Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Spotlight on Whiskey Witches, by S.M. Blooding: Read an Excerpt!

Detective Paige Whiskey comes from a long line of witches. They may not all be the most powerful, but they are outspoken and supportive of their community. She alone has no gifts. She can’t summon fire, can’t read minds. She knows the arcane. She’s studied it. That, along with her connection to the Whiskey Witches, lands her some pretty strange cases.

Like the sacrificial murders of St. Francisville, Louisiana. There’s a killer on the loose, choosing people in a vain attempt to raise a demon. Not just any demon, though. A man born long ago, made a demon in order to protect the Gate to Hell.

Together with demon hunter, Dexx Colt, her kitchen-witch grandmother, and her paranormal investigator brother-in-law, they unravel a conspiracy far bigger than a few simple murders, and re-discover Paige’s gift.

She’s a demon summoner, and she’s key to the killer’s plan.

Enjoy the following excerpt from Whiskey Witches!

The Mel read at a point two. Nothing.

She turned on the digital voice recorder. “Paige in the attic. Metley Plantation. Bored as crap. Nothing going on. Boys are elsewhere, but can’t hear them. Starting EVP session because I am so completely bored out of my skull. Thanks for giving me no one to talk to, Tru.”

She listened to the silence. Something scraped against the roof.

“Something outside,” she sighed quietly into the mic. “The wind is blowing.”

A dog howled.

Her eyelids half-closed, she brought the recorder to her mouth, supporting her chin on her other hand, and muttered, “Dog.”

Something scurried across the shingles.

She yawned. “Squirrel.”

A box shifted across the floor on the opposite side of the room.


She straightened, instantly alert. “Tag this. Something just called my name. Dexx, if this is you, come out.” Though she hadn’t heard anyone clomp up those wooden stairs. They weren’t quiet steps.

She pointed the camera in the direction of the noise, setting it on a box beside her. The camera’s night vision showed boxes and open space on the screen. “Is anyone there?”

Something slid in front of her. She heard it. It sounded heavy like a dresser, maybe? Wood on wood? It wasn’t a box, at least not a cardboard one. She set the Mel down. She needed light and the only thing she had was the flashlight on her key ring.

Nothing. Great.

She dragged herself to her feet and shuffled in that direction, flashlight in one hand, voice recorder in the other. The floorboards creaked under her weight. She peered around a stack of cardboard boxes.


“Sounds like a little girl,” she whispered into the voice recorder. “Leslie, I thought you debunked this place.”

She headed back to the Mel and glanced at the red screen. Three point five. Could be nothing, but the base attic reading had been a point one. “Did you die here? What’s your name?”

The room was silent.

“Please make a sound. Let me know you’re here.” She tightened her lips. “Without scaring me half to death.”

The attic door slammed shut.

Paige screeched, her eyes glued to the door. “Okay.” She tried to control her erratically beating heart. “What do you want? You called my name. Can I help you?”

A furious force pushed against her. She stumbled as she raised her arms above her head. Something dragged her toward the now open door, hands like icy fire scalding her forearms. Her fingers latched onto the door, closing it on her way through. The force continued to pull her down the tight attic stairs. Her foot twisted. She grabbed at the wall, the railing, anything.

She landed on her back and slid down the remaining three stairs, thunking her head against each one on her way down. Her hand caught the banister and she laid there, feeling every step digging into her. She’d lost the voice recorder. Her keys and flashlight were gone too, who knew where.

She took in a deep breath and slowly sat up, closing her eyes momentarily.

As they opened, the flashlight turned itself on. Three steps below her.

Her heart froze. The only way to turn the light on was to hold the button.

It stuttered and shut off.

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Meet the Author:

SM “Frankie” Blooding lives in Colorado with her pet rock, Rockie, and Jack the Bird. Jack has refused to let her to take up the piano again, but is warming to the guitar. It might help that Frankie has learned more than two strings. She’s added a few more Arabic words to her vocabulary, but don’t invite her into conversation yet -- unless, of course, you’re willing to have a very ... slow ... conversation.

She’s dated vampires, werewolves, sorcerers, weapons smugglers and US Government assassins. Yes. She has stories.

She’s also an investigator with a local paranormal investigation group, Colorado Paranormal Rescue!

Find out more about her at:

Facebook / Twitter / Website

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