One Month Until The Reanimator’s Fate

December 28, 2025December 28, 2025 Kara Jorgensen1 Comment

We are officially one month out until the release of The Reanimator’s Remains (TRM #4), which you can preorder at all major retailers here. Since we are getting so close, I thought I would share with you the prologue to whet your appetite.

Prologue

The Cat Burglar

Mr. George Chadwick Livingston III’s home off Fifth Avenue contained many things: massive marble mantles imported from Italy, stained glass windows made in Tiffany’s workshop, enamel vases purchased from Faberge in the style of the Russian tsars, wardrobes filled with gowns from Worth and Doucet, antiquities looted from cultures around the globe, and the best display of good breeding and taste a first-generation steamer magnate could buy. What it didn’t contain was a bobcat, yet when the clock struck two, the wildcat slid out from under the sofa and regarded the man’s well-stocked library with a gleam in its eye. The creature purred as it silently padded to each door and confirmed that the room was locked and the halls beyond it were empty of people. The bobcat and Enoch Whitley, the man who shared a body with it, had waited nearly a month for this day, and they weren’t going to squander it by getting caught.

With a shove, Enoch forced the bobcat to relinquish its hold. Their body locked and convulsed like a machine in need of oil after weeks in bobcat form. They bit back a hiss as their skull split and the cat’s sharp canines retracted in favor of a row of square, crooked teeth. Across their body, their skin crawled as fur was replaced with flesh and greying brown hair, but the sensation was nothing compared to the pain of the breaking and remaking of bones and the tearing of muscle. Enoch clamped his mouth shut as the pain reached a crescendo that turned to nausea. He shouldn’t have waited so long to shift. He was too old, and at some point, waiting too long would be his undoing. Resting his head against the Indian rug, Enoch panted and shut his eyes until his heart quieted and the last echoes of the transformation passed.

If one of the maids had walked in, they would have found him as naked and vulnerable as a baby bird, but that was the price he paid for shifting. His lips twitched at the thought of being caught like that again as he forced himself upright, one spindly limb at a time. It had been a long time since he had been so careless. Touching his neck for his collar of clothes, Enoch found it bare and let out a disappointed hum. The damned cat forgot them. His spare clothes had been bundled around his neck when they snuck into the mansion weeks earlier, but somewhere along the way, they had been left behind. Enoch scratched at the stubble on his chin and tried to remember where his clothing might be. Clothes were too expensive to leave behind if he could help it. Unfortunately, when he was a passenger in the bobcat’s mind for too long, it was easy to forget inconsequential things like clothes or the days of the week. The bobcat cared only for sleeping, eating, and whatever quarry Enoch set its mind to. He and the bobcat were alike in that way; while the cat didn’t care a fig about books, it enjoyed the hunt.

Glancing up at the oculus high above his head, Enoch watched a flurry of snow twist and dance across the glass. It had been thoroughly autumnal when they snuck into the Livingstons’ manor, but he had barely noticed nature’s slow slide into winter while nestled in the bobcat’s mind. At least the rich man’s palace was warm even without a fire. No matter. If he couldn’t find his clothes, he would simply secure the book with a table cloth or rag and leave in furs again. He would just have to be careful that the book didn’t fall out or get wet. Enoch frowned but shrugged to himself as his not quite human eyes adjusted to the meager light. He would figure something out.

Drifting to the nearest shelf, Enoch ran his gaze over the rows of books and was relieved to find that the library had some semblance of organization. He couldn’t abide rich swells who couldn’t tell a folio from a grimoire and stored their books in the most asinine fashion. He sometimes stole more from people who organized their books by size or color on principle. Arranging books by their outward appearance showed their owners didn’t care about what was inside them, just how they looked. They were often the same people who ripped off the original covers and plastered on a generic piece of fancy dyed leather, so it matched their rug and couches. Enoch’s lip curled at the thought of the books he prized so dearly being pinned down and having their wings ripped off like a butterfly to satisfy some decorative fancy. It was sacrilegious.

As he moved to the next shelf, Enoch ran a loving hand over the spine of a book he already owned. He had taken his copy from a collection at a college in Poughkeepsie several years earlier, and while Mr. Livingston’s copy was in better condition, Enoch felt no need to take it. The knowledge inside was the same, even if the cover was crisper, but his esteem for Mr. Livingston and his book agent grew a fraction. The man may have known nothing of books, but it was obvious the person he hired as his agent did. His library wasn’t nearly as large or prestigious as that of the other robber barons who lived on Fifth Avenue, but the dearth of the collection along with the trophy pieces were well chosen to make him look sensible yet affluent. Giving his agent free rein to organize it as he wished had lent the library an air of discernment and forethought. So many people put books in alphabetical order to save time, and that was nearly as bad as grouping them by appearance. When Enoch had last been allowed in the Paranormal Society’s library, they had used the Dewey Decimal System, which Enoch disliked for his own reasons, but that had been a while ago. Resentment kindled like a coal in his breast, but he smothered it by focusing on his quarry. It didn’t matter if the society didn’t understand his mission; he didn’t need them or their books as long as he could still shift. With their hovering librarians, missing books were spotted so quickly, but in a library like this, a book could go missing and not be noticed for years, or so he hoped.

The man Mr. Livingston had hired to stock his library—Ramsey, Ransom, something like that—had sought out titles that were not fought over by the men of the Grolier Club, yet the books he had purchased were still fairly rare and in good shape with the occasional treasure. If Enoch had been a cat burglar with less scruples, he might have grabbed a few of the nicer boring books and lived off the proceeds for years. But that wasn’t what he came for. Silently padding up the curling iron staircase in the corner, Enoch’s eyes glowed in the meager starlight like a cat’s. The book he wanted had to be up there somewhere. On the first floor, the higher shelves had been used for flaunting the more expensive treasures, visible but not easily touched. If this were his library, he would put the more controversial books on the second floor, out of reach and out of the way of prying eyes. The bobcat purred in his head as they reached a corner that couldn’t be glimpsed from the floor below. There were saucy books that probably contained some interesting etchings or turns of phrase, things that could no longer be sold through the mail legally, but Enoch didn’t care about those. He needed a book for his research library, and for once, he knew exactly who purchased it. The only question was if Livingston or his agent truly knew what it was; that would change where they put it.

Enoch squinted and blinked, his eyes and brain struggling over the titles as he skimmed row after row of spines. When he set off to steal this book, he hadn’t expected to get stuck in the cat’s head for weeks, but fate had smiled upon him that day. He had been perusing the shelves of his favorite bookshop when Mr. Livingston’s agent came in to check on whether an order of books had come in. As soon as the proprietor mentioned The Corpus Arcanum, Enoch had been unable to rip his attention away. The book had been on his desiderata for years, and he needed it. The next night he broke into the bookshop and went through the man’s papers to find the buyer. What he hadn’t realized was that Mr. Livingston had purchased it along with several dozen others.

The rest of the books were mundane or illicit in far less interesting ways, and Enoch couldn’t help but wonder why he had purchased a book on magic. He thought maybe Livingston was a collector of esoteric books, not for what they contained but for their age or strangeness. The library so far hadn’t contained anything particularly interesting or useful to him. Perhaps, the agent had merely gotten a feeling that he should buy it. That happened to non-magical people sometimes. If their blood contained the dregs of magic from some long-dead ancestor, they were drawn to magical objects like moths to a flame even if they couldn’t use them.

Enoch had expected to stake out the house for a few days before stealing the book. What he hadn’t expected was the book agent to quibble with Mr. Livingston about the organization of his library. For days, the bobcat had sat under the sofa as books were taken down, reorganized, cataloged, and the new books unpacked. Eventually, the bobcat refused to stay still for so long, so they took to learning the routines of the household staff and family, which halls were safe to traverse in daylight, and when the master of the house would next be away on business. He had decided to wait until Mr. Livingston left for England to take the book. The man spent a great deal of time in his library, and Enoch feared that if he didn’t wait until the new books lost their shine, their absence would be noticed. A life of bibliomania had taught him that book lovers always came in from time to time to marvel at their latest purchases, turning them over in their hands, and feeling that swell of satisfaction that it was theirs. Enoch knew the feeling well. Every book he stole for his research library was a treasure to be stroked and admired until he went after his next quarry. It was only when a new book took its place that it became one of many.

Waiting to take the book while Mr. Livingston was away was the smart thing to do. He and the book man were the only ones who came into the library with any regularity, and by the time he returned, his latest purchases and their locations on the shelf would have dulled in his memory. After a month of lurking in the shadows, Enoch would leave the mansion with far less mice than when he arrived in exchange for the book he needed. All things considered, it seemed a fair trade, and it wasn’t as if Mr. Livingston could use the book anyway.

As Enoch reached the second to last shelf, his breath hitched at the sudden kick of adrenaline coursing through his veins. There it was: The Corpus Arcanum. After years of trying to get his hands on it, it was finally his. The title had been written on the ribbed spine in a bold, golden script by some enterprising librarian over a century ago, but it was still in its original binding. Wiping his sweaty palms across his leg, Enoch steadied his shaking hands before carefully pulling it out. It had been stuck between two mundane volumes from the Renaissance, so he quickly shuffled the other books around it to obscure the space where the tome had been. Sinking to the floor of the catwalk, Enoch stared down at his prize and ran a reverent hand over the black, goatskin cover. No wonder the book agent had bought it for Mr. Livingston’s collection; it was beautiful. He had expected it to be plain and ugly like so many magical books were, but it was covered in gilded arabesques and stars that reflected the intricacies of the work within.

The collected knowledge of magic in one thick volume, and now it was his. He had begged the librarians at the Paranormal Society to let him into the special collections to read it, but that cantankerous old prune wouldn’t let him. His research was never worthy enough to gain him entry, though he was certain old Turpin kept him out to keep him from gaining too much knowledge. Enoch ran his fingers hungrily down the book’s spine as the bobcat purred loudly in his head. He didn’t need the Paranormal Society anymore. He had a library of his own. One that would soon rival them if he could find a few more books on his desiderata. He would make them regret dismissing him.

Cradling the book close, Enoch returned to the first floor and swept his glowing gaze for anything he might use to tie the book to the cat. The covers on the tables would be missed, and when he rifled through Mr. Livingston’s desk, he didn’t find so much as a handkerchief. Why would he keep one on hand when he could merely order a servant to bring him one? Enoch shoved the draw shut with a grunt and closed his eyes. He tried to picture the house from the bobcat’s perspective; there was a linen closet a few hallways over near the dining room where there were plenty of napkins that wouldn’t be missed. To get there, he would have to take to furs again and leave The Corpus Arcanum behind. Cold sweat broke on Enoch’s back at the thought of putting the book back or not being able to return to take it. If a maid heard him rummaging around, she might chase the cat off or realize there had been a robbery. The binding creaked beneath his fingers. He couldn’t risk going into the bobcat’s head for weeks again to get another chance. He had to leave with the book tonight. He needed this book for his research.

Enoch’s gaze sharpened. That was it. He needed the knowledge within the pages for his research, not the book itself. He had at least two hours before the staff began to wake. That was plenty of time to confirm a theory or two and satisfy his curiosity in case he had to wait to come back for the book. Settling at Mr. Livingston’s massive desk, Enoch suppressed a chuckle at how ridiculous he must look. He much preferred his usual ritual of showing off his latest find at the Guttenberg Club and then reading it in their parlor with a glass of port. Then again, Benjamin Franklin supposedly did his best work in the nude, so at least there was precedent. Cracking the cover, Enoch’s heart fluttered in anticipation. He skimmed over the front page of The Corpus Arcanum, his eyes lingering on the book curse written in gilded ink.

He who steals this paper and ink

Into death he shall sink.

May he enjoy these words today

For he shall not live to see another day.

Such charming things, book curses. Too bad they didn’t work. If they did, he would have been dead long ago. Flicking through the pages, Enoch skimmed the headings for the information he needed most. His head swam with a heady euphoria he rarely felt outside his library. The Corpus Arcanum was perfect. It had everything he needed. It probably held the secrets that would unlock everything if he had more than one lifetime to study it. He kept catching himself stopping to read random passages, but he needed to keep moving if he wanted to get out before dawn. He would read it all in due time, he reminded himself. When the next two pages stuck, Enoch went to lick his thumb but froze. The cat growled in his head as he stared down at this hand. His fingertips, nails and all, were black with ink. He wiped his hand against his bare leg, but the color held fast. He distantly knew this development was alarming, but as long as the paper was free of smudges, he didn’t care. Wiping his finger against the page, the words beneath it bubbled to the surface. They shimmered with wetness before soaking into his skin, their meaning sinking into him like a knife. Enoch stared at it with equal parts reverence and horror. The bobcat released a low rumble, but Enoch ignored it. The book wanted to become one with him. It had chosen him. He had heard of it happening, but he needed to read it first before he could take on all of its knowledge. He would take care now and wear gloves when he brought it to his library. Yes, gloves…

He nearly set the book down on the desk when a shuddering chill passed through him and a cold sweat broke on his back. His fingers tightened on the cover of their own accord. He stared transfixed as the words at the top of the page glowed and rearranged themselves. The letters danced and swayed to an unseen metronome until the world around him faded away. They flickered into new phrases, new connections, new information no human had ever gleaned before. Enoch gasped. It was exactly what he had always wanted to know. The Corpus Arcanum drew him in and held him tight until he could see nothing but the threads of the hidden world that had become his life’s work. It was connected. It was all connected. Tears stung his eyes as they trailed down his cheeks in oily, black streaks. He had been right. He had been right about so many things.

His teeth chattered and his heart thudded in his ears, but it didn’t matter because he had been right. He needed to gather disciples. Yes, he would start a school. The knowledge was in his eyes, his mouth, his ears. The words swam in his vision and pulsed in time with his blood. He would teach others. He would pass— Bitter, metallic saliva pooled in his mouth, but when he tried to swallow it, he choked. Ink surged up Enoch’s throat, spilling from his lips in a torrent. He gagged as it poured down his chin and out his nose. The ink flowed from every orifice, but he wouldn’t stop it even if he could. The Corpus Arcanum was in him. They were one. Blood spilled onto the page and wicked the words away in a tide of black as whispers filled his ears and letter after letter flickered across his vision like a zoetrope. Meaning pulsed through his veins in time with the pump of his faltering heart. The bobcat tried to mewl a warning, but the sound died beneath the rising black tide. Enoch couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He didn’t have to. He knew everything. He finally knew everything. A beatific grin crossed his lips as his eyes rolled back in his skull, and he glimpsed the world he had longed to see.

A Preview of The Wolf Witch

May 30, 2019May 30, 2019 Kara JorgensenLeave a comment

WolfWitch_v1

It is 43 days until The Wolf Witch officially releases, but that doesn’t mean it’s too early to post a teaser. This story takes place after the events of Selkie Cove and can be read as a standalone if you don’t mind reading a series out of order. You can pre-order The Wolf Witch on Amazon and have it delivered to your Kindle on the release day. Paperbacks will be forthcoming.

Chapter One: A Wolf and a Pinkerton

Wesley Bisclavret didn’t believe in coincidences. The fact that three gruesome murders had gone unreported in a city like London was the first clue that something was amiss. After Ripper, the press should have been all over it, yet no paper he picked up even mentioned the killings. The second was that they appeared to have been caused by a wolf, and to Wesley’s knowledge, he was the only werewolf in all of Britain and he certainly hadn’t done it. It didn’t take a Pinkerton to realize that someone with some clout had something to hide.

Snuffling along the cobbles, Wesley’s wolf lifted its head at the sound of a steamer chugging down the lane. Its ears flattened in annoyance as it pushed into the hedges again. This is why Wesley never took city assignments. The stench of so much garbage on top of thousands of bodies made it nearly impossible to track anyone, and the racket of banging and thrumming from streets over gave him a headache. Dogs could do it, but he was part man and that made things more difficult. He should have told Les Meutes to shove their assignment, but he needed to prove that he was more than just his father’s son.

The moment the cab passed, the wolf slunk out and shook the grime from its back. At least England didn’t have so many horses. The damn things seemed to know a werewolf from a dog and made a god-awful racket when they got too close. Most of his work took him to the West or up the Mississippi. At least there, he could blend into the shadows even if wolves had long since abandoned those parts for fear of running into humans. In Louisiana, he had grown up stalking bandits with his father and the rest of the local packs, moving through the trees on silent paws as one. Wolves lived in those parts, bobcats too, but here… Here, there was nothing but the occasional scraggly stray dog and rats that looked as if they ate better than he did. Even their parks were barely more than manicured lawns. It was depressing.

When the streets fell silent, Wesley’s wolf padded down the cobbles and sniffed the air. Cologne. Expensive cologne and fancy food. French, if he wasn’t mistaken. His mouth watered at the heady perfume of beef hanging in the air, but with a shake of its head, the wolf continued on, following the familiar smell lurking beneath it. Its tail flicked as its lips curled into a semblance of a smile. They had him now. Shifting its eyes between the pavement and the road ahead, the wolf followed the smell through the city, ducking into parks or behind iron fences and trees like some feral creature whenever a human shape cut through the nighttime fog. Trotting across the road to a row of neat red brick houses choked in ivy and with fences sharp as iron pikes, Wesley could taste the slick of paint on his tongue and the stench of flowers that had no business being concentrated into perfume. Dandies, he huffed, curling his lip as the wolf sneezed out the irritating odor.

Wesley’s wolf darted past a house alight with the clamor of a party in full swing, hoping no one spotted him through the window as he picked up the scent in the next shadow. Trailing down the alley between the two houses, his wolf lifted its head. The other wolf was here or had been recently. He was certain of it. As his wolf lifted its leg on the corner of the house, Wesley figured out his next move. Even in his human form, he could smell his way back to the house and confront the man. Squeezing past the garbage littering the back alley, Wesley’s wolf froze. Its mouth watered at the scent, and it instinctively licked its teeth as if it could taste it.

The primal part of the wolf stirred within. Blood, and where there’s blood, there’s flesh.

Shit, Wesley thought as he pushed past the mottled brown and black wolf.

Pain ripped through him as his bones broke with a sickening crunch, stretching until every ligament tore only to reform the moment he feared they would sever. Claws sunk beneath the flesh of his digits as they lengthened to form pink fingers and toes that curled against the war of natures. Fur flattened into skin, which grew and darkened to accommodate his new but all too familiar form. Keeping his head low, he bit back a scream as his face and jaw caved in before rebuilding into a human skull. Wesley staggered forward with his hand on his throat to brace against the bile that rose where a cry should have been. Leaning against the garden wall, Wesley rested his forehead against the cool brick and panted as the final reverberations of the curse passed. It never seemed to get easier. Rain pattered against the skin of his bare back, cooling the crescendo of aggravated nerve endings until he could think again. A shiver passed through him that took his breath away as the wolf curled deep within him. It was times like this that he understood why his brother refused to shift anymore. It hurt like hell even at the best of times.

He rubbed his arms and passed a hand through his chestnut hair until it brushed against the bundle of fabric draped around his neck like a yolk. Pulling the makeshift collar from his throat, he unfurled a pair of trousers and a wrinkled shirt. Somehow seeing a collar around a wolf’s neck gave people pause. The line between pet and predator was thin, and thankfully a collar led to more awkward head pats than gunshots. Quickly dressing and pocketing the leather kit he had hidden within the bundle, Wesley peered into the darkened windows at the back of the house. Through the part in the curtains, he couldn’t see a soul, but the tang of cooling blood was unmistakable. He choked down the saliva pooling in his mouth and focused on the back door. Pulling the picks from the leather pouch, he worked them through each tumbler despite his trembling hands. With a soft snick, the door yielded.

Standing on the threshold, Wesley listened for footsteps but when none came, he closed the door and crept through the back parlor. The servants must have the night off, he thought as he inhaled the familiar scent of furniture polish and something herbaceous. He didn’t know enough to differentiate the plants, but memories of following Grand-père into New Orleans to consult Madam Laveau and the other knowing queens surfaced in the gloom. Their parlors had made his nose itch with the pungent aroma of ground herbs and smoke, but what clung to his senses were the tenuous stirrings of magic. Not quite a smell or a feeling, each remnant was unique to its owner. It’s why the priestesses rarely crossed the werewolves; they could sniff out who had done them wrong. Copper, flesh, and the underlying smell of magic hung heavy as he crossed the dining room. Upstairs, the wolf nudged. Turning the corner, Wesley jolted, a growl rising in his throat at the flash of motion at the end of the hall. His shoulders sagged as he realized it was only his reflection staring back from a gilt mirror.

As he reached the base of the steps, the stench of the other wolf trailed from the door to the shadows of the second floor. It didn’t smell like the wolves back home. They smelled like nature, like leaves and sap clinging to fur. The refuse of the city clung to the other crime scenes: slobber and wet fur overlain with waste and ash. Something was wrong with this one, horribly wrong if the crime scenes were any indication of its character. Thankful for his bare feet, Wesley silently walked up the steps, pushing back the wolf inside him as it rose to flick its tongue out to taste the blood in the air. We’re on duty, he reminded the wolf as the scent grew so powerful he could barely register the other wolf anymore. At the end of the hall, a door stood ajar. Even without the lights on, he could make out papers standing starkly against the carpet and the bookcase tipped over in the struggle, its contents dumped unceremoniously on the floor atop a misshapen, bloody heap. Keeping his eyes on the shelves littering the study, he searched among the clay seals etched with cartouches and the mummies of long-dead creatures. Had it been a thief? The other crime scenes had been ransacked too, but nothing ever appeared to be taken. Not one item on the workbench across the room, littered with jars of dried spices and things so pickled he couldn’t tell if they were plant or animal, seemed out of place.

Glass littered the floor where the victim had dropped a jar of blue powder. Apart from the shelf of books that had overturned in the struggle, nothing appeared to be amiss. Collecting himself, Wesley turned to face the body. Blood soaked into the carpet, spreading away from the broken body where a pale, lined hand peeked out. Wesley tried not to breathe as he pulled the shelf back, cringing as the last of the books clinging to the shelves clattered to the floor. The carpet squished beneath his feet and stained his soles red as he looked down at the white-haired gentleman who lay twisted on the rug. He stared up at nothing, his spectacles cracked and askew, his mouth open in an anguished cry. Wesley made the sign of the cross and shook his head.

Lowering his gaze to the man’s chest, Wesley carefully lifted the lapel of his bloody tweed jacket. The gorge rose in his throat at the sight of his half-eaten liver and the rope of his intestines hanging loose from his body. Bite and claw marks scored his ribs and left what remained of his pink, wiry flesh in shreds. Wesley closed his eyes. It had been the same with the other murders. All the victims had lived in decent neighborhoods, had enough money to be comfortable without attracting attention, and all had been eviscerated. Even the most moon-sick wolf wouldn’t resort to something so abhorrent. This wasn’t simply some mutant hybrid or hot-housed wolf. This was something far more sinister, something without rules or a shred of human decency left. Perhaps the human part was the problem.

Cocking his head, Wesley noticed that between the dead man’s outstretched fingers was a clump of rough black fur. He squatted down and plucked it from his hand, turning it over in the light as he rubbed his fingers over the coarse strands. At home, he could have gone to his father or the other families for help, but here it was just him. There had to be some way he could tip off the authorities without exposing himself. Holding the wad of black fur to his nose, Wesley drew in a deep breath to commit the smell to memory. The wolf rubbed across his mind in agitation, but Wesley ignored it. There had to be some clue as to how the victims were linked. As he rose to his feet, his attention twitched to the door. For a second, he could have sworn he heard—

At the sound of a board whining in the foyer, Wesley sprang over the desk. Standing before it, he yanked at his shirt, sending a button flying, but there was no time. He called to the wolf, and the beast rose within him, bringing forth the stillness of eons past, the scent of wet earth, and the agony of evolution. Wesley’s bones tore and fur shot through his skin like hot needles, but there was no time to recover. Shaking his head, he struggled to free himself from the cloth tangled around his neck. He kicked and shook, glancing toward the door as the muffled tread approached. How stupid could he be? As he pawed the shirt over his nose, a blow hit him squarely in the side. He stumbled into the heavy oaken desk, teeth bared as two men in worn, rough uniforms loomed over him. In their hands were long poles ending in blunt metal spears with a loop dangling beneath them. The closest man pushed the tip of the pole against the flesh of his neck where the fabric collar had once been while the other pinned him by pressing his weapon into the soft flesh of his belly. The wolf snarled, but when the men didn’t retreat, it bit at the pole. As the wolf snapped, the second man lunged forward, hooking a burning chain around his neck.

Spots flashed in their vision as the chain tightened around their throat until they gagged. Wesley wanted to transform, the wolf wanted to escape, but they couldn’t. In that moment, he could see himself as man and wolf, but the fluid bridge between them had been hopelessly tangled. His paws slid against the carpet as he staggered back. Before he could try to slip from the makeshift noose, a woman appeared, her fine features silhouetted in the library’s golden glow. Her silver hair had been pulled back in a tight bun, and while her face had lined with time, her bearing gave no hint of infirmity.

“You are hereby under arrest by order of Her Majesty’s Interceptors for murder and for violating the sovereign laws governing extranormal creatures and for the murder of Alexander Lockwood,” she said, her eyes staring past the wolf to speak to the man within.

Without looking away, she raised a tube the length of a flute to her lips and blew. A hot prick of pain jolted through Wesley’s flank as the first man let go. The metal pole disappeared only to be replaced by the weight of a net. The wolf took a step forward, but before Wesley could attempt to pull the wolf back, a wave of fatigue washed over them. Their legs slid out from under them, and they tipped headfirst into the rug. All thoughts fled from their mind, except the smell of blood and the chain burning deep into their neck. Their eyes flickered and their tongue lolled under the weight of the their binds, but before they could muster the strength to rise again, the world teetered and went black.

You can pre-order The Wolf Witch here or you can grab the rest of the series on Amazon. Book one, The Earl of Brass, is 99 cents for the ebook.

The Wolf Witch · Writing

The Wolf Witch– a Snippet

July 20, 2018July 19, 2018 Kara Jorgensen2 Comments

WolfWitch_v1

Hi, peeps! I’ve been hard at work rewriting the entirety of The Wolf Witch. I’ve been posting bits and behind the scenes goodies to my Patreon lately, but I wanted to share with you a preview of chapter 1. I’m hoping to have The Wolf Witch out by the fall, so let me know what you think of the first half of chapter 1.

The fact that three seemingly connected murders had gone unreported in a city like London was the first clue that something was amiss. The second was that they appeared to have been caused by a wolf, and to Wesley Bisclavret’s knowledge, he was the only werewolf in all of Britain. It didn’t take a Pinkerton to realize that someone—probably someone important—had something to hide.

Snuffling along the cobbles, the wolf lifted his head at the sound of a steamer chugging down the lane. His ears flattened in annoyance as he pushed into the hedges again. This is why he never took city assignments. Too many cabs, too many people, too many confusing smells and noises. The stench of that much garbage on top of thousands of bodies made it nearly impossible to track anyone and the racket of banging and thrumming from streets over gave him a headache. He should have told Les Meutes and the Smithsonian to shove their assignments, but he needed to prove himself if he wanted to make it on his own. The moment the cab passed, Wesley slunk out and shook the grime from his back. At least England didn’t have so many horses. The damn things seemed to know a werewolf from a dog and made a god awful racket even if they only sensed them nearby. Most of his work took him to the West or up the Mississippi. At least there, he could blend into the shadows even if wolves had long since abandoned those grounds for fear of running into humans. In Louisiana, he had grown up stalking bandits with his father and the other rougarou, moving silently through the trees on silent paws as one. Wolves lived in those parts, bobcats too, but here… Here, there was nothing but the occasional scroungy stray dog and rock as far as the eye could see. Even their parks were barely more than manicured lawns.

When the streets fell silent, Wesley padded down the street and sniffed the air. Cologne. Expensive cologne and fancy food. French, if he wasn’t mistaken. His mouth watered at the heady perfume of beef hanging in the air, but with a shake of his head, he continued on, following the smell lurking beneath it. His tail flicked as his lips curled into a semblance of a smile. He had him now. Shifting his eyes between the pavement and the road ahead, Wesley followed the smell through the city, ducking into parks or behind iron fences and trees like some feral creature whenever a human shape cut through the nighttime fog. Padding across the road to a row of neat red brick houses with fronts choked ivy and fences sharp as iron pikes, he could taste the slick of paint on his tongue and the stench of flowers that had no business being concentrated into perfume. Dandies, he huffed, curling his lip and sneezing out the irritating odor.

Wesley darted past a house alight with the clamor of a party in full swing, hoping no one spotted him through the window as he picked up the scent in the next shadow. Trailing down the alley between the two houses, Wesley lifted his head. The other wolf was here or had been recently. He was certain of it. Lifting his leg on the corner of the house, he pondered his next move. Even in his human form, he could smell his way back to the house and confront the man. His client hadn’t even demanded he hand the thief over to Scotland Yard; all he wanted was the stolen artifact. At least that would make the job easier. Hell, he could steal the thing and catch the next transatlantic dirigible to New York before dawn. Squeezing past the garbage littering the back alley, Wesley froze. His mouth watered at the scent, and he instinctively licked his teeth as if he could taste it.

The wolf stirred within. Blood, and where there’s blood, there’s flesh.

Shit, Wesley thought as he pushed past the mottled brown and black wolf.

selkie cove · Writing

Preview of Selkie Cove: Ch 1

June 8, 2017June 8, 2017 Kara Jorgensen6 Comments

First off, yes, I know I have been incredibly negligent these past few months regarding this blog. I’m going to try to be better about that in the near future.

So I’m hitting that point in the novel writing/editing/marketing/creating journey where I get itchy feet about sharing things with you. Thus far, I’ve been good, but today, I must share an in-progress version of chapter one of Selkie Cove. For those of you who haven’t seen it, here is the blurb:

Without further ado, here is the first chapter of Selkie Cove:

Chapter One

Confirmed Bachelors

Adam Fenice resisted the urge to turn around and check the clock ticking in the corner again for fear of drawing the attention of the other clerks and accountants. Keeping his back to them, he pulled out his pocket watch and took a quick glance. He bit down the earnest smile threatening to cross his lips. In a little over an hour, he and Immanuel would be having lunch together. No matter how often they saw each other, knowing that Immanuel waited for him sent a flutter through his breast. For weeks Immanuel had been busy running between the natural history museum and the British Museum. Between late nights, the impromptu meetings with the heads of the museums, and the nightmares and insomnia from the added stress, they had barely spent a peaceful day, or night, together. Today would be different. Immanuel said everything had been taken care of, and now things would go back to normal.

Adam scoffed at the thought. Normal. Nothing about his life was ever normal. Instead of dealing with Hadley’s toy business or his brother’s consumption, he had Immanuel’s magic to enliven his quiet life. His time spent at the office puzzling out sums and inconsistencies was a welcome relief from coming home to find Immanuel experimenting with new sigils that sent things crashing across the room or turned his tea to dingy brown ice. Between magic and Percy, their cat—if one could call him that when he was solely comprised of bones and mischief—Adam was happy to come to work and deal with facts and figures, where things that were certain no matter what happened outside.

“Fenice, can you come here a moment?” Mr. Bodkin called from his office.

Rising from his desk, Adam stretched and glanced at the clock one more time. He silently sighed, hoping this wouldn’t be an hour long conversation on Sarah Bernhardt’s latest exploit. He had promised Immanuel he would get to the museum promptly to prevent Sir William Henry Flower from commandeering him. If he played his cards right, he could distract Bodkin with a question or two and return to his work. As Adam pushed open the door to Horace Bodkin’s dim cubby of an office, he knew something was wrong. His supervisor sat with his hands folded on his blotter, his thumbs twitching in time with his beady eyes, which ran over everything but Adam’s face. Adam hesitantly sank into the chair before his desk, resisting the urge to scratch his wrist.

“Sir, is there anything—?”

“We have to let you go,” Bodkin blurted.

For a moment, Adam merely stared at him, unsure if his ears had played tricks on him, but when Bodkin’s eyes never wavered from him and his lips twitched into a regretful frown, he knew he had heard correctly. The saliva dried in his throat as he strained to speak.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but may I ask why? Have I made an error?” Adam asked, his mind flitting over the numbers he had tabulated and double-checked over the past few weeks.

“Oh, heavens, no. You’re one of my best workers.”

“Then why am I being let go?”

Mr. Bodkin released a tired breath, his sloped shoulders sighing in agreement. In the dim light with his face more pensive than he had ever seen, he seemed so much older. Adam had liked him best of all his employers. The man had given him his extra tickets to the theatre and chatted with him about novels and society page gossip, but as he tented his meaty, ringed hands and met Adam’s gaze, the fissure of rank widened into a chasm. It had been foolish to ever assume they were friends.

“You must understand, this isn’t my doing, Fenice,” Bodkin said, dropping his voice. “It was Mr. Ellis. His son is to marry soon, and he needs to secure a proper position for him.”

“I see,” he spat, his chest tight with a raw resentment he hadn’t felt since his older brother was alive. Adam’s jaw tightened as he pictured that miser Ellis’s lout of a son sitting at his desk. He eyed Bodkin. How long would it be before the boss’s son was out of his desk and in his supervisor’s chair? “And what about Penn or Weiland? They have been here less than a year. I’ve been here for four. This isn’t fair.”

“Trust me, I agree with you. You know you’re one of my favorites.” For a moment, he looked as if he might reach out and touch Adam’s arm, but upon seeing the blue fire in Adam’s eyes, he thought the better of it. “It’s just that— that— you aren’t the image Mr. Ellis wants for his business. You know, you go to the theatre, you’re an Aesthete who openly supports Wilde’s crowd, you dress flamboyantly—”

Adam glanced down at his silk paisley waistcoat as if seeing it for the first time before crossing his arms over it.

“And you’re a bachelor.”

A derisive laugh escaped his lips. “What does my marital status have to do with my work? If anything, I should have less distractions.”

Mr. Bodkin swallowed hard, his shiny black eyes darting for an answer. “Mr. Ellis likes to see people settled. A bachelor could pick up and leave at any moment, but a man with a wife and children has an anchor. You’re sharing your flat with another bachelor, aren’t you?”

Adam froze. Something lurked beneath the question, plunging his anger into something far colder. Bodkin of all people should have known the significance of Ellis’s decree. Then again, he had a ring on his finger and a brood at home.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“I have no problems with it, but Mr. Ellis…”

“Penn shares a flat with another bookkeeper. Many young men have roommates.”

“Yes, I know, but do you perhaps have a lady friend you—?”

“No,” Adam replied, his voice sharper than he intended.

“I figured as much.” Pulling an envelope from his desk, Bodkin sighed and held it out for Adam to take. “I was able to convince him to give you an extra week’s wages for the inconvenience. I really am sorry about this, Fenice, but there was nothing I could do to change his mind.”

As he reached to take the money, Adam steadied his hand, biting back the urge to snatch it from him. It was Ellis’ fault, he reminded himself. Bodkin was merely a useless mole forced to do his bidding. A man who, like him, had kept his head down and tried not to make trouble for anyone. Only he had succeeded.

“Thank you for your generosity,” Adam murmured, his voice quavering against his will.

He didn’t try to suppress it. The rage would come out one way or another, and a little edge was much better than the venom creeping up his throat. Adam swallowed and dug his nail into his wrist as he turned, pushing in until he regained control. That was his whole life, wasn’t it? Maintaining an air of control. As he stood to leave, Bodkin’s eyes bore into his back, but before he could look away, Adam whipped around in time to see the man jump back.

A thrill of satisfaction rang through him as he slowly stuffed the envelope of money into his breast pocket. “I appreciate all you have done for me, Mr. Bodkin. I just hope Ellis can see past our shared faults when he inevitably turns his attention to promoting his son. Good day, sir.”

Without looking back, Adam marched into the office with his back rigid and his face a mask of hauteur. His heart pounded as the junior accountants and clerks raised their gazes from their papers in unison to watch him pass while the only other senior accountant kept his eyes buried in his work. Adam stared ahead as he silently walked to his desk near the window despite half a dozen pairs of eyes pressing into his back. How much had they heard? He couldn’t look at them. He didn’t want to know what they thought of his sudden fall. Pity? Scorn? Satisfaction? All he wanted was to get out as quickly as possible with some semblance of dignity.

His eyes traveled over the contents of his desk, lingering on ledgers he had been perusing for a suspected embezzlement case. The figures he had toiled over for days were meaningless now. Some other man would finish his work and take the credit for the case he had built. Adam drew in a constrained breath. Unlike the other men in the office, he had no pictures of his pretty wife or handsome children to show to clients or Mr. Ellis when they came to call. Sitting on a stack of papers closest to the window was an ammonite fossil Immanuel had given to him when they stayed at his brother-in-law’s estate in Dorset that summer. It was the only bit of his life he had allowed to bleed into his work. He could still remember the thrill of danger at having a token of Immanuel’s love in plain view. That was all he would take with him. Adam snatched the fossil, ignoring the slap of paper and the startled cries of his coworkers as the wind scattered the stack. As he slipped on his coat and top hat, he felt the weight of the ammonite in his hand and saw himself hurl it through the windowpane in his mind’s eye. Dropping it into his pocket, he kept his gaze forward, his mouth neutral, and passed down the familiar creaking steps to Lombard Street.

The bitter October cold pawed at his cheeks and tousled the edge of his pomaded henna hair as he slipped out the door. With his hand tightly around the ammonite in his pocket, Adam walked blindly and tried to keep his steps casual. His mind tallied up the rent, the cost to bring in a housekeeper, how much the washerwoman charged against Immanuel’s salary and what Adam remembered to be inscribed in his bankbook. How long would it last? He had only been out of work once during his career and money had been the least of his concerns then. Bodkin had refused his resignation and gave him time off to put his mind to rights, citing his brother’s recent passing. No one would come through for him now.

Men in dark wool coats and top hats pushed passed him on their way to banks and solicitors’ offices just like his. One man tipped his hat to Adam. Recognizing him from their business dealings only a month before, Adam gave him a nod but kept his eyes ahead. How long would it take for news of his departure to reach the other accountants or the clients he regularly worked for? He had spent his whole life avoiding becoming the subject of gossip, and now, it had been thrust upon him.

When Adam stopped moving long enough to surface from his thoughts, he stood at the iron staircase of the Metropolitan station that would take him home. Home. The word caught in Adam’s throat in a wet knot. He swallowed it down and hardened his jaw. He wouldn’t lose it. It had been his family’s home for as long as he had been alive and now it belonged to him and Immanuel. There was no way he would let someone like Ellis take that away from him, but the idea of sitting alone with his thoughts until Immanuel came home was more than he could bear. Without someone there to temper his emotions, he could only imagine the destruction he might cause, and that would be far worse than holding it in a while longer. That was simple. He had choked down the same bitter pill for nearly twenty years.

Glancing at his watch, Adam took the stairs into the labyrinth of brick and wood stretching beneath the city. The stench of urine and feculence burned his nose as he listened for the distant rumble of the electric train. He could take the train to Greenwich and vent to Hadley about what had happened. His sister would understand. She would rail against the injustice of it as only she could, but then, she would have solutions. Hadley would have half a dozen thought up in an instant, most of which would inevitably be tied to her husband, the Earl of Dorset. The thought sent a wave of nausea gurgling through Adam’s gut.

No, Immanuel was waiting for him at the museum to go out for lunch, and he couldn’t disappoint him twice in one day. Before he could change his mind, the train barreled into the station. Straightening, Adam slipped past the conductor and numbly settled in near the window. All he needed was to pretend everything was all right. If he simply didn’t acknowledge it, then perhaps he could never disappoint Immanuel with his failures. If it had worked for most of his life, surely it could work for another hour.

Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think of this excerpt, and I will update everyone as we move closer to publication.