                        —Samuel Johnson

 

CHAPTER 1

  

            Okay, let me start out by admitting that I was an asshole. I know that. The ludicrous amount of fame and acclaim and money I’ve had dumped on me since that time only makes it more glaring. The fact that we lived in a different world back in 1982 is no excuse. It was the same world. It just wasn’t the world we thought it was.

            I remember it was a Sunday night. Sundays always feel different. Looking back now and Googling a 1982 calendar, I’d guess it was Sunday, March 21st. I remember waking up and within minutes making the decision to leave. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I eased myself out of the rickety hide‑a‑bed.

            Immediately, Maria rolled over into the spot I'd just vacated, breathing loudly through her nose and mouth, not quite snoring. I hate to say it, but she looked every minute of her thirty years. Her thick dark hair clung damply to her face; her heavy arms stretched outward. The cast on her left wrist looked like a giant manacle.

The grandfather clock beside the cigar store Indian read 1:37, though a few minutes before, it had chimed four times. That made as much sense as anything else in my life. I was thirty-five years old, a Harvard grad who’d spent the previous two years faking his way through a $13,500 a year job as an territory rep for the Richmond Tobacco company. That $13,500 was the most money I’d ever made. You’re probably thinking that when you adjust for inflation and translate that $13,500 into today’s dollars, it’s a lot more impressive.

No, it’s not.

I slipped on my jersey and my jeans and gathered the rest of my things in my old gym bag. Fortunately, enough moonlight crept in around the edges of the tattered drapes to give the room a dim glow. I wondered if it would be safe to hitchhike out of there, or if Indiana had already notified the California Highway Patrol that I was wanted.

My situation was bad. But not bad enough to, say, crawl into a grave with a rotting corpse.

That would come later.



About the Author:
 
Barry Maher may be the only horror novelist who’s ever appeared in the pages of Funeral Service Insider. In his misspent youth, his articles appeared in perhaps a hundred different publications and, in order to eat, he held nearly that many different jobs. Sometimes he lived on the beach. Not in a house on the beach. On the beach. With the sand and the seagulls. 

Then he started telling his stories to audiences. More important, he started telling his stories to audiences and charging. That took him all over the country and around the world: his client list a Who’s Who of leading corporations, associations and cruise lines. You may have seen Barry on The Today Show, CNN, CBS or CNBC, or read about him in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, USA Today or in his own, Slightly Off-Kilter syndicated column.

On the downside, he’s also been incarcerated twice. Once for not making a left hand turn out of a left hand turn lane, and once for aiding and abetting a loiterer. 

He’s deeply repentant. 

Newsletter: www.barrymaher.com
 



 






Tuesday, May 5, 2026

Witchy Tips with Katrina Kimball #WitchyTips



1. Black (and white) candles are a witch’s best friend. Anytime energy feels off—be it collective or within my energetic space, I light a black candle and say some words to the effect of the burning candle cleansing my energetic space. This works like a charm every time. Why black? That black candle is attracting anything negative *in my space* to it and burning it away with the light (the flame) of the divine. Don’t overthink the words you say as you light the candle, a simple “I light this candle to cleanse my space” is good enough. It’s the intention that matters. Note: you can use white candles in a pinch when doing any ritual that calls for a different color correspondence. 

2. Don’t overthink your craft. If a spell calls for calendula but you want to use lavender? DO IT. If another ritual says to use a yellow candle but you feel drawn to purple, use the purple one. The magic of witchcraft lies within you, your needs and desires, and your intention. Everything else is just a tool to focus that intention. What feels right to and for you may be individual, and that’s okay because it’s your magic, working for you. 

3. Ground, witch! I cannot stress enough the importance of grounding. I highly recommend practicing grounding through visualizing energetic roots that spread from the bottom of your feet, down through the ground, and into the core of Mother Earth – on the DAILY. The more you practice this, the easier it is. It’s a simple tool that can take as little as 15 seconds, or you can sit with it for longer on particularly challenging days. 


Transcendence
Katrina Kimball

Genre: Paranormal Thriller, Dark Fantasy
Publisher: Rowan Prose Publishing
Date of Publication: April 28, 2026
ISBN: 978-1-961967-80-9
ASIN: B0F711QN1B
Number of pages: 348 pages
Word Count: 85,482
Cover Artist: Rowan Prose Publishing

Book Description: 

When a demonic entity seeking revenge starts tormenting her family, a young woman must rediscover their shared past and embrace her own divine power in order to save not only those she loves, but the creature bent on her destruction.

If you asked Alexis Ferelli what her biggest challenges are in life, she’d say it’s parenting her daughter, Luna, running her masseuse practice, and deftly avoiding conversations about marriage with her partner, Jack. At least, that was the case before she attended a séance. Now, the spirits are trying to contact her and there’s a demonic entity in her daughter’s closet.

Determined to find answers, she turns to the psychic from the séance and the spirit world for help. As she dabbles in the hereafter, she not only discovers another dimension filled with angelic guides, magic, and wonder, but also learns the shocking truth of her connection to the creature tormenting her daughter.

As the dark entity grows bolder and sets its sights on Jack as well as Luna, Alexis realizes that to save them all, she has to face the creature she once betrayed to bring it out of the darkness and back into the light.

Fans of Alix Harrow’s Starling House or Neil Gaiman’s Coraline will enjoy Transcendencs by Katrina Kimball.

Amazon     Books2Read

Excerpt:

Luna woke to a tapping sound coming from her closet. She knew closets weren’t supposed to make tapping sounds. She also knew that’s where monsters hid, in the back of dark closets or under your bed. Maybe that’s where aliens hid, too—waiting to catch you in your sleep.

The silvery light spilling through her parted curtains and pooling on the floor did little to soften the shadows. Through the gloom, she could see the outline of her closet. The door was shut. She cast a wary glance at the windowsill and the visible line of salt that gleamed in the faint moonlight. The salt was undisturbed, her window still closed against the night.

Tap, tap, tap.

She ducked under the covers and scooted to the far side of the bed. Tucked into the corner with her back pressed against the wall, she peeked out from under the blanket, her eyes glued to the closet.

Tap, tap, tap. The sound came again, swiftly followed by the soft click of the closet door as it started to inch open.

As she lay there, huddled in the darkness, too scared to breathe, a tall shadow, darker than the shades of night in which it had hidden, slowly stepped forward. Its red eyes reminded her of Aunt Dani’s cawing raven, the one with eyes like fire that scared you when you walked in the door. But these eyes were worse. Bright red flames surrounded a pupil an even deeper shade of red. And they were looking straight at her.

Frozen in fear, she watched as it glided closer, its footfalls silent, its eyes terrible and bright.

“Hello, little doll,” it whispered. 

Luna couldn’t tell if the thing had a mouth, for its entire face was black except for its terrifying eyes, but she heard the words just the same. A little voice in the back of her head was screaming at her to move, but it was too late, the thing was now between her and the door.

She remembered the bowl of salt on the nightstand next to her bed and finding her voice, tried to be brave.

“I am not a doll.”

“Oh, sweet child,” it sighed as it stepped into the puddle of moonlight, impossibly tall and darker than the nighttime shadows, “I shall make you my little doll. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

Its long arms ended in hooked fingers that looked as sharp as claws. Beneath eyes of flame ran a jagged slit where its mouth should be, as if someone had tried to draw a mouth, but had gotten it all wrong.

The scream that had been building for some time in the back of Luna’s throat finally worked its way free as the creature reached for her, talons grasping, eyes of flame leaping in the night.

She lunged for the salt next to her bed. Flinging the bowl itself at the creature, her eyes widened as it sailed right through it as if were truly just a shadow. Grains of salt flew through the air as the bowl shattered violently against the hardwood floor.

The creature jerked its head in the direction of her mother’s room and stared, its slash of a mouth widening into a gaping smile that made her stomach hurt. She could hear her mother’s footsteps racing down the hall.

Its head swiveled back in her direction, eyes alight with fire as its hideous smile somehow grew. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I’ll be seeing you little doll,” it whispered as it glided soundlessly back into her closet and snapped the door shut.

 

About the Author:

A horror enthusiast and lover of all things mysterious and unknowable, it was only a matter of time before author Katrina Kimball picked up her pen and mashed the paranormal, fantasy, and horror genres into one with her debut novel “Transcendence.” When she isn’t working on a novel or binge-watching shows about Bigfoot, ghosts, or aliens, she’s probably thinking about any one of those three things. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her two children and her adorable Boston Terrier, Beaux.








Friday, May 1, 2026

Gossiping About Grimoires by Mildred Abbott #ParanormalMystery


Spells and Rituals: A Beginner’s Guide to Magic (According to Maeve… and Mischief)

If you’d told me a few months ago that I’d be writing a guide to magic, I would have laughed. Not because I don’t believe in magic. Because I didn’t know I was writing about real magic at the time.

Now… I know better.

So if you’re looking for a perfectly structured, deeply responsible guide to spells and rituals, you may want to consult someone with more training, more experience, and significantly less chaos in her life.

If you’re willing to settle for what I’ve learned so far—often the hard way—then here are a few things worth knowing.

1. Intention matters. More than anything.

Magic isn’t just words.

It isn’t just candles or timing or whether you’re standing in exactly the right place.

It’s intention.

You can say every word perfectly and still fail if you don’t mean it. And sometimes—more concerningly—you can mean it too strongly and get something you didn’t intend at all.

That’s… been a learning experience.


2. Start small. No, smaller than that.

Lighting a candle without a match? Reasonable.

Encouraging a plant to bloom? Manageable.

Attempting anything involving blood magic, lost spirits, or creatures significantly more powerful than you?

Don’t.

(That advice would have saved me a great deal of trouble.)


3. Some spells are not meant to be used lightly

There are spells that feel simple when you read them. Clean. Direct.

They aren’t.

For example:

“Come to us witches, betrayed and lost. 
Lift your voice, tell the cost. 
Through the veil draw nigh and near. 
Bring your witness here.”

Calling to lost spirits sounds straightforward.

It isn’t.

Magic listens. And sometimes, things answer that you weren’t expecting.


4. Magic always takes something

Energy doesn’t come from nowhere.

It pulls from you. From the world around you. From things you may not even realize you’re offering up in the moment.

Even something as controlled as a working meant to trace the past—

“Prophecies called, sacrifices gathered. 
Questions asked, queries answered. 
Trace back through blood and life. 
Reveal the soul who paid such price.”

—can leave you more drained than you expected.

And that’s when everything goes right.


5. Familiar assistance is… unpredictable

Mischief would like it noted that familiars are essential to magic.

She would also like it noted that she is the most essential.

Which, to be fair, might actually be true.

But if you’re expecting calm, steady assistance, you should know that familiars have their own opinions. Their own instincts.

And sometimes, their own timing.

Which means your carefully planned spell may take a sudden turn if your familiar decides to get involved.

Or sit on your materials.

Or wander off halfway through.

(Not that I’m speaking from experience.)


6. Not all magic is meant to be understood

Some spells feel… heavier.

More final.

Like this one:

“Coursing blood crystallize, 
Draw power from night skies, 
Vanquished soul put to bed, 
Offer endless sleep to the dead.”

There are debates about what it actually does.

Some say it’s mercy.

Some say it’s something else entirely.

I haven’t decided which is worse.


7. The most important rule

Magic is not separate from the world.

It’s part of it.

Which means every choice you make—every spell you cast—has consequences beyond the moment you’re standing in.

I learned that the hard way.

Because sometimes magic doesn’t just change a situation.

Sometimes it exposes things that were meant to stay hidden.

And once that happens… there’s no taking it back.




I didn’t grow up in this world. I didn’t train for it. I didn’t even know it existed.

But now that I’m part of it, I’m learning—one spell, one mistake, one very opinionated corgi at a time.

Because magic isn’t just wonder.

It’s risk.

It’s responsibility.

And sometimes… it’s the reason people are hunting you in the first place.

If you’d like to step into a world where magic hides just beneath the surface, where spells don’t always behave, and where a corgi familiar may be more powerful than she lets on, you can begin the Whispering Witch series with Gossiping About Grimoires.


Gossiping About Grimoires
Whispering Witch 
Book One
Mildred Abbott

Genre: Paranormal Mystery
Publisher: Wings of Ink Publications, LLC
Date of Publication: March 10, 2026
ISBN: 979-8243417433
ASIN: B0GJTS4272
Number of pages: 400
Word Count: 103,600

Cover Artist: Christian Bentulan 

Book Description:

Maeve Hawthorn writes about witches for a living. They want her to stop.

When a book signing ends in her abduction, Maeve’s only priority is escaping with her corgi, Mischief, alive. That urgency deepens when she learns her captors are real witches, furious that Maeve has been exposing their secrets to the world.

Before Maeve can make sense of how her fiction has become reality, she’s caught in the middle of a murder that leaves her marked by magic she doesn’t understand. When a dying witch’s power floods into her, Maeve becomes the prime suspect in a crime she didn’t commit—and a target for every supernatural being certain she knows too much.

Turns out, magic isn’t a gift. It’s a liability. And clearing her name may cost Maeve far more than her safety.

With danger closing in and no clear allies other than Mischief, Maeve must navigate a hidden supernatural world that wants her silenced… or dead.

Excerpt:

Turning from dawn breaking over the Quarter, I crossed over to the canopy bed where Mischief was having a completely different experience.

After my thousandth time pacing the room, Mischief had crawled on top of the mountain of decorative pillows placed against the headboard and fallen asleep. As normal, she’d started off in a dignified little ball, resting her head on top of her fluffy tail. Barely ten minutes had passed before she flipped onto her back, front legs curved at her chest and hind legs spread in a most un-ladylike manner.

Without thinking, I mimicked her—flopping to the mattress on my back with a cry of terrified frustration.

Mischief snorted in surprise and tried to twist around onto her feet. Instead, she sank between the pillows. She only disappeared for a heartbeat before she thrust her head through a gap at the bottom and shook off a little trail of drool left over from her nap.

“Sorry, sweet girl.”

Mischief only groaned, yawned.

Despite everything, she could still make me laugh. I curled onto my side, snagged under her front legs, heaved her free from the pillow avalanche, and pulled her to my chest.

“Oh, Mischief, what have I gotten us into?”

She snuggled against me and in answer issued a long, relaxed sigh.

“You know, I’m always amazed how much you understand what I’m saying and what’s going on around us. However, you seem completely clueless at the moment, which is surprising.” I buried my face in the large white patch of fur at the back of her neck, tears stinging my eyes. “Although I have to admit, I wish I were clueless right now too.”

Mischief exhaled, sounding annoyed, then squeezed her way out of my embrace, trotted about a foot across the mattress, and plopped down, staring at me.

I laughed again. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to insult you or anything. I only…”

The expression in her eyes brought me up short and ushered back the memory beside Eudora’s body. How in the world had I forgotten?

“I could have sworn you talked to me earlier.”

Her annoyed expression deepened.

I leaned closer. “Are you irritated because that’s ridiculous or because I’ve been too busy being a stress-mess to remember until now?”

She glared, though not necessarily angrily, but more like another flash of what I thought was annoyance. She leaned closer so her nose almost touched mine and held my gaze, staring so hard had it been anyone else, it would have felt invasive and too personal.

But it was Mischief, so I stared right back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

She blinked, then stared again.

“You are!” I gasped at the realization. “You are trying to tell me something. Actually, trying to say something… right?”

Though I couldn’t hear even the faintest reply, the expression in her dark eyes was a resounding Yes. Truthfully, it was probably more of a Duh!

“Okay.” In my excitement, I attempted to push aside being captured and my probable purging and scurried up into a sitting position on the bed.

That was instantly too high, so I repositioned to my knees, leaning forward and resting on my forearms, returning our faces to eye level.

Again, I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I got the impression she was laughing.

Strange. Although I suddenly realized how I must look spread over the bed with my rump up in the air. “Kind of like you when you want to play, huh?”

Her eyes twinkled.

Another thrill shot through me.

I had always felt a bond between us and frequently had the impression we could read each other’s thoughts and feel each other’s emotions. But I’d heard other people who loved their dogs say similar. I figured every doggy parent felt that. But this was different, even though I couldn’t hear any words like I thought I had at the cathedral. This was new, even for us.

“Okay… what’s different from earlier?” I thought back to the moment at the cathedral, trying to recall. She’d been on my lap, and I’d buried my face in her fur, as I so often did for comfort. But… I’d just held her a moment ago. Just had my face buried in her fur while I tried not to cry.

Before I could sit up, drag her into my lap, and try again, Mischief drew closer once more and pressed her forehead to mine.

I started to argue, to tell her of my plan of recreating the scene. However, she seemed to know what she was doing better than I did, so I held my position.

Mischief pushed a little harder against my forehead and took a long, slow breath, then released it. Her breath didn’t smell minty fresh or anything, but the warmth washed over my cheeks and felt as familiar and safe as home.

I attempted a slow breath of my own, but it shook.

Mischief did it again.

So did I—longer, deeper, and slower that time. The tightness in my throat lessened, and the claws gripping around my heart loosened ever so slightly.

Safe.

I scrambled back, startled, as I hadn’t really expected it to work. “You said that, right? Not just my imagination?”

Her scowl was all the answer I needed.

“Okay, you did say it. That’s… amazing. And I love you think we’re…” My turn to scowl. “Wait a minute. Do you really think that, or is safe the only word you can say?”

Her chuff upgraded from mild annoyance to exasperation.

“All right.” Despite our situation, I chuckled, because talking or not, Mischief was Mischief.

I wasn’t entirely convinced, but whether because of hope or delusion, I wanted to find meaning.

“All right, let’s say you really are talking and I can hear you. We’ll go a step further and believe you’re choosing to say safe because you truly think we are.”

She blinked. Maybe confirmation? That seemed like a good sign.

“Great, so… you believe we’re safe.”

Reality broke through. I was sitting here talking to my dog. Although I always talked to Mischief—all the time—I’d never expected her to answer back with actual words.

Was I losing my mind?

Mischief growled softly.

“Okay, good point. We’re surrounded by witches. Plus, black cats, otters, alligators, and opossums while we’re at it. Not a huge leap that you might start talking.”

Her growling stopped.

“I’ll take that as agreement.” I couldn’t help but grin at her, then reached out and stroked her beautiful face. “So you think we’re safe. I guess that’s good, but there’s not a single thing that’s happened that leads me to believe that. Why in the world do you think we’re safe?”

Mischief’s tail began to dance behind her head. Magic.

I gasped again. “You can say more than safe.”

Her wagging ceased instantly.

“Sorry.”

She sighed.

“You think we’re safe because of magic. I don’t see how.” I continued to pet her and try to parse through things out loud, attempting to make sense of it. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m over the moon it’s all real, but magic is what put us in danger—it’s definitely not protecting us.”

Mischief shook her head, pulling away from my touch. She seemed to consider for a second, then stretched out one of her white little paws and placed it on my hand resting against the bedspread.

Magic.

My heart thrilled again at hearing her voice—which mostly sounded like my own voice, my thinking voice or conscience… but… different.

“Yeah, I get it. There’s magic. But it’s being used against us, Mischief, not—”

Magic. She batted my hand with her paw. Maeve. Magic.

“You said my name!” I gasped again and yanked my hand away, covering my heart like a parent whose baby just said “Mama” for the first time.

She rolled her eyes, which… wasn’t new.

“Sorry.”

She scooted close enough to touch again.

Maeve. She glared again. Magic.

Mischief shook her head in what looked like frustration. I didn’t get the sense she was frustrated at me that time, however.

She gave a little hop, then looked back at me before covering my hand with her paw once more. Magic. Maeve. She tapped my hand, one of her claws accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally—scratching my skin. Magic Maeve. Magic Maeve.

“Uhm…”

Mischief shut her eyes, and her tiny little caterpillar brows furrowed like she was straining. Maeve. Is. Magic.

She opened her eyes, looking deep into mine again. Maeve. Magic.


About the Author:

Mildred Abbott writes cozy mysteries filled with humorous and complex characters. Whether brimming with magic or simply an above-average dose of curiosity, Mildred's amateur sleuths solve murders with the cutest sidekicks ever. Fifteen years as a special education teacher and a lifetime of loving rescue dogs result in creating adventures with a ton of heart and the need for lint rollers.